The Bloody Eye

6

The stalker moved silently. He was nearly invisible as he traveled parallel to the slavers. His gray skin blended into the rocks as effectively as a gargoyle hiding atop a castle tower. Krusk sniffed involuntarily as the familiar orc scent wafted its way unwelcome into his nostrils. The orc stench mixed with porcine spoor made Krusk glad that he was moving faster than the slave train. His memories and his hatred could not be so easily left behind.

Krusk considered himself human. Most humans considered him an animal, at best, a monster at worst. Orcs considered him a traitor. To them, he was a weak-willed, inferior traitor to a race that esteemed strength, power, and the sadistic use of both. Krusk was neither weak nor sadistic, neither human nor orc. He was a half-orc, tolerated by some but hated by most. A child of rape who adored his human mother, Krusk developed into a warrior of strength and confidence because he saw the price his mother paid to express her love for him.

Ostracized by family and alleged friends, Vanisa had never let Krusk doubt that he was loved. Though she lived deep in the woods far from any social contact besides each other, Vanisa had managed to teach Krusk to read, to think, and to value the ideals of human culture even when the humans failed to live up to those ideals, as they so often did. As Krusk grew and showed more of the legendary strength of his father's race, he left his home in the woods, knowing that he could protect his mother only by separating himself from her. Eventually, bereft and wounded, Krusk was rescued by Captain Tahrain. The career soldier welcomed Krusk into his unit, nursed him back to health, and trained him in the use of weapons and the fine points of tactics. Since Tahrain's death, Krusk had honed those lessons in a thousand mercenary jobs and adventures.

Today, Krusk was no one's mercenary. This task was one of his own choosing. He'd crossed the trail of this group of orcs hours earlier, and they were leaving the unmistakable signs of an orc slave caravan. Following the trail, Krusk encountered many human corpses dumped at the sides of the road. Most of them were either very old or very young. They were the slow, the sick, the weak who could not keep up. Instead of simply killing them, the orcs crippled or maimed them, then left them to die alone of their wounds. If the orcs had known they were being pursued, their cruel knives would have cut with more precision to prolong the lives of the dying. Civilized pursuers, the weakest of the weak in the eyes of the orcs, would tend to the wounded and fall behind. Krusk was glad that everyone he'd found was dead already, sparing him the distasteful choice between leaving someone to linger in pain or ending his life with a merciful sweep of his blade. In either case, he would not slow down.

Still, he pondered the meaning of the missing eye from every victim. This was something new, even for orcs. Krusk guessed that it was not orc handiwork. Orcs might blind a captive to prevent his escape or simply to watch him stumble about in pain. This mutilation was systematic and deliberate. It hinted at something beyond orcs. It also resolved Krusk to see the captives set free.

Stalking the caravan, he moved silently ahead and watched the train move past. He crossed behind and cautiously moved up the other side, taking in every detail of guards and weapons, of which were leaders and which would crumble without leadership.

Krusk breathed deeply as he moved through the shadowed trees past the orc chief. The dire boars that the warriors rode explained the pig stench. The warriors themselves looked as though they lived in a swamp and never bathed. As soon as Krusk was certain he was ahead of the column, he picked up his pace. The caravan obviously considered itself to be in friendly territory, because no orcs scouted ahead of the train of unfortunates. Gray skin glistened as Krusk ran to get far enough ahead to gain the time he needed. He found what he hoped for where the road bent to follow the curve of the mountain. The slope shielded him from the sight of the leading warriors.

Better yet, it allowed Krusk to work in the center of the road without being seen. The barbarian pulled a fistful of small caltrops from his pouch and scattered them across the road. He threw handfuls of loose earth onto them until they were lightly buried, then sifted road dust through his fingers to conceal the darker dirt. Krusk chuckled harshly to himself, remembering the time he watched a line of mounted knights dissolve into a frenzy of rearing horses and frightened riders upon hitting a similar line of caltrops during the Battle of Iron Wood.

He quickly climbed the slope of the hill and plopped behind a convenient tree. Krusk strung his powerful longbow, a masterpiece of polished bone crafted especially for him as a gift from his great friend, Tahrain. Krusk ran his hand along the bone and remembered how Tahrain had shared a special secret about this bow. The bone came from a mighty one-eyed stag in the forests of the Phostwood, the largest such animal Tahrain ever saw. Tahrain insisted that the stag foretold Krusk's destiny. Krusk didn't understand then what Tahrain meant, but he wondered now. Until today, no animals, enemies, or monsters with only one eye had threatened the barbarian. Ultimately, Krusk cared little for prophecies and less for mysteries. The bow shot true and hard, and that was all that mattered.

