Path of Dragons 16 - Chapter 19 - Symbols (Patreon)

This is the last of the Ok'tarik interlude. I enjoyed writing it, but I know alternate perspectives tend to annoy a subset of readers. I hope you'll understand why this was necessary as the book moves on. In any case, we're back to Elijah and company tomorrow.

Ok’tarik stumbled in mid-air, falling to his hands and knees as his flesh sloughed off his bones.  It fell, but only for a few seconds before the dense and corrosive ethera charred it into black ash that disintegrated almost immediately.  In the end, there was nothing left but the memory of his discarded flesh.

At the same time, his body rebuilt itself in an endless cycle that he knew he couldn’t maintain for much longer.  Despite that, he crawled forward.  Not because he had some destination he needed to reach, but rather, because he saw prey on the metaphorical horizon.

He’d lost track of how much time had passed since he’d set out from that first ring.  Days, at the very least.  Perhaps as much as two weeks.  He’d passed three more rings, and with each threshold, his power became ever more insufficient to the task of keeping him alive.  Facing the energy from the planetary core, his meager advancement counted for almost nothing. 

It could barely even keep him alive.

The only solace came from the grim certainty that the wyrm couldn’t have been much better off.  The trail glowed, bright and unmissable, in his senses.  The signal was strong.  The wyrm was close.

Ok’tarik only needed to keep going. 

What would he do when the confrontation finally presented itself?  He had no idea.  But he could no more stop than he could give up the curse of sapience that dogged him so viciously.

He took one breath.  Then two.  A third, and he heaved himself upright.  He leaned back on his heels, eyes closed as he circulated more ethera.  In great torrents, it flowed through his body, shielding him and mending the damage wrought by the atmosphere.  It required significant focus, maintaining that flow, but it was necessary if he wanted to keep going.

And he did.

After a few more moments, he pushed himself to his feet and forced his legs to move.  One step became a second, then a third.  It eventually turned into a steady gait, barely trembling under the weight of so much corrosive power.

Like that, Ok’tarik continued.  He didn’t allow doubt to creep into his mind.  Nor did he let himself consider turning back and settling for the horn he’d left behind on the first of the inner rings.  He’d already decided it wasn’t good enough of a trophy, and he wasn’t going to turn away from the resolution to do better.

He’d rather die.

Which was a distinct possibility if he kept going much further.  Another ring, and he would be bathed in exponentially more powerful ethera that would burn him, body, mind, and soul.  Nothing would remain.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he managed to reach the core.  There was so much ethera there, thick and wild.  Combative.  Corrosive.  It was another enemy begging to be conquered.

But Ok’tarik had learned caution where so many of his people had not.  And he recognized a bad idea when it crossed his mind.  The difference was that, even though he saw it as a challenge to his dominance, he could push that aside in service of self-preservation.

Most orcs would have fled.  Others would have forged ahead, their minds entirely overcome by thoughts of the core and all the energy it contained.  Other than Ok’tarik, none could have gone on, their eyes still trained on the hunt.  In that respect – among many others – he was different.

And it was the only reason he survived the ambush.

The wyrm came out of nowhere, its arrival announced only by a subtle ripple in the ambient ethera.  For Ok’tarik, who’d maintained a steady eye on his surroundings, that was enough.  He leaped aside, weakened muscles and bone tearing under the sudden strain. 

The beast crashed through his invisible plane of ethera, shattering it.  However, Ok’tarik barely managed to avoid the thing’s massive claws.

Only then did he truly understand the scope of the thing he’d claimed as his prey. 

The wyrm was massive enough to distort the air around it.  Maybe half a mile long and built like a snake with legs and wings, it was an intimidating presence even to someone like Ok’tarik.  What made it even more so was the oppressive aura of authority and ethera surrounding it.

Sensing that, it was easy for Ok’tarik to understand why wyrms – or wild dragons, as they were sometimes known – were seen through the terrified eyes.  They were often called calamities, and for good reason.  What Ok’tarik felt from that creature harkened back to something primal.  Something that predated civilization to encompass the purest bestial savagery.

He envied it.

He feared it.

And he wanted to emulate it.

The creature’s power washed over him, adding spatial fluctuations to the already corrosive atmosphere to rip Ok’tarik to shreds.  He countered it with a surge of his own ethera, pushed outward to surround him in a cocoon of protective energy.  His soul trembled at the expenditure. His core roiled, and his body miraculously remained intact. 

Then came the next phase of the wyrm’s attack.

Even as it snapped out with massive jaws, the world compressed.  Far away, the rings creaked under additional strain as that power pulled everything toward it. 

A black hole.

That was what the dragon prisoner had called it before he’d lost the ability to properly articulate his thoughts.  Ok’tarik had hoped the onset of wyrmhood would have robbed the creature of that ability, but it seemed that his hopes were misplaced.  If anything, it had grown stronger.

It should not have been a surprise.  The wyrm itself was more powerful.  So too would whatever abilities it could still utilize.

And in this case, it was enough to destabilize the entire system of rings.  They’d already begun to wobble, creating havoc among the native wildlife.  Beasts of all sorts let out panicked cries, and those with wings threw themselves into the air only to find that they couldn’t fight against the pull of the wyrm’s ability in action.

In that respect, Ok’tarik should have been no different.  He had no wings.  He was not a native flyer.  But what he did have was the willpower to force the local ethera to obey his commands.

He flexed, sending out an explosion of energy that slammed into the wyrm’s open mouth.  The blow launched the creature backwards, but that was only a side effect.  The main purpose was to free Ok’tarik from the bonds of the black hole.  And in that purpose, it was successful.

Barely.

