Aarak

  wasteborn

  This whole ordeal was a miscalculation.

  Even entertaining the thought of listening to the once-dead was a grave mistake.

  Aarak said it to the old chieftain many times. He screamed. Dead weren’t like the living! Dead things wanted everybody to be like them!

  Dead!

  And yet the chieftain didn’t listen. The tribe didn’t listen either. The old monster laughed about loot and slaves. About mountains of food that the southern weaklings hoarded, and how easily they could take it.

  If it was so easy, then why hadn't the ancestors done it before?!

  Those who led the tribe in the past were stronger, wiser, and more capable, certainly above the rabble that called themselves Red Claws now. The feeble lorekeeper reminded them about that at every possible moment. So why attacks like those that the dead-thing had planned weren’t the norm?

  The old chieftain was a fool, but that didn’t matter. Not anymore. He was dead, just like the rest of the tribe. And because of that Aarak was not a warrior anymore, but a wasteborn. A nothing. A rag.

  He couldn’t even die with honor.

  *PTUI*

  He spat on the ground, leaving a red stain - saliva mixed with blood.

  And, like so many things right now, this action also turned out to be a mistake. The darkness responded to the sound - a scream interrupted his thoughts, as two rats sprung from the nearby tunnel.

  His face changed. “Dungeon spawn.” He whispered.

  They crawled on all fours, animalistic and rabid. After a few seconds of sniffing they howled with delight noticing a wounded prey. Aarak observed as their shabby bodies transitioned into equally grotesque hunched, two-legged forms. When the change finished they unsheathed cruel daggers from their hips. Both weapons dripped with bright green liquid.

  He knew what it was… like the rest of the survivors he was forced to learn.

  Warping stone, they called it. A force of change.

  Aarak saw his tribe-mates succumb to the even slightest pricks from these poisoned blades. Those cut died with laughter on their lips, yet that wasn’t the worst outcome. No. Death was common in the Wastes, they were used to it. What chilled them to the bone was how the poison transformed the most unlucky ones. Instead of dying, they took the green blight in their very soul, screaming in delight as it twisted them. Then they turned mad, leaving only empty husks frothing from their mouths.

  It was a bad way to go.

  Aarak and the few sane tribemates had to put them down.

  A sad day that was. Their flesh was going to waste, after all. There would be no marrow-less bones to carve, no red meat to feed the next generation. It was taken away - pretty much every warrior, every bowwoman, and every pup were now dead.

  Wasteborn. It was all that he and the few survivors now amounted to.

  And yet as the blades approached he didn’t wait for the release of death. The years of training moved his bruised body against the broken will, and the warrior inside reacted to the danger.

  The first rat overextended in his bloodlust and Aarak bashed him away with his spiked buckler. It was a good piece of armor, made by the southern wastrels and brought north by a fool long devoured. Still, it served him well, now that he stripped the piece from the old chieftain’s corpse. The sharpened metal found its target, smoothly impaling the enemy's shoulder, eliciting a splash of blood and a scream of pain.

  Aarak grinned cruelly.

  A moment later the second rat attacked with a blade held high. Aarak slipped under the attacker’s raised arms with contemptuous ease. After that, the battle was finished as his shortsword pierced through the enemy's ear, and then brain. The rat went down quietly.

  It wasn’t this way for the first one, though, as he lay on the ground, clutching the bleeding arm. Aarak would normally enjoy the prey’s fear and despair, but there was no time to indulge. Not to mention some of the dungeons’ own were quite unpredictable when on death’s door.

  He still shuddered at the memory of a bloodied rat strapped with what was later known as eksplosives collapsing the tunnel on the army’s vanguard. All those ogres, trolls, death knights, powerful warriors, and monsters were buried under mountains of stone - just like that.

  With this reminder firmly lodged in his mind, Aarak delivered the final mercy to the defeated. Too bad he had to hurry. Smoked rat wasn’t a delicacy, but it wasn’t bad by any means. Still better than human flesh, at least.

  But he knew he had to move.

  The rats always sent the weakest ones first. The husks, the animals, the crippled ones. Then came more fodder, armed and armored but still beatable. And when the enemy was exhausted - their elites went for the kill. It was a dirty way to fight, but a good one, Aarak grudgingly agreed.

  But the monsters were the least of his worries. It was the machines and those things clad in metal that were following them that made his hands tremble.

  While chewing on a piece of red meat he slipped through the underground roads. The rat flesh was strangely succulent.

