Cobalt Crown - Book One

20 The Blood of Khaj

     Another competitor hit the mud. It was still raining. It had been for days. Thorok stood above the defeated champion, his hands still gripping the ceremonial staff that the Khajran used for ritual combat. After a rest period he would face yet another representative of someone who opposed Durzurag's claim to the Khaj-ratar seat. The masses around them snarled their displeasure in his direction.

     Thorok wondered what was in their heads. He wondered if they rebuked him for being a half-breed, for being Durzurag's Khajran, or both.

     Probably, both, he thought with resignation. But what more can I do?

     Another champion stood before him. They crossed staves, then spun to take each other's places where they each stood, a sign of respect. The whole time, the orc across from Thorok was staring into his eyes with malice and determination.

     The first strike came from the orc, an overhead swing to make Thorok choose left or right, but Thorok simply blocked it with a horizontal staff. During the block he stepped forward, planting his feet, then threw a punch into the orc's gut.

     There was little reaction. The orc leapt back, but was unharmed by the blow. He was much slower than Thorok, in both movement and reaction time. But if Thorok couldn't damage him, this would be a losing fight.

     The orc's second attack was a flurry of strikes from tree different angles. A side sweep on Thorok's left, which he blocked, a thrust, which he dodged, and a chest kick that Thorok saw coming, but was off-balance from his movement. It landed hard, sending him to the ground. The group of onlookers cheered as he fell.

     He sprang to his feet, expecting another attack, but the orc had walked away slightly and began to incite the crowd, turning his back on Thorok. It was a sign of disrespect, but Thorok simply waited for his opponent to return to the fight. He wouldn't be goaded that easily. This was not only a fight he needed to win. It was also a fight he needed to win the right way. The thousands of jeering Zaddish warriors surrounding them were evidence of that fact.

     "Face me, coward!" yelled Thorok.

     The orc regarded Thorok with disdain, then turned to the crowd once more.

     "My name is Bulthrin, son of Bulthos, and I refuse to let this human-blooded creature represent our war party! His Khaj is a murderer, and doesn't deserve the right to the Khaj-ratar seat! Hear me, my brothers, and follow Kevar!"

     Off to the side, his Khaj, Kevar, raised a fist and roared from his seat to make his presence known. The surrounding group followed suit. The noise was almost deafening.

     "A murderer am I?" The voice came bellowing in from the opposite side.

     Durzurag stepped through the crowd. The riotous din of the surrounding audience dulled at his arrival. Many that were among the crowd were goblinoid, no larger than a young teenage human, and they shrunk even further in his proximity. Durzurag was an imposing sight at seven and a half feet tall, and broader at the shoulder than most orcs. He was the very image of physical imposition, more than enough to quiet the diminutive mob.

     "Kevar!" he spoke, his voice piercing the remaining low cacophony. "Your Khajran disrespects me! How do you respond?"

     Kevar, almost as large as Durzurag, stood up, sneering. By that time, all had grown still within earshot of their proving pit.

     "You are correct, Durzurag. There must be recompense." He turned to his Khajran. "Bulthrin, relinquish your staff. You will fight the remainder of the bout without it, as a sign of apology to the Khaj."

     Bulthrin paused, and tried in vain to contain a smile at the opportunity to defeat a half-breed weaponless. He tossed his staff to the ground. It was followed by a second staff.

     Thorok's staff.

     Bulthrin's grin vanished, replaced by rage.

     Thorok stood ready, glaring at his opponent. He had anticipated this response. He wanted Kevar's champion to be angry on his attack, sloppy. It would allow Thorok to tire him, if he could dodge Bulthrin's blows. Thorok had survived this long by association, being the son of a previous Khaj, and now the Khajran of the current one. But now, in a space where he had choice, he chose to show the onlookers what he was made of, what his father had taught him. He wanted to carve out his own respect, for what else could he do?

     The hulking orc charged him, arms outstretched to the side, his fingers spread and ready to grapple. It looked as though the orc had Thorok's plan figured out, and planned to squeeze the life out of him, rather than risk missing rage-fueled blows. Or maybe punching simply wouldn't be satisfying enough. Maybe he wanted to drain the life out of Thorok inch by painful inch, like every other orc wanted. Regardless, Thorok couldn't tell. All he could do was protect himself, like always.

     The orc's arms swung in open air as Thorok back-stepped away, landing an open-palmed blow to Bulthrin's face. Not to harm, but to embarrass.

     He was faster than Bulthrin, and every missed strike highlighted the difference. With all that muscle, the orc could do little more than throw wild strikes and hope that if they landed, they would break a bone or two on impact.

     Another punch displaced the air near Thorok's head, missing by inches. But it was followed by another quick strike, which found purchase on Thorok's abdomen. Pain flowed into his ribs, and he focused on the opponent in front of him to distract him from it, using his fear to deaden the pain. Three more misses and two more hits made Thorok's movements slightly sluggish. He hadn't even thrown a single punch yet. It was all he could manage just to stay away and occasionally dodge. Though they came slowly, the punches never seemed to stop. There never seemed to be a window where Thorok could position, plant, and turn for a strike of his own.

     More pain came, this time in his face. He didn't even see the punch being thrown. Blood fell down his face in lines. He was starting to lose. The realization made him begin to regret throwing away his staff. But he had one more weapon to use.

     He rose blearily to his feet, turning to face Bulthrin, who had taken the time to rile the crowd for his impending victory.

     "Look how the half-breed falls! His blood is weak, and his Khaj will be proven wrong!" He bellowed to the jeering crowd as they exploded with cheers for their apparent winner. Thorok reached deep within, inside his heart where he kept the memories of his father. He knew not his father's father, but he felt him there, too. And his grandfather's father. And his great-grandfather's mother. And her mother. The entire line of those who came before him stood at the ready, in his aura. He grasped the hands of two of them, feeling their strength in his body, and walked forward, the blood on his face burning away in a white mist.

     Bulthrin turned back to the fight expecting to find a mostly defeated half-orc stumbling to his feet. Instead, he turned to find Thorok charging towards him, eyes afire with the rage that comes from generations of pain and strife.

     His first punch landed directly in Bulthrin's midsection. A second followed in the same place, then a third, a fourth, and a fifth. Bulthrin pulled his arms in to block so Thorok moved sideways to the ribs. His movements were supernaturally quick, and each punch crashed into the orc with force that he hadn't used previously in the fight. He unleashed a barrage of blows, punching both through Bulthrin's guard and upon it. Where the punches landed didn't matter, each one was strong enough to keep Bulthrin on the defensive.

     Thorok continued the assault. Savage strike after savage strike broke his opponent bit by bit. One punch fractured one of Bukthrin's arms, and he fell to the mud. Thorok cried out and wasted no time in falling on top of him, punching and screaming and punching.

     The crowd's cheers transformed into stunned murmurs. Along one side, Durzurag began to smile as he maintained eye contact with Kevar. The sounds of Thorok's fists hitting Bulthrin over and over and over again shattered the air of the space until eventually, all was still. Thorok stopped swinging. His whole body was racked with fatigue as he wearily climbed to his feet off of Bulthrin, who had fallen unconscious a few punches ago.

     "My blood is the blood of Khaj. My strength is mine and my father's. I am many. And many are stronger than one."