And then—there was a roar of flame and a searing heat, and all at once the pressure around his throat was gone as he fell to the ground. He gasped and coughed as cold air flooded his lungs, his vision snapping back into place as his arm was burning; he would have cried out if he weren’t rasping for breath, one hand coming up to smother the flames that were licking up his sleeve and searing his skin. It wasn’t enough—something snapped in the back of his head and he threw himself back onto the ground, smothering the flames between his body and the dirt. When the flames were gone and panic had stopped ringing in his ears, he could hear shouting, scuffling.
When he looked up again, a steady stream of fire was pouring from Zorvut’s hand as the orc who had been choking him screamed and fruitlessly tried to stumble away—and from behind Zorvut, Hrul charged up and brought his axe down into Zorvut’s back, sending him to the ground with a pained shout.
Agony burst through the bond, and he bit back a sob as it only made his burnt arm sting all the worse somehow. “Get up,” he exclaimed, though it only came out as a hoarse whisper. “Get up!”
And as if he had somehow heard, Zorvut flipped onto his back and shot a stream of fire in Hrul’s direction. It missed, but gave him enough time to stumble back to his feet. A crazed look of fury was on Zorvut’s face as he rose, unlike anything Taegan had ever seen from him before, and he spat something in orcish full of vitriol. Hrul scowled and answered, but Zorvut’s eyes had already left him, looking back up into the sky again. Zorvut lifted his free hand into the sky, and with his eyebrows knit together with effort, made a pulling motion as his hand closed into a fist.
From the clear, cloudless blue sky, a bolt of lightning came screaming down, so bright that for an instant the city seemed dark as twilight in comparison. The deafening bolt crashed directly above Hrul Bonebreaker, drowning out his shout of agony as it struck him cleanly between the shoulders. He stumbled to his knees from the sheer force of it, his face twisted in pain, and as Zorvut stepped closer to him, he could not move, his muscles quivering and tensing uselessly. He was stunned, immobile, and for a second Zorvut stared down at him. Taegan could feel a swell of emotions through the bond—regret, and sadness, and fear, and through it all the rage that was plain on his face, and more quietly beneath that an unyielding resolve.
Zorvut lifted his flaming sword above the kneeling warlord, and with a roar of exertion, brought it down full force. There was no sound as the warlord’s head was severed from his body, rolling to Zorvut’s feet before the spasming mass collapsed to the ground in a pool of gushing blood.
10
Zorvut
He had done it. The air around Zorvut felt eerily still and silent as he looked down at his father’s body—no, not his father, but the warlord. The eyes were still open on the severed head, and almost seemed to twitch and spasm as if looking around in terror. It must have been a trick of the light. The orc was absolutely dead.
Zorvut finally wrenched his gaze away from the corpse to look up at Taegan, who was staring back at him from where he had fallen in the dirt with wide eyes, mouth agape. He could not quite sense what he was feeling from the bond; the whole world seemed to be holding its breath, as if waiting for him to act before shifting back into motion.
The elves. The signal! The thought snapped him from his stunned reverie, and he tore his gaze away from Taegan to look up at the sky once more, forcing all his focus into wrenching another bolt of lightning from the sky. He could feel the flames surrounding his sword sputter and die as he channeled all his magic into a bolt of heat, twisting it into lightning and pulling it down from the atmosphere in a thunderous crash, then with a herculean effort, pulled down a third. His muscles quivered and ached, and when the earsplitting bolt had rumbled and died away, he allowed himself a brief instant to slump forward and breathe in as much as he could expand his lungs.
There was still more to be done. He had to finish the plan.
From where he was leaning down, he reached out and grabbed Hrul’s severed head by the ear, hoisting it above his head as he stood up straight in spite of his aching muscles and stinging open wounds.
“The warlord is dead!” he shouted, projecting his voice as far and as loud as it would go without breaking. “I’ve bested him in single combat! Throw down your weapons or die!”
The silence surrounding them finally broke with a few nervous murmurs in orcish. Several were glancing nervously between Zorvut and the burnt body of the orc who had been holding Taegan by the chains around his wrists, dead on the ground. Among the crowd, there was the clatter of a few swords dropping. Even as some dropped their weapons, though, others scowled and glared, looking between Zorvut and those who had yielded. He could feel their eyes on his wounds, his chest heaving for breath.
“You can’t strike all of us down with a thunderbolt, traitor,” one of the orcs in the crowd spat as he stepped forward, axe still in hand.
Zorvut smirked. He had hoped someone would ask.
“Those weren’t for you,” he replied, and pointed back toward the city gate. “It was for them.”
A confused hush fell over the crowd, and in the quiet he could hear it—the thundering beats of many horses galloping right for the city gates. Zorvut did not look behind him but watched the faces of the crowd around him morph into shock and even fear with an unrivaled sense of satisfaction. Against all the odds, he had pulled it off. He’d done it.
Though it would have been that much more fearsome if the full battalion he had been planning on having with him had arrived, nearly two hundred elves all on horseback were still nothing to scoff at within the city walls. Their weapons were drawn but they stood at the ready as they gathered around, and he recognized Kyrenic’s dappled gray horse pulling up next to him, the helmeted figure looking toward him with a sword in one hand.
“I tell you again,” Zorvut called out in orcish. “Drop your weapons! Your warlord commands it!” He glanced over at Kyrenic next to him and said in elvish, still loud enough that every elf could hear him. “Captain, any orc that still bears arms against us, cut them down.”
“Gladly,” the elf replied coolly. For a brief moment, there was a sense of anticipation, none of the orcs wanting to be the first to finally relent, the elves waiting for the signal from Zorvut, Taegan watching him in stunned awe.
The sound of more weapons falling to the ground broke the tense air as more orcs yielded, tossing down their weapons and holding up their hands in a placating gesture.
“Forward!” Kyrenic called out in elvish, brandishing his sword, and with a resounding shout the elves charged the city, racing through the streets. Only a handful of orcs stepped forward to meet them, and though they fought fiercely, they were more than outnumbered. After a brief, tense scuffle, the army of elves had cut down the few orcs who had refused to yield, and continued their charge through the streets to seek out any remaining rebels.
For once, Zorvut was thankful for the rigid codes and customs of orc tradition. He had slain the warlord with his own hands, and now he held command. All but the most stubborn of fighters, the absolute most disdainful of him, would not dare to continue bearing arms against him now.
He felt a trickle of tentative hope coming from the bond, and he looked toward Taegan. He was still crouched in the same spot, motionless, his mouth agape but the corners upturned in a hesitant smile. He was so small, so fragile, compared to the orcs that towered over him even from paces away. Guilt wracked him at the sight of reddened, blistered skin on his arm under the tatters of one of his sleeves.
He dropped his sword and stumbled toward Taegan, every cell in his body suddenly yearning to touch him, to hold him, and he fell to his knees next to him.
“You’re hurt,” Taegan said weakly as Zorvut pulled him into his arms, their bodies singing in rapture the moment their skin touched. For a moment it was so overwhelming he couldn’t breathe, gasping for breath as he pressed Taegan’s trembling form against his own.
“I’m okay,” Zorvut said softly, then pulled away to look down at him. “You’rehurt. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I burnt you. I had to get him away from you. He was going to kill you. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Taegan replied, his voice still hoarse, and he looked down at the wound. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay now.”
