Path of Dragons 16 - Chapter 10 - Dominance (Patreon)

Ok’tarik gripped the rope with loose fingers, then leaped over the side.  He slid down the cliff until he hit the landing a hundred feet below, kicking up dust upon impact.  A second later, seven other orcs landed with consecutive thuds.  Ok’tarik paid them no mind.  Instead, he turned his attention to the gate.

Like most of Agmar’s façade, it had been carved directly into the cliff.  So close, Ok’tarik could see the glinting striations in the stone, which emitted a rainbow of greens, yellows, blues, and reds that shimmered on his grey skin.  Ethera coursed through those rivers of color, surrounding the gate with dense energy that most orcs could never hope to feel.

Ok’tarik felt it, though.

He bathed in it, closing his eyes so he could enjoy the play across his skin.  With only a thought, he could grab hold of it.  He could manipulate it and use the product to do whatever he wanted. 

That was the promise it made to him, though he knew it was a lie.  At best, he could fly a little.  Perhaps he could even make it explode.  But anything more?  He was no shaman. 

Over the past few days, that had become abundantly clear.  Despite his previous notions of unmatched grandeur, he was still limited by his nature.  Not as an orc, but as a warrior. 

For now.

One day, he would transcend those limitations.  He would become something more.  Something never before seen among orcs.  He would fight like a warrior and control ethera like a shaman.  He knew that down to the core of his very being.

But for now, he needed to focus on the present.

“Have they gathered?” he asked one of the other orcs.  A work-slave, nameless.  Unimportant.  But Ok’tarik had begun to see past his limitations with more than just ethera.  He saw the foundational flaws in orc society.  Work-slaves were a necessary part of their culture, and without them, they would still be scraping by and hitting one another with heavy sticks.

The work-slaves maintained Agmar.  They built the ships upon which the orcs so thoroughly depended.  They forged their weapons and grew their food.  And yet, despite the necessity of their labor, they occupied the lowest rung of orcish society. 

Most didn’t even have names.

Nor did the majority possess identities.  If they’d ever had a sense of self, it had long ago been beaten out of them.  To most real orcs, they were just part of the scenery.  Unimportant and weak.

Ok’tarik had always believed as much, even if he’d never really acknowledged it.  Work-slaves just didn’t bear that much thought.  Now, he saw things more clearly, and he recognized that despite his false instincts, they were just as important as any warrior.  Perhaps more so.

That thought brought with it an existential crisis from which he still hadn’t escaped. 

But he couldn’t afford to give them any more thought.  Not with what was coming. 

“They have gathered,” said the work-slave, cowering slightly when he glanced in her direction.  She was small.  Slim.  Her tusks were stunted, and her eyes lacked the angry glint to which Ok’tarik had grown so accustomed.  However, they were not dull like the rowers’ lifeless eyes.  They held intelligence.  A spark of something that other orcs lacked.

What was it?

Intelligence? Self-awareness?  Hate?  Ok’tarik could not interpret it, but it frightened him more than he wanted to admit.

Not in and of itself.  Rather, he was afraid of what it represented.  The truth he’d ignored all his life.  The idea of what it was haunted his thoughts, a mere seed that might grow into something more substantial.  He dreaded that day because it had the potential to destroy his entire worldview.

And after it had already taken so many fatal blows, Ok’tarik wasn’t certain that his identity could persist with a crumbling foundation. 

“Good,” he said, pushing through those thoughts and focusing on what was coming.  “Come.  Attend me.”

Then, without another word, he stepped through the gate.  In moments, his world went entirely dark.  It was a shadow so complete that he knew it wasn’t natural.  However, it was broken by tiny rivers of slithering light cutting through the arched ceiling thirty feet above his head.

He followed them, his stride surer than his unsettled mind.  He walked the warrior’s walk, an invitation of challenge nestled in the surety that he was indomitable.  A necessity, even if he didn’t feel it.

No one would respect slouched shoulders or a furtive demeanor.

That just wasn’t how orcs were built.

