Chương 2: Jaws of Defeat

Class skill activated: Blood Rage Asgar's vision narrowed. Clashing steel and desperate shouts grew muted, the smell of blood and shit now distant. Everything focused in on the six orcs ringing him in a semi-circle. He could hear each of their snorts and rasps, could feel the heat of their breath; hot and fetid against his skin. His own body felt distant. No aches and pains, just that lethal lightness filling every muscle with dangerous potential.

His fist squeezed the handle of the war-pick and the wooden haft creaked under the strength of his grip. When they charged, his face stretched into a feral grin. A roar bubbled up from his chest, deep and defiant and hungry to be free. He let it out as he leapt forwards, bringing the war-pick round in a deadly arc at the first orc's head. It burst apart, flecks of skull flying everywhere. His swing continued, slamming into the shoulder of the second beast, and then he was ducking beneath an attack.

He danced and wobbled, recognising impacts against his chainmail but not really feeling them. It was like he was fighting children. He was faster, stronger. Each of his blows crushed bone and pulped flesh, while their attacks barely moved him. A stray punch smashed into his nose and hot blood dribbled down his face but it only made him grin wider, a mad laugh tearing its way free from his throat. He reached out, grabbed the orc responsible and spat in its face.

The creature wriggled, trying to get free, but Asgar's grip was iron. He shouted some nonsense about ' payback' or ' fair play', and the orc flinched. Honestly, Asgar wasn't even sure if he was speaking aloud. His thoughts were so loud that he was half-convinced his enemies could hear them booming from within his mind. Either way, he didn't care. The blood rage had him and he did what he promised.

His forehead smashed into the orc's nose three times, then the creature was toppling to the ground, face and skull a ruined mess. He turned, but found no more orcs standing. Strange. He didn't feel tired, knew that there were more of the bastards hiding somewhere. His goal was still lying in the mud though, face slack and eyes rolling in panic. He leaned down towards the fallen officer, but the man scuttled back with a strangled cry. Asgar frowned. It was… hard to do for some reason.

The muscles in his face were slow to respond, aching as if he'd been grinning from ear to ear for an entire day. He coughed, felt the strength abruptly leave his limbs, and staggered to one knee. Avarron approves of your slaughter. You have gained a level. Level 6 achieved. Asgar blinked away the notifications, knowing it was a task for later. He'd only succumbed to the Blood Rage once before, but it had left him both weak as a kitten and sporting a dozen injuries he'd not noticed taking.

He suspected this time would be worse. But before all of that, he had a task. Peeling aching fingers away from the handle of his weapon, he crawled over to the terrified officer. Just because Asgar had made a ruin of the nearest orcs didn't mean the battle was over, and letting this fool die would mean he'd risked his secret for nothing.

"Back to safety," he said, voice cracking.

"Who… who are you?" the man whimpered, flinching as Asgar reached for him.

"Don't fucking matter much right now," he muttered, slapping away the man's wrist when he realised how weak the grip would be. He hauled him to his feet, then thought better of the greeting, and answered again.

"My name's Asgar, milord. One of the levies." The officer let himself be steered back towards a line of soldiers that were pushing back against the greenskin warband. It became a deadly game of 'dodge the orc' as they swayed and slipped and generally wobbled their way a few dozen yards towards the nearest properly reformed line of men. When they arrived, the soldiers directly in front of them looked at Asgar with wide eyes, all wearing the same half-terrified, half-awed expression.

Whether those three had seen him kill the half dozen orcs a moment prior or were simply reacting to his blood-caked appearance, Asgar wasn't sure. He wouldn't fight it though. He'd been hoping to catch the attention of an officer, and it seemed he'd succeeded. Gaining a reputation amongst the common soldiery might be less useful now, but it didn't hurt. His only skill wasn't flashy either, so perhaps they wouldn't even realise he had a class. He could only hope.

