The Tale of Naiilo Tyran: Episode Two.

[Matthew Cairns]

SOMEONE FAMILIAR

As the full moon reached its zenith, the circle was at last complete. Filings of silver, interspersed with the juice of a manafruit and traces of her own blood surrounded Naiilo. She was ready to begin the ritual.
"Earth below, Air above..." she began with trepidation. Never before had she attempted such a dangerous feat. Magic flowed in her blood, a gift from the mother she never knew, but this was not simple sorcery. One word mispronounced, a false gesture or even a lapse in concentration would cause the ritual to fail. Or worse, it might alter the summoning spell in an unexpected way.
"Fire surrounds, Water loves, take my spirit, take my blood..." Naiilo read the words aloud from the ancient tome, squeezing the rare purple fruit and splashing its fragrant juice on the silver circle. Rainbow coloured flames burst upwards, accompanied by a booming orchestral melody. Gale force winds erupted as a small tornado was born. The sorceress struggled to maintain her composure and finish the ritual. Lightning crashed in a cloudless sky and a tremor shook the forest. Trees groaned and snapped under the weight of the wind, dropping great branches into the surging river. The tornado reached a crescendo and the half-elf no longer had the strength to fight it.
And suddenly it was over. Had it worked? Naiilo paused in anticipation- but there was nothing. Nothing but destruction. She had successfully cleared a swathe through the ancient forest, but there was no sign of the creature. It seemed the ritual had failed after all. There was nothing to do but give up, or wait. She had figured a conjuration ritual would summon the creature here immediately, but maybe she was wrong? With nothing to lose and in need of rest, the sorceress lay down on her father's old velvet cloak. Sad memories drifted in unbidden and before long she was asleep.
The smell, more than the noise, woke Naiilo but it was clearly too late. Pig-faced orcs surrounded her, half a dozen or more, all bearing rusty weapons and rotting meat hanging from their frayed rope belts. Worse, the largest brute was handling her rapier delicately, while another rummaged through her backpack with far less grace. She had regained some of her strength with rest, but it would be difficult to overcome such a large group with cantrips and magic missiles. If only she had allowed Warren to guard her! But the villagers were deeply suspicious of magic and she did not yet want to reveal her sorcerous powers. If she was going to find the fiance the woodsman had lost she would need time to earn the trust of the superstitious locals.
"S'wake. Getter tied up good, y'know, hans an foots." The sword-thief was giving the orders. "No stabbin unless ya hafta, y'know he likes em unscarred." Naiilo stiffened and felt the raging torrent of magic building up in her blood. These monsters would pay for underestimating a Tyran. "Hang about boys, s'movin. Y'mite needa clobba dis one-" spoke the orc boss, too slowly. Naiilo lept to her feet, driving her steel-tipped boot into the monster's groin. As he collapsed, she snatched her rapier back with her right hand and a beam of light sprung from her left, driving itself into the eyes of a subordinate.
The foul-smelling orcs screamed their battlecry and charged. Naiilo had grossly underestimated their numbers, she realised grimly, counting almost twenty in a glance. She had fled the Northern Protectorate when it fell to the orc hordes, only to fall prey to the native forest orcs in this unnamed region. This was not the destiny she had imagined for herself. This was not the end she had dreamed of.
One of the orcs suddenly squealed as its head burst into flames. A second roared in agony as an ear was torn from its scalp. As their leader recovered from the paralysing kick and prepared for bloody retribution, his warriors grew fearful. They ignored his commands to kill the lithe girl, instead searching desperately for this new assailant. Then amid the carnage and madness, three orcs burst into song.
"S'nuthin alike better, than'ta be wiffu n'dis weffa, o howoo i luv yew..." The three were swaying side by side, clutching one another in hairy, sweaty arms. Their voices were dischordant and their steps out of time, but there could be no doubt of their actions. The song had been a favourite of the farmers wives up North, Naiilo recalled. Evidently it was in fashion among some orcs of the South, as well.
The commotion seemed to perplex their warboss. "Watchya fink yer doin dere?" he asked with disbelief. "Yer off wiff da fairies y'izz! We gotsa job tudoo!" He turned back to his quarry, who was gone. "Blast'im, now the bloody she-man iz gottup n'gone too! I'll ave yer edds f-" but the rant was cut shot by flashes of brilliant light which exploded on the side of his head. Naiilo took two steps back and surveyed the scene.
The silver circle was still in place, but her belongings were strewn everywhere. Two orcs including their leader were down, apparently dead, while a third howled and clutched the remnants of his left ear. A fourth monster stumbled around blinded by magic and screaming fearfully. That left over a dozen of the brutes to deal with, but their confidence was shattered by the powers of this terrible witch and her invisible ally.
With a roar the dragon came into view. Its tail was barbed and dripping poison, its fangs needle-sharp and dripping with black blood. Its radiant body a crimson red colour with membranous purple wings, the dragon belched forth orange flame. The orcs were terrified and they ran deeper into the forest howling with fear. Yet Naiilo couldn't stifle a laugh. The dragon was not much bigger than a house cat.
"Master?" asked the dragon, cocking its tiny head. "Is something funny?" It seemed the ritual had worked after all. Naiilo had found her familiar.