Page 40 of Agor the Merciless
Chapter Twenty-Three
Agor forced his legs through the undergrowth, each step taking more effort. His muscles hurt from the magic that seeped into his body with every breath. The air carried a stench of rot that filled his nose and made his throat itch. Behind him, Durnak the Morose and the two grunts followed with heavy steps. Their strength had been fading since entering this cursed territory. They’d slept barely an hour the night before because the ground hurt their backs and unnatural noises in the dark kept waking them.
Lyra the Mage suffered the most. Her face showed new wrinkles, and her blue robes looked too big on her thin frame. She leaned on a stick she’d broken from a tree when her legs started giving out during the morning. The stick kept her from falling, but she still stumbled often. She stopped and braced herself against a tree trunk to catch her breath.
“I found where his power centers,” she said. “A gathering point. Grak the Bitter hides it with magic, though. I can’t see what it really is.”
Agor stood next to her. The tree bark broke apart when he touched it.
“How far must we go?”
Lyra opened her eyes after taking a deep breath. “We’re close. The magic drains us more here. He knows we’re coming.”
Durnak stepped up beside them and scanned the trees ahead. He spoke so rarely that when words came from him, everyone paid attention.
“He watches us. He enjoys our struggle.” He moved forward and pointed through the trees. “Look there, at those leaves.”
Agor looked where the raider pointed, but needed time to notice what seemed wrong. In this dead forest with black trees and brown ground, one area stayed green. A circle of grasssurrounded by trees with full leaves stood out from the rot around it.
“That spot looks wrong,” Durnak said. “Too bright.”
Agor stared at the area where the dead zone stopped in a clear line, and healthy plants began. The circle cut through the forest with no reason for the change.
“It must be a trap,” Agor said and gripped the handle of his axe.
Agor raised his hand and pointed to the right, signaling for the group to move around the green clearing. He pressed his finger to his lips and moved first, stepping carefully on the dead ground. Lyra followed, then the two grunts, with Durnak taking the rear-guard position. They kept their distance from the circle of grass, watching for movement or changes in the ground. The forest stayed quiet except for their footsteps crushing the rotted leaves.
Durnak passed under a tree with branches that stretched over the path. The bark had fallen away in strips, leaving wood exposed underneath. The branch above the raider’s head had weakened from years of Grak’s magic eating away at its core.
A crack split the air.
The branch broke from the trunk and fell before anyone could warn Durnak. It hit him across the shoulders and chest, pinning him to the ground. His roar echoed as his ribs snapped under the weight.
“Durnak!” Agor rushed back to where his raider lay trapped.
The two grunts reached the fallen branch first. They grabbed the wood and strained to lift it, grunting with effort. Their faces darkened as they pushed upward, but the branch hardly moved.
“Together,” Agor ordered, getting his hands under the wood. “On three.”
They counted and heaved, muscles burning as they raised the branch just enough for Lyra to drag Durnak free. The wooddropped back down once he was clear. They stared at each other in shock. Normally, lifting a tree branch – and a dead one, at that – should’ve been a piece of cake. It had taken three orcs at once, and they were exhausted from the effort. Grak the Bitter was really doing a number on them, consuming their strength from afar. Agor was starting to wonder if they even had a chance at fighting him, even if he was an old, decrepit man and they were young, experienced warriors.
The mage knelt beside the injured raider who fought to breathe with broken ribs pressing into his lungs. She placed her hands on his chest and closed her eyes. Blue light appeared around her fingers and sank into his skin. Her face tightened with concentration. Sweat covered her forehead as she pushed magic into his wounds. The bones shifted under her touch, trying to knit back together, but the work happened slowly. Lyra’s breathing grew shallow.
“It’s hard in this cursed place,” she said. “I can barely gather my thoughts. I need more time.”
A laugh echoed through the trees, seemingly bouncing off the dead trunks from all directions. Agor’s blood froze in his veins. He knew who it belonged to.
“Grak the Bitter,” he growled, turning to search the forest with his keen eyes.
The old mage laughed again, louder. Agor watched Durnak struggle while Lyra worked, her body shaking with effort. He should never have let Grak live. When he caught the mage stealing life from his bull krag, from the horde’s lands and from the orcs themselves, he should have killed him instead of sending him away. Agor the Merciless had been merciful, and now it might cost him everything. Exile was a mistake that went against what his name stood for. Because of him, his raider lay with broken bones, his mage was using up her remaining strength, and the curse ran through his mate’s blood back atthe camp. He’d failed them because he’d hesitated when he’d needed to act.
Heat filled Agor’s chest and spread through his body. A single, focused thought took over – find Grak the Bitter and kill him. No more mercy. No more exile. No more chances.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Agor walked to the center of the clearing, where the grass was lush and green. He knew it was a trap, but he no longer cared. They’d tried to avoid it, and it had led to disaster. This had to end now. He stood straight and shouted:
“Grak, face me now! Stop hiding behind your traps and spells!”