The hall was straight and long, cutting into the heart of the landmass.  Ok’tarik followed it for more than a mile until he heard evidence of his looming destination.  A din of conversation.  A roaring crowd.  Screams of pain and challenge. 

They had indeed gathered.

As he traversed the hall, the noise grew ever more powerful until, a mile later, he found his destination.  A set of stairs, wide and deep enough for dragons, stood before him.  Each step was more than twenty feet tall, but the orcs had long since carved hand- and footholds into their vertical sides. 

Ok’tarik didn’t need them.

He stepped upon a plane of ethera and climbed steps no one else could see or use.  He never broke stride.  He didn’t hesitate.  His manipulation of local ethera was obvious and, to the work-slaves who’d followed him, miraculous.

They were forced to follow the way every orc would’ve traversed the stairs – climbing, hand-over-hand.  No orc would struggle with such an ascent, but Ok’tarik’s choice to bypass it wasn’t born of necessity.  Rather, it was a message meant for anyone who might oppose him.

He was different.

Special.

Unique, perhaps.

Not even the shamans could mimic his technique, and certainly not the other warriors for whom his message was meant.  The steps went on for half a mile, and with every step, the sound loomed ever larger.  By the time Ok’tarik reached the top, it was an auditory avalanche that sent arcs of pain through his temples. 

He ignored the discomfort.

Instead, he maintained his stride until, at last, he stepped back into the light.  Despite himself, he blinked at the sudden illumination.  His eyes adjusted, showing him an immense arena filled with orcs.

It didn’t take them long to recognize his arrival, and when they did, they turned their collective attention in his direction and let out a chorus of excited screams.

Ok’tarik didn’t care about them, though.  They were mere witnesses.  He shifted his focus to the eight orcs standing only a few dozen feet away.  Behind each of them stood five work-slaves.  Most of those were naked but for a simple and ragged loin cloth, displaying their too-thin bodies and bringing attention to the ceremonial iron collars around their necks.

Ok’tarik ground his teeth together.

Those forty orcs had not always been work-slaves.  Despite their current meek demeanor, they had all been powerful warriors in their own right.  The evidence of their stature showed in their wide shoulders and tall frames.  They’d all been starved to nothing, their power restrained by the collars around their necks.

Even before he’d poked his head above the surface separating orcs from sapience, he’d regarded the practice as barbaric and wasteful.  He didn’t care for the defeated warriors.  They didn’t warrant that much thought.  Rather, he hated that the practice of turning defeated rivals into work-slaves deprived his people of so many powerful fighters. 

They were all broken, though.  Body and mind, soul and core.  Whatever fighting spirit they’d once possessed was gone, ground down to nothing by their harsh masters.  It was a brutal fate that, for whatever reason, orcish society simply accepted as part of reality.  It was so ingrained in their culture that the very idea of abolishing it was met with disbelief and disdain.

Ok’tarik would never do it.  Not even to his worst enemies.  But that personal choice could not extend to the rest of their civilization.  Even if he was successful, there were limits to what changes he could introduce.

Even more limits to what he could force the orcs to accept.

As Ok’tarik scanned the others, his attendants arrived, having been forced to climb the steps the hard way.  As they joined him, the sound of grating stone announced that the entrance had begun to seal.  No one spoke.  Instead, the orcs simply glared at one another. 

Generously, Ok’tarik would have considered their gazes appraising.  But they all knew one another.  They’d fought as allies and enemies.  Their strengths and weaknesses were a matter of experience.

When the entrance sealed, the orcs gathered in the arena went silent. 

Ok’tarik raised his voice, infusing it with ethera as he announced, “I have come with a dire warning and an offer of salvation.”

He looked from one orc to another, then scanned the crowd.  He knew then that none of them would believe him.  If they followed, it would only be because he was the strongest.  And even then, just until they believed they could topple him.

Such was the orcish way.

“The enemy looms,” he continued.

Before he could go on, Fikanr stepped forward.  He was the largest among the eight warchiefs.  The strongest.  The deadliest.  When he stepped closer, Ok’tarik had to look up to meet his eyes.

