Logaar the Mighty's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Logaar pushed aside the hide flap and stepped into the shaman's hut. The air inside was thick with smoke from burning herbs, and the old ork sat cross-legged before a crystal sphere that pulsed with pale light. Logaar had come seeking knowledge of the warblade's location, but the shaman's eyes were already distant, seeing things beyond the present moment. The shaman's hand moved over the sphere, and images flickered inside the glass. Logaar saw the warblade first—black steel wrapped in leather that had drunk the blood of a hundred failed warriors. Then the vision shifted. A woman with braided hair and scarred arms stood before a stone altar, her hand reaching toward the same weapon. "Helga Wulf Slayer," the shaman said, his voice like gravel scraped across bone. "She seeks what her father could not hold. She hunts the blade now, three days ahead of you." Logaar's jaw tightened. He had expected the warblade to test him alone, to wait silent in its resting place until he proved himself worthy. But another warrior already moved toward it, driven by birthright and vengeance. The race had begun before he knew it existed. Logaar stared into the crystal ball as the vision faded. Three days. Three days behind a warrior who believed the warblade belonged to her blood. He turned from the hut and walked into the cold morning air. His fists opened and closed at his sides. This changed nothing about what the blade would demand of him, but it changed everything about when. He had planned to approach on his terms, to face the test when his will was sharpest. Now he would have to move fast and arrive ready. The warblade would take one of them. Logaar intended to make sure it was him. Outside the shaman's hut, he passed the old stone tablet carved with elven kings holding their blades high. The stone warriors looked down at him with blank eyes. They had wielded their weapons and won their victories. Logaar would do the same. He gathered his supplies and left the camp before the sun climbed higher. The path north would be hard, but hesitation was not an option. Helga Wulf Slayer had three days on him. He would take that advantage back, one mile at a time.