Midnight Bounties 4 - Chapter 8

Hezak prepared the mugs of moonshine and Garfor brought a bucket of blood that almost drove Opius insane. Luckily, Ragul was there to keep him in check, though even my perfectly mannered bartender was licking his lips in a disturbing way. They both removed themselves to the farthest corner, their red eyes glowing in the dim light.

The orcs and the Midnighters formed the traditional circle. A dozen of the eager green fellows mixed with Wort, Matis, Derek, Korvan, and me. Hezak moved some of the tables and chairs out of the way so we had enough room, refilled our moonshine when he needed to, and generally stayed at the bar, ready to serve us after each blast to the face.

Tyfus and Jerry remained seated where they were. Neither of those bravehearted warriors wanted to take part in the Mok’fera. Understandably so as Tyfus was a mage and Jerry, well, Jerry could barely stand as was.

Once Garfor smeared the walls with blood in the sign of Orga and Korga, Targa stepped into the circle we had formed. He looked somewhat larger and more menacing than the last time I saw him atop the pyramid in the Frostrock Grotto. What an evening that was. Targa singe-handedly killed three aspirants to his title and promised a great new Green Tide. The image still lingered in the back of my mind, but considering everything else going on, I hardly had the brainpower left to worry about it.

“I, Targa, Grand Shaman of Loco Bruego, grief for Frank boss leaving forever.”

“Forever?” I said through a puff of smoke and coughed.

“Mok’fera!” Everyone yelled.

Targa pushed Kloktar into the circle and Matis did the same with Derek. He came into the ring with a nervous but determined expression. Good for him, I thought, but Kloktar was at least a head taller and twice as broad as the up-and-coming warrior. Still, I knew Derek had a spine and he could always surprise us. Maybe…

Kloktar’s fist was like a boulder, and it smashed into Derek’s face hard, almost knocking him over. Our runner somehow managed to remain on his legs and gulped down the moonshine, shook his head, and returned the favor as hard as he could. Kloktar’s head snapped to the side. The large orc smiled, rubbing his chin. He emptied his moonshine and threw the mug away.

“I sad for Frank boss leaving forever!” he roared.

“Yeah, thanks Kloktar,” I said with little enthusiasm.

I knew there was a good chance I’d have to go to Hell if Snowdog didn’t kill me before that, or the trip there, or the Mok’fera I was taking part in, but still…why grief my passing while I was still alive?

I thought Derek’s head would fly off his shoulders when Kloktar hit him the second time, but again, the idiot warrior remained standing somehow. Derek’s face crumpled and twisted both from Kloktar’s rough fists but seemingly even more so from the moonshine, but he did as expect and emptied his mug.

Derek’s follow-up was strong again, angering Kloktar. The orc seemed even more furious with the third strike, but Derek kept standing. Derek’s third was somewhat weaker than the previous two, but I knew Kloktar must have felt it. All of us, both Midnighters and orcs, watched in shock as the back and forth lasted for eleven rounds. By then both Derek’s and Kloktar’s faces looked like something off a meat tree from the Black. 

In the twelfth round, Kloktar’s fist turned Derek’s face into a true mess and the confused warrior finally fell to cheers from both the orcs and the Midnighters. I picked him up and dragged him over to Fey.

“Not bad, Derek,” I said, winking at Fey. “Try and fix him up if you can. He’s going to feel it one way or another, but at least he won’t be as ugly.”

“I…fucked…up,” he mumbled.

“Yes, you did!” Targa roared. “You need to drink your moonshine!”

“Frank…I can’t—” I took the mug from Hezak’s hand then poured it down his destroyed mouth, apologizing in his ear.

“Rules are rules, Derek.”

It had to be done. I couldn’t have a Midnighter not finish a Mok’fera honorably. Not even Derek.

Matis stepped into the ring to face Kloktar without anyone egging him on. I guess he felt guilty for offering Derek to the giant orc. Kloktar was dented, but when he landed his fist in Matis’ face, I thought the swashbuckler was done for. He almost dropped on the ground, but managed to steady himself, blood running down the right side of his mouth. He chugged down his moonshine and seemed reinvigorated by it.

He returned the favor quickly with an extremely fast and precise forward stab that made Kloktar’s already loose teeth rattle. The giant was felled like a tree, sending a tiny tremor through the club shake as he fell to the floor.

