Chapter 43: Blood in Depths (Part 1)

  The halberd descends with an unstoppable force.

  I twist desperately in the water, the Orc's grip on my leg anchoring me even as I try to escape. The blade cleaves through the space where my head had been a heartbeat before, striking downward in a devastating blow.

  The impact is cataclysmic, stone exploding outward in a shower of fragments that tear through the water like shrapnel.

  Pain erupts across my face and chest as debris scores deep furrows in my scales, and the Orc's grip loosens for just a moment, surprised by the violence of his own attack's aftermath.

  That moment is all I need.

  I wrench myself free, leaving scales behind in his massive hand, and dive toward the entrance tunnel where I came from.

  I plunge into the passage just as something massive displaces the water behind me. A thrown spear, I realize, as the weapon's crude iron tip punches through my shoulder, pinning muscle and tendon.

  The scream that tears from my throat comes out as bubbles. My vision narrows, dark spots dancing at the edges as shock tries to drag me under, but there is no time for hesitation.

  Behind me, I hear the splash as the Orc plunges in pursuit. The water churns with their movements.

  The tunnel climbs steeply, and my oxygen-starved body screams for air. Twenty feet. Thirty. The spear shaft catches on the tunnel walls, each impact sending fresh agony through my shoulder.

  Finally breaking the surface and gasping, I immediately see the platform where Hynnal and the others wait.

  "ORCS!" The word tears from my throat, raw and desperate. "AMBUSH!"

  I see heads turn. Hynnal's scarred face snaps toward me, his amber eyes widening with recognition of the threat.

  Then the water behind me erupts.

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  The Orc Chief surfaces first, water streaming from his green-grey hide. The halberd rises with him, its diamond-shaped gemstone pulsing with malevolent light.

  Five more Orcs break the surface around him in a coordinated pattern. Not a panicked scramble, but a rehearsed formation. Warriors who've done this before.

  Hynnal's response is immediate. He barks orders in rapid Gnoll, his gauntleted hand already moving. The chains respond, flowing from the artifact like living things and launching toward the emerging Orcs.

  But the rest of the defenders are in no shape for this fight.

  Three Gnoll warriors, still nursing injuries from the guardian trial. The Stalker, hurt from his encounter with the Blood Right duel. And us slaves, barely recovered from our own near-death experiences.

  Against six fully armed, fully prepared Marsh Orcs.

  Thrak'zul unexpectedly moves first, despite his splintered leg. He launches himself at the Orc Chief with the precision and decisiveness that could only come from years of a warrior’s training and discipline.

  The frogman prince's powerful legs propel him forward, and the iron weights that had been his shackles become weapons. He swings them in a devastating arc, aimed at the Chief's head.

  And then the terrifying halberd moves.

  Not fast nor rushed. Just inevitable, like watching an avalanche begin.

  The gemstone flares with brilliant light, and the heavy iron chains, forged to restrain one of the Frogmen's most dangerous warriors, are simply pulverized where the halberd touches them.

  The weight flies away, falling nearby with a heavy thump. Thrak'zul's eyes widen in shock at his sudden freedom, but there's no time to appreciate it.

  The Chief's backswing catches him across the chest with the halberd's blunt edge. The impact lifts Thrak'zul off his feet and sends him spiraling backward through the air. He hits the water with a tremendous splash, disappearing beneath the surface.

  "NO!" Kor'ik's scream cuts through the chaos, raw with grief and terror.

  There is no time to check if Thrak'zul survived. The remaining Orcs are already moving forward, their weapons raised, advancing with the practiced, coordinated precision of a seasoned war band.

  A sudden hum appears from behind as Hynnal activates his gauntlet.

  Like snakes, the magical chains slithers toward the Orc Chief and multiple strands wrap around the massive warrior's limbs and torso. The brownish core stone in the gauntlet pulses with even more power as Hynnal tightens his grip, trying to constrict the threat.

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  For a moment, it seems to work. The Chief's advance halts, his tusked face twisting with effort as he strains against the magical bonds.

  The halberd’s gemstone light intensifies and with a clean swing, he sweeps through them. Where the blade passes, Hynnal's chains dissolve as if made of sand.

  A Hard counter. The thought surfaces from my analytical mind even as terror floods my system. That artifact was probably specifically designed to destroy solid objects, making Hynnal's greatest weapon completely useless.

  The pack leader realizes it too. I see the calculation in his amber eyes, the split-second assessment that says this fight cannot be won.

  He draws his saber, falling back on the weapon that's served him through countless battles. But I can see the uncertainty in his movements, the loss of confidence that comes from having your primary advantage stripped away.

  The first Gnoll dies before I can even track the sequence of events.

