Dirty Rotten Magic

The troupe's cart creaked along the uneven road, its creaking wheels and rattling axles a constant reminder that it was too slow to make it to the next village on the same day. We had no choice but to stop for the night between the town and the village, right off the narrow forest track. Eigosh, with eyes that held secrets of countless journeys, knew the route well; he had timed our pause to coincide with the location of a small wooden fort, its weathered planks bathed in the dying light, its large gates flung open as if extending a warm, silent welcome.

One of the male acrobats—broad-shouldered and steady-handed—had been driving the cart, guiding it slowly into the fort with careful precision. With a practiced ease, he then steadied the horse that pulled the cart into a small, grassy courtyard. The courtyard, a secret garden of wild, overgrown plants that hinted at weeks of neglect, bore the faint, earthy aroma of damp soil and tangled ivy.

Encircling the courtyard was a wooden stockade, its panels roughly hewn and nearly as tall as I was. The tall, weathered wooden poles had been sharpened to vicious points, their edges catching the weak light as if daring any intruder to scale them. Outside the stockade, a narrow ditch—lined with fearsome wooden spikes that glinted menacingly—cut through the soft ground. Along one side of the courtyard stood a small but solidly built log cabin. Its robust wooden walls and heavy roof, seemingly impervious to the ravages of time, exuded a sense of steadfast protection that one would only have to test with an axe to know its resilience.

After clambering out of the wagon where I had been immersed in a worn, leather-bound book, I made my way toward Xaset with a series of questions burning in my mind. I was curious about this curious haven and why it appeared so uninhabited. I wondered, with a trace of apprehension, whether the caretaker had met a grim fate or was away on urgent business.

"What is this place? It just seems too well-maintained to be an abandoned fort," I inquired, my voice echoing softly off the wooden structures.

Xaset's eyes flickered with a knowing spark, his gaze piercing as if he were reading an unspoken truth. "It's a way station fort, of course. Haven't you been in one before? They're all over the kingdom," he replied, his tone mixing amusement with mild reproach.

I mulled over his words, recalling my past journeys where we always stayed in bustling villages when traveling to the orc empire. On my hasty return, I had sprinted through endless roads, and now, moving slowly under the serene sky, I realized we simply hadn't reached a village by nightfall. "No," I said simply.

"Sometimes I wonder if you are from this world," he mused, locking his cat-like, enlarged eyes onto mine, the pupils flashing with an almost mystical intensity. "Anyway, the way stations are set up between villages and towns to give travelers a place to stay if they find themselves in the forest at night."

Glancing around at the fortification—its robust walls and protective ditch—I asked, "Who does the maintenance? It seems to be well-kept."

"Everybody who stays here pitches in with repair work. Common travelers understand how vital these forts are, and nobody wants to be caught in a crumbling fort when danger looms," he explained with a warm smile that belied the sternness of the fort's exterior. "Follow me. I think we're going to do some work."

He was right, as Eigosh soon waved us over with a brisk gesture. "Go and help the orcs clear the ditch of any debris that's filling it up," he ordered, his tone leaving little room for debate.

We both snatched a spade from the back of the cart and stepped out through the heavy wooden gates, their groans echoing in the twilight. I noticed four orcs, their sinewy muscles rippling under taut skin, working diligently at the ditch near the gate. Their backs, powerfully built and scarred from battle, turned in unison as they toiled. Approaching one of them, I announced, "We're here to help. What do you want us to do?"

The orc paused, a mixture of shock and indignation flickering across his rugged features—as if being asked for directions was an affront to his ancient honor. With a curt gesture, he pointed toward the opposite side of the gate and grumbled, "Dig and clear." Before I could reply, he turned away, his silence a blunt dismissal of the conversation. I had spent several weeks among orcs and knew their bluntness, yet this brusque response left me wondering about some hidden grudge.

Turning to Xaset as we crossed the dewy grass beneath the cooling afternoon sun, I asked, "What's their problem?"

"Oh, don't mind them," he said with a dismissive flick of his eyes in their direction. "They've lost their honor somehow—a big matter for orcs. They left the empire and now live here in disgrace. They keep to themselves and do what they're told as long as they are paid."

