Page 26 of Agor the Merciless (Orc Mates #10)

Agor the Merciless wasted no time, raised his sword, and with a roar, he started up the stone steps.

He heard heavy footsteps pound the earth behind him, and when he glanced back, he saw his two grunts rushing toward him, weapons drawn.

They had left Durnak and Lyra to join the fight.

He waited for them to catch up, and then the three orcs charged forward as one, their breath struggling in the dead air.

Grak the Bitter watched them from above, his thin mouth stretching into a smile that showed broken teeth. He lifted his staff and drove it into the dirt with both hands, pushing it deep into the earth. The wood sank a quarter of its length, and the glow from the top spread into the rock and soil.

The steps began to move. At first, small ripples, then larger waves, as something pushed up from underneath.

A hand broke through – not an orc or human hand, but a twisted thing made of packed mud, with roots for fingers and bones showing through gaps in the soil.

More hands followed, then arms and heads, as bodies pulled themselves out of the ground.

The creatures stood on uneven legs, dirt falling from their forms as they moved.

Their faces had no real features, just holes where eyes should’ve been and jagged cracks for mouths.

Some had animal skulls pushed into their mud heads, others had roots and sticks poking through their bodies.

They smelled worse than the rot of the dead forest – a mix of old meat left too long in the sun, and wet soil from deep places where nothing grew.

“Kill them!” Agor ordered, not slowing his run up the steps. The climb was steep, and the faster he ran, the farther the top seemed.

The first monster lunged at him, arms outstretched. Agor swung his sword into its middle, cutting it in half. Mud splattered his chest and face as the creature fell apart. He pushed through the remains without stopping, but where the pieces hit the ground, they began to pull back together.

One grunt swung a heavy axe that took the head off another mud creature.

The second grunt stabbed a third monster through its chest with a spear.

Neither attack stopped the things for long.

The headless one kept walking, and the one with the spear stuck through it grabbed the weapon’s shaft and pulled itself closer to the grunt who’d attacked it.

Now two creatures blocked Agor’s path. He kicked the first one down, watching it tumble and break apart. The second grabbed his leg with root-fingers that dug into his flesh. He grunted at the pain and brought his sword down on its arm, freeing himself.

“Captain, there are too many!” one warrior shouted.

Agor turned to see his grunts surrounded.

Five or six creatures pressed in on each orc, grabbing at them.

The orcs fought hard, breaking the monsters into pieces with each blow, but the parts just pulled themselves back together and kept coming, while the orcs were more and more depleted.

Agor felt it, too. The longer the battle stretched, the weaker he was.

A mud hand grabbed his ankle from behind.

He looked down to see the creature he had cut in half earlier, now whole again and climbing after him.

He kicked it away and continued up the steps, only to find three more blocking his way.

He roared and swung his sword in a wide arc that caught all three creatures.

They broke apart, pieces of mud and bone raining down the steps, but already they were reforming.

Every monster he destroyed simply made more as the pieces became new creatures.

Blood ran down his leg, fresh scratches marked his arms from creatures he hadn’t even noticed attacking him.

Sweat poured down his face and back as he fought, his muscles burning with effort.

Below, one grunt went down under a pile of mud monsters.

He screamed as they covered him, digging into his flesh and tearing him apart.

The other grunt tried to help but couldn’t break through the wall of monsters between them.

The captain turned back to his climb, cutting down two more creatures that rose in front of him.

His sword felt heavier with each swing. His breath came in gasps.

The steps seemed to stretch on and on before him, and Grak the Bitter still watched from above, laughing.

This was endless and fruitless, but he didn’t know what else to do.

Three creatures grabbed him at once, one on each arm and one around his waist. He struggled against their grip, but more piled on, their weight pulling him down to his knees.

He broke free from one, only to have two more grab onto him.

The second grunt screamed below as monsters pulled him to the ground. Now both warriors were lost under piles of moving mud and roots.

Agor fought on, but it was getting to the point where he could barely move.

He hadn’t felt so overwhelmed in his life.

It was as if his experience as a warrior on the battlefield and as a captain leading a horde counted for nothing.

The monsters kept coming from the earth, endless as the dirt itself.

His arms grew tired, his sword blows came slower, and blood from a dozen small wounds soaked into his clothes.

This wasn’t a real, fair battle, it was a trap designed to wear him down until he could no longer lift his weapon.

Grak didn’t want him dead quickly. He wanted him exhausted, drained, and hopeless before he finished him.

Still, Agor fought. He would not stop until his body gave out.

But with each monster he smashed, each step he tried to climb, the truth became clear.

He couldn’t win this fight. He blinked through the sweat and blood that ran into his eyes, and stopped for a second to look up at Grak.

The mage’s thin body leaned on his staff, his wrinkled face twisted in a smile.

Agor remembered how Grak had once been strong and respected, how he had stood tall among the horde.

But the fear that drove him to dark magic was always there, the terror of growing old, of losing power, of being forgotten when he died.

That fear had turned him into this bitter creature who stole life from others to feel strong again.

Maybe he could use it against him.

The captain lowered his sword and stood still as the mud creatures moved around him, their root-fingers reaching for him.

Instead of fighting, he threw his head back and laughed.

The sound echoed off the stone wall, loud and mocking, exaggerated to a degree.

He did his best to sound genuine when his two grunts had just died, their bodies rolled to the foot of the stone wall, and his raider and young mage were nowhere in sight.

“Is this the best you can do, old man? You were once a great mage, feared by humans and respected by orcs. Now you hide in a mountain and play with dirt and bones.”

The creatures paused in their attack, as if confused by the sudden change. Grak’s smile faded. Apparently, they responded to their master’s mood.

“Your name meant something once,” Agor continued. “But when you die, who will remember Grak? No one tells stories about a coward who poisoned women from a distance.”

The mage’s face darkened.

Agor took a step forward even as mud creatures climbed on him. He ignored them, keeping his eyes on the mage.

“I can change that.” He moved closer, his voice dropping to a low timbre.

“Give me the cure for what hurts my bride, and I will make you a legend. I will tell every horde how Grak the Cunning brought me to my knees. I will speak your name with fear when I train new warriors. Your power will live in stories long after your body turns to dust.”

From his position on the stairs, Agor watched the orc’s face change.

The anger remained, but something else appeared in his sunken eyes – hunger.

The mage stood straighter, his gaze fixed on Agor.

The promise of being remembered, of having his name live on in fear and respect, worked on him like its own kind of magic.