Chapter 19 Thoktar
THOKTAR
Dawn filters through the tunnel entrance like spilled milk, pale and cold against the stone. I wake with Forla in my arms, her breathing soft and steady against my chest. For a moment—just one precious moment—I let myself believe we're safe, that we can stay in this underground haven forever.
But the real world presses in with the growing light. Nazim stirs in his alcove, scales scraping softly against rock, and the sound reminds me that we're still hunted, still running.
"Time to go," Forla whispers against my chest.
My arms tighten around her briefly before releasing. "I know."
We dress in the dim light, our movements quiet and efficient.
The intimacy of the night before feels like a dream now, though I can still taste her on my lips, still feel the ghost of her touch.
Rophan emerges from his chamber already armed, his massive frame filling the tunnel entrance as he tests the air.
"Clean," he rumbles. "No pursuit yet."
Nazim distributes what supplies we can carry—dried meat, water skins, a few coins that might buy passage if we find honest merchants. His movements are sharp, economical, but I catch the tension in his coiled frame. Something's troubling him.
"The boats are moored in the old harbor," he says as we prepare to leave. "Fishing vessels, nothing fancy, but they'll get us north along the coast."
"You sound uncertain," I observe.
"I am." Nazim's forked tongue flickers out, tasting something in the air I can't detect. "But it's our only option. Stay close, and if I signal, run."
The tunnel leading to the harbor is different from the one that brought us here—narrower, older, with walls that weep moisture and strange symbols carved into the stone.
Our footsteps echo softly in the confined space, and I find myself automatically taking point, my warrior instincts alert for any threat.
The smell reaches us first.
Smoke. Char. And underneath it, something else—something that makes my orcish senses recoil in disgust. Death. Burned flesh. The stench of deliberate cruelty. Nazim freezes ahead of us, his entire body going rigid.
"No," he whispers. "No, no, no."
We emerge from the tunnel into gray morning light, and the blood in my veins turns to ice.
The harbor stretches before us, its waters dark with ash and debris. But dominating the scene is the ship—our escape route—burning like a massive funeral pyre in the middle of the bay. Orange flames lick at its masts, sending black smoke spiraling into the dawn sky.
And hanging from those burning masts...
"Gods," I breathe.
Bodies swing in the morning breeze. Naga bodies, their serpentine forms charred and broken, suspended by chains that gleam red-hot in the fire's light. Even from this distance, I can see they were burned alive—the way they're positioned, the deliberate cruelty of it makes my warrior's soul rage.
Nazim makes a sound I've never heard before—part hiss, part wail, part roar of pure anguish. It's the sound of a heart breaking.
"My people," he whispers.
My hand finds Forla's, squeezing gently. I know that sound, that grief. I felt it when I thought my clan was lost forever.
"Touching, isn't it?"
The voice cuts through the morning air like a blade, cultured and cold. We spin to find Dark Elves emerging from concealment behind shipping containers and coiled rope. Thirty of them, armored in black leather and bearing weapons that gleam with their own malevolent light.
Their captain steps forward—tall, pale, with silver hair pulled back in a warrior's knot. His smile is a predator's expression, all teeth and promised violence.
“I am Captain Morwulf, and I am here to take you into custody,” Morwulf says, “And you my fine lady,” he grins at Forla, “Up the ass.”
"Go fuck yourself," I snarl, my hand moving to my sword. The familiar weight of steel soothes the rage building in my chest.
"Charming. I can see why the arena crowds found you... disappointing." Morwulf's smile widens. "No matter. We'll break that spirit again soon enough."
The Dark Elves spread out in practiced formation, cutting off our escape routes. Magic begins to gather around their hands—crackling energy that makes the air taste of copper and ash. I've seen this before. They mean to take us alive, break us slowly.
Not happening.
"Take them," Morwulf commands.
Everything explodes into motion.
I draw my sword as the first Dark Elf closes with me, his curved blade whistling through the air. I sidestep, letting his momentum carry him past, then drive my pommel into the base of his skull. He drops like a stone.
