Chapter 7
The DEATH KNIGHT
The Death Knight wore a helmet, but beneath it was the face of a corpse.
The Knight stood on the other side of the portal. Lightning cracked behind him, and rain pounded through a distant window. The room was huge, and crowded with soldiers. Their spears were silhouetted by the flash of lightning, before darkness overtook the room again.
The stained glass window of the man drinking lightning cast the whole scene in a light blue pallor.
All the Death Knight’s orifices were sewn shut. His lips… his nostrils… his eyes…
The Death Knight’s eyes were little candle flames, only they burned blue and had a purple center. The whole shape of him hummed with that same shade of purple, half-seen, half-only-felt.
It was an aura, a halo, a trick of Bakura’s eye.
His armor was black, dented, rusting in spots. He had a huge billowing cape that hung heavy from his shoulder plates.
In his hand, he held a huge two-handed sword. It should have looked heavy, but seemed light in only one of his hands. And on his belt…
On his melt, Bakura saw the mask. His mask. The bone mask.
Hhhh! hissed the dagger.
Hhhh… moaned the mask.
The Death Knight’s un-voice laughed.
You were right, Gaddler, the mouthless Death Knight’s mind said.
Bakura winced, and Ushga put her hands over her ears. She was standing at the door to the courtyard, frozen in fear on the other side of the mess hall.
Lucky, smiled the Death Knight.
The voice was like the hiss of stell scraping on steel, echoing harshly in every head that heard him.
He stepped through the portal, followed by only his three captains. As they stepped through, the portal gave resistance, and the friction made each of the humans wince.
The Death Knight was physically slowed by passing through the portal, but it was like he had no feeling it all. No emotion.
His captains wore plate which was fashioned after the Death Knight’s, though they were less ornate and much newer. One knight had a great ax, one a shield and a sword. The third of his captains was cunning and quick, and wield a mace and a spiked flail.
The knights did not rush. They merely walked in, stately, crossing the mess hall toward Bakura. Their slowness made only amplified their menace.
The rest of the army stayed behind, in the room. Bakura couldn’t see their faces, but he could smell that they were as afraid as Ushga was.
But Bakura…
Fear was not what he felt. Or rather, it was not the loudest emotion in his heart.
Bakura had been waiting. Waiting for this moment. Dreaming of it, thirsting for it…
Five years, he had waited.
Hhhh…
They marched toward Bakura. But he was gritting his teeth, seeing red, eyes leaking rage. The hall should have taken a long time to cross, but Bakura was hasty.
Bakura rushed forward, drawing the dagger as he ran. He stepped onto a stool, up onto a long table. The mess hall was full of them. The knights kept walking. Bakura jumped off one table, onto another, and off that one into the air.
He spread out his wings, and flew.
As he flew toward the Death Knight, he put out his left hand as if to grab the soldier’s helmet, while position his dagger to come up under his enemy’s jaw.
Too slow! Bakura thought, baring his tusks in a horrible smile.
“You’re wearing too much armor, you bla—!”
The Death Knight swung his great sword into Bakura’s ribcage. He fell out of the air, and crashed onto ground with the horrible black blade buried in his side. The sword had runes carved into it, and those runes pulsed with the purple aura.
The blade was stuck between two ribs. It went deep. Very deep.
The Knight yanked the blade out, then just stood there. He towered over the winged orc.
The body did not move or breath. But the Death Knight’s voice did, rattling around in Bakura’s head. Rasping. It was a writhing un-breath, that tickled his brain in the worst way he’d ever felt before.
Hhhh! the dagger hissed, trying to push out the Death Knight.
But the Death Knight’s voice laughed. His voice glowed too, that same dusky purple.
Well? said the Death Knight.
“…Well, what?” said Bakura, clutching his side. He could feel the blood gushing through his grip. It was warm.
Hhhh… hissed the dagger.
Heal yourself, said the Death Knight. Go on.
He was gloating.
I want to see you heal yourself. Lizard.
Bakura slashed at the Knight, who simply stepped away, laughing again.
In a hurry to die, lizard?
Bakura glared. Then, he eyed the knights behind their leader. Human, he thought.
“It… drinks,” said Bakura. He glowered up at his enemy. “It needs something to drink. Someone to drink.”
I don’t think so, said the Death Knight.
“That’s just how it works,” grinned Bakura.
The Death Knight looked at Ushga, and gestered with his sword. When he spoke, the runes pulsed brighter, as if the un-voice was actually coming from the blade and not the body.
What about her?
Bakura kept his eyes fixed on his enemy.
You’re both going to die anyway, said the Death Knight.
Bakura licked his lips, tongue getting dry. “Sure,” he said.
Ushga began to cry.
“You’ll… have to… fetch her for me, though.
The Death Knight’s purple flame eyes seemed to study Bakura.
Interesting. I am so looking forward to collecting you.
