Chapter 84: Let’s Play A Game Of Catch That Barbarian.

Chapter 84: Chapter 84: Let’s Play A Game Of Catch That Barbarian.

Vrok stared up at the two figures on the ridge, then jabbed a thick finger toward them.

"I heard the Southern Bloodline was wiped out!" His voice boomed across the grass. "Yet here a few of you stand."

Victor’s mind raced. They don’t know our numbers. Good.

He filled his lungs and shouted back. "Who says my tribe is wiped out? We stand here proud and tall, on our own land. Turn back now, or face the consequences."

"Are you sure?" Vrok grinned, tusks glinting. "This land was promised to my father. As his son, taking what’s his is my right."

"Then you and your men will burn."

Vrok chuckled. "And who will make us burn? You?"

"Yes. Me."

"And who are you?"

"I am the chief of the Southern Bloodline Barbarian Tribe."

He said it loud and proud, loud enough that Kiki, at his side, gave the smallest nod.

The orcs looked at each other. Then Vrok burst out laughing, and the whole warband joined him, bone blades rattling, skull necklaces clacking. The sound rolled up the slope, all of it aimed at him.

Victor blinked. Even Kiki stiffened, caught off guard.

"Your tribe is like ours, isn’t it?" Vrok wiped his eye. "Only the strong rule. So I’ll tell you what I see." He pointed. "The woman beside you is a Level 5 Barbarian. And you, a Level 2, are chief. You know what that means? There are no stronger men left. Your tribe really is dead. Only a few scraps remain."

Victor frowned. Jaja and Popo were stronger than him, and he’d fought for his seat fair and square. But what bothered him more was something else.

How does he know our levels?

Levels weren’t written on people’s faces. The only explanation was if the opponent used an inspection skill.

Cold dread crept up his spine. If he’d known about this, he would have claimed to be a messenger, and not the chief. He cursed inwardly.

It was just that a proudful part of him wanted to ... showoff. Now it seemed like that was going to cost him dearly.

"Listen!" Vrok bellowed. "I am a kind and merciful orc. They call me the Kindness of my tribe. Isn’t that so?" He turned his head, and the riders around him grunted and nodded. "Surrender now, and I won’t exterminate you. You’ll serve me as slaves. Especially you." His eyes fixed on Victor, and he licked his lips, slow and deliberate.

A shudder ran down Victor’s spine. He glanced at Kiki, then back down. Am I imagining this, or is this orc looking at me a certain way?

Vrok twisted toward his adviser. "What do you think? Could I get that one into my bed?"

Sweat beaded on Skarn’s brow. He knew his young master had a peculiar appetite, and it was the reason the son of the chief still had no heirs. But no one could speak against him. Not when he was this strong. Skarn nodded quickly, like a bobbing bird. "Yes, young chief. Of course."

"Then I’ll enjoy myself before the main host arrives." Vrok raised his voice again. "Surrender, and we’ll make it easy. You’ll have Food, and even a better life."

Victor looked down at him for a long moment.

And then an announcement he was expecting chimed before his eyes.

[New Trial Detected: Defender Of The Southern Bloodline Barbarian Tribal Land]

[Description: Orcs have invaded your ancestral home. No matter what happens, defend your home.]

[Note: This trial comes with Penalities for failure]

[Do You Accept?]

[Y/N]

Victor willed Yes. Then again, it was not like he had a choice in the matter. It was either fight or become a slave.

"I warned," Victor said. "Let’s play."

He nodded at Kiki.

The arrow was already gone, flame streaking toward Vrok’s skull.

But Vrok had moved the instant kiki’s fingers loosened. He slapped his boar’s side and dropped low along its flank. The arrow sailed past his head and slammed into the orc rider behind him, who toppled off his mount, dead before he hit the ground.

Vrok straightened and thrust his bone blade toward the ridge.

"KILL THEM ALL!"

The warband roared. Boars screamed. The ground trembled as the orcs surged forward.

Charging up the slope was impossible. Two hundred orcs on heavy boars would have choked the ridge and slid back down in a pile. So Vrok barked an order, and the warband swung wide into the valley, planning to circle around the side and climb from behind. Kill the two on the ridge, simple as that.

Or so they assumed.

Up on the ridge, Victor watched them pour into the valley.

"Looks like we’re going with the other plan," he said.

Kiki nodded.

He swung onto the back of his Dire Lion, and she mounted hers. "Don’t forget," he said. "Wait for my signal."

"I know."

She peeled off in one direction, and Victor took the other, riding down and away from her, the Lion’s paws eating the ground. Then he cut hard, so that he came out directly in front of the orcs.

Vrok saw him and jabbed a thick finger. "THAT ONE! That’s my fresh slave! Bring him to me!"

All two hundred of them turned and gave chase.

And instantly, the valley filled with the stink of them. Two hundred orcs and two hundred boars made a smell that rolled ahead of the charge like a wall: rancid animal fat, old blood, sweat-soaked hide, boar musk thick enough to coat the back of the throat, and under it all the heavy, greasy reek of roasting meat from the cook-fires they carried on their gear.

The orcs themselves were slabs of green-gray muscle layered over thick bellies, their fat jiggling with every stride, slick with grease and sweat.

They fucking Stink. Victor frowned.

It was no wonder Barbarians, with their sensitive nose hated Orcs.

Honestly, the sound of them chasing him was just as worse as the smell. There was grunting, squealing, bone blades clacking against skull necklaces.

And this was Victor’s first large scale battle. If he let up a bit, he was definitely going to regret it.

The Dire Lion ran like the wind. It was a creature born for ice and mountain regions. If it was comfortable in extreme cold and rough terrain, then this rocky valley was nothing to it.

The boars were far slower, heavier, and clumsy on the uneven ground, but they kept coming, shouldering over stones, leaping across the cracks in the ground.