Krusk breathed a small oath for the late Captain Tahrain. He nocked an arrow, its razor tip carefully blackened with soot to prevent telltale glints of light. He tentatively tested the pull of the string. The tension felt good against the taut muscles of fingers and arms. Krusk relaxed and rested against the bole of the sheltering tree until his well-trained ears again heard the snorts of the boars, the clanking of the slave chains, and the creaking wheels of the wagon loaded down with loot taken from the slaves themselves.

Krusk watched the caravan come around the curve. The slope of the mountain slowly revealed the riders in front. He quickly picked out the leader of the orcs by his size and prominence, as well as the valuable necklace swinging from his neck. The green stone glistened in the sunlight as though it had a life of its own. Krusk pulled back on the bowstring. He held the mighty bow in tension and waited for the leader to advance in front of the unwavering arrowhead. His muscles strained against the weapon's pull. Slowly the leader's dire boar plodded up the road until it stepped gracelessly upon the spike of a caltrop. The enraged monster reared in fury and panic. Finally, Krusk exhaled with a satisfied grunt and released the string. The feathered shaft winged toward the massive orc, even as the warlord struggled to control his angry, fighting beast. The arrow sailed past the sparkling necklace and sliced through the edge of the orc leader's leather armor, nicking bone and cutting enough muscle that Krusk could see the warrior's left shoulder sag immediately. Then, even as he nocked his second arrow, he smiled in grim satisfaction as the lieutenants on the leader's right and left fought to control their suddenly, simultaneously rearing mounts.

Another arrow flew. This time, the hidden archer was truly gratified by the result. The shaft passed completely through the chief slaver's neck. Even with blood spurting from the exit wound, the warlord bellowed orders and waved an axe one-handed. He might have survived had he not lost his balance and slipped from the boar's back to be trampled under the slashing hooves of his own mount and those to either side of him.

Krusk didn't have time to admire his handiwork or listen to the crunching of his victim's bones through the enraged squeals of the boars. One of the lieutenants managed to maneuver his mount out of the caltrops and regain control of it and now was sending men up the hillside toward Krusk's position. Krusk unleashed another arrow, but it missed its mark as the bellowing lieutenant thundered back down the line issuing commands to his underlings. Krusk was already striding toward the nearest pile of rocks, rapidly slinging his bow across his back in exchange for his greataxe.

He hurdled the rockpile easily, greataxe in hand, savoring the weapon's perfect heft once again. He waited against the sheltering camouflage of the rock. His body tensed like that of a large cat, lacking only the impatient tail, as he watched five orc guards rush up the hill toward the tree where he'd been. One guard ordered the others to fan out and sweep the area. Before they could respond to the order, Krusk struck. He bounded from his hiding place in the rocks and felt the satisfying crunch as his greataxe hewed effortlessly through the midsection of one of his foes.

Three of the guards were so unnerved that Krusk easily evaded their feeble javelin thrusts and axe strokes. The more experienced sergeant stepped behind Krusk and hacked so fiercely with his axe that Krusk's mail shirt cut into his back, but the hardened links held against the softer edge of the crude weapon.

A red mist clouded Krusk's eyes. It was neither pain nor daze. Trees and rocks faded into the background so that only the bodies of his enemies stood out. The idea of danger dissipated, too. He was aware only that he needed to kill and that targets were all around. Krusk spun rapidly upon the orc behind him. The greataxe sounded a macabre dirge for its victim as it whistled through the air to rip through the orc's ribcage and more vital areas.

Krusk wrenched the weapon from that victim and turned to face the others. One javelin nicked his hip and another whistled by his ear. The orc with a greataxe swung with all of his might, gouging Krusk's side.

Krusk bellowed but didn't stumble. The bellow was anger, not pain. His axe split the orc's skull. The two survivors had tentatively pulled their own axes from their belts, but seeing their friends hewed down by single blows, they turned and ran for less treacherous environs. As they routed back down the hill, Krusk snatched his longbow and fired a missile. Death claimed one j more of the fleeing guards, but the other was well into cover before Krusk could nock another arrow.

The red mist subsided and suddenly Krusk felt the searing pain in his side. Already light-headed from loss of blood, he knew that he, too, must leave the battle. Though he had reduced the guards around the caravan and brought down their leader, he would have to finish the job later.

