Chapter 9 The Pour House
THE POUR HOUSE
“Hey, stop that orc!” Hardin shouted, but the street swallowed his words.
Not a single soul moved to help. Humans, elves, dwarves, and orcs alike shied away from his alarm.
There was an unspoken rule here, one that he thought he’d escape by coming to Lamar.
When it came to confrontations with anyone wearing Nordraven’s copper colors, common folk weren’t willing to fight.
But Hardin had stood by watching Nordraven imposing its will on his people for too long.
He wouldn’t let them push him around anymore.
He took off at a sprint, crossing the intersection, and angling into the alley where the orc had stolen off with Sasja.
Bystanders parted before him like subjects before their king.
Ahead, the bulky Northern orc moved with surprising grace, each footfall purposeful as he headed toward the port district.
Is this Monsanto’s doing? The possibility that Monsanto held contracts with the four allied kingdoms of Nordraven sent a chill down Hardin’s spine.
He’d heard that merchants near the border maintained such ties.
But an orc of this caliber, this was an expense for protection far beyond what a simple clothing and mercantile merchant could possibly afford.
He said Sasja had stolen from him before, Hardin remembered. His thoughts went to the blood-red pendant suspended from a golden chain around her neck. Something about that jewel seemed off; perhaps it had been stolen and the underlying reason for this hostile encounter.
The orc ducked into a covered entryway, his copper cloak trailing through the darkened alcove. Hardin slowed as he approached. Two more massive forms materialized from the shadows. More orcs with mottled green skin. All wore the same copper cloaks, the mark of loyalty to Nordraven’s army.
This definitely isn’t just about the stolen clothes, Hardin thought.
But what do they want with Sasja? he considered, knowing soldiers like these were usually fighting wars against Lamar’s Army east of the Everburning Forest where firestorms were smaller and less frequent.
Hardin didn’t notice any Nordraven Paragon or Knight heading the group either.
“Where did you take her?” Hardin demanded, attempting to push past the living wall of muscle before him. The sharp scent of orc pierced his nose, made all the more offensive by the mixture of leather, steel, and animal fur.
With a snort, one of the orcs brushed him aside as if the gesture was as casual as shewing a fly. In reality, Hardin felt like he was being struck by a tree branch.
“Where did he come from?” the taller soldier rumbled, his twin ivory tusks making his Northern accent sound even harsher.
The shorter one shrugged, muscles rippling beneath his cloak. “He shouldn’t have been able to pass the wards. Maybe they weren’t done right.”
Hardin rushed forward again, his body colliding with immovable flesh.
The orcs stood like stone pillars, unmoved by his desperate attempt to breach their defense.
The larger one, with a rounded gut as hard as iron, seized Hardin and hurled him backward.
The rough stone wall caught him, reminding him of his training.
The large-bellied orc leveled his gaze at Hardin. His eyes held an unsettling emptiness, like two pools of midnight black water, stagnant in the quiet depths of the earth. The orc advanced on him.
Remember what Sense Kalu taught you. Don’t let your emotions take control. Defend yourself only. The instruction was clear as temple bells. This wasn’t just his first fight outside the training dojo. It would also be his first time fighting orcs.
His knee found the orc’s belly; the impact sent ripples through solid muscle.
Hardin slipped through the orc’s attempted headlock.
Hardin reset his stance. His feet found purchase.
He knew his next move. When the orc reached for him again, Hardin ducked beneath the massive arms, spotting the universal weakness all beings share.
His boot crashed down on the orc’s foot, and the resulting roar echoed off the alley walls.
The orc’s transformation was mesmerizing. His somewhat lax features suddenly came alive with anger, green skin folding into sharp lines of rage. Hardin’s slight smile tasted of triumph as he settled back into his defensive stance, his body humming with adrenaline.
The roundhouse kick came as naturally as breathing.
His heel connected with the orc’s temple.
The impact sent the massive figure stumbling, and something electric coursed through Hardin’s veins.
Why had his people forsaken such formidable arts as Dor Bishdo?
The defensive philosophy of Doran suddenly felt like a chain rather than a shield, and for one dangerous moment, the thrill of offensive control tempted him.
But before he could savor his revelation, the shorter orc moved with surprising fluidity.
