Dirty Rotten Magic

One more day had passed, the keep cloaked in an anticipatory stillness as we waited for the council to meet with our delegation. Now, the three of us stood outside the heavy stone doors leading to the orcs' council chamber, our breaths mingling with the cool, damp air of the ancient corridors. As we walked, the narrow passageways reverberated with the clanging of metal studs and the sharp, echoing thud of spears meeting the worn stone floor—a rhythmic symphony of preparation and impending confrontation.

The massive stone doors, carved from the very heart of the mountain, met seamlessly in the center, their flawless joinery belying the raw strength of the rock. The craftsmanship left me in awe, stirring a deep curiosity about the master engineers who had labored here, their genius echoing in every chiseled edge and smooth surface.

I wore my usual commoner clothes, a simple, timeworn ensemble that had come to define my presence in these circles. The fabric, faded by countless journeys and marked with the scent of earthy wool and worn leather, clung to me in a familiar embrace. Yet, it did little to shield me from Lady Alea's disdainful glances, especially as she scrutinized my bare, calloused feet—a reminder of my humble origins. In a strange way, her propensity to unleash a swift, brutal reprimand upon me had tempered her bitterness, a fact I acknowledged with a mix of reluctant gratitude and inner turmoil. If only the price of her discipline had been any less severe.

Beside me, the lady exuded an ethereal magnificence. Clad in an elegant regalia of midnight black, her dress shimmered as though woven from the night sky itself, each thread echoing the twinkle of distant stars. Her serene smile belied the gravity of the moment, hinting that she was meticulously curating her behavior for the meeting with the orc chief—a performance as graceful as it was strategic.

Sir Lohein cut a striking figure in a well-tailored suit, every detail meticulously attended to as if he were a distinguished member of a royal court. His attire, accentuated by coattails that swept gracefully to his knees, carried the subtle scent of polished cedarwood and fresh linen, evoking an air of dignified refinement. The two orc guards accompanying us, clad in gleaming polished brass armor, moved with a formal precision that suggested the orcs were as committed to this meeting as any courtier, much to the evident satisfaction of both Sir Lohein and Lady Alea.

As the stone doors began their slow, ponderous shift open, I marveled at their formidable weight and the ingenious counterweights that must lie hidden within their ancient mechanisms. Every element of the stronghold whispered of unparalleled engineering prowess, a symphony of stone and steel crafted by unseen masters.

When the doors finally yielded, I caught my first glimpse of the chamber beyond—a cavernous space awash in unexpected light. Sunbeams cascaded from an unseen source above, casting ethereal spotlights that danced across the enormous hall. The chamber itself was circular, reminiscent of a giant bowl resting upon the earth, its curvature accentuating the vastness of the space. At its center lay a lower platform, encircled by a modest wall that delineated an arena-like setting.

As the trio of us, accompanied by the watchful guard, stepped into the chamber, the source of the luminous display became clear. Veins of quartz, like translucent ribbons of frozen sunlight, spanned the ceiling overhead, channeling a cascade of shimmering light that rippled gently over the floor, as if we had been transported beneath a tranquil, underwater world. At the heart of the arena stood a grand throne, an imposing structure forged from intertwined wood and bones. The organic materials melded together in a design that evoked the visage of a colossal creature in mid-roar—a haunting, almost majestic sight.

Charming, I thought, even as an undercurrent of unease tugged at my senses.

Upon the throne sat an older orc, his steel armor gleaming with the reflected brilliance of the crystalline light. In one mighty hand he wielded a battle axe, its blade adorned with intricate metal carvings that caught the eye, while his other hand gripped a shield that seemed to bear the scars of countless battles. Behind him, a cadre of orcs in varied shining armor formed a formidable backdrop, their stern expressions and rigid postures conveying an unspoken threat—they would sooner sever our heads than offer us parley. Encircling the arena, tiered seats hosted hundreds of orc warriors, their collective murmurs rising like a living tide. The walls, carved from swirling veins of black and grey rock, stood as silent testimony to the might of the mountain itself.