Arriving at the other side of the gate, we set about repairing the battered ditch that had, over time, become clogged with debris and nature's unruly growth. I descended slowly into the shadowed, earthy trench, the cool scent of damp earth mingling with the tang of fresh foliage, and began pulling out stubborn branches and discarded junk.

Every so often, the sharp sting of a stake or a thorn would nip at my skin, a reminder of nature's harsh defenses. Initially, the cuts were painful, but each time I healed in mere seconds, and I found myself growing recklessly efficient. The wounds were fleeting, a natural quirk of my mysterious ability, and I pressed on with determined fervor. I caught Xaset's intense gaze as he observed my rapid recovery—the same penetrating look he had given the previous night when I had absurdly asked him to amputate my arm as if it were a trivial matter.

After about an hour of relentless labor and mingled sweat, I accidentally inflicted a long, severe gash on my leg—a wound that would have rendered any ordinary man helpless. Xaset watched with measured detachment as the crimson flow ceased and the wound knit itself together in astonishing seconds. With an inscrutable expression, he asked, "Is that some type of magical spell or what?"

I continued tugging at a bush whose thorny branch had caught my skin, replying, "No, it's like your fire breathing. It's just natural skill." I offered no great secret; he had witnessed my uncanny recoveries before and already knew enough about my strange ability.

Then, his tone turned inquisitive, almost probing, as he asked, "Has the speed of the healing been getting quicker?"

I paused mid-strain, thick branch in hand, and reflected on the recent changes. Indeed, the more I used my gift, the faster it seemed to work—as if each hardship polished my latent power. Weeks of constant practice among the orcs had dramatically honed my healing speed, a fact I could not deny. I met his questioning look and replied, "Yes, that does seem to be happening." He nodded slowly, his inscrutable expression giving nothing away, yet hinting that my progress fitted neatly into his understanding of my abilities.

We worked on, the shadows lengthening until night draped itself over the fort. As darkness fell, we all retreated inside the fort. The orcs, with practiced efficiency, closed the large gates and bolted them, transforming the once open and welcoming way station fort into a snug, secure haven. Despite its modest size, the fort now felt like a protective cocoon—a place of defense and refuge.

Nearby, in a small animal stall adjacent to the sturdy log cabin, the horses munched contentedly on hay, their soft snorts and the gentle rustling of straw mingling with the low murmur of the wind. From the open doorway of the cabin, I caught the flicker of flames dancing against the darkening walls, while wisps of smoke—grey and white—wound upwards into the starry sky. A rich aroma of something savory and enticing, mixed with the smoky tang of burning wood, wafted invitingly from within.

Inside the cabin, I noticed that some urgent repair work had been carried out on the door, which had been loose and creaking before. The interior was markedly cleaner, with neatly arranged bed rolls tucked to one side in the single room. The troupe clearly regarded the upkeep of the keep as a serious matter. Two women, their faces animated and warm in the glow of the fireplace, were stirring a dark, bubbling stew over the open hearth.

"Food's ready," called Tuallez, his voice resonant and clear as he organized the room with bowls and spoons clattering softly in anticipation.

Tuallez, taking charge, signaled for the orcs to be served first. Each of the large, muscular orcs received a bowl brimming with piping-hot stew—a hearty mixture that promised tender meat and robust flavors—along with a portion of freshly chopped bread resting on a wooden board. In our portions, I noticed an abundance of vegetables, a detail that did not escape my notice given the orcs' notorious aversion to greens. I, for one, welcomed the extra vegetables, having grown weary of the relentless all-meat diet enforced in the orc empire.

With no furniture to claim in the humble log cabin, I settled onto the cool stone floor alongside the two women. Their whispered conversation, laden with secrets and gentle teasing, filled the room with a sense of camaraderie. Tuallez's playful inquiry as to why I was barefoot was met with a mischievous comment from Sharro, who raised her eyes in mock astonishment at my dusty, worn feet. "Maybe he's just too poor to own any," she teased, her voice light yet edged with genuine curiosity.

