Page 47 of Mountain Orc Daddy

My heart sinks. Frozen as I am, there is nothing I can do. I will die here today.

29

UZUL

Blunt-force trauma is what I have for Aisling. Getting at her is difficult.

And painful.

“I keep lunging at phantoms,” a young warrior breathlessly tells me as we both stumble forward. “Witches and minions appear in front of me. I swing, I smash, I rage, and these cowards disappear in puffs of smoke.”

“We got this,” I growl.

Bites of electricity, burns of acid and flames tag me for my effort.

I know Aisling is close. “Come get it, you skinny old thing!” I call out.

“Spread out, spread out,” an orc warrior yells.

“Stay in line,” another orc barks between breaths.

Aisling and her fetid crew are using confusion and mimicry to great effect. A couple times I have seen members of Aisling’s swarm form into orc shapes. Mimicry of our voices has also been used. Birds use mimicry, why not the wretched?

“Our turn,” Remus tells me from the right. He is huffing for air and banged up. “Let this wave roll, power in as soon as it fades,” Remus adds.

Lucky me. Right as Remus updates me, my thundering rage finds a home in the crumpling forehead of one of Aisling’s witches.

I glance backwards and see Jade, Phineas, and a sturdy but staggered line of allied witches. Their wands, hands, and brooms are bellowing torrents of fiery death.

To the left and right I watch my scattered and staggered line of orcs ready to pour on more violence as soon as the allied witches’ torrent wanes.

Blair ferrets up and down the line of allied witches as they blast. She is fantastic, she is the jewel of the heavens.

“Remember the orange fire of the moon,” I yell at Blair. I want her to remember that first kiss. We sat beneath the orange fire of a setting sun and the silver celebration of Grandmother Moon rising. Even the nightingales up in the trees sang of the lilies in all the valleys blooming just for us.

“Watch for fakes and feints,” Remus tells me. He is still just behind me. The hellfire streaming white from his wand begins to soften.

Time for more orc wrath.

I lunge forward. The next witch that catches my swing falls like a bag of corn husks. I hear her scream. I want more. Sparks of fire and electricity are slamming into me from all angles. They all sting and hurt.

“Earth and stone, fire and bone,” I yell again. I hear voices behind me and to my sides chime in. Some loud, some scared, and some subdued with pain. “Swords and hammers sending enemies home!”

There is one witch in particular who catches my eye. She is one who stood beside Aisling in the beginning. She has green robes. Fancy robes. I had sensed earlier she was Aisling’s favorite. I watch this foul tall thing stumble forward from a hit of white fire sent from Remus, Phineas, or one of the other allied witches.

I grab her skinny neck. I can hear her pain. I squeeze and thrash her into the ground. I can hear gasps of shock on both sides.

Oh glory! I am Achilles smashing the Trojan champion Hector for all to see.

Finally, some success.

Orcs to my left and right, what is left of our punctured line, lunge forward. We have to be in unison to swarm Aisling’s hideous brood while our allied witch friends recharge.

I am still howling with victory after breaking that tall green witch like a bag of driftwood that has baked in the sun all summer long. I want Aisling to step out of the fray and face me. She has ducked me enough.

“Earth and stone, fire and bone,” the line of orcs yell. “Swords and hammers sending enemies home!”

An orc appears before me. It looks like Rogar. I know it’s not Rogar. A minion. I swing and feel my rage find purpose.

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