  The surrounding darkness was full of screams, sounds of battle, and weird, unsettling noises that came with rat weapons. The crisscrossing tunnels were making it hard to discern directions and it was easy to become hopelessly lost. The thought of staying down here forever made Aarak nervous.

  He gulped, his green fingers tracing the stone walls. Despite the violence of their creation the tunnels were a natural thing - full of holes, unusual shapes, mud, and dust. This allowed one to hide easily but also led to sudden encounters and even more sudden battles. It reminded him of the badlands with their gorges and crags, where their tribe hunted the weak and unwary.

  It was a nightmare to fight in but also… fun.

  At least down here it was easy to avoid people for anyone who cared to stop and listen.

  Hearing a familiar *CLANK* Aarak hid his stringy body in a nearby alcove. The tunnels and rooms were bare, with no vegetation, and even the most prolific mushrooms weren’t present just yet, but the number of irregularities made it a nice terrain to fade from sight if one knew how.

  The stones and roots poked at his back as he quickly swallowed the last morsel of food and became one with the wall. Soon the noise grew louder and a group of five undead entered his vision.

  Following them were two of the more animalistic rats, each with a spear readied on their back.

  Aarak cursed silently.

  Out of all possible monsters, these had the greatest chance to sniff him out even with the overpowering stench of blood that filled these caverns. Just his luck.

  He prepared to fight, his rusty red shortsword poised to strike the scouts. The first dregs of a plan started to form in his mind. “As long as I manage to strike both rats down I should be able to escape afterward. These undead aren’t too fast, neither are they perceptive enough to find me without the trackers.”

  Aarak tensed, his body preparing another burst of power… but this time fate intervened.

  Three large orcs emerged from a faraway tunnel, their dumb faces contorting with anger the moment they spotted the dungeon’s spawn. The green-skinned brutes didn’t waste any time. They bellowed warcries, lifted their weapons, and charged into the battle.

  Aarak didn’t wait to see who would emerge a victor.

  It was no longer his fight. Becoming a wasteborn sure was awful, but it still beat being dead.

  The seconds, then minutes passed, as his battered body continued to slink from one hiding spot to another. He allowed himself to breathe, happy to escape the commotion.

  Yet no place in the underground was safe.

  The nearby wall exploded after two titans locked in battle plowed right through the soil and stone. Their armored bodies crushed anything unlucky enough to get in their way. The monsters were too close for mundane weapons so they used their fists, kicks, and teeth instead.

  Aarak barely dodged away from their violent arrival, curling up in a nearby hole. From there he got a better look at the combatants. A second later he wished he didn’t.

  On one side battling with a cold certainty only undeath was capable of was a Death Knight, wearing unadorned, dark armor of their order. It fought silently, even as pieces of the hardened iron cracked and flaked off after the enemy’s powerful fists connected with its breastplate. The undead’s opponent was a giant rat - a lumbering, maddened monstrosity, with a body covered in a thin film of blood - a testament to a losing battle.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  And yet the musclebound rat stood defiant, and soon Aarak saw why - its body was healing, the cut flesh and broken bones sizzling as they were reconstructed.

  “We are unstoppable!” The dungeon’s chosen rumbled. “We are His hand and His spear!”

  Surprisingly, the undead responded. “You will be dead before the sun sets.”

  “There’s no sun in these hellish halls.” The rat somehow grinned, enjoying the foreign word, like it was a chew toy. “And if the unthinkable happens, then another will take my place. And another one after that.”

  A group of rats emerged from the destroyed wall. Aarak trembled. These were metal ones. All of them carried small, oval objects on their waist. Grandes, his memory helpfully reminded, recalling what the rats screamed while using them. They contained eksplosives but in small enough doses that they weren’t completely catastrophic.

  Still, one had to be insane to use them, especially in these tight corridors.

  What made him sweat was however the presence of a specimen larger than others. It was an armored and masked rat with a long tube held firm in his paws and a metal canister secured tightly on his back.

  He was waddling ahead, all the while emitting a strange, buzzing sound… no. It was just chuckling.

  And yet even the rest of the dungeon creatures gave him a wide berth.

  The armored one sauntered forward, and the tube in his hands started to wind up, creating an eerie sound that Aarak would remember until his death. After a second of preparation, the rat’s contraption started spewing a familiar green goo, the madness incarnate. The warping stone.

  The Death Knight started to move, to react, to attack or maybe defend… alas it was already too late. As soon as the corrosive goop landed on its body the otherworldly green started to tear into the metal and bone with gusto, hissing and purring like a living thing.