After their light-hearted banter, it was time to clean up the dishes. To everyone's astonishment, when it came time to clear the pots and pans, I revealed a hidden talent: a delicate, shimmering cleaning spell that transformed grimy utensils into sparkling implements with barely a whisper of magic. As the shimmering threads of magical energy faded, leaving behind pots free of the burdens of labor, Sharro laughed and said, "So, you are a magician. That could be really useful. Would you please clean me?"

For a moment, I stood silently, a blush creeping over my face as I pondered her words, not wanting to delve too deeply into personal matters—even if the temptation was strong. Catching the playful glint in my eyes, she laughed again. "No, not that way. Although if you want, maybe. I want you to use your magic."

Without delay, I began casting the spell once more. A graceful wave of energies enveloped her, threads of soft light dancing across her skin and clothes until all traces of travel-worn dirt were erased, leaving her with a radiant smile that lit up the dim room. "That's great – it's always good to be cleaned magically. Did you know that you have to pay half a copper in most towns for that spellcasting?" she remarked cheerfully.

"And now we're getting it for free," Tuallez quipped, stepping forward and signaling for the spell to be cast on her as well.

By the time I had finished casting cleaning spells on everyone, I found myself musing over the domestic potential of magic. As mundane chores transformed into effortless acts of wonder, I couldn't help but wonder why people didn't devote more time to reading and learning if this was the only way to truly develop magical abilities.

--

I had fallen asleep in a sitting position on the wooden cabin floor, my body curled atop a tangle of faded blankets that cushioned me against the unyielding hardness and penetrating chill of the aged planks. The blankets, though threadbare, offered me a semblance of warmth amid the cold, their textures and colors evoking memories of better nights. Just before Sharro herself had surrendered to slumber, she had crossed the dim room with measured grace, carrying a couple of extra blankets wrapped in the soft glow of a lantern's amber light. "If you're going to read all night, it's best if you have something over your shoulders, as it gets cold during the night," she had said, her voice gentle but carrying the weight of genuine concern. I had responded with a tender smile, feeling the comfort of her kindness as she draped the extra blankets over my shoulders with deliberate, caring movements. I suspected her compassion was as steadfast as the ancient timbers that formed our refuge—a beacon of humanity in every world I had known. With a quiet nod to duty, she returned to her own bedding, the small cabin now shared by our entire troupe, all nestled together in a single room save for those ever-watchful souls on guard.

When I awoke, a biting cold had settled over the cabin, and the darkness clung to every corner as though reluctant to let go. The only interruption to the stillness of my slumber was the resonant clang of a bell from just outside—a sound reminiscent of the fort's ancient alarm, its echo a call to arms from a night watchman. Inside, the once-slumbering troupe was already in motion: a symphony of hurried footsteps, clattering armor, and the metallic hum of weapons being drawn. Every member of our ragtag band had prepared for such moments, their arms resting within easy reach of well-worn blades and rugged shields—a stark reminder that life outside the confines of towns or cities teetered on the razor's edge of danger.

I leapt to my feet, instinctively yanking my axe from my inventory and flinging aside the blankets that had cocooned me moments before. The icy air hit me like a physical force, stripping away layers of feigned warmth and replacing them with an electrifying surge of adrenaline that quickened my heartbeat.

At the doorway, Eigosh stood rigid and vigilant, peering out into the obsidian night through a narrow crack in the heavy wooden door. "Everybody ready?" he intoned, his voice a low rumble that resonated with purpose. I nodded, meeting his steely gaze. "Can you cast a light spell in the courtyard?" he asked, eyes narrowing in anticipation.

Drawing on the basic magical knowledge I had acquired over countless nights of study, I replied, "Yes—how many do you want?"

"Just light up the courtyard so we can fight. Right, everybody, the usual battle tactics for defense. Chrix, you stay with the orcs as you look like you can use that axe. Let's go!" With that, he signaled for me to sprint out first.

Bursting through the door, I immediately began to weave the incantation of the white spell. In an intriguing twist of magical energy, instead of emanating an expected searing heat, the white light shimmered with an almost tangible coolness, yet radiated a piercing brilliance that banished the darkness. I longed to delve deeper into the arcane mysteries behind such phenomena, but now was not the time for theoretical musings.

