Ranger Chronicles Ep. 02

Ralph and Cleitus gasped. The Elf woman shrieked. Jhannel took in a sharp breath of air. Kalan said nothing, continuing to study the Orc. He'd seen this all to often. Orcs would eat anything with a pulse and seemed to prefer their dead enemies.

Damnation. This certainly complicated things.

"Hmm... and what is this?" Asked the Drow.

"Quendor of Clan Dhul." said Jhannel. Quendor furrowed his brow.

"Clearly. And this," he gestured to the Orc next to him, "Is Grest of the Rock-Beasts, since you seem to be stating the obvious. Little Nimiri, what are you doing here? where are you going with these slaves?"

"You should be representing the Dhul at the Clan's meeting, shouldn't you? What are you doing here?"

"I believe I asked first."

"I'm next in line for leadership for my Clan, I should be able to travel wherever I want."

"I've gotten word of a disturbance on the upper levels. We've lost contact with the fifth level entirely. You don't know anything about it, do you?" Quendor's gaze shifted towards Kalan. His searched Kalan, looking him up and down. His brow furrowed. "And this -- is the new slave I've heard all about. The one from the Arena? Interesting garments he has." His eyes lingered on his blade. "He seems to have yet to learn his place."

"Yes, I gave him the Ghost's leathers for now."

"He, not it? Well, never mind. An interesting situation this is. Here I was about to go the Clan's meeting when I get news of a disturbance on the upper levels. And, at the same time, I find you accompanied by a few slaves heading towards the slave pens."

The hallway stood in silence for a moment.

Kalan clenched his teeth. This Drow was not dolt. He'd realized that Jhannel was either a hostage or colluding in the revolt. Fighting was not an option, as someone from his side would surely die (possibly himself) if he fought that thing in such a tight space. Kalan racked his head looking for a way out that didn't involve a fight.

He kept his eyes on the Orc, waiting for a sudden movement. Something seemed off about the thing. First was its body. It's size and musculature were impressive, larger than any Orc Kalan had ever seen. Second was its temperament. The Orc seemed almost docile as it stood next to Quendor. Kalan had never seen a docile Orc. During his captivity, he'd noticed that the Drow-Orc relationship was much like the relationship the Emperor had with the Imperial Army -- subjects cooperated out of fear. Yet this Orc seemed to be cooperating out of loyalty.

Quendor broke the silence, motioning to the Orc beside him:

"Behold Grest, Jhannel. This is the product of years of my Clan's research. We've finally achieved it, praise Balthazar. After years of failure we've finally achieved our goal. This is perfect soldier." Quendor strutted around the around Orc, who stood like a hulking statue. Quendor brushed his fingers against the Orcs' abdomen and shoulders. He gracefully stroked its tight, green skin. He lifted its loincloth, revealing a hulking cock the size of Kalan's forearm. He stroked the cock with grace, moving the green skin up and down and revealing a bulbous purple head. A small wet substance exited the tip and onto Quendor's hands. He let out a passionate moan.

All Drow are mad, though Kalan. His eyes darted to Jhannel, who seemed stupefied by the scene.

"Ahhh, Jhannel." Continued Quendor. "To feel the ecstasy that comes after years of hard work... you wouldn't believe my joy. We finally found a specimen with enough of the Ancient Blood to carry the seed of a Warchief. She was an Elf from the Royal line. A descendent of Tyr himself! This is the specimen she produced. Half-Orc and Half-Elf. He surpassed all our expectations. Stronger than an Orc, as loyal as a Dwarven Automaton, and as smart as a Human. He'd work just fine to pummel all resistance."

"Do you fuck that thing as well?" Asked Kalan. Quendor's eyes darted to Kalan. The Drow raised an eyebrow.

"I see you've yet to break this one. You may consume that one, Grest." The Orc began to step forward.

In a flash Kalan swerved behind Jhannel and pressed her back against him. He put an arm around her chest and pointed the tip of his blade at her neck. Jhannel shrieked, unsure of what was happening.

"The Orc moves, and she dies." Grest stopped. Kalan noticed Grest's eyes began to turn red.

Tyr's Mercy.

Grest had managed to restrain himself in Berserker State. Kalan continued to observe the Orc, waiting for any sudden movements.

"Kalanian is your name, correct?" Asked Quendor. "You're the Ranger they captured. They say you made quite the mess on the battlefield. Jhulstra spoke of you as the culmination of the Breeding Program -- little did she know what I'd been perfecting. Realize that you are lesser compared to my creation, Human."