To my left, a Dark Elf lunges at Forla, clearly assuming she's the weak link. But she's not the terrified slave who once hid in barns anymore. She drops, rolls, and comes up with a knife, driving it up under his ribs with surgical precision.
Pride surges through me even as I parry another strike. My woman—my fierce, beautiful woman—has become a warrior.
Rophan wades into the melee like a gravitational force of nature, his fists crushing bone and tearing through Dark Elf armor.
We fight back-to-back, our combined fury keeping three enemies at bay.
But it's Nazim who truly terrifies—his grief has transformed him into something primal, his claws tearing through armor like parchment.
A Dark Elf tries to flank me while I'm engaged with another. I duck under his swing and drive my elbow into his solar plexus, doubling him over. My knee meets his descending face with a wet crunch.
"The woman!" Morwulf shouts, dark magic gathering around his fingers as he targets Forla. "She's—"
Rage explodes through me. I grab a fallen dagger and hurl it with all my strength. It takes him in the shoulder, spinning him around and sending his spell wild. The magic scorches stone instead of flesh.
"Touch her and die," I roar, advancing on the Dark Elf lieutenant with murder in my eyes.
Morwulf snarls, pulling the blade free and letting his own blood drip onto the ground. Where it touches stone, shadows writhe and grow. "You'll all burn like the serpents."
But we're beyond fear now. I've seen what they do to prisoners, what they did to Nazim's people. There's no surrender here—only victory or death.
I see Forla throw her knife at the last Dark Elf trying to flank Rophan. Her aim isn't perfect—she's no trained warrior—but it strikes his thigh and sends him stumbling into the minotaur's reach. Rophan's hands close around the elf's head with a wet crack.
Morwulf finds himself alone, bleeding, surrounded by the corpses of his squad. His pale face has gone ashen, but his eyes still burn with fanatic hatred.
"Nothing but a bunch of dirty ass freaks," he snarls.
Nazim's claws take his head clean off. Captain Morwulf's body topples backward, blood fountaining from the severed neck.
Silence falls over the harbor, broken only by the crackling of the burning ship and the distant cries of seabirds. I stand among the bodies, adrenaline still coursing through my veins, and immediately check on Forla.
She stands among the corpses, her hands shaking now that the battle's over, dark blood staining her clothes and skin. But she's alive. She's whole.
"Forla." My voice comes out softer than intended. "Are you hurt?"
She looks down at herself—cuts, bruises, someone else's blood. "I'm alive."
"You fought like a warrior," Rophan says, and there's genuine respect in his voice. "Well done."
My chest swells with pride. She's come so far from the frightened woman who nursed my wounds in that barn. Now she stands among fallen enemies, bloodied but unbroken.
But Nazim stares at the burning ship, grief etched into every line of his serpentine features. "They died because they helped us."
"They died because Dark Elves are monsters," Forla says firmly. "Their blood is on our enemies' hands, not ours."
He nods slowly, but I can sense the guilt will stay with him. Some wounds never fully heal—I know that better than most.
"Our escape route is gone," I observe, stating the obvious but needing to voice it.
"Yes." Nazim turns away from the harbor, his voice hollow. "The boats, the safe houses, the contacts—all compromised. We need to get away from the coast entirely."
"Where?" Forla asks.
"The hills." He points toward the rolling highlands that stretch inland from Eelry, their peaks lost in morning mist. "Cold country, hard traveling. But the Dark Elves prefer coastal operations. In the mountains, we might find sanctuary."
I look at those distant hills—gray and forbidding, promising hardship and uncertainty. But they also promise freedom from the nightmare of the arena, from the chains that have bound us all. And more importantly, they offer a path toward my brothers, toward the clan sanctuary in Northern Rach.
"Then we climb," Forla says before I can speak.
Her determination strengthens my own resolve. We'll face whatever comes together.
We gather what supplies we can from the dead Dark Elves—coins, weapons, a few travel rations. It feels like graverobbing, but survival overrides sentiment. The hills won't care about our moral qualms.
As we leave the harbor behind, I take one last look at the burning ship. Somewhere in those flames lie the dreams of easy passage, of simple escape. Now there's only the hard road ahead—steep climbs, bitter cold, and the constant threat of pursuit.