Poison

2418

                                                           Poison

                                                           EvilEgg

         What so ever you want, take it.

         The object of his desire, the tender yellow fruit, grows from a tree sprouting from the putrid, thigh deep swamp water.  Taking fruit from a tree doesn't really fit the spirit of his war god's only commandment, to take something by force that belongs to someone else. No one owns this fruit or the swamp around it. Who else would want it?

         But the swamp belongs to him. He wants it and there exists no one to take it from him.

         He crushes the fruit between his thick teeth, a sweeter conquest than he thought, and fills a basket with the rest.

         Basket in tow, he wades through the thigh deep water admiring his kingdom of toads and flies.  Not the rich orc homeland that he's earned so many scars fighting for, but better than the grave.

         A leather bag waits for him on a muddy hill above the water.  He reaches into it.

         With a yell, he jerks his hand out.  A snake releases his hand and splashes in the water behind him.  Clutching his hand, the orc watches it swim away.

         He growls, takes his belt off and wraps it tightly around his arm.

         As the orc tends to himself the snake swims to a shadowy area in the water. A pale, peach colored hand waits for it.  The snake swims into it and allows a gray bearded mouth to kiss it on the head.

         “Good boy,” the man says.

         The sun goes down.  An icy cold layer of skin covers the orc's boiling insides.  Now and then he clenches his aching, swollen hand just to feel a different sort of pain.

         “I want my life,” he growls.

         Something snaps outside and the orc's crude wooden shelter collapses on top of him.  Something cuts into his shoulder and the orc screams in pain. Flinging away fallen brush and sticks he ducks under a spear thrust to the face.

         “Did ye think ye could hide forever, beastie!”

         The orc pushes from his attacker and rolls out of the way, finding his saber in the wreck of his hut.

          Powered by adrenaline, the orc whips the blade at the man like lightening.  Steel and wood dance around the two warriors in a blur.  The orc feels as if he has never been so fast, but the old warrior meets every strike with one end of his spear or another and knocks the orc to the ground with a blow across the face.

         The orc parries another stab attempt.  The man kicks him in the gut and stabs at the orc's neck.  The orc grabs the spear, holding the point away.

         “Give it up, beastie!  Ye're going to die tonight!”

         The orc shoves the old warrior off of him and scrambles into the water.

         “Ye think I'm going to let ye get away, Barkh'aal?  Kruise was me only friend, ye damned worthless murderer!  Well,” he adds with a smirk. “Me only human friend.”

         Barkh'aal looks at the warrior who stares back at him, standing still on the hummock.  The hairs on the back of the orc's neck stand on end.

         Water splashes.  Barkh'aal drops the sword as he scrambles up a slanted swamp tree, a massive alligator lunging at him.

         The old warrior laughs like a drunk in a bar.  “Well done, beastie!  Well done!”  He shouts, slapping his knees.  “I thought my girl Ceana would get ye the first time, what with the poison and all.”

         The alligator swims around the trunk of a tree and the orc sees another pair of eyes peeking at him above the water. 

         “And the other is Marlon,” the warrior says, grinning. “The snake was a friend too.  A smart one, old Cole.  Maybe a bit smarter than ye are, sticking ye hand into a bag that's been sitting in the middle of a snake and insect ridden swamp.”

         “You are a coward, Shaw!”  The orc roars.

         “So says the invincible orc warrior sitting in a tree,” Shaw mocks.  “Let's see what we can do about that.  To me!”

         The alligators turn away from the tree.  The orc's eyes stay on Shaw who holds a round, metal object in his hand.  “A little toy that our engineers developed during the Waldenwood Campaigns,” Shaw says.  “The fuse burns wet.”

         Shaw strikes flint against the shell of the bomb.  Wasting no time, the orc dives into the water.

         The old warrior hurls the bomb at the tree and presses his hands against his ears.  Wood and water explode into the air, the old warrior nearly falls over.

         One of the alligators lunges at him.

