The Soulblade's Tale by Jonathan Moeller Page B

grim totems sat perched atop crumbling walls or weathered stakes, the empty eyes of the skulls staring at him. 
    Then something moved, and a figure stepped out from behind a wall.
    It was an orcish warrior, clad in black plate armor, his skin the color of forest leaves. Yellow tusks rose from his jutting jaw, and his black eyes glimmered with the red haze of orcish battle fury. A heavy axe waited in his right hand, the steel blade gleaming 
    "Welcome," said the warrior in accented Latin. "Another student of the master, I suppose, come to learn at his feet?" 
    “No,” said Nicodemus, lifting Heartwarden and drawing upon the sword’s power. 
    The orc grinned. “Come, now. No humans ever come to the Hanging Tower, at least not of their own volition. Why else would you have come here, if you are not a servant of the master?” The orc stared at him for a moment, and then nodded. “Ah, I see. You wish to learn from the master, yes? You wish to enter his service? Not surprising. Many humans wish to enter the master’s service.”
    “I have no wish,” said Nicodemus, “to swear myself to the service of an orcish warlock, or to learn a single word of his filthy blood spells.”
    The orcish warrior laughed. 
    "Is that what you think is happening?" said the Orc. "Blind fool. You walk upon a path you do not see, and follow commands spoken by another. "
    Nicodemus shifted his sword to his right hand. "I think I understand what is happening here." 
    "Oh?" said the orc. "Do you?"
    "You're talking to distract me," said Nicodemus. "There are archers moving into position behind you. Two or three of them, I think, atop that ruined wall. You'll keep speaking in riddles and nonsense until they're in position, and then they will shoot me dead. Is that it?" 
    The orc said nothing, his red-glazed eyes narrowing. 
    Nicodemus beckoned with his sword. "Well?" 
    "Clever, mortal," said the orc. "But not quite clever enough."
    The orc raised his axe. And three additional orcs appeared atop the ruined stone wall, bows in their hands. 
    The tips of the arrows dripped with yellow poison. 
    But Nicodemus was ready for them. His sword’s magic strengthened him, making him stronger and faster. He sped forward, dodging the first volley of arrows, and lashed out with his blade, the soulblade’s magic lending his muscles speed and strength, and scored a hit on the warrior’s shoulder. The warrior lunged at him, bringing the axe down with both hands, and Nicodemus barely parried, even with Heartwarden’s power strengthening his arms. He backed away, blade extended, while the orc prowled forward, still snarling. 
    Behind him the orcs on the wall took aim with fresh arrows. 
    Nicodemus drew more magic into himself from the sword, as much as he could bear. He surged forward, dodging the warrior’s axe blow, and threw himself into the stone wall with all his enhanced strength. The crumbling wall collapsed with a roar, the archers disappearing in clouds of billowing dust. The warrior with the axe spun in alarm, and that was the opening Nicodemus needed. 
    Heartwarden ripped across the orc’s chest, and the warrior fell with a shriek. Nicodemus sprang forward as the archers struggled to their feet, blinking in the cloud of dust. 
    He made short work of them. 
    Turning, he saw the warrior crawling towards his axe, green blood leaking from his wounds. He looked up as Nicodemus approached, yellow tusks snarling. 
    "Fool," he rasped. "The master will torment you until you beg your crucified god for death..."
    "Perhaps," said Nicodemus, "but you will not live to see it."
    His sword came down, more green blood spilling into the dirt. 
    Afterwards Nicodemus released Heartwarden’s magic and cleaned the sword on the grass, his head ringing from the effort of using the sword’s power. He stooped over the slain archers and took a vial of the yellow poison. Orcish poison could kill anything, and if the warlock proved too powerful, Nicodemus might