Friday, March 6, 2009

Last Meal at Homebound: Part VI

Magda jumped to her feet as quickly as her wounds would allow. She watched as the boy ran past the open right side of the bar table toward the massive orc, a crossbow bolt held high overhead, clenched tightly in his right fist. The boy let out a yell that Magda never knew he was capable of. It was loud, though not particularly masculine and Magda thought, in that split second, that had her regular patrons heard the boy's battle-cry, they'd have teased him mercilessly and to no end. Though horrified, in that moment Magda was as proud of the boy-turned-man as any mother could be.

The orc stood his ground as the boy covered the short distance between them. Without thought or emotion he snatched the boy by his throat with his left hand. The boy's momentum took his feet out from under him making him think he would fall to his back, but the orc easily held his weight and, squeezing him by the throat, slowly lifted his body in the air. His legs swung momentarily as a pendulum would, dangling helplessly beneath him. Unable to inhale, the boy weakly struck at the orc with his bolt-clenched fist, but his short arm fell easily a foot short of contact. The boy punched at the orc's muscled arm with his off hand and tried to stab at it with the crossbow bolt but lacked the strength to break skin. Swiftly, the boy felt weakness overtake him as the orc's grip grew ever tighter. Feeling his head go light, the boy fought the overwhelming urge to pass out. His hands fell limply to his sides, the bolt he held dropped harmlessly to the ground.

Before he allowed consciousness to leave the boy the orc threw him back to the wall he had charged from at a seemingly terminal velocity. Magda watched the boy's forehead crack against it making a sickening sound akin to a maul striking a tree stump. Blood spurted from a wound that opened just above the boys right eye, leaving a dove-shaped pattern of crimson upon the dirty-gray wall. The boy's body recoiled, his momentum carrying him away from the wall, back in the direction of Magda's bar table. Charging forward, the orc caught the boy as he rocked, trying desperately to regain his footing through the pain of impact and the dizziness caused by it. His feet would have failed him had the orc not gripped him again by the neck with one hand and by the waist of his breeches with the other. Using the boy's momentum against him, the orc effortlessly flung him into the air toward the bar. The boy's left thigh struck the lip of the bar's tabletop, causing him to spin vertically, heels over head into the common area. Like a wet ragdoll he flew, arms and legs askew, until he landed with a violent crash several feet away amongst broken chairs, tables and remains of the recently dead.

"Oh gods, my poor Feargal." Magda whispered to herself, knowing that she had failed her table-boy. Her nose began to feel the familiar tingling burn of grief, knew the moisture of tears were soon to follow it. She fought her emotions as she would have to fight these last orcs: Fiercely. Miraculously, her eyes remained dry.

She began to step backward, suddenly aware of the crossbow-armed orc to her left. He had snuck undetected, kneeling around the open left side of Magda's bar. He was less than ten feet away. The orc who had tossed the boy as she would a sack of potatoes was still admiring his handiwork only eight or nine feet away. He watched the rise and fall of the boy's chest cease as he stopped breathing.

She was trapped now, flanked. Two orcs on either side, the wooden obstacle called a bartable in front of her and a barrel-blocked door several feet to her rear. Time to fight, or die.

Magda chose to fight.

Before the wounded orc could turn his attention to her, she charged him with only her iron skillet in hand. Confused, the crossbow-armed orc kept his aim on her from his crouched position but did not fire. Fearing the crossfire Magda had created could cause him trouble with his new superior if he were to let loose an errant bolt. Magda moved quickly, gripping the handle of her skillet in her right hand. Hearing her approaching footsteps the wounded orc turned, instinctively he raised his right arm defensively.

Seizing the opportunity Magda reared the frying pan back and swung it across her body with all her might. She struck the inside of his forearm, hammering the tip of the bolt that protruded from it, nearly punching the missile back through the side from which it entered.

"Aaarrgh!" The orc roared. He took a step back, blinded by pain he tried fruitlessly to grab at Magda's throat. She ducked easily away from his grasp and swung her flat-iron weapon again. This time striking the orc's left jaw. His head whipped right, a flat smacking sound preceded the mass of blood and chunks of the orc's formerly pristine, near-white teeth that sprayed from his now shattered mouth. They hit the floor simultaneously, making a sound akin to gambling dice upon an ale-soaked wooden table. Magda, smelling victory, rushed a third swing. In desperation the orc backfisted with his left arm, fortuitously striking Magda's arm near the wrist. Losing her grip, the skillet flew from her grasp, striking the baseboard of her bar table, landing a few feet away where it lay to rest after a loud gong. Magda's arm went numb below the elbow from the force of the blow. Weaponless, she began to back away.

Sensing that his enemy was now unarmed, the wounded orc slowly turned and faced her. The left side of his face felt impossibly swollen and the familiar, copper-taste of his own blood filled his mouth. Slowly, he ran his tongue along the jagged edges of his broken teeth. Bloody drool seeped between his lips. He was nearly blind in his left eye from the frying-pan impact but relished the fear he saw creep across Magda's face with his healthy right. He smiled, a slow horrific growl emanated from his throat, made even more terrifying by manifesting itself as an animalistic gurgle as it passed through the fluids in the orc's mouth.

Magda fought the urge to scream.

9 comments:

  1. Ack! You gave him a name and still killed him!

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  2. With out a single doubt this is the best so far. No wonder you were absent for a while. Fantastic! A moment of silence for the boy who, for his misplaced courage,received his name before the end!

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  3. By the way, thanks again for leaving me staring off of the cloud at yet another cliff hanger. You and Ademar! The KINGS of cliff hangers....

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  4. Thank you very much. I have about 1400 words written on another (final?) entry that I hope to have finished soon.

    This story has dragged on far too long. I'll be glad when it's over.

    Ademar still wears the cliffhanger crown, I'm afraid. I am still but a pauper.

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  5. Dice anybody?! Awesome entry sir, I was hoping to read the finale of this story but at the same time I am glad it is not yet done, mostly because I have grown quite fond of Magda and hate to read of her end...

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  6. Oh, not that I'm waiting on it or anything, but when you get this done I'll be wanting to see a story on Vrock!

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  7. Yes, I meant what I said about writing a story about Vrock. Now that a poll has shown definite interest, I will undertake the challenge.

    First though, i think I will put to the blog an already written origin story about how Vlad Pwent came to join with Razell Silverfire and Jerrak Oakflame in their quest.

    It isn't much, but it will give outside blog readers a little insight into the insane dwarf.

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  8. Insane dwarf? Oh, this should be good! Let me get a tankard of something. I wouldn't miss this for anything!

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  9. Oh yes, it is a tale worth hearing! You may want more than just one, tankard though!

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