Wirgar walked into the circle next. A slender, confident looking orc with graceful movements and a menacing face full of scars.

“I too sad for Frank boss dead.”

“I’m still here,” I muttered.

Matis braced for the worst and there was no doubt he indeed got the worst. The swashbuckler and Wirgar barely exchanged four rounds before my future manager bit the floor of the club.

With that, there was only Wort, Korvan, and I left. Tyfus had no interest in fist fights, but he was eager to sling insults and offer unsolicited advice. Ragul and Opius tried to stay calm with all the blood splattering everywhere. The vampires would probably fare quite well in the sport, but I understood why they really didn’t want to take part. Fey, Pearl, Fusha, Drogna, and the island sisters watched us and laughed, chatting among themselves and drinking while Spif tried to encapsulate the event in song.

Korvan seemed surprisingly adept in the ring. He chugged down the moonshine with ease and blasted two orcs out of the way including Wirgar. I noticed some nervous looks on Targa’s face as my ogre turned his men to minced meat.

“Enough!” Targa roared as the second one hit the ground and pushed in Fakoot, his right-hand man.

Fakoot was a deadly orc, there was no doubt about it. Targa’s second in command was broader than his boss, but smaller. Long braided hair swung around his hip. He moved quickly despite his stocky appearance. Korvan, however, was almost untouched by the previous two orcs. It then came as a surprise that the ogre dropped to the ground the first time Fakoot slammed his fist in Korvan’s chin. He got up quickly, brushed himself off and rubbed his bloodied face.

“No more,” the ogre said angrily and the orcs cheered.

I watched my security guard waltz away, still looking fairly unharmed. Did he just throw?

“Lazy fuck,” I muttered. “Well, Wortimus, you’re on.”

“Violence,” the fautar said, walking somewhat unwillingly into the circle.

Even Fakoot swallowed as the giant bull-man’s shadow ate his own with ease. He tried not to show, but it was more than evident. Wort was a mountain that could make any orc think twice about messing with him.

“No Rev powers, Wort,” I said, remembering the last time I saw the fautaur splatter a thug with his fist.

He nodded at me then turned to face Fakoot.

Targa’s man was strong, stronger than many other orcs, but his first hit only annoyed Wortimus. The fautar retaliated with what I would say was half his strength. Fakoot’s braids went loose and Targa had to catch him so he wouldn’t fall over. The orc emptied his moonshine, flung it over his shoulder and tried again. This time, I thought Wort truly felt the smack on his nose, but it did little to shake the fautar.

It only took one more blast from the hairy giant to send Fakoot to dreamland. As the orc dropped to the floor, Wortimus frowned and went down to one knee.

“I’m sorry, friend,” he said. “Oh, right,” he added and looked up at me. “I’m sorry that Master Frank will die soon.”

The orcs cheered despite this and so did the Midnighters. Targa dragged Fakoot out of the circle with little empathy then pushed Artrag in who couldn’t even pretend to be excited about it. Artrag didn’t even get to the second round. Wortimus blasted the poor orc hard enough to send him off his feet.

Targa pushed in Umheg. Another stocky orc that was half Wort’s size. Interestingly enough, he survived a second punch and landed two pretty decent one’s against Wort. The third one, however, brought Umheg down so hard his head bobbed against the floor and several teeth went flying every which way.

“You’re running out of orcs, Targa,” I said, smoking my cigar.

With how things were going there was a chance I wouldn’t even have to bloody my hands. Though, truth be told, I was looking forward to some stress relief.

Garmut stepped forward to try what the others could not, but Targa pushed him back and stepped in himself.

“Enough of shit!” the leader of the Loco Bruego yelled angrily. He rolled his shoulders, emptied a mug of moonshine and crushed it in his hand.

“Come fautar, now we begin!”

Wort said nothing. He emptied a mug of moonshine then rocked Targa’s face with a jab that could crush through a wall. The orc took it on the nose, his head snapping back. He spat out a wad of blood then licked his jagged teeth.

A mug of moonshine later, Targa blasted Wortimus with such power that the fautar staggered backwards and almost fell over. He looked at me with a mix of anger and surprise as if I was to blame for his pain. A trickle of blood dropped out of his snout and onto the floor.

“Frank boss, your death makes my fist hard,” Targa said.

“Great,” I nodded, wincing at the proclamation. Orcs sure knew how to go…hard quickly.