Krusk watched the orcs break camp from the safety of a tree j near the road. He was amused to observe that another guard had snatched the necklace off his former commander's corpse and proudly wore it around his own neck as a symbol of power. The half-orc vowed that he would remove that necklace from the vain orc's corpse before the day was over. Krusk admitted to himself that he didn't know how much longer the slave train would follow the road, but he thought he'd have another day to continue harassing the caravan and thin down the ranks of the guards before they arrived at their destination. His side still plagued him, but he i knew he could move when he needed to.

It was a fresh day and the orcs moved with new confidence. They no longer risked having their mounts wounded by hidden caltrops. They drove some of the slaves up the road ahead of them to trigger any traps. The lieutenant who assumed leadership after his commander's death still rode on his dire war boar. The other lieutenant rode in the cart with a scowl on his face. He had been forced to put down his war boar when it hit the caltrop and went berserk. Riding in the cart, he felt humiliated. His only source of pleasure was determining a myriad of situations where he might eventually slit the throat of his ambusher as surely as he had ended the life of his berserk mount.

Krusk wanted to leap from the tree into the cart and kill the lieutenant right then, but his aching side reminded him that an outnumbered warrior needed a better plan. He remained still until the last guard walked under the tree. The guard whipped stragglers among the slaves and forced them to pay for the humiliation of the day before. The orc was so busy working over the hacks of the unfortunate slaves that he didn't immediately recognize the significance of the noose that dropped around his neck. He was so busy mouthing curses at his charges that he didn't have an opportunity to shout a warning to anyone else before the noose tightened and jerked him off his feet.

Krusk yanked the rope with all his might. He knew that the guard would shout a warning if his air wasn't cut off at once. The orc's body shot upward toward Krusk with surprising ease. Krusk saw the orc's eyes bugging out, but he knew the job wasn't done. If he didn't pull the guard up immediately, the powerful orc would reach up with his hands and loosen the deadly grip. Krusk jerked the guard up, punched the unfortunate into unconsciousness, and finished the job by strangling him. As Krusk squeezed, he remembered the pain inflicted on his mother and transferred his hatred for all orcs into his deadly grip. Krusk crushed the neck of the struggling guard as he watched the caravan move out of sight and felt no pangs of conscience. He nodded with satisfaction over the fact that the slaves hadn't given away the game as soon as the whipping stopped. They were still moving on. Neither was Krusk bothered by hearing the gruesome crunch as he dropped the guard's corpse to the ground and clambered down the bole of the tree. He didn't even look back as he melted into the forest at the side of the road. Dead foes were defeated foes. He looked forward to turning more live foes into dead ones.

Krusk refused to think about the pain in his side as he increased his pace to bypass the slower moving slave train. He focused on each step as though it was a move in his daily martial exercises. Each step represented one of the repetitive maneuvers in that ritual wherein warriors learn moves and countermoves by rote and commit them to their subconscious as a life-saving instinct in battle.

After scores of repetitions, Krusk's sensitive ears picked up the rattling of slave chains. As though it were a magical burst of energy, locating his prey gave Krusk the will to keep churning his legs until he outpaced his target by several minutes. He moved back to the road, crossed it and, once again, climbed a tree. He tied one end of his rope to a high branch and lassoed a bough of the tree across the road.

Next, he dropped to the ground and crossed the road once more. Again, he climbed a tree. This time, however, he shaped a small noose in the end of the rope, looping it around the neck of a small ceramic flask. He placed the flask gently in the small fork of a branch and carefully retraced his steps.

Krusk couldn't believe how closely he had timed his work. He barely caught his breath before hearing the chains rattling in the distance. Watching for the caravan to come into view, he quietly calculated the position at which he could trigger his surprise. He breathed carefully, master of his body. He waited, poised for action.

The first group of slaves passed by, the ones being used by the orcs as road tasters-traveling equivalents of the food tasters in those tales of court Vanisa had once told Krusk in front of the fire at home. The snout of the leader's war boar was directly between the tree with the flask and Krusk's hiding place when Krusk tugged the rope. Freed from its precarious perch, the flask swung downward in a graceful arc. As the leaves of the tree rustled, all eyes turned to the opposite side of the road from Krusk's position.

The deadly pendulum smashed into the boar's neck and its contents splattered across the animal, another guard, and one of the slaves. Already jumpy from Krusk's previous attacks, the guards reflexively hurled a volley of javelins at the tree where they thought the flask originated. Only then did they realize what the contents of the flask were. Alchemist's fire erupted into flame. Boars squealed, slaves screamed, and a flaming guard rolled in the dirt. The boar reared, a mass of flames, as slaves cheered. The leader tried to rein in his skittish mount while slapping uselessly at his burning shoulder. His reins jerked the boar's head around, the boar bit at its tormentor, and Krusk leaped unnoticed from the tree everyone was ignoring.

