Chapter 80
Sir Gorak
Now that we were in the company of Sir Rockington III and the skeletal knights, we travelled the rest of the way on foot. We passed through a small forest, and around fifteen minutes later, Fardown finally came into view.
It was similar to Oakreach in many ways – the buildings, the roads, the general medieval aesthetic. However, it was significantly smaller, perhaps half the size, and surrounded by a thoroughly unimpressive wooden wall.
It wasn’t the town that interested us, though; it was the enormous crowd that had gathered beyond the walls.
There were so many orcs that it looked as though the entire population had come out to witness whatever was happening. They had formed a huge circle, dozens of orcs deep, and every single one of them was staring towards its centre.
They were all chanting something, but with the distance it was impossible to make out the words.
“I think it’s probably safe to assume our friend Anokium is involved in whatever the fuck is happening over there,” I said.
“Indeed,” said Rel, before turning to face his minions. “Pete and I will head over there first and determine what is happening. We shall attempt to keep a low profile and blend in with the crowd, which may prove somewhat challenging in the company of an earth elemental and eight skeletal knights. Wait here, but remain alert. I shall launch a fireball into the air when we require your assistance.”
Commander Osian and Sir Rockington III nodded their understanding, and Rel hopped onto my shoulder.
I strode across the field, the words being chanted becoming clearer as we drew nearer.
“Sir Gorak! Sir Gorak! Sir Gorak!”
Every single orc in the crowd had taken up the chant.
It didn’t fill me with confidence.
In my experience, there are different types of chanting and cheering.
There’s the super-competitive, cup-final sort. The loud, enthusiastic kind that exists solely to let your team know that you would very much like them to fuck the other team’s shit up.
There’s the school sports day kind. Everyone else has finished the 800m race except for the one kid who got distracted by a pigeon and is now on the next field holding a random stick he found and pretending it’s a machine gun. The chanting and cheering isn’t really encouragement. It’s more of a polite way of saying, “Could you please get the fuck on with it? We’ve still got to do the egg race, sack race, and tug of war.”
Then there’s the you’ve got absolutely no fucking chance whatsoever, but we really want you to win, so maybe if we shout loudly enough we can somehow bend reality and make it happen kind.
The “Sir Gorak!” chant definitely fit into the third group.
We reached the front of the crowd. Several orcs had shot us dirty looks and sworn at us as we’d pushed our way through, but they were quickly silenced when Rel returned their stares, his eyes crackling with lightning.
I don’t think he really understood the concept of keeping a low profile.
There was an open area in the centre of the circle, perhaps thirty metres across. To one side stood an orc in plate armour. It had seen better days, the metal a dull silver with patches of rust marring its surface. It fit a little awkwardly too, his substantial stomach making it impossible to fully tighten the lower straps of his chest piece.
I still didn’t know much about orc life cycles, but if I had to put it in human terms, I’d have guessed he was somewhere in his mid-sixties. He had the look of someone who’d been an absolute beast in his younger days, but had really let himself go in the years since.
His pale green face was weathered and lined. The skin around his jaw sagged slightly, and his chin and cheeks were covered by several days' worth of grey stubble. His amber eyes seemed a little unfocused, and as I watched, he removed a flask from his belt and took a deep swig.
He belched and reached up to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, looking mildly surprised when he realised it was covered by armour.
My gaze shifted to his opponent, who I could only assume was our man Anokium.
He was an orc unlike any I’d ever seen. He was what I imagined the love child of Dekrek and Evalria would look like.
Tall. Powerful. Skin the colour of dried blood.
His armour was entirely functional – basic chainmail and a black leather chest piece, devoid of any decoration or ostentation. It was essentially the armour equivalent of peasant garb. Honestly, if the quest description hadn’t painted him as a murderous monster, I think we might have found some common ground when it came to fashion.
His sword, on the other hand, was anything but ordinary. It was an absolute beast of a weapon, forged from blue metal with veins of pulsing silver running along its length.
Assembled behind him were eight equally impressive warriors. They must have been the ‘band of loyal knights’ that the quest mentioned.
Anokium moved to the centre of the circle, his head tilted slightly as he considered Sir Gorak.
There was a disturbing emptiness to the red orc’s eyes.
Have you ever seen one of those old mug shots of a serial killer and immediately thought, damn, this motherfucker's got a major screw loose?