Under the expansive starlit sky, punctuated by the glow of two silvered moons, I projected a rising orb of pure white light into the heavens above the courtyard. As the magical sphere ascended, its radiance revealed the chaotic tapestry of our surroundings. To one side stood an ancient cart, its wooden frame worn by time, while nearby, horses in their cramped stall stamped anxiously, their hooves drumming a frantic rhythm as fear took hold. Two vigilant orcs, armed with the stoic determination of battle-hardened warriors, patrolled atop the parapet along the weathered wooden wall, their arms sweeping away any looming dark shapes that threatened our barricade.

As I conjured additional spheres of luminous magic, the scene below became more vivid. I could discern the grotesque forms of green-skinned creatures with gnarled faces, their movements both frantic and determined as they attempted to clamber over the wall. They wore tattered rags that clung to their spindly frames, and in their emaciated hands, they brandished crude stone daggers and rusty short swords. These were goblins—malevolent echoes of the attackers I had encountered before our entry into the orc empire. The memory of falling to a goblin archer fueled a burning resolve within me to vanquish these repulsive beings.

On the parapet, the two orcs leaped with fierce agility, their robust frames honed for ax-wielding combat, as they battled the encroaching goblins with expert precision. The rest of the troupe, having already been alerted by my spells, surged past me in a coordinated flurry of motion, positioning themselves along various sections of the wall to fortify our defenses. I watched with a mix of admiration and apprehension as two formidable women dashed toward the sturdy, thick gate, each clutching a long, gleaming spear. Goblins began to materialize above the gate, and with ruthless efficiency, the women advanced, their spears plunging into their foes' faces in a display of grim artistry. I could only be grateful that I was not on the receiving end of such lethal precision. The savage, methodical extraction of life from our enemies left me both in awe and contemplative of the sheer brutality of our reality.

With the courtyard now bathed in the cold, unyielding light, I raced to support the orcs on the parapet. Towering over the others, I found it effortless to vault onto the wooden ledge, my axe poised and ready in my grip. I swung it in a rhythmic, powerful motion—a technique meticulously honed under the tutelage of our orc instructors. Every strike was punctuated by the steady cadence of my footwork, a dance of life and death that allowed me to cleave off any green heads that dared to approach. In the distance, I observed dark, shifting swarms of goblins moving as one—a tide of malice surging towards us. Some of the creatures, scaling the parapet with reckless abandon, hurled crude stone-tipped spears. Although a few managed to carve deep, stinging gashes in my flesh, I pressed onward, trusting in my ability to heal even as I battled fiercely in the midst of chaos.

From the obscured darkness came a hail of arrows, each glinting ominously as they sliced through the night. I dodged and weaved among the melee, acutely aware that every brief exposure beyond the protective wall rendered me an inviting target. For a time, my rapid movements served as a shield, but as the arrows drew nearer, I was forced to duck behind the wall, seeking refuge until the onslaught subsided.

Peering over, I noted the four orcs stationed alongside me, their heavy leather armor marred by the scars of combat—arrows embedded in their protective plates a silent testament to their valor. The uniformity of their fighting style, clearly a product of rigorous orcish training, filled me with both reassurance and an unspoken understanding that our survival depended on unity and discipline.

For what felt like an eternity, though in reality merely ten intense minutes, our combined might cleaved through the endless procession of goblins. The repetitive decapitations at the parapet blended into a macabre rhythm until a sudden, resounding pounding at the gateway shattered the controlled chaos. The echo of the assault melded with a deafening roar and the bone-crushing sound of splintered wooden slats. The gate shuddered, flexing under an immense, unknown force that was unmistakably not the work of a goblin—its mass and the brutal impact suggested a far more formidable presence. Moments later, another guttural roar reverberated through the night, and the weakened gate gave way entirely with a violent crash.