"I don't care for your thing. Neither of us must die today. Let us pass and both of us can leave unharmed. You can investigate the upper levels, and we can be on our way."

"Fool, Human. You think I'll let you walk over to the slave pens? You know I can't do that. No, I'm going to punish you where the Nimiri have failed. I'm going to use you." He looked to Grest. "Kill them." Grest readied himself to charge, bracing his hulking form like a sprinter.

Kalan shoved Jhannel to the side and fished a dagger from his belt. He hefted it towards Quendor as a streak of silver. It landed in Quendor's purple-grey neck, embedding itself hallway in.

Terror etched itself onto Quendor's face. His hands clasped his neck, trying in vain to mend the wound with a healing spell. Blood began to spill onto his hands and dress. He screamed, letting out a soft gurgle.

A green body struck Kalan in the side. He found himself airborne. A moment later his back crashed against the wall. The air flew from his lungs. He coughed, gasping for air. The pain was unbearable. His whole body ached. He hadn't fully healed from the Arena and was now fighting this monstrosity. He gave one last cough, spitting out a thick substance.

He pulled himself up, blade in hand. Grest stared at him from across the hall, eyes red. He looked to left to see Ralph, Cleitus, and the Elf woman very much alive. Why hadn't Grest attacked there? Any normal Orc would have gone for the first living thing it saw. Could Grest be displaying intelligence by realizing Kalan was the preeminent threat? Not only that, the discipline required to restrain the Berserker State made Grest a formidable opponent indeed.

Mithrandir had been having trouble with regular Orcs, an Army of Orcs like Grest would be the end of Mithrandir, and possible all Human life on the Continent. Yet such an Army wouldn't stop at Mithrandir, it'd storm the beloved Elven plains and Dwarven tunnels. This was a threat to all life on the continent. He shivered in disgust. The Drow were truly cooking up something fearful in here. Kalan resolved to kill the beast and the Drow. He couldn't let this thing meet the Rangers on the battlefield.

Grest scanned the room, eyes red. He beat his chest like a Drum. He bore his tusks, boasting their size and strength and white sheen. He let out a fierce roar. He charged straight towards Kalan.

Kalan rolled to his right. Grest slammed into rock, cratering the carved stone. Kalan rose and outstretched hand. He released an Arc-Bolt, striking Grest in chest. Grest continued, oblivious to strike. Kalan heard Jhannel gasp in the background. He shared her shock. The thing was resistant to magic, or, at the very least, the Arc-Energy. Quendor had performed some more experiments on this thing he hadn't disclosed.

Grest charged again. Kalan dashed to right but was too slow as Grest struck him from the side. Kalan held his blade against Grest's face, stopping the beast's tusks from penetrating his upper body. They slammed against the wall again. Kalan braced himself against Grest's Mammoth-like weight, which threatened to crush him. Grest pushed forward. Kalan braced himself as his chest was flattened. The air exuded from his lungs again. He coughed, spitting out blood. Not good. The chest wound from the Arena was opening.

He looked straight ahead, coming face-to-face with Grest's large tusks and yellow, razor-like teeth. He smelled the beast's putrid, rotting breath -- no amount of Elf blood would fix that, it seemed. He wondered if this was end. There was little he could do in his battered state -- especially against an Orc resistant to the Arc-Energy. Grest roared again, leaving him deaf. He increased his force against the wall.

Grest gave a sudden cry of pain. Kalan looked down to see Ralph sticking a dagger into Grest's back. Grest smacked Ralph away with his free hand, sending Ralph flying against the wall. The weight on Kalan lessened.

Now.

Kalan twisted himself around Grest and slithered his way up the Orc's back. They struggled as Grest turned this way and that, trying his best to throw Kalan off. Kalan held on for dear life, spinning around in a furious whirl. He grabbed Grest's neck with his left and charged his blade with Arc-Energy. Kalan pulled against the Orc, shifting their momentum backwards. Grest stumbled. In a quick jab, Kalan stuck his blade into Grest's skull. The Orc slowed considerably. Damnation, even with a blade halfway in its brain the beast still moved.

Kalan let out one last burst of strength and penetrated the front of Grest's skull. He jumped off. Grest fell to the ground like stone column, dead as a rock. Kalan knelt, catching his breath.

