I decided we would wait for him to reach us. I stopped suddenly, and Yorka crashed into my shoulder, Bask doing the same behind her. I braced myself, and we all stayed standing.
“Stop!” I ordered. “Yorka, take a step forward and stay on the right wall. I’ll stand to the left. Yorka! Let the runner pass you. Hit the first plux that follows with the club. Don’t miss! No! Get your left hand off the club! One hand!”
“But…”
“Did you hear me, goblin?”
“Yes. One hand!”
“Bask, get ready. I’ll knock him down. Listen carefully.”
“Got it.”
“Help me! Help me!”
The orc’s hoarse, wavering cry filled our ears with futile noise again.
“Shut your fucking mouth!”
If I was still new, his howl would have filled me with unnecessary worry — maybe even panic. He deserved to have his throat cut, no questions asked. But that’s not what the system wanted...
A shadow flickered. It was fast! Another plux hung from the orc’s right shin. It seemed impossible, but the orc’s screaming somehow grew louder. I grimaced and gritted my teeth, fighting the urge to clap my hands over my ringing ears.
“There’s a plux on his right leg, too. Bask!”
“Understood!”
“Hit each one twice! Feel for it, then strike. Feel for it, then strike. Then again.”
“Got it!”
“Go!”
The fleeing orc wasn’t ready to die, and so he seemed to be breaking all sorts of speed records. All the easier to stop him. I stepped out of his path and kicked him in the knee. He collapsed, hitting the floor hard, but still didn’t stop yelling. The sound escalated into an ultrasonic screech that grated on my ears. Stepping forward, I delivered a swift, merciless kick to his face — straight to the mouth, splitting his lip and breaking his nose. His scream was cut off, replaced by a more muffled grunting. His hands, which were in bad shape — covered in blood and missing several fingers — came up to cover his face. I bent down and snatched the club from his belt, then strode down the hallway to join Yorka on our line of defense, leaving the orc, the two pluxes, and the blind zombie behind me.
Our zombie didn’t disappoint. Using his foot to feel up the orc’s thigh, he turned slightly and sat on his upturned ass, pressing him against the floor. Then he leaned forward to feel for the armored tumor on the orc’s right shin before stabbing the plux twice with his awl. By the second strike, his free hand had already found the second plux. Two more stabs.
Reassured, I turned away and adjusted my grip on the club, then glanced down the hallway. I gave Yorka an order:
“The first one’s yours. Go!”
She breathed out, stepped forward, and swung her club.
The third plux was limping on its hind legs. There was something wrong with its spine — it had taken a solid blow already. It was slower, less agile. The perfect opponent for a beginning fighter.
Yorka didn’t miss. She brought the club down right in the middle of the gray, scaly back. The steel spikes pierced the scales, the flesh, and the bones, nailing the plux to the floor.
“Hold on!”
“I’m holding on!”
“One hand, goblin! One hand!”
“But — ”
“One hand!” I snapped.
“Okay!”
“Here!” I pressed an awl into her free hand. “Don’t let go of the club. Shift forward and stab that bastard in the spine! Five times! Go!”
I looked away, stepped forward, and swung my club. Not from above — I saw the surprisingly large plux raise its paws in preparation to pounce. I hit from the side. The four spikes slammed into it, followed by the weight of the club. It jumped, pushing off powerfully with all four limbs, almost tearing the club out of my hand. I leaned to the side, putting all my weight on the weapon, forcing my opponent into the wall. I pressed, leaned even harder, and looked around.
Yorka was viciously stabbing her plux over and over, even though it was clearly dead.
“Yorka!”
She didn’t react.
“That’s enough, goblin!”
She shuddered, looking right through me with wide eyes. I wondered if she realized her mouth was twisted into the mad grin of a berserker.
“Finish that one off too!” I pointed to the bigger plux scrabbling for purchase.
I could have taken the awl and finished it off myself, but she needed to learn. I held the plux and looked over at Bask. There wasn’t much to see. The orc was quietly twitching and whimpering on the floor, blood gushing from his legs, the two dead pluxes lying next to him. Bask pulled some tied-together rags out of his belt bag and felt the orc’s leg, looking for a spot to tie on a tourniquet. The orc was trying to crawl away, still in a blind panic — the characteristic smell of shit and piss only confirmed that. Bask smacked the tired, struggling orc with his hand a few times, hissing:
“Stop moving, you bastard! Stop crawling!”
