Touch of Fate

Chapter 13: Fiery Start

As Mike and Morris approached the conflict, Mike could see that it seemed to involve two sides. A small group of armored humans in a shield wall seemed to be protecting a larger group that carried a few makeshift weapons while relying on a trio of wagons for protection. They were being attacked by a group of about 30 tall, muscular-looking, green-skinned humanoids. This group was primarily clothed in simple leathers and armed with a collection of rudimentary weapons.

A pair of better armed and equipped humanoids watched from the back, one of which was riding a massive insect-looking creature. It resembled a stag beetle the size of a draft horse. A pair of long, dangerous-looking pincers extended from its head. If anything, its rider seemed more fearsome. Dressed in a crude form of plate mail made from scavenged pieces, it rested a huge cleaver-like sword on its shoulders. The other was a smaller and more slender, dress primarily in leather armor and carrying a spear. A closed-face helmet hid the orcs features.

"Orcs!" Morris called from his position slightly ahead of Mike. He drew his short sword with his one good hand while directing his horse with his knees. "You go help out the survivors, I'll distract the leader."

Knowing that the older man had much more battlefield experience, Mike decided to follow his plan even though he had some apprehension about letting Morris take on the intimidating looking orc.

"Be careful. I promised to get you to Wyrport safely."

Morris nodded before directing his mount towards the two orcs watching from the sidelines. The one riding on the back of the beetle grinned in anticipation while readying his cleaver-sword. The other orc stepped back out of the way, but kept his spear in hand.

Realizing he had a task to complete now, Mike turned his attention to the group of orcs attacking the caravan. Luckily, they had their backs turned. Wanting to clear a few of the enemies out of the way prior to engaging fully, he concentrated on his fire magic while stretching out his right hand.

His magic was still basic, so he couldn't make use of the overwhelming fiery explosions he wanted too. At most he could summon a small ball of fire that would ignite the target. He slowed his horse in order to take better aim and launched his attack as swiftly as he could.

A small orange fireball smacked into the back of one of the orcs and burst on contact, coating the unfortunate creature in flame. He began to scream horribly and trash about, trying to put himself out before the human he was fighting skewered him with a short spear.

A little shocked by the effectiveness of his attack, since he had only managed to scorch a few rocks during practice, Mike quickly summoned more of the fireballs and launched them into the crowd of orcs. By the time the sixth one had landed home, the nearby orcs had taken notice of the spell-slinging youth on horseback and a group of 8 broke off and charged him.

Mike focused, drawing even more mana and channeling it into his hand. He pointed his hand at the approaching group and released it in one burst. He felt the familiar sensation of understanding as his Basic Fire Magic leveled up, increasing the strength of his attack. A cone of flame washed over the leading orcs, swallowing three of them before they had time to scream. The remaining five stopped, looking on in horror at the charred bodies of their peers.

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Fighting a wave of weariness caused by mana consumption, Mike drew his sword and kicked Barley into motion. He knew that shock from his attack wouldn't last long, and he needed to take advantage of it.

Despite his relative inexperience in combat, Mike understood the inherent advantage a mounted soldier had over those fighting on foot. Even though his horse lacked the temperament of a true warhorse, as a mount originating from the Order of the Wheel, she had received enough combat training to know her role in this fight.

Before the orcs had time to react, Mike approached and brought his sword down on the closest one. The orc was squinting as if the blast of fire had partially blinded it, but still tried to raise his club in a feeble defense. Mike's sword knocked the club out the way before lodging itself in the orc's head.

As the orc collapsed, Mike was almost yanked from the saddle before his sword pulled free. As he was being dragged down, he felt an impact score along his left side. He saw a crude looking spear tip flash by his vision. As soon as he could he whipped around to face the spear-wielding second in command.

Recognizing that he was in a dangerous situation, surrounded on both sides with his mana reserves dangerously low, Mike decided to try a delaying tactic.

"Wait! If continue to attack me, you'll regret it!"

The second in command paused. Mike couldn't tell what sort of effect his words had due to the helmet, but the orc's body posture reflected surprise.

A strangely high-pitched voice emanated from the helmet, "You know our language? How? It is not something for you humans to know." Mike frowned as he realized his Communication Magic had also shared the full meaning behind the translation for the word human, which apparently was synonymous with 'weak, squishy, prey beast' in the orc's language.

"Never mind that. You should know by my earlier demonstration that I'm a powerful spell caster. I'm trying to control myself around my fellow humans, but if I feel my life is threatened I won't hesitate to reduce this whole area to ash. If you leave right now, I will spare your lives."

Mike wasn't sure how much the orcs knew about magic, but he hoped the Weighted Words component of his Communication Magic would help see him through.

The helmeted orc waved off the others menacing Mike from behind. He seemed to consider for a while before coming to a decision. "Hmph, I doubt one as young as you has that much power, but I suspect you have a few more tricks and we cannot afford more casualties. Very well, human we will cease for now. Grobosh, round up the survivors and get them back into formation."

Mike heard a call from the large mounted orc, "As you wish, my chieftain." He pulled his mount back from a battered Morris. Mike felt relieved to see his traveling companion still alive, but couldn't help but notice several serious looking injuries. He noticed the decapitated corpse of his horse not too far away. Morris sat down heavily, the exhaustion evident in his features.

The apparent orc chieftain's next words caught Mike's attention. "However, after losing so many of my brethren, even to a mage, it would shame me to accept defeat completely. Therefore, I challenge you to the Kal'thelk. Do you have the honor to face me?"

Mike was caught by surprise and quickly tried to formulate a reply. "I am afraid that I am largely uninformed about your customs. Can you explain what you mean?"

A hint of disdain entered the chieftain's voice, "The Kal'thelk is a sacred contest of strength and skill between two opponents dedicated to Angrosh, the Unconquered. Accept, and we shall fight with blade and fist until one yields or dies. Refuse, and we shall treat you as a worthless coward in need of killing."

"So what happens if you win?"

"I will claim you and the rest of the surviving humans as slaves. You and the one-armed one were worthy opponents, so I will only take five years of service from you. The rest will be slaves for life."

"And if I should win?"

"Then I shall spare you and these humans."

Mike frowned, "Those hardly seem like fair conditions."

The chieftain laughed, "If not for you, these humans would have no choice but to submit or die. You and I both know if we continued our attack in earnest, you'd have no hope of victory. I simply do not wish to sacrifice the men necessary to take out a powerful fire mage."

Mike glanced around the area, surveying the onlookers. There were still over two dozen orcs up and moving around. Many of them had injuries, but overall they still seemed ready for a fight. The majority of them stared hungrily at the surviving humans, but wary glances towards Mike clearly told him that the only thing keeping them from attacking was the fear of his magic and their chieftain's words.

The eight remaining caravan guards who had been fighting in the shield wall were exhausted and wounded. There was another dozen or so civilian-looking caravan members who stared back at Mike with uncovered fear, clenching their makeshift weapons with white-fingered grips.

Between his current lack of mana, and the general state of the other combatants, Mike knew that if it came down to another all-out conflict, the humans would probably suffer a serious defeat.

For a brief moment, Mike felt hopeless. [I could run, I suppose. I'm the only one with any kind of mount besides that slow-looking beetle, and it's not like I owe these people anything.] As soon as he thought it, he felt a rush of shame.

[If I run here, I will not be able to live with myself. I don't want to be the same pathetic man who spent his entire life running away from the world. I will be better and it starts here!]

With newfound determination Mike squared his shoulders, looked the chieftain in the eyes and declared, "I accept your challenge."