Chapter 30 Thoktar
THOKTAR
The magic ahead resolves into Dark Elves as our cart rounds the bend—but not ordinary soldiers.
These wear the midnight-blue armor of magical guards, elite troops whose very presence makes the air crackle with suppressed power.
Twelve of them mounted on shadowsteeds, their weapons wreathed in cold fire that burns without heat.
"Oh dear." Cirsheco murmurs, his voice losing all trace of amusement. "Dear, dear, dear."
The lead guard raises his hand, and our horse stops dead, legs locked by invisible force. Magic flows around us like a tide, pressing against my skin with the weight of centuries. These aren't bounty hunters or arena guards—these are the kind of Dark Elves who make other Dark Elves nervous.
"Cirsheco the Wild," the captain calls, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to absolute obedience. "By order of the Deep Lords, you will surrender yourself for judgment."
"Judgment?" Cirsheco laughs, but there's no humor in it now. "How terribly formal. What am I accused of this time?"
"The dishonouring of Lord Farferz. The seduction of his wife.”
“She seduced me!” Cirsheco says.
“The theft of his gold reserves. The murder of six of his personal guards.” The Captain continues.”
“Sorry?” Cirsheco says.
“Urinating on the bust of his late mother." Each charge falls like a stone into deep water. "Shall I continue?"
"Please do. I so enjoy hearing about my accomplishments."
‘The buggering of the Lord’s doll.”
“Oh, she was like heaven on a stick. Literally.” Cirsheco says.
He jests but I can see the tension in Cirsheco's shoulders, the way his fingers drum against the cart's side. For all his bravado, he's calculating odds and finding them poor. Twelve magical guards against one chaos mage, however skilled.
"I can help. Set me free," I say.
"No. This isn't about you, orc," he says quietly, not looking back. "It's about me. It always has been."
The captain's gaze flicks to me with obvious disinterest. "The orc is irrelevant. Our business is with the chaos-spawn."
"Chaos-spawn?" Cirsheco's grin returns, sharp as a blade. "How rude. My mother was a perfectly respectable whore before the madness took her."
The magical guards begin to spread out, their movements coordinated with military precision. Shadow-fire wraps around their weapons, and the very air grows thick with gathering power. I can taste copper and ozone, feel the hair on my arms standing up.
"You cannot win this fight," the captain observes with professional detachment. "Surrender, or your death will be swift."
"Swift?" Cirsheco stands on the driver's bench, crimson hair whipping in the wind that follows magical disturbance. "My dear captain, you mistake me for someone who fears death. I fear only boredom."
"Then you will die entertained."
The first spell comes like lightning made liquid, crackling energy that turns the cart's wooden side into splinters. Cirsheco deflects it with casual grace, chaos magic warping the attack into a flock of ravens that scatter into the trees.
But more spells follow, and I see the truth he's trying to hide. He's outnumbered, outgunned, facing powers that could level mountains. Whatever crimes he's committed, whatever chaos he's unleashed, the Deep Lords want him badly enough to send their elite.
A binding spell wraps around his ankles like liquid metal. He breaks free with a snarl, but it costs him—sweat beads his pale brow, and his next counterspell lacks its usual elegance.
Cirsheco begins backing away, preparing to flee. "Sorry, orc. Must dash.”
"Don't leave me, you bastard!" I roar, rattling my chains.
He pauses, turns back with that same predatory smile, and for a moment I see something almost like respect in his pale eyes.
"You know what? I rather like you." Magic gathers around his hands, crackling with chaotic energy. "Try not to die boringly, orc!"
The chaos spell hits my cage like a tidal wave. The iron bars turn to sand and crumble away. My chains become streams of water that splash harmlessly to the ground. For a moment, reality itself seems uncertain—am I in a cage or flying through starlight? Am I chained or swimming through liquid time?
Then the spell snaps back to normal, leaving me free and Cirsheco gone—not teleported, not invisible, simply elsewhere, leaving only the fading scent of roses.
The magical guards recover quickly, but their quarry has escaped. They don't pursue me as I stumble away from the wreckage—I'm beneath their notice, a mere beast.
I run through forest that still shifts and warps from residual magic. Trees become pillars of glass, then return to wood.
The sky flickers between day and night before settling on gray twilight. Cirsheco's final spell has torn holes in the fabric of things, and reality struggles to stitch itself back together.
My foot catches on a root and I crash to the forest floor hard. Pain explodes through my already abused body—the crossbow wound, the chain marks, fresh bruises from my fall. I lie there gasping, tasting blood and magic in the air.
That's when I hear it.
A voice, muffled but unmistakable, rising from somewhere beneath the forest floor. Weak, strained, but alive.
"...not your doll, you sick bastard..."
Forla.
I press my ear to the ground, following the sound. There—a section of earth that sounds hollow when struck, concealed by fallen leaves and moss. A hidden entrance, carved into the hillside and camouflaged with decades of growth.
She's down there. In some underground chamber, facing gods know what horrors while I lie here bleeding from my escape.
The voice comes again, stronger now, defiant despite whatever hell she's enduring.
"I am Forla of the Iron Tusk Clan, and my mate will tear your heart out!"
My mate. The words hit deeper than any weapon ever has. She claims me even in captivity, even facing whatever monster holds her prisoner. Uses my name, my clan, my love as armor against the dark.
I found you, my fierce heart. And whoever has you is about to learn why orcs don't make empty threats about tearing out hearts.
Time to keep that promise.