“We know how to deal with dragons,” growled the big orc chief.  He was unarmed, but he wore a pair of iron bracers around his forearms.  His chest was bare and criss-crossed with deep scars.  Ok’tarik knew there were none upon his rival’s back.  Fikanr never fled a fight. 

Ok’tarik’s stare never wavered as he countered, “I speak not of dragons.  Our enemy is not one you can see.  Not one you can fight with fists or blades.  It is our situation.  Our people are trapped here, both by the system and by the circumstances of our nature.  I intend to change that.”

“Change?  You speak of escape?” Fikanr scoffed.  “The Bound Sky is all there is.  It is all we need.  We have enemies to fight and power to grasp.  We require nothing else!”

“But do you not desire more?  Other worlds to conquer?  People to destroy?  Powerful enemies to best?” countered Ok’tarik.

“You wish to find more enemies when you cannot defeat the ones before you?” asked Fikanr with a harsh laugh.  “I –”

Ok’tarik moved like water, slamming into Fikanr.  And in the time it took the crowd to gasp, his hand had gone through the other orc’s chest to erupt out the other side.  Ethera swirled, but Ok’tarik grabbed hold of Fikanr’s soul and twisted.

The big orc fell to his knees.

His powerful hands grabbed hold of Ok’tarik’s much slimmer wrists, but his grip lacked any real strength.  Even if he’d been at full power and ready to truly resist, he would have failed to counter Ok’tarik’s attack. 

Such was the difference Ok’tarik had discovered. 

He felt another horizon looming before him.  He sensed that it was still far away, but the fact that he could see it at all set him apart.  He was no longer a normal orc.  Instead, he was becoming something more.

The others could never hope to keep up.

With a vicious attack, he wrapped his attention around Fikanr’s core and yanked.  His hand came free in a shower of gore, and in his fist was a ball of light that most of the other orcs could never hope to see.

The shamans in the crowd saw it, though.

So did the other seven chiefs, if only vaguely.

Ok’tarik held it in his hand, cradling it like something precious.  Fikanr fell forward, slamming face-first into the arena floor.  He was still alive, but any strength had fled his body. 

Or enough to make him weaker than the weakest of work-slaves.

Because even they had cores.

A wisp of glinting light snaked around the glowing orb in Ok’tarik’s hand, swirling around until it descended into Fikanr’s back.  With a flick of power, Ok’tarik could sever that connection. 

He chose not to.

Instead, he closed his fist around the orb more tightly, then harnessed the energy within.  Doing so was not easy, but his experience with the Druid had taught him that such things were possible.  Not only had his own soul been scorched beyond all recognition, but he’d sensed others’ entire cultivation systems bursting.

He used that as inspiration, making it his own as he dragged some of the energy within the core into his own body.  The frigid fire scorched a path through his channels and into his own core, where it waged a war against his native ethera.

Not only did it lose, but it was, bit by bit, assimilated until the two sources became indistinguishable from one another.

Much of that energy was lost, dissipating into the atmosphere.  But Ok’tarik could feel it bolstering his power, and in a way he’d never fully experienced.  Killing things had always resulted in more strength, but it was a far cry from what he now felt.  Less powerful.  Less wild.  And ultimately, less effective.

The whole process only took a few seconds.

But even when he’d finished and Fikanr breathed his last breath, the crowd remained silent.  So too did the other chiefs.

Ok’tarik took a deep breath, then looked up.  He scanned them all in turn, recognizing them from previous battles.  He also saw something else in there.  Fear.

It mingled with anger and ambition, but it was there all the same.

“Follow me, and I will lead our people to salvation.  Resist, and you will end up like him,” Ok’tarik promised, not even bothering to gesture toward the fallen chief.  Doing so would have been entirely unnecessary.

So too was his short dictate, because only a second later, they all charged.  Orcs did not react well to fear.  And their chiefs?  They were even more predictable in their aggressive response.

Ok’tarik welcomed it as the necessity it was, meeting their charge with a battle cry that echoed through the entire arena.  The crowd answered with a roar of its own, and the slaughter truly began.