As the Death Knight strode past him, his three knights began to move.
No, said the Death Knight, putting a gauntlet up. Leave him be. It is won, and he is no threat to us n—
Bakura lunged, pushing off with his strong side. He went toward the Death Knight, who was looking the other way.
The Death Knight swung, and Bakura barely got out of the way. The orc groped and—
SMASH.
The Knight elbowed Bakura in the nose, immediately breaking it. He tasted blood. Then, Bakura got backhanded.
Finally, the Death Knight lifted one heavy boot in the air and kicked the orc in the chest.
Bakura flew backward, breaking into another table. Dust and splinters, everwhere.
Idiot, said the Death Knight, irritated.
Ushga went to him. “Are you okay? Are you okay?”
“NO!” Bakura shouted. He tried to get up, but he was in too much pain.
Maybe you’re better off dead than collected after all.
At the same time, both Ushga and the Death Knight saw that he had the bone mask in his hand.
“Give me your hand,” commanded Bakura.
“You… How did you g—?”
“GIVE ME YOUR HAND!”
The Death Knight made a sound like a growl, but worse. There was blood in the sound, and terror in even Bakura’s brave spine.
Then he lunged. Lifting the sword above his head, the Death Knight used both hands to pull the sword down onto a table, bashing it in half. Using the flat edge of his blade, the Death Knight batted the table across the room.
It flew fast, and though Bakura tried to stop it, even magic was an effort. He was losing so much blood, so fast, and breathing was becoming harder. The seconds started to slow, as stress mounted.
They got lucky. The table flew over their heads, and smashed apart with a crash behind them.
“Give me your hand…” Bakura said.
Ushga looked at him.
“Please,” he said. His least favorite word.
The Death Knight kicked a chair away. Though he didn’t rush, he was steadily coming closer.
Ushga put out her hand.
Bakura gripped her wrist. His hand was covered in blood.
“Do you vow yourself to me?”
But her hands were already red.
“I do.”
“You can’t take it back.”
“Just do it!”
He did.
Bakura cut her palm open with the drinking dagger, and for the first time felt the dagger drink of an orc.
Everything about it was different.
Rather than drinking up the magic of Ushga’s blood, it bound them. Not merged, like Nala’s dreams, but bound. Connected.
Bakura felt his ribs heal, but even that felt different. The sensation was something like expanding. Where Bakura was getting healed, it felt hot; but Ushga’s side cramped, and felt cold.
Both their eyes dilated, slamming open all the way.
He felt Nala, dreaming then. He wondered what the dream was like for her.
Bakura began to put on the mask.
I have you now! the Death Knight roared, lifting the sword above his head.
The mask latched onto Bakura’s face, as if it had teeth of its own. Bakura used to hate that, but it was one of those things he made himself get used to.
In fact, he smiled, beneath the mask of bone.
He turned in slow motion to look up at the Death Knight. He looked him in his eyes as the sword whistled down, through the air.
The sword made a thunk as it buried itself in Bakura’s skull.
Ushga screamed.
The winged orc went limp, with Ushga’s wrist still in his hand, head pointed over his right shoulder, up at his enemy. The blood painted the dark red skin of her wrist a slightly lighter color, an off-red, not matching.
It looked like that was the end of Bakura.
He was so still. But…
Then, his body began to smoke. The clothes were next.
The Death Knight tried to yank the sword out of his skull, but it was too deep. It was stuck, like a splitting maul in the wet trunk of a cut tree.
Bakura let it in. Ushga felt him let it in. So did Nala.
His skin turned to billowing flame before he sprang back to life.
Using the tiny bone dagger, Bakura cut the inside of the Knight’s elbow. No matter how strong the Knight’s body was, he wouldn’t be able to move his forearm without addressing that wound. Even the Knight’s grip failed, and he let go of the sword, which Bakura simply left stuck in his head.
It hurt. It was unimaginable. But as long as the mask was on, Ung-Ra would never let his vessel die.
The Death Knight reached for the sword with his left hand, but that gave Bakura the opportunity to slice that elbow open, too.
The Knight dodged, and reached again. Bakura let him, but used the dagger to cut up at the sword, helping his enemy remove the blade from his head.
As the sword flew into the air, the Death Knight stumbled backward, his poise broken.
Bakura opened his mouth, as if to scream. As he screamed, a beam of flame gushed out, buffeting the Death Knight and pushing him back.
Ushga flinched away from the heat, which should have been awful, but wasn’t.
Bakura ran out of breath, and the flame stopped before the scream stopped. He took a breath in, getting up as quickly as his body would let him.
The Death Knight’s cape was on fire, as did his cloth taberd, but the black armor and his flesh were enchanted. they glowed purple, unaffected amidst the thirsty flames.
“Now run!” Ung-Ra shouted with Bakura’s own voice.
“No!” Bakura said. “We can kill him!”