Through the shattered remains of the gate emerged a monstrous figure—a hulking cyclops whose colossal fist pounded upon its broad, scarred chest. Its skin, pale and mottled with the grime of neglect, evoked the image of a creature that had never known the cleansing embrace of water. Swathed in equally tattered rags around its groin, it clutched a heavy club that bore the rough, unfinished appearance of a tree stump rather than a finely wrought weapon. The beast's singular, bloodshot eye, set in the center of its head like a drunken beacon, swiveled slowly as it advanced with deliberately measured, stomping steps that left deep indentations in the sodden earth.

Before this terrifying cyclops, the two spear-wielding women stood steadfast, their eyes alight with fierce determination and their arms raised as if to defy the monster with a challenge. Behind them, two nimble male acrobats moved with predatory grace, their lithe forms coiling and uncoiling as they prepared to strike. I struggled to capture every detail, my attention divided between the immediate threat at the gate and my duty to secure our section of the wall.

When I glanced back to the unfolding spectacle at the gate, I observed the four entertainers now converging swiftly around the monster's massive form—a creature nearly as large as I was. Eigosh and Xaset had hurried to position themselves behind it, their combined efforts thwarting any additional goblins from infiltrating the courtyard through the broken barrier.

A ferocious confrontation erupted: Tuallez drew one of her slender daggers and flung it toward the cyclops's head with such speed and accuracy that the blade found its mark, eliciting a pained shriek from the beast. Its wild roar was punctuated by a staggering moment as it dropped its unwieldy club to clutch desperately at its wounded eye—a grotesque image marred further by the sight of a knife's handle jutting from the injured orb. Almost immediately, the remaining three entertainers surged forward, their spears plunging deep into the vulnerable crevices of the cyclops's armpits. The sickening sounds of twisting metal and tearing flesh mingled with the echo of their strikes, and with a final, resonant thud, the beast collapsed in a heap of tumult and blood.

In that very instant, the second section of the gate burst open, unleashing a torrent of goblins into the courtyard. Eigosh and Xaset retreated swiftly to avoid being overwhelmed by the flood of green-skinned creatures, while the acrobats, their eyes steeled with resolve, extracted their spears from the fallen cyclops and pivoted to face the onrushing horde. From my vantage point on the parapet, the battle descended into chaotic elegance, as if the troupe of entertainers were performing a deadly dance amid the frenzy.

Glancing about, I marveled at the distinctive fighting styles unfolding before me. Kluko and Trikob, the two male acrobats, moved in seamless synchrony, their actions mirroring one another in a fluid, almost balletic combat routine. Their coordinated maneuvers, a blend of aerial assaults and close-quarters slashing with twin knives, lent the skirmish a surreal, theatrical quality. Sharro, too, fought with an artistry that belied the brutality of the encounter—her lithe body contorting with sinuous grace as she wielded two short swords, her movements reminiscent of a serpent coiling to strike. At times, I witnessed her legs wrapping around an adversary's neck in a swift, almost balletic motion, the victim's demise as swift as it was gruesome. Meanwhile, Tuallez, stationed on the sidelines, hurled her daggers with rapid precision, each throw aimed at a critical vulnerability, and the crimson spray from the goblins' wounds painted a grim tableau of the battle. As the goblins clawed feebly at the blades embedded in them, their blood mingled with the dirt beneath our feet, a stark reminder of the perilous life we led.

In the heart of the melee, Xaset and Eigosh carved a sphere of devastation, their central positions marked by a circle of lifeless bodies. Eigosh's giant mace swung in relentless arcs, each blow shattering skulls with bone-crunching authority, while Xaset's bursts of fire, erupting like uncontrolled geysers of flame, ignited swathes of goblins in a hellish display of destruction. The fiery tendrils, their yellow and red hues dancing menacingly along the walls, transformed the night into a macabre stage where every flash of light revealed another doomed creature.

As the relentless tide of goblins began to wane at the parapet, it became evident that most of the enemy were now funneling through the broken gate. I shouted an orcish battle command—a phrase drilled into me during arduous training—which immediately galvanized the four warriors surrounding me. Their reaction was as if they had been splashed with a bucket of icy water, snapping them into acute focus. Forming a spearhead formation around me, we surged forward in a single, unified charge, our axes slicing through the oncoming mass with the precision and relentless force of a well-oiled war machine.