         “No, Marlon!”  Shaw yells.  The alligator bites at him and he falls backwards, kicking at her.  “Damn it all!”  He gets up to his knees and whacks her over the snout with his spear.  “I said no!”  He hits her again, the animal backs away.  He gets up and gives the animal one more for good measure.  “Damned stupid beast!  Get into the water and find that damned orc before I turn ye both into boots!”

         The alligators crawl into the water, ignoring the old warriors cursing as they circle the fallen tree.

         “Gobble him up, if there's anything left of him.”

         They continue circling the log, moving farther and farther away from it.

         “What's the damned hold up?  Probably got away when one of my own girls tried to bite me damned legs off!  To me!”  He orders them and screams out into the night, waving his spear maniacally. “Ye think ye know this swamp, beastie!  I was already the worlds greatest hunter when ye were still eating worms in what ever dirt hole ye grew up in!”

         Barkh'aal can barely hear him over the distance and the ringing in his ears, but he knows that already.  This man has killed heroes, he and his devilish war-dogs that were all muscle and teeth.

         He finds another hummock and drags himself up onto the relatively dry island of mud and brush.  Before he crawls into the undergrowth he blinks hard, forcing his eyes to focus and see through the dim moon light.

         Dozens of great orc warriors lost their lives or limbs to human traps during the wars.  Knowing this, Barkh'aal barely spots the thin leather cord.

         Where's the trigger?

         He studies the mud and leaves carefully.  The alligators may already be in the water behind him.  He can't waste time.

         The orc gets down on his belly.  The alligators can't have the brains to avoid Shaw's traps, so the triggers must at least be torso level.

         He crawls backwards, clearing his tracks as he creeps deep into the bush and carefully sits himself against the back of a tree.  He wipes the mud off of his wounded hand as best he can and wills himself to calm down.
         
         His sword arm gave him all the strength it had left during the fight, it hangs limp beside him.  His guts churn inside of him, as if trying to find a way out.  He can't fight Shaw like this.

         The next thing he knows he hears a deep, rumbling noise emanating from deep within him.  He was snoring.

         He looks around, panicked.  After listening for a moment he forces himself to breath.  Had Shaw been near enough to hear then he would already be dead.

         Barkh'aal growls.  This human lurker used poison, traps, vicious animals and bombs.  Anything to avoid facing his enemy like a warrior.

         He drags himself out into a clearer area.  His hand burns.  He can't see it, so he tastes the wound with his tongue.  Infection.  Maybe bad enough for him to loose his hand.

         The thought of loosing his sword hand fills the warrior with fear.  He can't let that happen.  Looking around, he finds a fallen log.  He rips away a large chunk of wood spilling a mass of wriggling, rot eating worms.  Clenching his eyes shut, lays his infected hand on top of them.

         Shaw's camp fire burns high, an orange beacon in the blackness.  Barkh'aal, his wounded arm strapped to his body with a vine, stands far away in the water, listening carefully for any splash or ripple that might warn him of those vicious reptiles.

              He expects Shaw to stay close to the tent, hiding and waiting for the orc to come from the direction that offers the most cover.

         He gets down in the water, moving slowly and making no sound. 

         He rises very slowly when he reaches the hummock, careful that the water rolls down his body instead of dripping.

         He takes his time with every step, staying in the shadows.  The light from Shaw's camp shows dimly through the bushes and around the black silhouette of his enemy, complete with hat and spear.

         The orc gets low, examining the bushes close but not touching them, occasionally looking back at the motionless silhouette.

         He finds a line in one of the bushes.  Horsehair, not a trap.  He follows it with his eyes up into the tree, over a branch and to a package suspended overhead.

         Quietly, he empties out the bag and stuffs it between his arm and chest. He puts a knife in his belt and goes through the emptied contents, picking out shapes in the darkness and stuffing them into the bag.  He peaks around the tree at the silhouette, still in the exact same position, no signs of motion at all.

         He freezes, listening for any rustle in the leaves or squish in the mud.  If he's right, then his only option is to run.

         He takes off, splashing through the shallows but a kick to the back quickly takes him down.