"Let us through," he barked, doing his best impression of Tarkin. He'd only known the man for a week or so, but everyone seemed to respect him, so Asgar figured he knew what he was about. All too quickly, Asgar was steering the officer up the hill towards a group of important-looking men and women gathered about issuing orders and observing the battle. Among the many runners and adjuncts coming and going that all parted before Asgar's hard stare stood three officers with rich cloaks draped over their armour.

One wore the crimson of an elevated captain, one the gold of a commissioned officer, and a final woman wore the deep purple of the royal house. As expected, the elevated captain had the air of an experienced soldier, his armour battered and his face set into grim lines of consternation as he discussed the ambush. Equally expected, the gold-cloak wore the arrogance perfected by the nobility in the set of his thin, aristocratic features.

It did not escape Asgar's notice that his filigreed armour was free from both scratches and dirt. The woman in purple though; she was different. There was a presence about her, and Asgar was struck by the certainty that she could kill every single orc here herself if she so desired. Where that certainty came from, he couldn't say, but ever since he'd been bestowed his class, the strange premonitions had stirred on occasion.

He'd learned to listen by now, so when she turned an inquisitive look his way as they arrived, he did his best to avoid her gaze. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. Someone who could stop all this senseless death and chose not to was not someone he wanted to catch the notice of. The officer in his arms sagged gratefully to the ground, and Asgar was left to stand awkwardly, offering polite nods after a moment's hesitation.

"Captain. Milord. Your Grace." The woman accepted his nod gracefully, though the gold-cloaked officer sneered.

"Lady Valentia is a member of the royal house, not royalty herself. She should be addressed as 'my lady', due the same courtesy as I."

"Leave it off, Hendry," the red-cloaked captain scoffed. Asgar found himself surprised by the disrespect in the statement—it seemed a captain could get away with far more than a peasant farmer. But he already knew that, didn't he? He dropped the thought before his blood could start to pulse in dangerous rhythm once more.

"Apologies, milord," Asgar said, ducking his head in a show of contrition.

"Found this officer out in the muck and thought I'd get him to safety, is all." He added a touch more of his farmer's drawl to hopefully draw some sympathy, though by the curl of the noble's lip, it seemed to do the opposite.

"See that it doesn't happen again—""Many thanks!" the outspoken captain said, blatantly interrupting his fellow officer.

"I'm sure Lord Finley will be most appreciative that his son was saved an ugly end at the hands of an orc savage." Asgar got the sense much of that was directed at Lord Hendry rather than himself, but he accepted the praise nonetheless. That was what he was here for, after all. The captain looked him up and down with a keen eye. He was handsome, in a rugged sort of way; broad shouldered and fit, with even features and raven hair bound tightly beneath his functional helm.

His eyes held an intensity that Asgar found himself drawn to, though it was still leagues from Lady Valentia's presence. Was it simply charisma and experience, or was there something more esoteric there, even for the rank-and-file soldiers? How profligate was Avarron with his blessings? How unique was Asgar, truly?

"Where are you from, soldier?"

"Just one of the levies, captain," Asgar answered truthfully.

"And how did you find yourself this side of the rise? Do I need to speak to my sergeants? Their orders were to hold back in the event of an ambush unless the dwarven engines were in danger." He glanced to one side where a line of massive draft horses snorted in place hitched to covered wagons.

"I gave no such order."

"No, captain. I…" Asgar fumbled for an explanation. Couldn't rightly tell the man his true purpose. It was one thing to seek a noble's favour to advance your position, but to use it to kill quite possibly the most famous— He cut his thoughts off again. Wasn't helping, and he'd heard tell of strange classers that could pluck the thoughts right from your head and read them clear as day. No idea if it was true, but a life lived farming turnips hadn't prepared him for his new role.

Lord Hendry drew himself up to what he no doubt thought was an impressive height. He was still a few inches shorter than Asgar, and about half as broad.

"A deserter caught in the ambush, was it?" Asgar's eyes widened. He hadn't even considered how this would look. He scrabbled for a compelling answer, but his new class had made him lethal with weapon, not word.

"Lord Hendry!" the previously terrified officer cried, standing on shaky legs.

