Chapter 28 Aurora
AURORA
Iam crushed against the slimy, cold stone wall, my hands flat against the weeping brick. Othic is a mountain in front of me, his back to me, the hated slaver's sword held in a low, ready grip.
The Dark Elf guard is at the alley's mouth, his own blade gleaming. He is flanked by the massive, snorting Minotaur, whose horns are so wide they scrape the walls on either side. The two naga drop from the rooftops, landing like spiders, their scaled bodies uncoiling in the filth behind us.
Five of them. We are in a stone box.
The smell is overwhelming. The alley’s stench of piss and old garbage is now choked by the Dark Elf's cloying perfume and the hot, musky, animal-sweat smell of the Minotaur. I can hear the Minotaur's heavy, angry breathing, a low rumble in its chest. The naga are utterly silent.
This is it. This is where we die. He is one orc with a bad sword. He cannot fight five. He is going to die for me. He should have left me at the Scildborg.
"Nowhere to run, beast," the Dark Elf hisses, his voice slick with oily confidence. "The bounty is mine."
"Bounty is mine!" the Minotaur roars, a sound of pure, stupid greed. He lowers his head and charges.
The alley is too narrow for him. He is all momentum and no thought. Othic does not meet him head-on. He does not even seem to tense. He is not a wall; he is a shadow. He simply moves, sidestepping at the last possible second.
I hear the sickening screech of horn scraping against the stone wall where Othic was just standing. The Minotaur bellows in pain and frustration, its head wedged for a split second in the narrow space.
Othic does not use his sword.
He pivots. His entire body coiling. He grabs the Minotaur's cracked horn with both hands and roars. He uses his full, healed strength to ram the Minotaur's head into the opposite wall.
There is a wet, sickening crunch.
He does it again. CRUNCH.
The Minotaur slumps, groaning, and collapses to its knees, its massive body blocking the alley.
Oh gods. He... he is not just fighting them. He is dismantling them.
The two naga see their chance. They are not stupid. They move around Othic, their movements liquid and fast, their slit-pupiled eyes on the "property." They are trying to get to me.
They lunge at the same time, one high, one low.
Othic moves with a speed that I did not think was possible. He spins, parrying the high lunge with the slaver's sword. The clang of steel on steel echoes in the alley. In the same motion, his other hand—his left, his healed hand—shoots out and catches the second naga by the throat.
I see the naga's black, lidless eyes go wide with shock.
Othic lifts him. He lifts the scaled, kicking, gurgling warrior off the ground with one hand as if he weighs nothing.
He does not just slam him into the wall.
He hurls him, a full-bodied throw, into the first naga, sending them both crashing into a pile of refuse and broken crates.
Before they can untangle, Othic is on them. He drives the human sword, hilt-deep, into the first naga's chest. He yanks it free and spins, driving his heavy, leather-wrapped boot straight into the second naga's face. I hear the snap of its fangs.
He is not marked. He is not bleeding. He is not even breathing hard.
Silence.
Two naga are dead. The Minotaur is on the ground, broken and moaning. Only the Dark Elf guard and the dfam elf are left. They are still at the mouth of the alley, their weapons raised, but their faces are pale. They are not advancing.
The alley is suddenly quiet, save for the gurgling of the dying naga and the drip, drip, drip of their blood onto the cobblestones. Othic stands over the bodies, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. He is covered in their blood, but none of it is his.
He looks less like an orc and more like a demon from one of the Scildborg women's stories. This is not a fight for a bounty anymore. This is a slaughter.
I can see the calculation in the Dark Elf's eyes. Ten ipia. Is it worth this?
Othic takes one heavy, deliberate step toward them. He raises the bloody sword.
"Who is next?" His voice is a low, blood-choked growl that fills the alley, a sound that promises nothing but death.
The dfam elf looks at the dead naga. He looks at the broken Minotaur. He looks at the un-wounded, blood-soaked orc stalking toward him. He lowers his sword.
"Fuck this," the dfam whispers, his voice shaking. "Ten ipia is not worth this." He turns and runs, disappearing into the market.
The Dark Elf guard is alone. He looks at Othic, his mask of superiority completely shattered, replaced by pure, abject terror. He takes one step back. Then another. He drops his elegant sword with a clatter, turns, and flees, screaming for the real city watch.
They are gone. They ran.
He... he won. He tore them apart, and he does not have a single scratch on him. He is a hero. He is a monster. He is mine.
The adrenaline seems to leave him, but he does not slump. He stands straight, the bloody sword hanging from his hand. He turns to me. I am still pressed against the wall, shaking, my hand clutching the tattered end of the leather belt I was tied with.
He stalks over to me, his face a mask of cold fury. I flinch as he reaches for me.
He does not touch my arm. He does not ask if I am hurt. His hand grabs the heavy leather collar still buckled around my neck.
With a single, violent roar of pure disgust, he rips it from my throat, the leather snapping, the metal buckle flying off to clatter against the stone. He throws the broken, useless belt onto the body of the dead naga.
He looks at me, his eyes no longer blazing with battle-rage, but with a fierce, possessive pride that makes my knees weak. He gently, with his blood-soaked fingers, brushes the hair from my face.
"You will walk out of this vile place with the beauty you are."