As we advanced toward the throne, the orc warriors began a rhythmic pounding of their feet—a deep, resonant drumbeat that echoed off the stone walls and pulsed through the air, a sonic harbinger of judgment. With every step, the reverberations grew, filling the chamber until even the tiniest sound—a dropped pin, for instance—would have shattered the fragile calm. Amid this cacophony, a sense of terror gripped me as I moved closer to the throne, though the other two of our delegation maintained unnervingly fixed smiles.

Just as we neared the throne, one of the orcs stepped forward, his presence commanding silence as he declared, "Silence for the delegation from the kingdom of Neo-Nursia." At once, the pounding ceased, and a profound hush fell over the chamber—so deep that the stillness itself seemed palpable.

The orc upon the throne rose, his massive frame towering as he cleared his throat in a manner both regal and intimidating. "I, Xugaa, chief of the orcs, welcome the delegation from the Kingdom of Neo-Nursia. We will sit and hear your petition to this assembly." His voice, deep and rough as if he had been hardened by countless battlefields, reverberated with authority.

Sir Lohein stepped forward with measured grace, bowing deeply as his coattails swished elegantly, his voice rising in clear, resonant tones as he addressed the assembly: "Again, I come before you on a mission of peace. We hear the rumors that you are preparing for war with the Kingdom of Neo-Nursia." The words hung in the charged air, punctuated by the subtle scent of his cologne—a blend of spiced amber and crisp juniper.

Chief Xugaa's response was swift and scathing. "I do not deny the rumors, as the oath has been broken yet again by the kingdoms to the north. You have no honor. Why do you not fulfill your side of the bargain?" His words, laced with bitter accusation, stirred murmurs among the assembled orcs, their voices a low rumble of discontent that reverberated off the stone walls.

Sir Lohein, undeterred, continued with measured resolve. "The oath's conditions are too onerous for each of the kingdoms under it." His calm defiance was underscored by a steady gaze, even as the chief's anger began to swell among the gathered warriors.

In a burst of fury, Chief Xugaa rose, the raw power in his voice echoing throughout the arena as he thundered, "It was not onerous when it was agreed to long ago by our ancestors. We took on the responsibility while you prospered to the north. All you were required to do, in turn, was provide us with the payment for our services. Over the years, your kind seems to have forgotten the great tide of destruction we keep back from your lands." His words, heavy with the musk of battle and ancient grudges, only intensified the charged atmosphere.

"But with the war, you not only destroy our lands and people but take your own warriors from your duty of guarding us all," Sir Lohein countered, his tone unwavering even as the murmurs grew louder, the orcs visibly bristling at the insult.

At that moment, Lady Alea stepped forward, her voice soft and smooth—a gentle melody in the midst of discord. "Surely, it is not right for former and present allies to be at each other's throats. With time we can solve this dispute amongst allies. We are all here to ensure that good is done." Her words, imbued with an almost melancholic grace, carried the faint aroma of night-blooming jasmine, a subtle reminder of her otherworldly origins.

The chief snorted dismissively at her words, his gaze settling upon the elven lady with a mix of contempt and grudging respect. "The patience of the elves is always on their side. We have tried waiting before, and nothing ever changes. The prices are never paid in full from the kingdoms to the north. This waiting is just more disrespect of our honor, and I will hear no more of patience. We will have our price, even if we have to take it ourselves by force."

As the heated exchange unfolded, I found my thoughts swirling like leaves in a turbulent wind, questioning the true nature of this conflict. Until now, I had believed the orc army's invasion to be a straightforward act of conquest. Yet, it became increasingly apparent that there was an ancient pact at stake—a bargain long broken by the northern kingdoms, with the orcs demanding recompense for the calamities they had averted. But then, a nagging question took root: what was this danger to the south that everyone whispered about in anxious tones?

Sir Lohein gestured subtly toward the orc who carried a heavy chest, its surface etched with cryptic runes, which I assumed contained the gold. The orc set the chest before the chief with deliberate precision as Sir Lohein, with a fluid motion, retrieved a key from his coat pocket. Crossing the arena with the poise of a practiced diplomat, he unlocked the sturdy, wooden chest. With a flourish that bordered on theatrical, he flipped open the heavy lid as though unveiling a hidden treasure. Every eye in the chamber fixed on the chest's contents—a trove of gleaming, glistening gold coins that cascaded in the light. I was deeply impressed, though I suspected my awe was tinged with my own modest expectations of wealth.