"This man saved me! I saw him cut through at least a dozen orcs in moments. He stood between me and the foul beasts in the thick of the fighting, and if it wasn't for his bravery I would surely be dead." The captain's keen gaze returned to Asgar, and there was something measuring within now.

"And how exactly did he happen to be in the 'thick of the fighting?'" Lord Hendry asked with a sneer.

"One act of bravery does not overcome one of extreme cowardice. Deserters are hanged. No exceptions."

"I saw him!" the young officer continued.

"He came thundering through the breach in the shield wall. He cut his way towards us! This man is no deserter!" With every word, the officer seemed to believe his own story more, regaining an enthusiasm Asgar had frankly not expected from the terrified young officer he'd pulled from the mud.

"He is one of the bravest soldiers I have ever seen, and I mean no disrespect towards your men, Captain Strand, but if the entire army was filled with the likes of this man, then we'd be pushing the Hellspawn back into the Pits before the end of spring, I have no doubt."

"Yes, well, I'll be sure to inform the Golden Lance of your tactical assessment," scoffed Lord Hendry. Asgar was beginning to really hate the man. Did he have to be a prick about everything?

"No offence taken," Captain Strand replied with a nod.

"Thank you for your impassioned words, Lord Finley. I will ensure this man is appropriately rewarded for his act of courage."

"Lord Finley is my father. Please, call me Emmanuel," the officer replied with a dazzling smile.

"And no need to bother yourself, captain! I shall see to his reward personally!" He turned to Asgar.

"How about it then, my good man? What say you to a place in my company? We could use a man of your mettle!"

"Of course, ser," Asgar managed to choke out, a little overwhelmed at how flawlessly his shoddy plan had worked, and simultaneously how close it had come to his death. Emmanuel Finley wrapped an arm around Asgar's broad shoulders in a strange reversal of their earlier roles.

"Capital! And what did you say your name was?"

"Err… Asgar, milord."

"Nonsense!" Emmanual cried.

"It is Emmanuel to you, and so shall it ever be! Tell me, my friend: from where do you hail?"

"Piddlebottom, milord." The answer slipped out before Asgar was conscious of it, and immediately his stomach dropped. He snatched a glance at the officers, but they had turned back to the fight. All except Lady Valentia, whose amethyst eyes were fixed on him with sudden interest. She knew something. Why else would one of high blood show any reaction to the name of a tiny village down at the arse-end of the kingdom? It had a silly name, no doubt, but there was more in that hawk-like gaze of hers than amusement.

There was recognition. Judgement. Schemes unfolding. Heat lanced through Asgar's breast. He ground his teeth, desperately trying to keep himself under control. Not here. Not yet. He didn't even know that she was involved. Just the suspicion was enough to set him near-shivering with anger, but it wouldn't help him now. He wasn't ready. Behind and below, the soldiers of the 2 nd had managed to reform their splintered lines into a single bristling shield wall, watched in silence by Lord Hendry and Captain Strand.

Why neither of them helped beyond a few barked commands to other officers frittering around nervously, Asgar didn't know. Perhaps it was a test. Orcs were savage, but simple savagery was far from the worst thing to emerge from the Pits, and the soldiers would need to be ready to face it when the time came. Just as Asgar needed to be ready to face his own coming trial. His new class had brought with it a slowly burgeoning sense of power: his own, and that of those around him.

Even in its infancy, his new sense told him that Lady Valentia was far beyond him, but his ultimate target loomed above even her. Asgar was so far from prepared for the coming confrontation that he wanted to break down and weep. To give up on an oath made in the heat of anger. But simply closing his eyes was enough to summon the memories of that day. The horrors, the disgust. No, he wasn't strong enough yet, not by half. But he would be.

As Lord Emmanuel Finley pulled him away from the impromptu meeting, jabbering nonsense in his ear about their glorious future, all Asgar could think of was Lady Valentia's hawk-like gaze, and the certainty that he would need to grow far stronger if he wanted his revenge.