Within minutes, we had carved out a clear path through the horde, stalling the influx of goblins into the courtyard. Behind us, I trusted that the remaining members of the troupe were engaging and dispatching the intruders already inside. The coordination among the orcs and myself was nothing short of a choreographed assault, each of us moving in synchrony as though we were extensions of one another—a fierce testament to the training and camaraderie that bound us. Eventually, the ceaseless barrage of goblins subsided as piles of bodies, both fresh and moldering, formed a grim barricade that discouraged further incursions. In the final, echoing moment of the melee, I delivered the decisive blow, disemboweling the last goblin with the bloodied blade of my axe, and a fleeting silence fell over the battlefield.

From behind me, the reassuring heft of a large orc hand rested on my shoulder, and in a gruff tone he said, "Thank you for that brief return of our honor. I felt like I was an orc once more." The other warriors nodded, their expressions mingling triumph with a shadow of deep, unspoken sorrow, as though this victory had momentarily soothed an old, unhealed wound but could not erase its memory.

"Where do you want us to take the bodies?" I shouted to Eigosh as the laborious cleanup began.

"Outside the gate to the fort, with just enough distance to build a fire and burn them!" he bellowed back, his voice echoing off the stone as he and three other orcs hurriedly set about repairing the battered door. The restoration of the gate had been our immediate priority once the goblin assault had subsided. With careful precision, we cleared the debris and used sturdy planks from the fort's cache to mend the split panels, reinforcing our defenses. I had also sent up dozens of hovering lights around the entrance to illuminate any further attackers as we toiled.

Now that the gate could serve as a temporary barricade, our attention turned to the grim task of clearing the courtyard of the slain goblins. The entire troupe, bound by duty and grim determination, formed a human chain to haul away the mangled remains. It was a macabre procession—the repulsive scent of rotting flesh mingling with the acrid tang of burning wood—as we passed chunks of dismembered green bodies along the line to be consigned to the cleansing fire. Yet nothing compared to the unspeakable horror of ascending into the mass of goblin corpses to extract their corrupted, pulsating cores—a task that seared itself into my memory as one of the most dreadful ordeals I had ever faced.

As dawn broke, casting a soft, mournful light over our bloodstained haven, I stood a short distance from the smoldering pyre, contemplating the night's savage toll. Amid the quiet crackle of burning bodies, I observed Eigosh meticulously sorting through the amassed bounty from our fallen foes. On the creaking wood floor of the cabin, he had assembled several piles of scavenged treasures: a substantial heap of loose copper coins intermingled with glinting silver pieces—a respectable haul, though hardly the most prized acquisition from our ordeal. The true treasure, however, lay in the monstrous cores: hundreds of small, pristine white pebbles that had been painstakingly cleansed of blood by my magic. Noticing my curious gaze upon the pile of cores, Eigosh's eyes twinkled as he began counting them.

With a broad grin, he remarked, "I guess that we'll be able to get about two coppers for each core when we arrive in the next town. It was a dangerous but very profitable night for us." His voice held a mix of triumph and wistfulness as he approached the large, singular core of the cyclops. Lifting it into the faint light, his smile widened. "This one will be worth one hundred coppers—or a silver."

Astonishment compelled me to ask, "What are they used for?"

He regarded me with a measured, knowing look and replied, "You should know. You're the only magician in the group. To my knowledge, they're used in all kinds of magical devices."

Spurred by his words, I moved to a quieter corner of the room and immediately opened my book of life. Immersing myself in the ancient texts that detailed arcane lore, I discovered whole sections dedicated to spells that employed these monster cores in tandem with intricate runes to produce potent magical effects. In that quiet, reflective moment, I was starkly reminded of how much I still had to learn about the deep, mysterious arts of magic.

The following two days were consumed by relentless work at the fort—patching up every splintered plank and reinforcing every vulnerable gate—to prepare for the next inevitable attack. Amid the ceaseless labor, I managed to thoroughly master the 'Flash Bolt' spell, its crackling energy now an integral part of my ever-growing magical arsenal.