The half-orc landed beside the fighting boar. His greataxe chopped into the boar rider's back with a force strong enough to slice the orc's spine. The commander fell limply from the saddle. Freed of its burden and control, the boar charged forward and trampled the unfortunate guard who had just managed to quench the flames by rolling on the ground.

Krusk was so pleased with the success of his opening gambit that he almost waited too long to wrench his axe from the commander's corpse. He pulled it free just as the other lieutenant jumped from the cart and came running to engage him. Krusk was barely able to parry the blow, handle to handle as the large orc attacked. Both warriors struck again. Krusk felt the axe blade bite into his own shoulder at the same moment that he watched his own blade hew through leather and orc alike. He winced as he realized how deep the cut was in his shoulder, but he turned to face any other, remaining guards.

At that point, Krusk himself was surprised. He turned to see a guard rushing toward him and he heard a woman's voice shout, "Pergue."

In a glance, he took in a sight he would cherish for the remainder of his life. The slaves had taken advantage of the confusion to spread across the road. As the guard charged toward Krusk, the woman shouted the name of their town. Hearing the name, the slaves reached down and grabbed their chains. They pulled the chains taut and the onrushing guard didn't realize the danger until he sprawled at their feet, tripped by the very chains he had used to hold his captives in check.

It was obvious to Krusk that the woman had planned this. She must have been expecting Krusk to strike again and had prepared her fellow captives to make their move when the opportunity presented itself. Krusk liked that. She was smart enough and brave enough to remind him of his mother. Krusk knew no higher praise than that.

He placed his booted foot on the guard's back and held his axe in readiness with one hand as he stripped the fallen warrior of his weapons with the other. Krusk glanced back to see what had become of the angry boar and was amazed to see the leading slaves with their chains wrapped around the boar's neck and holding it relatively motionless until other slaves could gather fallen weapons and kill it.

"Good meat," he said, tilting his head in the direction of the dead boar before he shifted the axe to his wounded side and picked up the guard with one arm.

"Where go?" demanded the barbarian. The guard didn't answer, so Krusk punctuated his question with a blow from the side of his axe. "Where go?"

The guard looked around and realized that there were no reinforcements to save him.

"Go to mine," answered the guard. "Much gold!" he cried before he dropped to his knees like a supplicant in a temple.

"Good," responded Krusk, "now, you'll die fast!"

The guard's gray skin paled visibly. His square jaw quavered as he searched for the words that would convince Krusk to spare him.

"Please don't," spoke a female voice.

Krusk turned toward the sound of the voice. It belonged to the brave and beautiful woman who had cried out the name of her town and initiated the snare that brought the guard down. Like all the slaves in the caravan, the woman was missing her left eye, but Krusk thought her courage and intelligence made her even more beautiful in spite of her disfiguration. Without trying, she could charm in a way that her deformity accentuated her beauty rather than detracting from it. Again, Krusk thought of his mother as the woman stood straight and looked at Krusk with her one good eye.

"There's no need to kill him," she explained, "We don't have to be like him."

Krusk stared at the woman. From her obsidian black hair to the caramel color of her skin, she mesmerized the barbarian. When he didn't answer, she continued, "We could simply put the chains on him and let him go back to his village alone."

"No good," answered Krusk. "More come back."

The woman grimaced as the look of fierceness came over Krusk's face once again. Krusk noticed the change in her demeanor and realized that he needed to be more compassionate if he wanted to please this woman. He considered speaking like an ordinary man instead of in the gutteral patois used by orcs and troglodytes in the region. The distinct, heavy accent, as foreign to Krusk as it was to any human, was useful for intimidating primitive foes. Now it might be scaring the woman. He decided against it when he looked at the orc's frightened face. For the time being, the prisoner was more important than the woman.

"Keep him," announced Krusk with determination. "He knows mine. Can show us." Krusk grabbed the guard by the throat and croaked another question. "Key?" he asked, rattling the chains.

The guard pointed toward the fallen commander and motioned that he could get the key. Krusk released his grip on the orc's neck and shoved him toward the commander's corpse.

Yddith breathed easier. She hadn't known whether the barbarian could be reasoned with, but she was relieved that the half-orc hadn't killed the surviving guard. Nervously, she studied the barbarian as he watched the guard return with the key. Thankfully, she saw him order the guard to unlock the shackles, beginning with her own. As relief rushed through her, she wondered how much she could trust their rescuer. Before she could return to Pergue with her fellow-survivors, she would have to know that there was more to Krusk than his apparent hatred for orcs. Still, for the first time since the Black Carnival invaded her life, she felt safe.