The chief frowned, his features hardening with anger. "This is but a small fraction of the payment we require from you," he declared, his voice echoing with both authority and betrayal.

"I put this forward as a gamble. Not the full price, but a bet of sorts," Sir Lohein replied coolly, his tone laced with the thrill of risk. The chief's eyes sparkled momentarily with intrigue as he absorbed the proposal. I caught a furtive glance at Lady Alea—her face registering shock and dismay at Sir Lohein's audacious suggestion. She leaned forward, attempting to murmur a caution, but he brushed her aside with dismissive confidence.

For the first time in our tense encounter, the chief let out a genuine laugh—a low, rumbling sound that filled the chamber and sent a shiver down my spine. "I see that the elven lady doesn't know of your gamble. Of course, the high and mighty elves would not approve of anything as base as gambling. What do you propose?" he challenged.

Sir Lohein's smile broadened, a gleam of mischief in his eyes that suggested he relished the risky game. "The game is formal combat in the orc arena with a champion of your choosing. If you win, you take the gold, and the kingdom will pay the rest of the price within the year. If you lose, we have ten years of peace from you." His words rang out with an audacity that seemed to suspend the very air between us.

The chief's gaze shifted to the chest of gold, his eyes narrowing with a glint of anticipation as he asked, "Who will be your champion?"

"The great magician beside me," Sir Lohein declared, pointing directly at me. I stared at him in horror, the realization dawning that I had been ensnared by a masterful con, a pawn in a perilous game. When I looked to Alea, her expression mirrored my own—horror and disbelief mingled in her eyes.

She began to speak, her voice a trembling whisper meant to dissuade him, but Sir Lohein interjected sharply, "It's for the good of the kingdom. This is nothing to do with you, elf." His tone was cold and dismissive, leaving no room for argument.

Alea's eyes flashed with icy anger as she addressed the orc chief, "By your leave. I understand that I'm not wanted here by either side." The chief, with a curt nod, permitted her exit, and she swept from the grand council hall in a flurry of her elegant, star-speckled dress. As she vanished from view, I mused inwardly, relieved yet troubled by her abrupt departure—a clear indication that she was not complicit in this treacherous plot.

Left with no escape from fate, I heard the chief's resonant voice declare, "I accept this challenge and will be the champion myself, as is our tradition." The traitorous diplomat, Sir Lohein, wore a self-satisfied smirk that only deepened my loathing. Though a fierce impulse to vanquish him on the spot burned within me, my own meager magical spark would have been laughably insufficient in such an act. I could only watch as the formidable orc chief barked orders to his men, who began clearing the arena with swift, practiced precision.

Just before the throne and its retinue were fully cleared, I summoned a sliver of courage and called out, "One request, oh chief." The chief paused, his massive head inclining in acknowledgment, while Sir Lohein's eyes betrayed a flicker of suspicion. "I would request that the Lady and Sir Lohein be sent away before the fighting begins," I implored, my voice echoing in the charged silence.

The orc regarded my plea as if it were a trivial matter. "I see no reason why not. Let it be," he intoned. All Sir Lohein could do was bow stiffly and exit the chamber, escorted by a guard whose glare burned with displeasure—a silent rebuke that, in a twisted way, brought me a measure of grim satisfaction. I was now left to face the looming threat alone, caught between my own trepidation and the unsettling satisfaction that Sir Lohein might harbor further betrayals.

The circular arena lay cleared of the throne and the attendant orcs. I now faced the war chief on the bare stone floor, his formidable physique on full display as he flexed his muscles and twisted his massive axe in the air—a motion that sent shivers down my spine as I imagined its lethal swing. The mere thought of that axe cleaving through my body was a tormenting vision, but even more harrowing was the realization that my body had barely recovered from the previous injuries inflicted by this harsh world. Now, the specter of decapitation loomed, a fate from which recovery seemed almost mythical.