He reversed course, summoning tiny bars of ethera beneath his feet.  He kicked forward, pushing himself to previously unattainable velocity.  And when his fist rammed into the wyrm’s tooth, he was rewarded by the sound of cracking bone. 

The wyrm reeled, bucking its head like the wounded animal it was.  Spatial fluctuations erupted in every direction, slicing through Ok’tarik’s ethereal cloud and into his flesh.  It scored his bones, but his time crossing the rings had not been in vain.  It had broken him down, bit by bit, and when he’d rebuilt himself, the results were undeniable.  Not only was he stronger, but he was far more durable as well.

The wyrm was no longer in its right mind, so it couldn’t understand the implications.

But it was afraid.

No doubt, in its devolved mind, it believed that its ambush would destroy Ok’tarik, utterly and without delay.  Yet, it had also already tasted true fear when he’d ripped the thing’s horn off. 

That terror returned in full force when Ok’tarik slammed his fist into one of the creature’s massive fangs.  The wyrm was more than large enough to swallow him whole, but the outsized impact broke its jaw and sent its head snapping backward.  At the same time, a massive crack erupted across the fang, nearly dislodging it with that singular blow.

It hung on by a thread, but the damage was done.

Once again, the wyrm made to flee.

Even as it gathered ethera to teleport to some unknown location, Ok’tarik erupted with ethera, wrapping his energy around the intended ability.  It wasn’t nearly enough to stop its activation.  The creature was well-attuned and powerful, and he couldn’t hope to impinge upon its domain.

But he could delay it.

Which was all he’d intended.

Because while he’d come to kill the thing and take an appropriate trophy, he’d begun to realize that that was the work of years.  Perhaps even decades.  And it would span the entirety of Orveth Kaal, with him slowly chipping away at the creature.  And that was if he could even guarantee success, which he could not.  It was more resistant to the ambient ethera than even he could boast, which meant that it could go places he simply could not. 

No.

His hunt was over for the time being.

The realization came with a wave of shame that he forced away in favor of sheer pragmatism.  Once again launching himself off a plane of pure ethera, he slammed his fist into that same fang.

The crack widened.

He hit it again, and the rift spiderwebbed into a thousand branches that extended beneath the thing’s gums.  Ok’tarik braced himself with ethera, then wrapped his arms around the thing.  The wyrm tried to throw him free, jerking its head back and forth, but Ok’tarik’s grip remained as firm as ever.

He pulled.

It wiggled a bit.

He let out a massive roar of effort, and it shifted a little more.  His ethereal grip on the wyrm’s ability loosened, and the world focused in on a tiny pinprick of existence.  He could see through to the other side, but he knew that he wouldn’t survive the journey.  Vaunted durability or not.

Once more, he adjusted his grip, braced himself on another pane of ethera.  And with everything he had – both metaphysical and otherwise – he heaved.

The fang shifted a little more, but he knew it wasn’t going to come free.  Not unless he tapped into something more.

He reached deep into his core, gathering the ethera closest to his nature.  It pulsed with thick power, domineering and unfettered.

He tapped into it, funneling it through his channels and into his body.  No more was the rage and frustration enough to power him through.  He wasn’t a berserker.  Not anymore.  Not for a long time.  And it was past the point where he should have abandoned that unfitting base of power.

The energy roared through him, nearly bursting his channels before he wrangled control.  Then, he used it.

The resulting surge of strength nearly ripped him in two.  If he’d been any weaker, it might have managed that feat.  As it was, it merely ruptured organs and fractured bones.  But it didn’t stop him from doing what he intended.

The tooth came free with a vicious crack.  Ok’tarik suddenly found himself tumbling through the air and toward the black hole.  Whatever control he’d imposed over the environment had vanished.

Fortunately, that meant the wyrm’s ability finally took hold, and the creature disappeared in a shower of sparks.  For only a second, the gravity well persisted, and it worsened Ok’tarik’s injuries.  Yet, he held himself together just long enough for it to dissipate.

He couldn’t keep hold of the fang, though.  It tumbled free of his broken fingers and into the black hole.  He heard it crunching, but he couldn’t turn his head.  Even had he been capable of doing so, it would have been impossible to see past the event horizon.

Then, suddenly, it disappeared.

The tooth fell.

Or what had been the tooth, at least.

It no longer looked like one, though.  Instead, it had been compacted into a mere splinter.  Maybe ten feet long and six or seven inches wide.  Vaguely curved.  The cracks he’d inflicted upon it were gone, and the pieces had fused together into a unified whole.  Only the barest hint of discoloration remained as evidence of the pressure it had endured.

Ok’tarik summoned a whip of ethera, then cast it out.  The energy wrapped around the shaft and yanked it to him.

By that point, he had fallen nearly a thousand feet.

The dense ethera continued to press in on him, and he knew if he let himself fall much closer to the core, he would succumb.

So, using the last vestiges of energy left to him, Ok’tarik threw himself back toward the ring he’d left behind.  He sailed through the air, barely making it to the edge before his momentum was spent. He rolled forward, not stopping until he hit a massive and ancient tree.

There, he came to a halt.

His body was broken.  His cultivation system burned like it had been submerged in metaphysical acid.  His core roiled, empty and angry.  And his mind was befuddled, lost amidst a sea of pain and a hint of shame.

But he hadn’t lost his trophy.

Hopefully, it would be enough to prove his mandate to the rest of orc-kind.  For now, though, he needed to rest and recover.  Because it would not be long until the beasts recognized his weakness and tried to exploit it.

Such was the way of life in the Ruins.  Predator could become prey in an instant.  He’d taught that lesson to the wyrm, and he would learn it himself soon enough.  So, he turned his mind and his parched ethereal system to recovery, hoping against hope that he would manage it before he was forced to fight for his life.

Still, despite his dire situation, a rare smile spread across his face.