  “D-d-diss-ss-s-sss-honor-rr-r-r---able!” The undead stuttered in protest, even as it was being dissolved.

  Only the chuckling goop-sprayer answered the accusation. Within seconds, all that remained was silence, and a few pieces of bone were strewn on the ground. The bright green liquid was however quickly filling the rest of the room, devouring anything it encountered.

  “Stop spraying.” The largest monster ordered but his words fell on deaf ears. An eerie laugh was the only response.

  *SMACK*

  The smaller rat was nearly sent flying by the hit. “I said STOP SPRAYING!” The rat leader sighed. “Look what you did. This tunnel will be unusable for hours…”

  With a shake of his head, the goliath ordered. “Let’s go back and hunt some more. And you.” He pointed at the goop-sprayer. “You need to control your urges. We have a job to do. I can’t have you going wild.”

  “I understand.” The green-masked rat answered, his words muffled but recognizable. “We live to serve.”

  “And we’ll die to serve.” After a moment of hesitation, their leader spoke. “Change of plans. Since we already fucked up then let’s block this place for good. Or at least a week. That long feels like an eternity down here, anyway.”

  “Not enough fuel in the canister.” The masked rat protested.

  “Just do what you can.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Aarak scrambled back as the dungeon creatures focused on their work.

  “Keep me sane, o Mother of Monsters.” He murmured, feeling lightheaded. The constant internal and external bleeding was taking its toll.

  The wasteborn wandered through the web of tunnels, barely avoiding both sides of the conflict and running from fights. He managed to keep on the move - only it turned out that he was walking in the wrong direction.

  Which in his situation meant stumbling into the Lich’s army forward camp. The only worse outcome would be ending up in the Dungeon they were besieging.

  Two orcs stood guard at the entrance, which already told Aarak a lot about the severity of the situation. No one used orcs for guard duty - if they could help it.

  “Hob?” One of the green-muscled idiots asked.

  “Hob!” The second one affirmed.

  “Kill hob?”

  “No kill hob. Hob ours.”

  “How know?”

  “Dungeon no hobs. Dead one hobs.”

  “One hob. Nobody notice. No kills…”

  “One hob… Green.” The guard sagely nodded.

  Seeing the exchange deteriorate, Aarak decided to take charge.

  “Hello, great warriors! I just escaped from a scuffle with a large, powerful abomination!” He nearly screamed. The word powerful seemed to draw the orcs' attention.

  “Strong?”

  “Yes! It killed a Death Knight!”

  “STRONG!” Both guards were nodding now. And drooling. “Where?!”

  “Right that way, but there’s green goop on the ground, so take care!”

  “Goop weak! Orc strong!”

  “Orc stronger!” The second one interrupted, and they stared at each other, their hands crawling closer to weapons.

  “I don’t know how long will they remain in the room, so you might want to hurry.” Aarak helpfully added, before the violence had a chance to truly begin. A commotion at the gate was the last thing he wanted.

  “Hob guard! We kill!”

  “Kill!”

  “Yep, have fun!”

  As the guards departed the way into the camp stood open. Aarak staggered inside, easily recognizing a healer’s tent. He nearly fell, but his feverish body was caught by a wiry hand.

  Soon the rest of the person emerged, clad in feathers, hides, and hoarse skin painted with blood-red pigments. She was hideous, covered in cuts and warts - which was a common thing for trolls.

  “What do we have here? Another survivor?” She croaked, her magic already working, reading what was wrong with him. “Bleeding, so much bleeding… and bruising. Not good. Lie down, child.” The magic didn’t manage to find the most important thing though.

  Aarak was carried inside the stuffy tent. Every part of its interior was filled with wounded, and worse. Those hurt were either lying down limply or whimpering. The rest… the rest has been immobilized, their straining forms secured to the ground and the beds. A whisper of many tongues speaking nonsensical words filled the air.

  “Don’t even look at them.” The troll shaman snappily ordered. “We’re still in the process of understanding what fresh abomination has the Dungeon spread amongst us.” She shook her head. “It's potent, hungry for new victims. Intelligent even. In a bad way. Like a predator stalking prey. It’s not like any disease I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s because it’s not a disease, healer.” Aarak answered, his eyes twinkling with toxic green.

  “What?” She turned, noticing how the delirious ones had gone quiet. “What do you---- GAH!”

  She gurgled, as Aarak's sword pierced her body again and again. The trolls were hardy folk, it was always best to cut off their heads to be fully sure they were completely dead. So he did that. And besides troll meat was not too bad.