"Good... job... Ralph..." He said between breaths. He entered a fit of raspy coughing.

"Uhh," said Ralph. "That thing might as well been a mammoth. Damnation that hurts." Kalan knew the feeling all too well.

Kalan rose, his legs shaky. There was still a job to be done. He limped over to Quendor. His purple, beady eyes looked up to Kalan. They seemed almost pleading. Now all the haughtiness and talk of superiority was gone, it seemed. Pathetic Drow.

"Blood... of the... Ancients..." Quendor gurgled. More blood spilled from his neck. Was that a laugh? "My... research... lives... on... Kadingir..."

"Let this... be lesson to you..." said Kalan. He took a deep breath, calming his lungs. "A human killed you and your creation. You are superior to none."

He severed the Drow's head.

Chapter 3:

Kalan's groups flew down a flight of steps. An orange light shone ahead. This was the deepest level of the mountain. They entered an endless cavern light by an orange glow.

A flow of molten rock exited down the ceiling to their left, its heat almost enough to make Kalan wish he was nude again. It provided enough light to see the entire cavern, which was large, deep, and seemed to stretch on forever into the darkness. On the cavern's ceiling were thousands -- no, millions -- of gems of differing shades of green, red, blue, and pale, which reflected the molten light and became like bright, colorful stars. Even the areas of bare rock seemed to twinkle with bright minerals of various colors. This was called the Dragon's Nest for a reason, after all. He resisted the urge to stop and stare. Next to him, Ralph

So that's how the Syndicate has been funding operations. He'd always wondered how the Syndicate seemed to have endless pockets for food and weapons. There was a suspicion that the Syndicate was behind the Assassin's Guild. Those funds, while plenty, were not enough to supply an army. Now he knew the true source of Garthrand's wealth. Even if the Drow abandoned this place like Jhannel said, there would be vast riches to be found here. The Drow literally slept on a mound of wealth.

To their right was a large hallway with a fleet of stairs. Near it were a number of spears. He looked ahead and heard an intake of breath from behind him.

For the love of Tyr.

"Tyr's Mercy..." muttered Cleitus. Kalan understood his surprise. Again, the Drow had managed to shock him with their depravity. The group was silent, either in shock or amazement -- Kalan couldn't tell which -- at the sight before them.

Before them was a field of endless cages, where Humans, Elves and some Dwarves were held naked, penned like sheep waiting to be slaughtered. Kalan estimated them around a thousand. They were silent. Their lack of morale was apparent as they looked towards the ground with dull, empty eyes. They stunk of pure filth, like a chamber pot that hadn't been emptied for months. They looked like it as well, as their naked skin was dotted with pure smut from years of extracting gemstones. Then he realized that those cages were the chamber pots, and likely hadn't been cleaned for months, but years.

It was then that Kalan understood that if the Orcs revolted and a large percentage of them were killed, Garthrand was doomed. The Drow simply didn't have enough people to continue operations. Their gemstone extraction would halt, and the main Syndicate force would stop due to a lack of funds. Not to mention the other basic functions of the Mountain that relied on slavery.

The closest cage to them was slightly larger. There thirty men stood in leather and mail. The band of the One-Eyes, a leather strip with a red circle, was strung across their shoulders. Their eyes were bright and full of energy.

They've persevered. We may have a chance at living yet.

The room was devoid of Ghosts. Thankfully, the Orcs had taken most of their attention.

"Eh ya!" Said a soldier with a shock of blond hair. "It's the Lieutenant." Kalan recognized the blonde hair of Private Ted, the newest addition to their squad.

"Only four days, Officer?!" Said another, yelling. "Some thought you'd be here by now!"

Kalan charged his blade with Arc-Energy and cut a hole in the cage. They rushed towards him and Cleitus.

"Not me, you dolts! To the spears! Go! Go! Go!" The men quickly rushed back rushed past the fall of molten rock to the spears. He looked behind him. Thousands of eyes stared in shock. Some were expectant, their eyes shining with a glimmer of hope. Others were fearful, knowing that the Orcs would only beat them harder if they stepped out of their cages. Most were curious with blank expressions and stared at him as if they'd just gained sight. He supposed if they'd been in this state for years seeing hope was the equivalent of gaining sight.

The unit quickly grabbed the spears and arranged themselves in formation. Kalan was impressed. They'd never shown this level of initiative and discipline before. It seemed a chance at life hand increased their morale.

