And so the rage builds

 Fortu had never felt such a simmering rage, in the pits the rage and violence was explosive, then over - win or loss. But in the days after they left Scar Burrow and the very nearly terminal meeting with Deleon he felt a pressure building. He attempted to vent at the soldiers escorting them, accompanying them whenever they arrived at an overnight stop, his looming brooding presence unsettling the hosts rather than the ever professional guards. Try as he might he could not fault their manner or the way they handled the caravan, by now Barbella would have stolen half the supplies and Doberman eaten the other half.

He tried to distract himself showing interest in the little shrines they past, learning from Banaal and Rifkin the meanings and gods involved. None settled him. By the time they entered into the small village of 'FarHaven' he was on edge, even the calm plodding of Maurice was annoying.

He was hoping that a night in a good inn, dry bedding and good old human stodge food washed down with ale would ease the tension he felt at every step.

The locals hushed as Fortu and his friends entered the tavern, blatant looks of  'who the frik are you' before returning to their own company. Fortu noticed a couple of men over at the back who didn't have the typical farmers homespun clothing and their gaze lingered just a moment longer than was polite.

'those two - kill them'

Grabbing two tankards of ale Fortu pushed his way over to their table. It was evident they had no desire for him to join them but he dragged over an extra chair and sat. The same red haze and low base hum descended. Fortu could not remember exactly what was said but as their hands reached for knives his fist lashed out, clumsily missing the closest. With trained reflexes the two pulled knives free and moved either side of Fortu, the one in front slashed out but it was easily deflected by his armour. The one who had slipped behind stabbed high and with a remarkable precision found a gap. The sharp pain was like a bucket of ice water to the face, the haze lifted and the hum went quiet. A lifetime of training kicked in, he went from rage fuelled brute to efficient killer. The man in front died in two quick strokes, spinning he drew the 'awesome' blade to a stop at the throat of the other.

The gasps and whispers from the crowd reminded Fortu of just where he was 'now we take this outside and you answer my questions and maybe that will be the end of bloodshed tonight' 

'no kill more'

Outside in the stables Fortu felt the others were mightily relieved when the remaining knifeman admitted he was working for the witches and even more relieved and a bit surprised when he left him alive.

'ah my son you think you are free, we the many will show you real freedom'

'he fled too late'

 For a few moments, as Henshaw led Barbella and Doberman through the group heading to stand with their old buddies, Fortu felt the rage of betrayal. Already cursing his own failure at spotting the well planned ambush, the old Liga Bur would never have been so clumsy but Fortu still had a lot to learn, he'd thought that by now the trio were firm members of the group. As he turned to face them, his hand dropping to the hilt of his 'awesome' sword, murderous thoughts of killing all three, he saw Henshaw's wink. Based on his years in the fight pit and the tells taught him by Liga Bur and maybe just a naïve desire to believe he trusted their actions.

As they moved forward he took up their position to the rear, he counted eight bandits - four pup orcs and four guardsmen. Rolling his shoulders he unsheathed his sword ready for the havoc of battle.

Fortu was lucky to be able to close the distance to his foes and meet them at the edge of the clearing, this meant that although outnumbered he could only be faced by four at a time. The young orcs we keen but untried, feinting high he struck low taking the foremost orc in the thigh his return swing slicing across the now dead orcs throat, as he'd been trained in the pits the return swing cleaved into the next orc just below the ribs.

Fortu saw that his opponents were heavily out classed; his training, better armour and of course awesome sword assured Fortu of the outcome. The orcs would fight to the death, their honour code permitted giving or receiving no quarter, but the guards were just like Henshaw maybe they would see reason. Yelling as he swung 'awesome' "flee now or die, you will not win" He'd hoped that the sight of him cleaving through the orcs, blood and viscera splattering freely would set the guards to flee but the fools didn't. Maybe they thought their numbers and the archers in the trees would sway the fight but behind him Banal, Liga Bur and (eventually) Henshaw and the boys had diminished the ranks of the other guards. With each swing of 'awesome' he shouted for them to flee until only two remained. It was then that they realised defeat was imminent and fled. Sensibly in different directions, they fled into the overgrown forest. But Fortu was now passed caring for their well being, he'd taken a couple of arrows and the orcs with their great axes had also wounded him. In pain and battle rage he crashed into the woods, his armoured figure easily catching one guard slowed by the thickness of vegetation. The guard on hearing Fortu's pursuit stopped and turned, his face may have shown fear his actions were definitely of surrender but all Fortu saw in his anger was an enemy. His left hand raised, his thumb horizontal wavering, then just like so many times in the pits it dropped down.

As he withdrew the blade and returned to the others he was unsure but thought he heard whispered a mans voice "that's my boy"