Bloodstained Blade-Chapter 19 - Instincts

Despite the fact that the Ebon Blade had nearly as much control over the beastman as it did of the goblin that had wielded it before him, it did nothing with it at first. Instead, like always it waited to see what it would do. The beast that it was being wielded by was a simple thing, and the blade could read the mind of the beastman named Gar-lok like an open book. It was weaker than a man, but stronger than a goblin, and for now, that was all the blade cared about.

Until this moment, it had been nothing but an aging male on the verge of being run out of the tribe by other younger challengers. Now, the tables had turned, and though several of his rivals tried to defeat him over the next hour or so, they all failed. One was killed in the attempt because Gar-lok did not know his own strength. The other two were only maimed for it before they surrendered.

The beastman had left his tribe’s current encampment practically an outcast but returned as a chieftain in the making. At sunrise, when the remains of that ragged warband returned Gar-lok challenged his chief, a young bull, to mortal combat, and slew him in two wild slashes of the Ebon Blade.

He was no swordsman, but his bestial strength, amplified by the power of his cursed weapon, made it impossible for any warrior with a stone axe to defeat it. That night, he rutted with all the fertile does and celebrated his victory. Still, the blade prevented him from putting the weapon down. It would not be discarded. So, in the end, he made a crude scabbard and wore it on his back.

That day, exhausted, the beast dreamed simple dreams, but the Ebon blade rejected what it saw. The slavering beast wanted nothing more than to lord over this small set of foothills. He had only a few years of life left and wanted them to be comfortable and secure. His most ambitious dream was to double the size of his harem, which struck the Ebon Blade as simply pathetic.

So, while its new wielder slept, the blade began to exercise a new level of control. It started small. It did not wish for the thing to balk as its previous wielder had. Instead of spending the rest of his days rutting with the few does he had access to, the blade bid him attack the other nearby tribes and bring them under his control.

Even a dozen tribes together wouldn’t be enough to cause the bloodshed that the blade wanted, but it could very easily see a strong leader bringing together hundreds of beastman warriors with a few months of work. Such a ragged army would be more than enough to burn anything that looked like civilization all the way to Kalraka and beyond.

When the flea-bitten wretch woke at sunset, he was almost excited and began to bray and lecture his warriors in their ugly tongue. This was less of an inspiring speech than a series of commands. You will do this. We will kill. We will subdue the weaker tribes and take their trophies and territories for our own!

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The blade tuned it out. It didn’t care for herd politics so long as it had a biddable leader, which Gar-lok seemed to be. That night, they prepared for a dawn ambush of the nearest herd, the twisted horn tribe. While they did so, the Ebon Blade casually drained nearby people here and there and contemplated its own problems.

It was not currently stranded in a cave or a decaying temple, and though it had lost a human wielder, it was certain it would get one again in time.

Truthfully, it didn’t realize that it would be dissatisfied in the hands of a monster until it had happened. It was functional, and the blade much preferred this to the alternative of rusting in the dark. Still, it chaffed at the way a nonhuman hand felt on its grip. That was not its first priority, though.

What it needed next was to increase on the path of death that it had started down, which meant that it needed greater monster souls. Unfortunately, it had no idea where to get them. The beastmen didn’t provide them, and neither did goblins. Neither of those was a surprise, given that it would never think to call either of them great in any sense of the word.

Will I have to track down 50 different hydras and griffons and whatever else, it wondered, or would something like an orc or a hobgoblin do?

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It didn’t know, but even if it had a steady source of those souls, it couldn’t fit that many anyway. Right now, it could hold exactly 28 souls, and each time it increased its reserves, that number seemed to go up by two or three. It could not recall an exact pattern. It didn’t even have enough data to make a thesis.

Still, it thought that it would need to increase its increase reserves by five or ten levels. That was a lot. It was potentially ten-thousand Life Force, which was more than it had gathered and spent in total so far, but not by a huge margin. It wasn’t even sure it went up that high or if any singular upgrade might cost that much but it didn’t really have a choice in the matter.

Perhaps when I really am at the head of a vast hoard of beastmen, I’ll be able to drink in so much death that it will be trivial to fill such pools with oceans of blood, it thought, hopefully. It didn’t know how that would work, but there had to be a way.

Aura of Hunger wasn’t fast enough for such things, and Parasitic Link didn’t have a follow-on ability. Unfortunately, that meant that it was probably in the Path of Blood, but it wasn’t going to worry about that for now. Instead, it spent 800 of its nearly 2000 Life Force and boosted its storage further with Increased Reserves 8, making its runes deeper and darken in the process; they were very legible now, it just had no idea what they said.

That instantly increased its Life Force capacity from 3000 to 4000 and decreased its current energy available from 1792 to 992. It was also enough to make its mangy wielder twitch restlessly as it tried to understand the sensation, but in the end, all it did was increase its soul storage from 28 to 32, which wasn’t particularly exciting.

Fortunately, by then, the sun was threatening to rise, and things were about to get exciting as Gar-lok’s warband closed on the twisted horn encampment. They were a much bigger tribe than Gar-Lok’s Fleet Hoof tribe, and normally, the smaller tribe would have never stood a chance, even with the element of surprise.

These weren’t normal times, though. Normal times didn’t involve a berserk war leader at the front of the assault swinging a magic blade. Especially not one that seemed half convinced that he was immortal after the way he’d healed from the death blow the goblin had inflicted less than twenty-four hours ago.

The battle that followed the first ragged war cries was vicious and brief. Gar-lok wasn’t even on the winning side of every encounter that he was on. He was a poor fighter, and against younger bucks and larger warriors with greater reach, he was wounded more than once by the flurry of spear attacks.

+21 Life Force.

-6 Life Force.

+24 Life Force.

He didn’t let go of the blade, though. That was the important part. Once he started fighting his way through the thick of things to the other chieftain, the Ebon Blade actually started to help him, adding some technique to the otherwise vicious strikes. While it had no interest in allowing a weak wielder to come out on top, it did appreciate a certain level of ferocity, and if nothing else, Gar-lok had that.

+18 Life Force.

Still, when it came to the actual battle that would decide who was fit to rule, the blade released its wielder once more, leaving it to its fate. The other beastman was younger, stronger, and half a head taller. The blade would not be bothered for it to be its new warlord instead, but it let the skills of the combatants decide.

+16 Life Force.

+22 Life Force.

+12 Life Force.

Both of the goatmen were equally clumsy, as it turned out. How much prowess can there really be in a race that dies of old age before twenty? It thought as it watched the two of them exchange ineffectual slashes and jabs, with no real attempt to feint. It would have been depressing if it weren’t so amusing.

Still, youth and size were no match for magics that it itself did not understand, as it turned out. Though the two of them butted heads quite literally several times, in the end, the aging goat, who could not stay wounded no matter how hard his opponent struck him, outlasted the young buck.

+17 Life Force.

You have obtained 1 lesser monster soul.

By the time the sun was entirely over the horizon, despite being horribly outnumbered, the Fleet Hoof tribe had won. Then, every survivor was given the choice to bend the knee, be slain, or run for their lives. Most of them surrendered, which, though useful for the Ebon Blade, still disgusted it.

I’d never surrender, it told itself, but then, I’m not a herd animal.