"Cleitus, Ralph, remember the plan!" He looked around to his unit. "Hey! We're trying to increase our numbers here. We're opening every damned cage here. If they want to fight, lend them an extra weapon."

"And if not?" Yelled a voice.

"Leave them. Not our problem to help those who don't want to fight."

If this isn't points to into Tyr's Realm, I don't know what is.

***

The entire hallway in front of Kalan shimmered with Illusion magic. Behind the shimmer was a line of Drow armed with sword and shield three ranks deep.

"Shield wall!" He barked. The unit responded a battle-cry of their own, demonstrating their will to persevere against all odds. These men had been on the brink of death many times since capture and now saw a chance at life, a glimmer of hope. They would need no edging. They Drow could kill them, but staying here would certainly kill them. There was only one way out, and they knew it. "On me men!"

Kalan burst through the lines, blade brimming with Arc-Energy. He levitated towards the wall of shimmering air, a blur of motion. He struck at the mass in front of him. A Ghost materialized with its arm severed. He dashed back to the line only to return the same way, stabbing a blur through what he guessed was the abdomen. The Ghost materialized with a blade embedded in its groin. Close enough. He withdrew and returned to the line. Levitating constantly back and forth was costly in mana, but he'd have to endure.

He continued zipping back and forth, striking one in the leg, another across the neck and another in the chest. Soon five corpses in black leathers laid before them. The men gave another battle-cry at his success as they slammed into the wall of Drow.

In all his years in the Dragon's Nest fighting the Syndicate, Kalan hadn't seen one Drow soldier. They stuck to leading armies from inside caverns or, even rarer, officer positions on the field. After his experience in Garthrand he realized this wasn't because the Drow lacked men -- there were plenty in Garthrand -- but because they considered themselves above wielding blades and spears and dying. As such, they'd never managed to build a professional army. To compensate they enslaved the Orcs to use as regular soldiers, used Illusion magic to bind Ogres as shock troops, and kept a highly skilled force of Ghosts for special missions.

As such, their sense of superiority had left the Drow lacking any martial experience or culture. These Drow had probably never held a shield before and were recruited by the Ghosts in a last-minute scramble for more men. This became apparent as Kalan's Platoon cut through the Drow like a knife through butter. There was almost no resistance. Even with shields against those who had none they failed to withstand the charge. Shrieks of pain and terror came from the Drow as their first two ranks were decimated. The battle was so one-sided that Kalan saw no need to assist; instead, he lead from the middle, making sure the men had the hallway completely enveloped.

The last rank of Drow routed, running for their lives down the hall and up the steps. "Grab the shields, men! Up the stairs!" Yelled Kalan.

"Go! Go! Go!" Yelled Cleitus. "You want to go home, dolts?! Run!" The unit gave an enthusiastic yell in response. He couldn't blame them for their excitement. In fact, he shared it. Which soldier wouldn't be filled with energy after seeing a chance to live, to crush their foes?

They grabbed the black-grey shields on the ground and ran down the hall, one hundred naked slaves doing their best to keep up. They reached the steps and found an Ogre, two Ghosts and a rank of soldiers. Kalan levitated towards the first Ghost, dispatching him with a strike to neck. He jumped back, failing to evade the second's blade as it reached his midsection. Damnation that hurt. He charged his blade with Arc-Energy. He brought it across the second's chest, slicing him from shoulder to groin. The Ogre swung its fearsome club in an arc towards his shoulder, carving the wall in the process. Kalan sliced the metal club in two. He dashed towards the Ogre and cut across its large belly, spilling its disintegrated matter across the floor. It fell with a boom, covering the left side of the steps.

The Platoon rushed behind him, slamming into the ranks of Drow on the steps and again crushing them. Kalan assisted, splicing the Drow in front of him in two and cutting down another in a flash. They pushed and the Drow fell back, shrieking in terror as they were killed by those they thought inferior. The unit ran past the steps in a double line, shields covering them and spears first. They continued onto the next floor.

They reached a large circular room which seemed like some sort of market. Soon the six hundred slaves poured in behind them as a giant mass. Their current room was as big as the Arena and had dozens of halls branching out each way and a bigger hall straight ahead, which led to a fleet of stairs. They'd made it to the next floor. There were only a few more to go. They could expect resistance to increase as they went up. And what of the Orcs? Would they be allies or enemies?