Through the gap, behind the orcs, appeared a sight that stopped Hardin’s heart, Sasja’s face.
Her eyes were wide with an emotion he couldn’t quite name.
Was it concern? Fear? Or something darker?
Then she vanished behind a wall of green flesh as half a dozen more orcs poured into the alley.
Hardin’s world dissolved into a chaos of fists and boots.
His knuckles found one orc’s jaw, a hollow victory before hands like iron lifted him from the ground.
The cobblestones rose to meet him with bruising force.
Something massive crashed into his back, driving the air from his lungs in a rush that carried with it all his dreams of being a hero.
Each kick that followed was a lesson in humility, every stolen breath a reminder of his own mortality.
Darkness crept in from the edges of his vision, carrying with it the bitter taste of failure.
“Stop!” Sasja’s voice cut through the haze. “Stop it. He isn’t a threat to you.”
The words hung in the air, weighted with layers of meaning that Hardin’s pain-addled mind struggled to grasp. When she spoke, it wasn’t with the terror of being a captive, but with authority.
“What’s this Doranian worth to you?” she demanded.
“One less Southerner is no bad thing.” Another voice joined in. “We should kill him and be done with this.”
“He is not why you are here.” Sasja’s voice changed, her soothing tones giving him some sense of hope.
“We must honor the pact. We’re bound by powers that will not let us leave until we are paid a debt. This human will pay with his blood. We’ll need a soul for the magus to grant us passage. The human’s will do just fine.”
“Not with his blood. He will pay with coin. That will satisfy your pact, will it not?” Her interruption cut through their advances, stopping them with the prospect of wealth. The ruby at her throat seemed to be glowing with its own light now. The crimson eye watched Hardin’s undoing.
The orc bobbed his massive head. “It will, but this man is nothing, a nobody. Who is offering this payment? You?”
“He has money. Check his belt. You’ll find there’s a substantial sum of coin there.” The practical brutality in her voice was worse than any physical blow he’d endured.
A hand like stone rolled him onto his back. The simple movement sent cascades of pain through his body. The coin purse tore free from his side.
The orc weighed it in his palm, the coins within singing a mournful song.
“Lady Sasja spoke true. He’s paid his debt.
We’ll find another soul for the magus’ dark magic.
Let the welp go. Maybe this Southerner will learn some humility.
He can spread the word that it doesn’t pay to interfere with Northern business. ”
This warning passed him by. Hardin focused on something else entirely. Lady Sasja. The title echoed in his head, each repetition revealing another layer of deception.
“I will speak to him before we go,” Sasja said. Several orcs looked at her quizzically. “To instill the sentiment so others like him know to fear Nordraven,” she added.
When she knelt beside him, her familiar scent of sweet herbs and summer winds cut through the metallic tang of his own blood with cruel clarity. The orc who remained to watch loomed like a mountain over them.
Hardin stirred against the cobblestones, pain striking with each movement.
“Don’t move. Stay down until we’re gone,” she murmured.
She touched his shoulder, the softness of her presence seeming impossible to her betrayal.
The burlap sack of stolen clothes settled beside him with a gentle wrinkle.
“Here, take this as a peace offering. Do not return it to Monsanto’s shop or pay him any compensation.
Monsanto is a Northern swine. He is in deep with the King of Wintermire.
Everything he earns goes toward funding syndicates that cause unrest in this region of Lamar. ”
Her tone sounded honest, her words felt genuine, yet how could he trust anything she said now? “You, Nordraven, a magus, why?” he managed through the pain, each breath a reminder of how far he’d fallen.
“If you knew anything about Nordraven magi, you would know that I can’t tell you. You shouldn’t have tried to intervene. You’re lucky they didn’t kill you to use your life energy for his evil magic.”
Then she bent down, and time seemed to freeze. Her lips met his. The pain of his cracked lips became a counterpoint to the intoxicating softness of her mouth, creating a moment suspended between agony and bliss. When she pulled away, the loss felt like a small death.
“Know that our time together from Dagger’s Landing to Stormwatch was real,” she whispered, her words like a confession.
The ruby at her throat pulsed once in warning and the significance of it made sense.
“I’m truly sorry I had to do this to you.
You should’ve gone when I told you to. Lamar is no place for a man like you. ”