Chapter 51: The Mortal Blade
He emerged in a storage room, quickly checking his surroundings. Barrels of ale, sacks of grain, and—perfect—a pile of dirty servant clothes. Orcs had a strict hierarchy; nobody looked twice at the lowest caste.
Five minutes later, Arthur shuffled through the kitchen carrying an empty bucket, shoulders hunched, eyes downcast. The kitchen staff barely glanced at him. Just another worthless servant cleaning up after his betters.
The head cook, a massive orc woman with arms like tree trunks, barked at him: "You! Take slop to the warg pens!"
Arthur grunted acknowledgment, grabbed the slop bucket, and headed out. But not before he’d slipped a packet of powder into the victory feast stew. Not poison—he wasn’t here to massacre. Just a mild sedative that would make the warriors sluggish. In about an hour, half the garrison would be fighting yawns instead of invaders.
The warg pens were near the outer wall. Arthur dumped the slop, then studied the guard patterns. Two orcs walking the ramparts, crossing paths every... forty-three seconds. A blind spot of roughly twelve seconds at the northwest corner.
He waited, counting heartbeats. When the guards passed, Arthur scaled the wall with practiced efficiency. No supernatural strength needed—just proper technique and the conditioning this body had maintained.
At the top, he froze. An orc guard stood ten feet away, back turned. Arthur could use his powers, phase through or dominate the guard’s mind. Instead, he picked up a small stone.
*Tink.*
The stone hit a shield across the courtyard. The guard turned, squinting. "Who goes—"
Arthur’s hand clamped over the orc’s mouth, other arm applying a perfect sleeper hold. The guard struggled, but Arthur had leverage and technique. Within seconds, the orc went limp—unconscious, not dead.
Arthur dragged him into an alcove, then took the guard’s spear. He notched specific marks on the wall—marks that, to a paranoid commander, would look like someone counting defenses for an invasion force.