“Not yet!”
“If I die, let me die avenged!”
“HHHHHHHHHHHHHH—”
The Death Knight became coming again, right arm limp and heavy, off-hand wielding the great sword.
His captains were close behind him. Bakura noted their faces, and saw that only one of them was afraid to die. Bravery was a rare sight in humans, which wasn’t true of course, but it was what Bakura believed.
“RUN!”
“NO!” shouted Bakura.
Both he and the Death Knight lunged at each other in the same moment.
But the dagger was right. Bakura was not ready.
The Death Knight’s sword met Bakura’s dagger. Since both were enchanted, standard rules applied again, and the black and purple blade swatted away the drinking dagger like it was nothing.
Bakura staggered, body and wings swimming in flames. All his clothes were burned off.
The Death Knight bashed his shoulder into Bakura’s face. His nose broke the other way, which is how it would heal.
The Knight then simply stood there, as Bakura backed up far enough to get into slicing range. He swung, and gashed Bakura’s right arm, which the flame healed immediately.
The Death Knight sliced again, and again. As Bakura’s will got weaker, Ung-Ra took over.
Ung-Ra was cunning, and had been quick in life, a nimble creature, nearly tiger, nearly bat, with two legs that acted like a tail. And when it wore Bakura’s body, everyone who saw could tell.
Though Bakura was no match for the Death Knight, the Death Knight was no match for the little god of vengeance.
“Not yet,” it said.
The Death Knight roared again, and rushed.
Bakura took Ushga’s body with more speed than she had thought possible. She flinched, thinking that his burning skin would burn her.
But it didn’t.
As the Death Knight got in range again, Ung-Ra burped flame, three times in quick succession. It was more to annoy and distract the Knight that anything, but it worked. It gave him just enough time.
Bakura threw her over his shoulder, easy as a sack of corn, and launched into the air. She began to whimper.
“Close your mouth!”
Ushga obeyed, though whether it was of her own free will or because the demon she was bound to demanded it… she could not tell.
Bakura tucked in his wings, spiraling through the stained glass window. He launched up like a flaming missile, crashing out of the castle and into the slivermoon night.
Ushga still over one shoulder, he spread out his wings and caught the air.
The Death Knight’s scream faded, becoming quieter and quieter, the further away Bakura went.
The castle was below them. Then just swamp.
Then Bakura turned. It must have been a windy night, because Bakura only had to flap his wings to change direction.
Flap his wings. So high up.
Ushga was afraid of heights. Or always had been.
After the Death Knight, it didn’t seem so scary anymore.
She tried to crane her head to look at him, but—
“Don’t,” the demon commanded. Ushga obeyed, letting herself look down at the landscape as they flew over it.
Some time passed. Her head felt weird. It all felt weird.
“You can sleep,” said Bakura.
“You should,” he said. His voice was smaller when it didn’t wear the fire.
“What’s happening to me?” Ushga tried to ask. But the air took the words from her mouth. “I should be burning,” she wanted to say.
And somehow, she knew he knew.
“Just rest,” he said.
The wind hushed past them.
Hhhh…
The dream was ending now.
“Just rest.”
The swampy air had been so warm before. It felt cool now.
Hhhh…
Cold even.
Hhhh…
Quiet now.
Ushga wondered if distance mattered with these voices. The Death Knight’s. The demon’s. She wondered how many of these… things, whatever they were, these spirits? these ghosts…?
How many a…? Are o…? And am I a…? Or…? O…?
O…?
...o…?
…o…
* * * * / * * * *
(Art by Thomas Cargen, who I met right here on Substack.)
GIFT SHOP
Hats & Hoodies
ORC LORE— Poetry about the Gods
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…One more chapter…
Wait, you’re all caught up!
Nice!
^,^
Wanna hear what an ORCISH SONG sounds like?
Here’s what’s in my head!
Moonthread. This was a powerful story. This stopped me dead in my tracks. It read like a poem. and by no means do I mean that as a criticism
Leo Tolstoy says something about being stopped in his tracks, while reading, and asking "Now why did the poet do that?" This happens all the time. It's part of the code-breaking. When a word or phrase appears that's arresting, it does two things: it challenges my perceptions of seeing/hearing/feeling, and it moves me into new territory. By this I mean an altered state of awareness that's akin to an extended daydream, where all my senses conspire to provide fertile and syntactically engaging words or lines. It happens rarely, but when I'm there I tend to make the most of it, for days sometimes.
I do believe that you are a powerful thinker and that you have you mad skills. And because of this I wish for some sort of correspondence with you. I am going to kick it off by subscibring in the hopes you do the same. This will keep me accountable and motivated to leave comments such as this on your subsequent and previous posts. I imagine our bonded will power with these exercises will bear much fruit. Moonthread; do keep me on your long distance radar. in the joy of eternal collaboration from shore.
Sincerely, Cc