The second round was short. Wortimus swung his fist half-heartedly at Targa, which the orc noticed right away. He wiped his lip and narrowed his eyes on the fautar. It was a sign of disrespect to not use your full strength against an orc. Targa would honor that tradition. He retaliated against Wortimus with all his force, smacking the giant bull-man hard enough that he staggered backwards, flailed his arms, and then crashed against a chair and destroyed it in his fall.

“Damn! Targa’s a fucking beast!” Tyfus yelled and the orcs cheered.

Fey rushed to help Wortimus up. He was dazed but still conscious.

“Alright, Targa,” I said, flinging the stub of my cigar on the floor.

I loosened my shoulders and cracked my neck as I prepared to throw in with the orc.

“Now we do real fight,” Targa said, smiling crookedly.

His sharp teeth were already bloodied but aside from that, the big orc looked chipper enough. I couldn’t use any of my abilities, not even (Demon Skin) to toughen up my face. It had to be raw and for some stupid reason I was glad to do it.

Targa wasted no time. He smashed his fist into my face without an inkling of mercy and I could feel every knuckle grinding into me. The punch was great. Refreshing even. It had those cleansing properties a good fist to the face sometimes had. It made you forget about all the troubles of tomorrow and brought you back into the present. Even so, it did little to rock me off my feet.

I chugged down my moonshine and spat out blood.

Targa’s smile washed from his face when he saw how little his punch truly rattled me. Targa was big, strong, and deadly as any orc clan leader was. Still, after everything I had been through, he wasn’t in my league anymore. Besides, I had something to prove. Not to myself, or Targa even, but to the big dog, Nergat himself.

I clenched my fist, aimed for his forehead, and blasted the honorable leader of the Loco Bruego hard enough for him to stagger into the orcs behind him. Targa’s eyes rolled back and he and his retinue collapsed on the floor. The big orc was out completely, just lying there barely breathing. I chugged my moonshine, flung the mug over my shoulder and cleared my throat.

“I’m sorry Frank boss,” I said. “I will be dearly missed.”

Targa came to his senses rather quickly, but he couldn’t get up immediately. He spat out a thick wad of blood and rubbed his head.

“Fucking Frank boss!” he yelled with a croaky voice.

“Mok’fera!” the orcs cheered and so did Targa with a rather weak and subdued voice.

Jaftrak stepped into the circle but Targa pulled him back, shooting him a deathstare. If the Grand Shaman couldn’t take me, insinuating that Jaftrak, an orc half his size could, was an absolute insult. Still, as far as I understood the orc way, Jaftrak had to try to keep his own honor. One would think the orc way was simple enough: always show strength. But there were actually so many layers that even after years of war against them, and a year of collaborating with them intensely, I still wasn’t sure about most of it.

However, one thing I knew for sure was that blasting a Grand Shaman with one hit put me in the very top of the orc hierarchy, human or not.

“Now we drink!” I said, raising my voice and inviting all of them to the different tables around the club.

The orcs, beaten and bloodied, along with the Midnighters quickly found their places around the several long tables we pulled together. Spif strung his lyre and Hezak and even Fey quickly got to serving more drinks.

Tyfus sprayed fire from his hands in a moment of too much excitement and Rivian the blue island elf quickly used her water magic to save the ceiling from burning down. Drogna and Fusha climbed the table and began to dance, and Rot joined them for some reason, kicking over glasses and plates, sending food into Ragul’s lap.

“I’m not dead yet, Targa,” I told the orc, raising my whiskey glass.

“No, Frank boss. You not dead. A dead man doesn’t hit this hard.”

He laughed, rubbing his forehead where my knuckles left a nice imprint. There was no anger in him, only respect. You had to admire that about the green fuckers.

“But some say you want to find Snowdog, some say you want to go to Hell.” I raised a hand to stop him, but Targa continued. “I say good. You take big orc in one punch? Why waste time here, find better enemy. Something that can make you sweat and bleed. You are Frank boss, have respect of orcs. You know how many humans orcs respect? Three: Shieldmother, Castelian, and now Frank.”

“Is Shieldmother even human?” I asked and Targa shrugged.

“Looks human.”

“She’s not, you dimwits,” Tyfus chimed in while picking a piece of meat from his teeth. “She’s Varian. There’s only like a dozen of them left in the world.”

“Really?” I said.

