“The tale of the Borug-I is the tale of an Ork unlike any of his tribe, for this work was not a fan of murder and death, he was a bard and simply wished to bring joy to others. The Borug-I was shunned by his kind and exiled, as well as seen as a traitor to his people. He did not however change his ways and the ballad of Borug-I is often sang across the lands in raucous tune by those sinking ale and enjoying the company of friends.”
The Borag-I, 115KR
Rain laps against my skin with a force I am for once grateful to feel. The cold sensation reminds me that I am still alive somehow. Even better, the streets are empty as everyone seeks to remain sheltered in this torrential downpour, giving me freedom to move about the city unbothered.
Bring me Breyton’s head. Morgana’s request plays through my mind. This should not be too difficult, and it’s a price I am willing to pay if Morgana’s promises are true. But concern about Rior's wellbeing nags at me. If the Wyverns have hurt him in any way, I will show them the true meaning of pain.
It is the shelter where I head as I trudge through the thick mud created by this storm, the foul smell getting thicker and thicker the deeper into the slums I dive. So far, I have remained as close to the shadows as possible, and it is in my best intentions to remain this way.
When I reach the front of the shelter where Rior lives, the door is already ajar with little light inside. There is an eery quietness to this place, and my chest begins to thump against my tunic.
The door creaks as I make my way inside. My heart sinks. The shelter has been ransacked. The chairs at the sides of the room are broken, and chunks are missing from the walls where weapons and objects have been smashed against them. Judging by the looks of it, everything in this room has been destroyed. I can only hope that this is the worst it gets.
I step through the doorway into the kitchen area where I first came face-to-face with the Wyvern enforcer roughing up Rior. Here, pots and pans lay strewn across the work surfaces, and broken plates and cups are smashed into pieces across the floor. The wall rack hangs loosely, barely able to cling onto any form of stability. The pottery crunches under my feet as my breath quickens.
“Rior!” I call out. “Rior, it’s Orjan.”
Nothing but silence greets me. I continue my search of the kitchen to no avail. To the left of the room, I spot another doorway which opens to two sets of stairs, one leading upwards, one leading down into the cellar. My every judgement tells me not to head into the basement, but if I were a boy hiding, this is where I would go. I pluck a candle from the wall and light it using the flint that sits next to it, the warm glow offering a better view as I step into the darkness. I take the steps slowly as I descend, holding my breath.
“Rior?”
When I reach the basement, I see in an instant that it has also been ransacked. The Wyverns have already torn this place apart and I pray to the gods that they have not found Rior. The stores of grains have been destroyed, and it pains me to imagine how many will go hungry as a result. Wooden crates have also been broken into, chunks of wood missing where blades were used to pry their way in. The light from the candle causes a reflection and my stomach drops. Blood pools on the floor behind one of the crates. I walk towards the blood tentatively, unable to breathe, my heart feeling as though it may rip from my chest.
When I examine the body, I breathe a sigh of relief. It is not Rior, but Bravor who lies face down on the wet floor. The clothes on his back are soaked in crimson and his face is paler than the undead. Punctured marks shred his top. The man has not only been killed from behind, but whoever did this repeatedly stabbed him as though enraged. The man never stood a chance. I bow my head for a moment to pray for the man’s kind soul. I can only hope that he greets a better afterlife than the misery he has suffered here.
A noise from the corner of the room cuts my respects short. Turning with the candle, I place my hand on my mace, assuming a defensive stance. A rat sits atop the seed, tucking its way into the banquet it has found. I shake my head and exhale, then gently carry Bravor’s body upstairs before making my way to the top floor of the house. The stairs creak loudly as I ascend, and I fear what I may be about to walk into. One room to my right belongs to Rior’s keepers – or at least, it did belong to them. A second room on the left contains a small bed that has been turned on its side. When I find no more bodies, I maintain some semblance of hope that the boy is still alive as I return to the main floor. If anything happened to him due to my actions, I am not sure I could endure the guilt. I have enough blood on my hands.
I hear movement behind me that is definitely not a rat, the creaking floorboard giving away their position. Before I have time to act, something smashes into my back, forcing me forwards into the wall. I feel nothing but a dull sensation against my armoured shell. I let out a low grumble to warn my attacker, and I turn to see a woman who stands in a state of shock. Her face is bloodied and her clothes are torn, relieving her of her modesty. Blood draws down her legs and I can only begin to think of the horrors this woman has had to endure.
“You bastard! You think you can just stroll back in here at Breyton’s command!” Her voice cracks as she screams at me. “After everything your men have done to me!”
“Preya, it’s me, Orjan!” I raise my hands to show I mean her no harm, but she keeps hold of her plank of wood, trembling. When she realises who I am, she lowers her weapon, her body and spirit shattered like glass.
“They killed him, they killed my husband. They raped me and murdered Bravor, I beg the gods to curse them for what they have done.”
Had I not interfered with the enforcer, had I not broken his arm, had I not entered a fight and brawled with them in the streets of the markets, none of this would have happened. This is my fault. If not for me, this poor woman would still have her husband, her dignity.
“Preya, where is Rior?”
Preya screams in anger and drops to the sodden floor. I kneel in front of her and offer my hands to help her back up. “I promise, I will make them pay for this. Please, is Rior okay?” The thought of something this severe happening to him fills me with a weighted dread in my stomach, and it catches me off guard. I haven’t felt anything like this for so long, it reminds me that underneath my scaled skin, I am still human.
Preya’s eyes stream with tears of stress, anger, and anguish, as she looks into my own before nodding her head lightly. “He is okay. I told him to hide, but I fear what he may have seen, what he may have heard. He is too young to witness all of this, he is just a boy!” Preya buries her head into my chest, her cries becoming muffled against my sodden tunic. I tentatively pat her back, unsure of how to comfort her.
“Orjan, Preya!” Rior emerges with a blanket in his hands, which he wraps around his keeper. His lip is bloodied and his clothes are torn, but aside from that, he appears somewhat okay.
Preya attempts to stand but her legs buckle and she falls back to her knees, knocking against the splintered floorboards. “Rior! You can’t be here! If they find you, they will kill you.” His presence seems to ignite a blind panic. “You need to leave! Bravor gave his life so you could escape. Go!”
Rior is stunned into silence, then he notices Bravor laid out on the floor behind me. Tears fill his eyes. “They killed Bravor?” He collapses to his knees and Preya wraps her arms around him as he weeps for his fallen keeper. “It’s all my fault,” the boy sobs uncontrollably, his chest heaving as though he is about to be sick, as if he struggles to breathe. It is a level of grief he has likely not endured before, neither should he at his young age. “Had I not gone to the markets, that fight would never have broken out.”
My heart drops like a stone thrown down a deep well for how this day has forged this boy’s fate. His life is in ruins, his keeper is dead, and his safety is compromised. Worse still, Rior blames himself, when in truth, I am to blame for this mess. The situation is even worse than when I abandoned Laith. Everything I touch turns to ashes. It is I that is the curse that plagues these lands. Sorrow and scorn shadow me wherever I go.
I need to right this wrong. I need to maintain this boy’s safety. Suddenly, bringing Morgana Breyton’s head feels like a privilege instead of a chore.
“The Wyverns, Breyton, where do I find them?” I ask, my blood boiling with rage.
“No one knows who Breyton is,” says Preya through strained tears. “But at nighttime, the Wyverns meet by the old library. They hold arranged fights there. Offer people the chance of food and coin as a reward for taking part. All so they can keep themselves entertained.”
“You two need to stay hidden until I return to tell you it’s safe.”
“Where are you going?” Rior asks.
“I think it’s time I went to pay these Wyverns a visit.”