  He saw the light leave the shaman’s eyes and let her drop.

  The mad ones were in a frenzy.

  “One of us!”

  “Help, let us free!”

  “Join in the glorious slaughter! Brother!”

  And a few of the silent ones simply stared. One of them grunted, before speaking. His voice was husky, unused.

  “We are not enough to take this camp. What have you done, brother? This will be a waste. A sin.”

  “What happened to we’ll die to serve, then?” Aarak asked sardonically.

  “You know that a sacrifice has to have meaning.”

  “Then rejoice!” The twisted hobgoblin smiled, as he cut the restraints on the maddened chorus. The turned ones immediately got to work, slaughtering the rest of the patients. A non-believer culled, even a wounded one, was always a good deed. “For a symphony of meaning has arrived.”

  *DING* *DING* *DING*

  A sound of alarm echoed in the camp, as somebody frantically banged on pieces of metal, trying to rouse the defenders. The freed prisoners slowly filed out of the tent, their greenish eyes taking in the mayhem.

  A wave of rats was approaching the army outpost like a sea of vermin poised to devour them. Behind the chaff, a weird machine was carried on the palanquin, the figures surrounding it clad in metal and wearing weird, bulbous helmets.

  “Form a line!” The commander of the invaders screamed, spittle flying. “Defenders to the front, archers, and mages - prepare to fire!”

  The army was slowly forming its ranks, with the orcs, goblins, and hobgoblins trying their best to fulfill commands. They knew that once a breach was made, the only fate that awaited them would be one of being devoured.

  “We attack, and then run.” Aarak whispered as the small group of corrupted was preparing to strike. “Hit them hard, bleed the mages, and the dungeon chosen will finish the rest.” He paused. “Do not linger, if you don’t want to die.” His gaze wandered to the metal contraption. “I don’t know what it does, but nothing that comes out of the dungeon is normal.”

  “Hold! Hoooold! HOLD!” The warriors screamed as the first wave of rats crashed into their shield walls, desperately banging against them.

  “Mages, cut them down! NOW!” Chanting filled the air, the users of arcana pouring their mana into spells, burning, freezing, and electrocuting their enemies.

  “Bombs incoming!” Another shout pierced through the hubbub, as small objects sailed toward the defenders. A series of explosions followed, but the wall still held.

  “Exploders!” This time the warnings were louder and more fearful. A group of armored undead appeared from the attackers' backline. Their wobbly walk would be funny, if not for the threat they represented.

  “Focus them down! Kill them all before they manage to doom us all!” Desperate commands were sent to archers and mages. And, as the arcane gifted focused on the enemy before their eyes, Aarak and those under his command struck without mercy.

  Their knives, swords, axes, and even teeth tore into the defenseless backs, culling the enemy like a farmer would reap wheat. More started to fall, with only a few managing to change their focus fast enough to avoid demise.

  That meant one thing.

  It was time to run.

  “Retreat!” Aarak sounded, with only a few of his green-eyed friends following. The rest were still busy tearing into unbelievers. “Predictable.” He murmured, even as his feet never stopped moving.

  The battle turned chaotic.

  The rat contraption arrived near the frontline, the chilling sound of clucking machinery fastening Aarak's steps. “Come on, come on! Run, run, RUN!” He urged, not wanting to see whatever happened next.

  He still did.

  As the uncanny noise turned into a pitched whine there was a sound so loud it nearly burst his brain. Both the hobgoblin and his followers staggered but continued running with suddenly renewed energy.

  At the top of the nearby hill, they turned back, observing the battlefield. The frontline had collapsed, with both dungeon monsters and defenders lying on the ground. That included the rats who brought the contraption to the midst of the battle. Most weren’t moving, with blood coming out of their eyes and ears. Some whined, trying to stand up, only to get mowed down by the next wave of rats.

  The camp was ripe for the picking.

  “This is a mistake.” One of the silent ones spoke. “Our creed won’t be accepted in the North.”

  “And that’s where you are wrong.” Aarak grinned, opening a leather pouch. From inside a familiar green light spilled forth. A warping stone, the initiates murmured. “It’s time to bring good news to the badlands, brothers!”

  “We’re not returning to the fight?”

  “The Dungeon will hold. In the meantime, we need to cut off Hydra’s heads.”

  “So be it.”

  “We live to serve.” The silent one grinned.

  “We’ll die to serve.” Aarak grinned back, his eyes the color of madness.