Before the duel commenced, the sizeable armored orc who had spoken on behalf of the king addressed the gathered crowd, his voice a clarion call ringing with finality: "No interference from outside the arena to help either of the combatants. To leave the arena before one of you is dead is death with dishonor. Let the contest commence."

--

Chief Xugaa studied the tall man opposite him with a measured, calculating gaze. The human stood impossibly tall—even taller than any human or elf Xugaa had ever seen—with broad, sinewy muscles rippling beneath sun-kissed skin. The man was renowned as a great magician, yet rumors whispered among the orc soldiers spoke of his futile duel with a formidable female elf. Xugaa recalled those murmurs with quiet amusement: he would never have expected an ordinary human to best an elven warrior. And here, before him, the man had not even managed a single hit on the elf, nor had he demonstrated any trace of magical prowess.

So, great magician or not, the orc chief's confidence swelled as he envisioned the outcome of this duel. This was not his first appearance in the arena, where every challenge was met with the overwhelming force of tradition and brutal efficiency. With deliberate care, Xugaa began to warm up, swinging his massive battle-axe in a complex, mesmerizing pattern—a ritual dance of muscle and steel designed to both intimidate and prepare for the coming clash. Just then, his trusted adviser's resonant voice cut through the murmuring tension, announcing the start of the battle to the death.

Moving forward, a curious flutter stirred in the chief's chest as his eyes tracked the magician's hands weaving an intricate spell-casting pattern. The swift, seamless movements of the spellcaster hinted at proficiency, and Xugaa found himself expecting an explosive burst of energy or an immobilizing effect to halt his advance. In his many years of combat, he had seen magic used in single combat as a means to assert dominance, a tactic that usually halted foes in their tracks.

Yet, as a solitary flame—small, delicate, and no larger than an egg—materialized and floated lazily toward him, Xugaa's surprise was palpable. The surrounding crowd, a sea of hushed anticipation and mixed disbelief, seemed to hold its collective breath. The chief, taken aback for just an instant, allowed the flame to meet his armored chest. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, he feared the fire might engulf him entirely, reducing him to smoldering ash. To his astonishment, however, the flame sputtered and extinguished upon contact with his cold, unyielding armor. He reached out, his calloused fingers testing the spot where the flame had struck, and found not even a trace of heat. No sooner had he registered this oddity than another tiny flame, identical in its lazy defiance, struck him with the same benign effect.

"Is this it?" he thought with a mixture of disdain and incredulity. "This 'great and powerful magician' is no more than a flickering parlor trick."

In a sudden burst of raw power, Xugaa rushed forward, hoisting his great axe high above his head in one fluid, sweeping motion. The weapon sliced through the air, its curved edge catching the light as it descended in a lethal arc. With a swift, merciless strike, the axe cleaved across the man's neck; in an instant, the human's head was severed, tumbling from his shoulders. The momentum carried the axe onward, and in one horrifically elegant motion, it split the torso in two. The chief stepped back with a grim sense of finality as the body fell to the arena floor in two separate, silent pieces.

The entire audience leapt to its feet, their cheers rising like a tidal wave in honor of their leader's ruthless display. Xugaa, his chest swelling with pride and authority, thrust his massive hands into the air, absorbing the roaring affirmation of his loyal warriors. Just as he prepared to stride from the arena, the jubilant clamor abruptly ceased, replaced by shouts of horror and disbelief. Spinning around, Xugaa's eyes widened as he witnessed a macabre spectacle: the severed body parts of the fallen magician were inexplicably moving back toward each other. In a moment of unspeakable horror, he watched as the dismembered pieces began to fuse, as if animated by an unseen, sinister force.

Reacting swiftly, the chief lunged forward and, with a series of rapid, precise strikes, hacked at the reassembling corpse. Each swing of his axe was punctuated by the sickening crunch of bone and the desperate squelch of merging flesh. Yet, even as he moved back, the once-splintered body defiantly attempted to coalesce once more, fusing together in a grotesque mockery of life.

