Chapter 28 Thoktar
THOKTAR
Iwake to the creak of wheels and the steady clop of hooves on stone, my head pounding like a smith's hammer against an anvil. The taste of sleep poison coats my tongue like ash, and when I try to move, chains bite into my wrists with familiar cruelty.
The cage-cart jolts over another stone, sending fresh pain through my injured shoulder where the crossbow bolt found its mark. They've bandaged the wound—can't have their prize bleeding out before delivery—but it throbs with each heartbeat.
"Awake at last," one of my captors observes. "Thought we might have dosed you too heavy."
I crack my eyes open, taking stock through the iron bars. Four Bounty Hunters on horseback, their pale faces marked with the ritual scars of professional bounty hunters.
They move with practiced efficiency, scanning the surrounding forest for threats while maintaining steady pace toward whatever destination they have planned.
"Where are you taking me?" My voice sounds like a rasp.
"Eelry," one of them replies without looking back. "The new boss there thinks you quite the star; a crowd puller."
“The last one is not cold and another already slipping on his dead shoes.” I say.
“Gospar was a prick. Some of us are thankful your friend ran him through. Would have done it myself given half a chance.”
“Loyal, I see.” I say.
“Only to coin and whoever's pussy I happen to be ploughing.” He laughs to himself.
The forest path winds through hills thick with pine and shadow, far from any settlement that might offer rescue. Smart route for moving valuable cargo—no witnesses, no authorities to bribe or avoid. These bounty hunters know their business.
"How much am I worth?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Hundred gold, alive and intact." He grins, showing teeth filed to predatory points. "Fifty if damaged. Five if we bring back just your head."
A hundred gold. Enough to buy a small farm or outfit a mercenary company. No wonder they tracked me across half the continent.
"The new boss has gold to…"
The attack comes without warning.
Magic erupts from the treeline like liquid fire, crimson energy that turns the lead horse into ash and bone fragments. The rider screams once before chaos magic consumes him, reducing the proud dark elf guard to scattered molecules on the wind.
The remaining Bounty Hunters scatter, drawing weapons and shouting orders, but their attacker is already among them.
A figure in dark leathers moves like liquid death, crimson hair streaming as he cuts through their formation with impossible grace.
I recognize him immediately from Eelry—high on building. The one who killed Kresh. Rage erupts inside me.
He tears through the dark elves like a formidable force of nature.
One tries to flee and gets a bolt of crackling energy through the spine.
Another raises a crossbow and finds his weapon transformed into a nest of vipers that turn on their new master.
The third manages a single sword stroke before his blade opens his throat to the bone.
In thirty seconds, it's over. Four professional killers reduced to cooling meat on the forest floor.
He approaches my cage, wiping blood from his curved blade with theatrical precision. His crimson hair catches afternoon light like spilled wine, and his pale eyes hold the satisfied gleam of someone who genuinely enjoys his work.
“Please, allow me to introduce myself.” he winks at me. “I am Cirsheco. Lover, dreamer, killer.”
I meet his gaze steadily. "I remember you. You killed Kresh."
"Yes, it was such fun. And none likes a naga anyway." He examines the cage's lock with professional interest.
"Why did you rescue me?"
His laughter is like breaking glass. "Rescue? Dear Deceiver, no. I am going to collect your bounty."
The casual admission should anger me, but there's something almost refreshing about his honesty. No pretense, no false nobility—just naked self-interest wrapped in charismatic brutality.
"A hundred gold is a hundred gold," he continues, producing a set of lockpicks from his belt. "Though I confess, I was hoping for more entertaining company than those tedious morons."
He settles onto the driver's bench and takes up the reins.
"Comfortable?" he asks with mock concern. "Excellent. We have quite a journey ahead, and I do so hate traveling in silence."
The cart lurches into motion. Around us, birds begin to circle, drawn by the scent of fresh death.
“Now, what
"Cheerful thought, isn't it?" Cirsheco observes my expression with obvious delight. "Don't worry, though. The journey will be quite pleasant. I'm excellent company when properly motivated."
"And what motivates you?"
"Chaos, mostly. Violence. The exquisite moment when carefully laid plans crumble into beautiful disaster." He sighs contentedly. "You provided quite the spectacle in Eelry. That moment when you turned Rophan against his masters? Pure poetry."
Despite everything, I find myself almost liking this mad Dark Elf. His honesty about his own nature is refreshing after so much deception and false friendship.
"You enjoy destruction for its own sake," I observe.
"Guilty as charged. Though I prefer to think of it as... artistic expression." He guides the cart around a fallen log. "Order is so terribly boring, don't you think? All those rules and expectations and predictable outcomes. Chaos is far more interesting."
"Even when it gets you killed?"
"Especially then. A boring death is the ultimate failure of imagination." His eyes gleam with genuine enthusiasm. "Speaking of which, that little arena riot of yours? Absolutely magnificent. I haven't seen such beautiful mayhem in decades."
We travel in companionable silence for a while, the cart wheels finding rhythm against stone. Strange as it seems, Cirsheco's presence is almost comforting after the grim professionalism of the bounty hunters. At least he makes no pretense about what he is.
"Tell me," he says eventually, "was it worth it? The escape, the freedom, the inevitable recapture? You could have simply died in the arena with some dignity intact."
"I found something worth living for," I reply, thinking of Forla's face in that final moment. "Worth fighting for."
"Ah, the human woman. Yes, I saw her flee. I’d give her a good rogering alright." Cirsheco remarks but immediately back tracks when he senses the rage in me.
“I mean, she is very beautiful, forgive my coarse language.” Cirsheco's tone becomes almost gentle. "Love is a fascinating madness, isn't it? Makes people do the most wonderfully irrational things."
"You wouldn't understand."
"Perhaps not. But I appreciate the artistry of it." He glances back with something that might be respect. "You would die for her, I can see that in your eyes. Love is burden I would rather not carry. Beautifully futile."
"Yes, and you are first on the list." I say quietly.
“Don’t be like that my dear chap. I thought we were friends.” Cirsheco says.
“Friends don’t sell each other into slavery.” I say.
“Well, there was this one time but that wasn’t for money rather than to get him out of my company. He was an awful bore but we’d been friends since children and I couldn’t just tell him to do one. Could I?”
“So you sold him into slavery?” I ask, shocked.
“Yes, to the demons, he’s probably somewhere on Galmoth now getting rogered left, right and must definitely centre.” He chuckles.
The forest grows darker around us as afternoon shadows lengthen. Somewhere ahead lies whatever fate Cirsheco has planned, whatever buyers he's found for my freedom. But I'm alive, Forla escaped, and every mile brings new possibilities for chaos.
"Look alive, orc," Cirsheco says suddenly, his voice losing its casual amusement. "We have company."
I follow his gaze toward the road ahead, where something flickers between the trees. Not sunlight—something colder, more deliberate. Magic gathering like storm clouds before the lightning strikes.
The cart slows as Cirsheco's expression shifts from amusement to calculation. "Now that," he murmurs, "could be problematic."