  One moment he's there, spear raised in defensive posture. The next, an Orc's war club connects with his skull with a wet crunch that echoes across the platform. The warrior drops without a sound, his body twitching once before going still.

  Fast. Too fast. The Orcs have the strength and morale upper hand.

  Another Orc crashes into the Stalker with enough force to drive them both into the shallow water. I catch glimpses of the struggle, flashing blades and spraying blood, but can't spare attention to see who's winning.

  Because one of them is coming for me.

  The massive Orc approaching looks like he walked out of a nightmare. His fur is so thick it resembles more of a mythical Yeti than even an Orc. The axe in his hands is crude but devastating, its edge notched from use but still wickedly sharp.

  I try to raise my claws defensively, but the spear still lodged through my shoulder restricts my movement. Pain lances through me with each attempt to lift my arm.

  The Orc doesn't hesitate. His first swing comes in a horizontal arc that would bisect me at the waist if it connected.

  I throw myself backward, the axe blade whistling past close enough that I feel the air displacement. My feet slip on the wet stone and I nearly fall, catching myself at the last moment.

  The follow-up comes immediately. A vertical chop aimed at my head.

  I dodge left, and the axe crashes into the platform where I'd been standing, cracking even the ancient stone. The Orc wrenches it free with casual strength that speaks to his monstrous power.

  I try to counter-attack, slashing at his exposed side with my claws. The strike should draw blood or at least force him to acknowledge the threat. Instead, my claws screech across his fur-covered hide, barely cutting strands of hair.

  The matted fur appears to be compressed into something approaching armor, with layer upon layer of it creating a defensive barrier my normal strength can't penetrate.

  The Orc's tusked mouth curves into his horrible version of a smile. He knows I can't hurt him.

  Another swing. Another desperate dodge. I'm being driven back, each exchange pushing me closer to my demise.

  The spear shaft in my shoulder catches on a stone protrusion, yanking me sideways. The Orc's axe passes through the space where my head had been, so close I feel the blade's wind across my scales.

  I can't win this. Not with conventional strikes against an opponent whose natural defenses render them meaningless.

  My analytical mind races again as I dodge another blow. How can I survive this? What advantage can overcome this mismatch?

  Not strength. The Orc has that in abundance.

  Not armor. I'm already damaged and barely holding together.

  I need something that can cut through his defense. Something sharp enough to find the vulnerable points beneath all that fur and muscle.

  The evolutionary pool pulses in my consciousness. I can feel the potential forms waiting, each one offering their distinct advantages.

  And only one gives me what I need right now.

  I reach inward and select Razor Claws from the pool.

  The transformation happens impossibly fast. My claws begin to shift, keratin hardening and elongating at impossible speed. The sensation is nauseating as bones in my hands restructure to support the new weapons. Cartilage thickens, muscles adapt to generate the force needed to drive these enhanced claws through resistant materials.

  The pain is extraordinary. Not the explosive agony of Reinforced Musculature, but a different kind of suffering. Like having all my nails pulled and fingers broken in rapid succession.

  Blood wells from beneath my scales where the transformation tears tissue. My hands feel foreign, wrong, as if they belong to someone else.

  But when I look down, I see claws that gleam like polished metal. Each one elongated more than twice their former size, curved slightly for maximum penetration and with edges honed to molecular sharpness.

  The Orc raises his axe for another strike, confident in his impending victory.

  I don't dodge this time.

  Instead, I lunge forward, inside his guard, driving my transformed claws toward his throat with all my strength.

  The Orc's eyes widen in surprise. He tries to pull back, to bring his axe to bear, but he's overcommitted.

  My new claws sink into his neck with little resistance.

  Not a clean kill. Nothing about this is clean.

  The Razor Claws punch through the matted fur, through the thick hide beneath, finding the vulnerable flesh and major blood vessels. Hot blood sprays across my face as I tear sideways, opening his throat from one side to the other.

  The Orc gurgles, dropping his axe to clutch at the wound. Blood pours between his fingers, far too much blood. His small eyes fix on mine with a mixture of shock, rage and unwillingness.

  I pull my claws free with a wet sound that makes my stomach turn. The Orc staggers backward, still trying to stem the flow, but it's futile. He has maybe seconds before blood loss claims him.

  He drops to his knees, those small eyes glazing over. Then he pitches forward, landing face-first in the shallow water with a tremendous splash.

  I stand over the corpse, breathing hard, my transformed claws dripping crimson. The spear in my shoulder throbs with each heartbeat, and I can feel my regeneration struggling to cope with maintaining the Razor Claws transformation while healing my injuries.

  But I'm still alive.

  For now.