         “Ye couldn't outrun me even on ye best day!”

         The orc scrambles out of the way and ducks behind a tree.  Shaw appears on the other side and kicks him again, sending him back into the mud.

         “It's like beating on a street drunk!”  He laughs.

         Barkh'aal takes the pilfered knife and slashes at Shaw's feet.  The warrior jumps away.  Barkh'aal tries to run again but Shaw blocks his way, forcing the orc to change direction.

         He puts every last bit of his strength into escape, but Shaw runs him down like a wounded boar.  The orc dodges a kick but takes another spear cut across the cheek.

         Realizing he'll never outrun the human, the orc launches himself into the deeper water as far as his weak legs can send him.

         “Ye're only going to die wet and cold!”  Not shy about getting wet this time, Shaw charges in after him, slowed by the thigh deep water.  “A real shame ye're not a bit bigger, or I'd mount ye head on me wall!”

         Barkh'aal tackles him, gouging himself on Shaw's spear one more time but knocking the warrior into the water as he stabs blindly with the knife.

         Shaw drops the spear and wrestles with the orc, each trying to get on top of the other. 

         The orc hears splashing behind him.  Shaw puts all of his weight into a push.  He falls forward as he shoves the orc away, toward the alligator.

         Water erupts as the animal attacks.  The orc slashes clumsily as he falls into the water, cutting the animal across the snout.  The alligator snarls.  Barkh'aal stabs at it underwater as he tries to get away.

         “Ceana!”  Shaw yells, charging.  “Get away from her, ye damned, stinking-!”

         The orc swims away from the hurting alligator into waist deep water.  Wary of the wounded animal, Shaw backs into the shallows.  He sees the other alligator watching the orc swim away. “Marlon!  What are ye waiting for, get him!”

         The animal only watches.

         “What in the bloody-!  Ooh,”  He chuckles.  “I see, aye.  Too me, girls!”  Looking at the retreating orc well out of hearing distance, he says “Prideful thing, aren't ye?  Ye know what lives there, if ye aren't so out of it that ye don't even know ye own swamp anymore.  Best of luck, beastie."

         Barkh'aal wades through the darkness, drying off the knife as best he can.  From the arm sling-bag he takes out a small black object that he holds between his teeth.

         He'd always intended to fight the Lusca one day, but with his sword and both of his arms.

         Long, slimy tentacles stir the water around him.  He slashes at them with his knife as he backs towards a tree.  “Show your self,” he growls.

         He pulls himself up to the lower branches.  The tentacles climb after him, wrapping around the trunk.  The tree starts to sway.

         He sees the water churning as he climbs higher.  Something snaps and the tree lurches forward.  Dropping the knife, the orc wraps his arm and legs tightly around the branch as he takes a round, metal object out of the sling bag.

         The trunk cracks again.

         He strikes the flint held in his teeth against the metal and string between his fingers.

         The fuse burns wet.

         The fuse catches as the trunk snaps.  Falling into the water, the orc tosses the bomb at the churning water.

         The blast deafens him and the swamp spits him into the air.  Barkh'aal splashes back into the water, limp and warm.  He tastes blood, not knowing if its from the Lusca bleeding in the water or from his own body.

         He makes a pitiful effort to feel around in the water.  A part of him knows that air waits just above him, if he could only stand.

         In his mind he curses the human coward who got exactly what he wanted, condemning a true warrior to a drowning death and the bellies of scavengers.

         Barkh'aal's growl bubbles to the surface.  He forces his feet to move, pushing against the mud as he grasps around.

         His hand finds something solid and he pulls against it, feeling cold air on the top of his head. 

         He lifts his head above the water, coughing and spitting it out.

         “I want my life!”  He roars.

         He pulls his torso out of the water.  Not good enough.  He pulls again and pushes with his legs.  His good arm burns worse than his poisoned arm, but he drags himself onto the fallen tree.

         He can't stay conscious any longer.  He's made every effort in the world, the only thing left to do is believe he will wake up again.  And if he does, he can plan his vengeance.

                                                           The End.