That was exactly the vibe Anokium gave off.
“If you are the finest champion this town can muster,” he said, “then it is even more pathetic than I first thought.”
Sir Gorak took another swig of his drink, then reached down to retrieve the warhammer and shield he’d dumped unceremoniously on the ground while trying to wrestle his armour into place. Another orc stepped forward to help strap the shield to his arm. Once it was secured, Sir Gorak took a few experimental swings with the warhammer. The movements were a little awkward, as though he was attempting something that his brain insisted he should be able to do, but his body didn’t quite agree.
He shrugged, then looked up to meet Anokium’s eyes. “I’m not interested in hearing what you have to say, pup,” he said in a gravelly voice, the words slurring slightly.
“I’ve known Bronn since I was a boy.” He gestured vaguely towards the forest where Sir Rockington III and the skeletal knights were currently hiding. “We used to spend our days climbing trees, finding sticks to use as swords, and pretending we were knights setting out on heroic quests.”
He took an unsteady step forward.
“I’m going to cave your fucking skull in for what you did to him.”
“It’s all an act,” Rel hissed in my ear. “The mana in the area is shifting. The old orc is drawing on it and shaping it.” He paused for a moment. “It has the feel of Nature’s Wrath.”
Anokium clearly had no arcane sense, as he tipped his head back and let loose a great roar of laughter. “You may be an old fool, but I must admit–”
Sir Gorak did not let him finish. He stamped an armoured boot, and the earth beneath his feet split apart. The crack raced towards Anokium, and the ground beneath the red orc suddenly shifted, throwing him off balance.
As if he had momentarily cast off the shackles of time, Sir Gorak tore through the air, his warhammer sweeping towards Anokium’s head. The red orc’s eyes widened as he twisted awkwardly aside. The hammer whistled past his face, missing by fractions of an inch. He stepped back, attempting to create some space, but Sir Gorak pressed his advantage. His arm blurred through the air as he unleashed blow after blow at his retreating opponent.
I felt goosebumps spread across my body as I watched the battle.
An old warrior, long past his prime, taking up his weapons one final time to defend his home. For the briefest of moments, we were witnessing the orc as he had once been.
The crowd's chanting grew in intensity, the assembled townspeople roaring furiously, the words now holding something they had not only moments before...
Hope.
Unfortunately, honour and a noble cause could not overcome reality, and with each passing second, the tide of battle began to shift...
And then it was Sir Gorak who was on the defensive, desperately bringing up his shield to block and deflect Anokium’s strikes. The red orc was enjoying himself now, his lips curled into a savage grin as he toyed with his opponent.
He knew the battle was already won.
He feinted, deliberately leaving himself open, and Sir Gorak took the bait. The old knight lunged forward, roaring as his warhammer descended in a powerful overhead strike.
Anokium stepped aside at the last possible moment, causing the blow to miss by inches. Gorak stumbled forward, and the red orc drove the pommel of his sword into the knight's exposed back.
The old orc crashed to the ground, his hammer and shield coming loose of his grip, and the crowd fell silent.
“Don’t tell me your fight has left you already, old man,” said Anokium, reaching down to grab one of Sir Gorak’s arms and hauling him back to his feet.
The old knight staggered slightly and shook his head. Then he whirled on the spot, his armoured fist crashing into Anokium’s jaw.
The red orc made no effort to dodge, the savage grin never leaving his face as the blow connected. A trickle of blood ran from his split lip down his chin. Then he returned the favour, lashing out with an uppercut that lifted Sir Gorak off his feet and sent his limp body hurtling through the air before it crashed into the front row of the crowd on the opposite side of the circle.
Several orcs were knocked to the ground, but they scrambled back to their feet and rushed to help Sir Gorak.
“I must say,” said Anokium, now looking at the barely conscious old orc with something approaching fondness, “you have surprised me, and that is not something that happens often.” He wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand and glanced at it. “Honestly... this is the most fun I’ve had in quite some time.”
He raised his sword and strode across the space.
“After I’ve killed you, perhaps I shall honour your bravery by leaving this place and sparing your people the attention of my friends.”
After he’d killed him?
“I don’t think so, motherfucker,” I said, stepping from the crowd and into the arena. “If you’re done bullying pensioners, how about trying someone your own age?”