Kieth lumbered on, tripped over the underbrush as if the oppressive silence of the woods oppressed him-not the weight of the ground but the heavy weight of betrayal and exile clinging to him like some dark cloak of despair. He had stumbled dazed from one dazed stupor of reliving images that defeated him to another:Madison smirking with pure and utter disdain, Mike, scorn dripping even when he laughs, his father's cold indifference, King Darion. Anger rose but ebbed, trying its best to drag it out of himself, leaving only throbbing and numbing in its wake.
Nothing now could check him; nor yet, when the leaves crackled up under every tread and he splashed into wildernesses; small heed did he pay to the world about. His thoughts were too sharp to be shuttered away by anything so prosy as the frogs and birds holding their converse in the forest. He scarce recognised the tortured trees of *The Darkwood* looming up above him, casting its knotted shadows across the evening.
And then something fine before him came to stir. Kieth could only halt, his eyes snapping open wide at last as he coalesced from his daze. He felt his gaze sink down to earth where heavy, calloused feet rooted in dust. Slowly he rises to his feet, his heart thumping inside his chest tracing up impossible legs past bulging torso and finally onto the brutish face of an orc.
Horrific. Rotting, mottled-skinned flesh with scar tissue covering the huge number of battles it must have fought. A club formed from some sort of enormous tree trunk was pressed inside its claw, dripping its own obscene fluid-blood from some forgotten victim. Just below, small glassy eyes appeared as if filled with hatred, and from its neck pierced a dog-like sound. Just big enough, and almost too much for Kieth; it towered twice his height.
Time itself seemed to freeze up in that single instant, and he screamed inside his mind, trying to will it into motion when that body wouldn't budge an inch. He took plenty of fast steps backward, going almost on his own feet in a frantic attempt to clear some much-needed space between him and the orc. He could scream with it as the fear mounted up in his chest where he never had a life experience to be prepared for this one. It was only now that it had left him unprotected when the knights of Elora were coming in. The lip curl that would have been a wicked grimace was sent toward the mortal, who had prepared to mash into the small helpless human in front of him. Kieth's tired legs sprang to life, but they folded under him when he tried to step forward and fall onto the ground. His body screamed at him to run, but despair weighed too much for his body to move. It couldn't be like this. Not like that.
But something snapped in his head. A glowing ember of anger lit, piercing a hole in the befogged vapors that filled his brain.He would not die there, not in that damned forest where he went through so many things. His fists clenched tight as he willed himself to breathe deep; his mind leaped for a solution. Tactics based on strategies that had been laid down over the past few years of planning took over.
He could look down on all the world; he could see something to throw at him, or a stick to knock him off his head with-but he'd step back when his feet might catch in one of the holes. The orc was clumsy, slow-it didn't do much good in bulk. Kieth should have benefited from speed and brains. He was defenseless, he had no sword no shield, but his mind was quicker than any steel.
He rolls sideways with the smallest margin he can manage; dodges being crushed to pulp by the club which goes splat into the earth where but a split second before he had been. Kieth scrambled to his feet, his heart beating like a trip-hammer and ran for the nearest tree. The orc was slow to react at what has happened, turns and charges after him but Kieth was already moving.
He dodged to the left of the tree and swung it round as the orc hurled his club again. The tremendous truncheon thudded home on the trunk with a crack, shaking wood like a crack. Kieth bared his teeth; his face was slick with sweat as he moved round the tree. So brutish it was in strength, yet so coarse. If only he could get it through.
Anger and rage flared in orc's eyes he charged furiously into the tree again. Kieth saw his chance. Just as the orc was about to bring down the club for a last blow, Kieth backed out of the way but rushed forward and grabbed him from behind by the neck, then risking his life grabbed a rock standing nearby on the ground.. He had little to no defense, but it would have to do.
He wasn't the fastest moving, but it would bring the club down again. Kieth was behind it. He tossed the stone as hard as he could for the back of the orc's head. The stone struck the orc with a dull thud that shifted the large creature off center. The orc let out its wrath as it spun around to face him, yet Kieth and his conscious vanished.
Because of this retreat on the orc's behalf he danced over to the side and ducked behind another tree.
This time Kieth did not wait for the orc to come at him. Getting close enough to him the creature spurred him on to stretch up and grab hold of the low hanging branch and hauling himself out of the orc's sword swing. Now on the other side, he slammed it in the abdomen and then the orc unleashed his ferocity in wild attacks. The club was stuck into the trunk of the tree where he had to be temporarily defenseless. This time he didn't hesitate for a moment. Out from the branch he jumped off and launched himself ahead, arms open. The orc shrieked with shock as Kieth threw his arms about its neck and started strangling him behind. The orc, in huge bounds, reared to heave him over; but Kieth clung tight, his arms shrieking with the effort and refused to let go.
It was tough because the wilder he thrashed the quicker chunks of seconds crept by, forcing the wimpier thrashing to extreme weakness until finally it splatted on earth with a thud that shook it. Kieth rolled off the back of the orc and groaned for breath as he lay there in the dirt, shuddering all over with exhaustion.
He lies on the trampled earth, gazing at day's light that was now waning.
Dragged one chest upon another, every tortured breath a scream of muscles. At last the first time since banishment, a small spasm of pride found a small lodging within him: he did it; slew an orc. Hit him like a wave and suddenly he didn't care to be long and tall, good and pure. He was no weak Prince now. He lived on. However, victory was a fleeting victory.
Something had slid across his line of sight, and Kieth's head jerked out to the trees beyond the clearing. Here there was a figure half reclining against the darkness. A black clad man right from his head to his toes, Kieth barely made out the figure, but he recognized that calculating glare.
It was *Specter*, the assassin prince Mike had sent.
Now Kieth's chest thumped with this inside, but it wasn't a sense of fear. It was anger. Specter; he could tell by the look in the man's eye that this one was scouting him, calculating his every move. The assassin had watched the whole battle yet hadn't reacted once to intervene.
He lay abed, shaking with the amassing of pre-fight weariness. His eyes roved to Specter, cut out of darkness like a bad impression in molded clay, and whose stare unblinking was so piercing that Kieth could feel it crawling on his skin.
Was Specter waiting for that wonder moment – or was he just watching and toying with the endurance of Kieth before he attacked him?
Kieth was racing his brain lightning-fast. How much of a man is that? -Cold systematic, calculating. An assassin of his kind never makes a mistake; he has nothing to lose in the situation. That being the case maybe Specter has not attacked yet because he never thought Kieth was one to be threatened or perhaps waiting for Kieth to make the first move.
A sour laugh tore from Kieth's lips as he fell back across the conveniently placed tree. His body screamed protest, but he fought himself awake. Too weary to fight, too spent to run, he lay there. But one thing was left for him to do: outwit his assassin.
"Come on," Kieth whispered to himself, speaking just loud enough for no one to actually hear his words. "Make your move, assassin."
But Specter did not retreat. He was a threat to Kieth's advance.
Specter sits in the dark, his hand near his sword. But he doesn't rise. For all that he was an old warrior, he knew well not to make a step for this form of Kieth had stirred him into jitters. Did he feel he was here since the start? Was this a trap?
An hour was lost. Specter's instincts screamed warning; he hadn't been overlooked by winning the orc; something was getting to him over this smugness. He was an art killer, to whom used gazing at his prey; for the first time in his life, he felt acutely conscious of being read in turn .
All men waited for the other to crack as they stood in silent statisdeadlock.