I had been watching the dismembering of my body by the angry orc chief for the better part of a day. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of iron and sweat, and the ceaseless rhythm of cleaving strikes echoed like a dirge throughout the arena. Eventually, weariness and a bitter sense of futility clouded the chief's fierce determination. With a resentful grunt, he set the axe aside, his eyes fixed on the slow, almost magical reformation of my body. Another hour passed in this macabre cycle, and then I felt it—a subtle, irresistible pull as my mind and body were drawn inexorably back together. Suddenly, I awoke on the cold, hard floor of the arena, the chill of the stone a stark contrast to the warmth of life flooding back into my veins. As I rolled over, gasping for breath, the fresh, invigorating air filled my lungs like a promise of redemption.

When I looked to my side, I saw the large, somber warrior seated despondently, his mighty axe resting by his side. His eyes, dark and stormy with anger, locked onto mine as he growled, "It looks as if I've lost this one to you dishonorable humans."

"Yes, it seems like we have both been dishonored by the kingdom diplomats," I replied, my voice carrying the weight of bitter irony.

He regarded me with a puzzled frown, his deep-set eyes narrowing. "What do you mean? Aren't you part of this trick?"

I shook my head as I slowly straightened up, feeling the residual ache of my repeated dismemberments. "No, I was never here to fight in single combat for sure. All you've seen is my one seemingly great ability of not being able to die."

"It seems pretty good from my end," muttered the defeated orc chief, his voice a low rumble of grudging respect mixed with sorrow. "But I can take solace in the fact that the winning of the bet will bring eventual destruction to the human kingdoms."

As I moved about, gingerly stretching and reassembling the pieces of my battered body, I asked with genuine curiosity, "Why? I would have thought that ten years of peace would have been wonderful for the kingdom."

His laugh was a hollow, brittle sound as he explained, "That is ten years of the orc empire not attacking, but not ten years of peace. There is a reason why we need the payment from the kingdoms to the north and why we are willing to raid for it. The threat from the south is real and significant. If we do not receive the aid we need, the orc empire will fall. This fall will allow the hordes of creatures we hold back to invade the land to the north."

He continued with a shallow, bitter laugh, "It is a hollow victory, as my people will die, but at least the dishonorable kingdoms in the north will fall too."

A heavy silence fell between us as he lowered his gaze, then, with a grave tone, he added, "I have one last request of you. Will you give me an honorable death?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, puzzled by his sudden vulnerability.

He scanned the room, his eyes settling on the silent, watchful orcs in the stands—each one a silent sentinel bearing witness to our intimate exchange. "I cannot leave the arena without being dishonored. For us, that is worse than death. With nobody allowed to help, I am doomed to die of thirst here, in an endless cycle of killing you and watching you come back to life. So, I'm pleading for you to end it now—use my own axe to kill me and win the bet that will seal everyone's doom!"

With a trembling hand, he passed me the heavy, bloodstained axe. I accepted it with a solemn nod, our eyes meeting in a silent pact of mutual understanding. I positioned myself before him as he began to kneel, preparing himself for the final, decisive blow. The room was swallowed by a thick silence, as if every orc in the arena was collectively holding its breath, waiting for the act that would conclude this tragic ritual. Raising the axe with both hands, I steeled myself, hoping fervently that this singular act of mercy would be executed without error.

As the axe hovered above my head, a sudden thought struck me—a fleeting query that broke the stillness. "Do you wish to get all the money off the humans, and maybe more?"

The chief's eyes widened, his expression a mix of incredulity and exasperation. In a tone heavy with resigned certainty, he responded aloud, "Of course, it will prevent the catastrophe that will happen."

"It sounds like something that we could work together on," I said quietly, placing the axe gently on the cold stone floor beside him. I then stepped back, effectively granting the mighty chief a hard-fought victory. "I think that I could develop a plan."

At that moment, the crowd of orcs erupted into thunderous cheers, their voices echoing in unison as if celebrating not just a victory, but the promise of future retribution. The chief's face split into a wry, sardonic smile as he advanced toward me. "It's a deal. We'll work together to get the rest of the money. I still have to behead you for being dishonorable, though."

Before I could muster a single word in reply, the axe swung with a swift, inexorable arc—and my head went flying.