The spear landed dead on target, piercing flesh with ease. What Otto didn’t expect was for a jet of blood to spurt out like juice from a burst Bradbury lemon. With the large gap between them, Otto had enough to time to jerk his shield into place before the drops landed. He could hear them pitter-patter on the other side upon the oak.
With his head hidden behind the shield, he did not see Draug’s next move. Worried that his opponent would try to sever the shaft with his sword, Otto tugged at the shaft weapon without success; the spear was being held firmly in place. He went for a second pull - but his opponent reciprocated first, and dragged the Orc in. Otto swung his shield out wide and used it as a counterbalance in a drunken pirouette. He let his knees bend further and ducked down low, levering against the spear to push himself back. In the space of half a second, his heart clenched tight at the sight of a steel sword swinging in a wide arc from the opposite direction... then it skimmed over the crest of his helm, and the shaft came free in his hand with a crack. Otto whirled backwards a step, heavy feet kicking up a spiral of sand, and the world twirled by in blurry glimpses to show –
– the crowd, quickly running out of improvised ballistics –
– a bloodied Erirag with a sword between her ribs –
– and the lax features of the blonde-haired devil. Otto hopped back a couple more steps, still regaining his balance, and glanced down at the severed length of oak in his palm. The wood had been chopped through in one swing. He looked up from the frayed end of the shaft and in to the black eyes of the man before him, and there it was: the better part of the shaft still embedded in his chest. Otto stared for a moment. Then he flung the stub at Draug.
Something was bubbling up inside him, hissing through the cracks. A fortnight ago – hell, even just a week – it hadn’t existed… but Erirag had come to cast a new light on battle for him. She was resurrecting in him the joy of combat which had died in the face of the civil war and all its mindless, indiscriminate violence. The crowd stamped and screamed to a bloody tattoo pounding in his ears. He could not believe he was about to do it, but he was.
Otto began to sing.
He sung one of the first tunes that Erirag had taught him, an earthy ditty with an uplifting melody. It was the Orcish equivalent of Coronian folk songs about home, family, mother’s Yarlborough pie, and carefree frolicking through the countryside.
“Golog maush ambal, shara maush pasun. Bur-Uruk, Gru-Uruk - karg maushat sha kragor!".
It wasn’t well sung, and Otto only hit the general area around the notes, but Erirag would probably be the only one able to tell. She was in a bad way; the smell of blood in this place was only getting more suffocating. He dared not turn his back on the homunculus to go and help her, but he would not let her think she was entirely on her own. While he bellowed out, slow and strong, he unhooked the hammer at his waist, hefting it in his right hand, and readied his shield once more. The diseased one was toying with him, which may have been the only reason Otto was still upright; there must have been a lot of strength in those arms to cleave through a rod of oak in one swing.
"Pau lumri ob gijak! Baj malri ob kafakri! Bajrak ashtri flo-ub, na mal-maj.
"Mirdautas vras!", he roared. Sand jumped around his feet as advanced towards the homunculus, sheild at the fore and hammer at the ready, preparing as best he could to meet his opponent's attack.
Translation: Elf meat is sweet, man meat is rich. Brothers, sisters - tear flesh with fang! Drink rivers of blood! Build mountains of skulls! Our bones will rest, at the summit.