“Shit on it then,” Targa said, counting on his fingers. “Then orcs respect two humans,” he finished laughing.

“Master Tyfus is right,” Ragul suddenly said and all heads turned towards him.

Fusha stopped tossing the little fireballs in her hands and Drogna kicked Rot off the table in the spur of the moment. The duergar landed on his head, rolled over, and grabbed onto the edge of the table, pulling himself up.

“What in the Thunder God’s crackling balls, woman?”

“Shieldmother is older than I am,” Ragul continued. “Older than even Master Opius.”

We looked to where the vampire druid was seated but he was not in his chair. Instead, he was sitting under the stairs with the bucket of blood between his legs. When he noticed all of us looking at him, he jumped up, smacking his head against the stairs. He quickly fixed his hair, wiped the blood off his face, and walked back to his seat with no lost dignity.

Or so he thought.

“As I was saying,” Ragul continued with plenty of subdued anger in his voice. “When I came to Sankta Varath, Shieldmother was an adventurer. It was only much later that the King recruited her to the Three of Steel.”

“Is it true her race guarded the gates of Hell?” I asked.

“Of course not. It’s all legend,” Tyfus barked.

“It’s true, gnome,” Ragul said, doing away with the whole Master Tyfus thing. “It was only when the Redmaw exploded that the Varians fled and scattered across the lands. Those who were left, that is.”

So Shieldmother did know what she was talking about. My mood soured a bit despite all the whiskey and moonshine in my blood. What was it she said? She saw plenty of Spellmongers go to Hell and never return. It was always the same story, she said.

“And what about Snowdog, Ragul?” Tyfus asked. “What’s that fucker about?”

“I know little of the man,” Ragul said. “Only that they called him impure of blood.”

“He part orc,” Targa said.

“And part elf,” Ragul added.

“I thought he be a damned human,” Drogna muttered through her drink.

“He is that too, they say,” Matis added, holding his mirror and trying to fix the broken bones in his nose.

“Wish I was there,” Tyfus said with a sigh.

“Where?” Fey asked.

“At the orgy where that fucker was conceived.”

Laughter broke out, but I barely joined in. Half-orcs, half-humans or elves, or whatever combination was one thing and not rare at all. But a combination of more than two, three, or even four races? You’d have to have every single God on your side to turn out even remotely sane.

“Me wish I was at the orgy where Tyfus was conceived!” Rot yelled and we all turned to hear why. He seemed surprised by the sudden attention. The duergar emptied his mug of ale and smacked it against the table. “So I could fuckin’ stop it, is why.”

More laughter roared through the club.

“Now Derek,” I said as the ruckus died down. The ambitious, but utterly battered warrior looked up at me with a drooling face. “Why are you dressed like you’re going to war?”

“Oh, uhm…nothing. I mean, why do you ask?” I narrowed my eyes on him, and he seemed to shrink into himself.

“Really Derek? Again?”

“Again what?” Pearl asked.

“He was going to challenge me to another duel. Weren’t you, Derek?”

“May—maybe.”

“You Derek think can beat Frank?” Fakoot roared.

Derek’s face somehow became even redder.

“Well, he did say he’ll have his revenge one day. I guess you thought since I’m going to kick the bucket on this stupid journey of mine, you should honor your words. Is that it?”

“Derek, no!” Pearl snapped.

“Yes!” he suddenly yelled. “Yes, I wanted another duel. Is that so bad?”

“After everything Master Frank did for you!” Ragul said with surprising amounts of emotion in his voice.

“He destroyed my life!”

“What fucking life, you worm!” Tyfus said. “You were Hector’s dog. Frank gave you fucking everything!”

“Thanks, Tyfus. But that’s not necessary,” I said, raising a hand. “As soon as I’m back, Derek. You’ll have your duel, but if you lose—”

“When he loses,” Pearl said, leaning back into her chair and crossing her arms.

“If you lose,” I continued, “No more duels. We’re even. No more attempts at revenge.”

His face suddenly lit up.

“You mean it, Frank?”

“I do.”

“A masterful show of patience, Master Frank. You still manage to surprise me,” Ragul said and even bowed toward me.

“Wow,” Pearl said. “Derek has balls.”

The idiot warrior smiled then coughed out blood as tears streamed down his destroyed face. I would sure miss it all if I bit the bucket, but I wasn’t going down that easily. Not yet.