Chapter 8 - Part 6

There were about fifty of the Carrion Tribesmen who came attacking. Almost all were humans, and every single one of them bores traces of disease and rot. They came over the ridges, hooting and hollering, screaming phrases in their infernal language, brandishing scavenged armor, stone axes, and crude spears.

The first three died within seconds, not knowing what had happened. The next five weren’t killed, their legs were broken instead, and they fell forward, tripping the ones behind.

The warforged had been hiding under a thin layer of cold sand, and was now twirling and punching, kicking and fighting. The thing made of stone, wood, and metal bounded forward and back, fists and feet crunching bones, breaking heads, and otherwise causing havoc and mayhem.

The plague-infested tribesmen had been promised nirvana by their leader. The hag was persuasive, controlling their minds, telling them magnificent lies. Her entire intention was to deplete Tharashk’s arrows and to test their defenses. Maybe even actually get close to one of the Defenders of Blood Crescent and infect the place.

They didn’t even get within decent longbow range. The warforged who had been hiding was destroying them. He moved faster than them, bounding forward and back, striking with impunity. The few times someone managed a swipe at him, he easily avoided it, as if he anticipated the strike before it was made.

It took five minutes, maybe six, and then entire group lay dead or dying. Orphan stood among them, looking them over.

He supposed he should have pity. Maybe when he got back to civilization. For now, if it came from the Wastes, especially if it worked for one of the fiends, he had none.

He waited another few minutes, his head turning, trying to spot the hag. Something in him wanted another fight.

He saw nothing but the Wastes.

Finally he turned, jogging back faster than a horse could run. Delegado met him at the gate.

“Feeling better?” the half-orc asked him.

“No,” Orphan said. “You?”

“Nope,” Delegado said. He stepped back, and a half-orc adept stepped forward to paint Orphan’s bloody hands and feet with a disease-purging laminate. “But a whole lot of other people are feeling better.”

Orphan was puzzled, but once the adept was done, the warforged stepped through the narrow entryway into the courtyard of the main compound of Blood Crescent. There he saw a mass of orcs, humans, half-orcs, and even gnolls.

And when they saw him, they let forth a tremendous cheer, hooting and yelling words in orcish.

“They’re calling you ‘Dancing Orphan,’” Delegado said, clapping his arm around the shoulder of the stunned warforged.

“Um, thank you,” Orphan said to them. “Thank you, but, wow, I was glad to help.”

“Say ‘Deh’g’nad,’” Delegado instructed.

“Deg – nahd,” Orphan said, stumbling over the word. Several of the orcs laughed.

“I’ve got to teach you more orcish,” Delegado chuckled. He hollered something and the Tharashk warriors ran forward to carry Orphan around on their shoulders.