To cure that which ails me.

[Therak]

((I increased the size by two points, to make it a bit easier on the eyes. All in all it's just below 2300 words, and the end of something that's been going on for several years by now.
I hope you enjoy the read!))

The interior of the tent was dimly lit by the brazier in the middle, the coals giving off a red light, and a strong heat, making Therak sweat, even in just a pair of loose trousers. Fortunately the paint he was marked with could cope with that.
He kneeled by the coals, slowly and carefully unpacking the small sack, the vials, the dried herbs, and the sticks of incense, throwing the sack out through the flap, closing it to the night, and the orcs waiting outside.
This was unfamiliar waters to him; he didn't do the rituals, it just wasn't his thing, not at all. But here he was. In a tent that seemed closer to an oven, and about to take his life, or death into his own hands, in a task he was utterly unfamiliar with. Sure, he'd memorized everything, not that there was much to do...
Sighing, he lit the sticks of incense, placing them in the ground around him, seven of them, in a full circle.
It didn't take long for the smell to spread through the tent, not an unpleasant smell, but it drowned out almost everything else, the sweat running down his torso, the sounds of the night outside was steadily growing more distant. The only thing not drifting away was the heat, if anything; it seemed to grow hotter in there.
Taking a slow deep breath, Therak picked up a handful of the dried herbs, throwing them on the coals. He breathed deeply as they flared up, and the bitter smell mixed with the incense. Finally he opened a vial, pouring it over the burning herbs, adding the smell of burnt blood into the mix.
He smiled faintly, tracing the outlines of his tattoo.
”Not long now, before I've no need for you... one way or another.”
With that, Therak closed his eyes, and let the smoke and the heat carry him off...

When he opened his eyes, the brazier was gone, replaced by a chess board, behind it was a mirror.
No, not quite a mirror, another orc, looking just like Therak, but the smile on his lips was cold, superior. And it didn't reach the eyes.
The eyes, those weren't Theraks. No, when he looked closer, there were other differences too, the brow, the set of the jaw. Similar, but not quite the same. Those traits weren't his... He knew where they came from, and that made a chill run down his spine, despite the oppressive heat.
The not-Therak opened his mouth, and with a voice like a mix between honey, and rasping steel it spoke. ”Your move.”
The white pieces on the board were on Theraks side, and he stared at it for several minutes before reaching out, grabbing a pawn, lifting it up to study it. It was an orc, Wearing armored leg plates, shoulder pads and helmet, leaving the chest bare, beneath the helmet, if you looked closely the face was recognizable. Tarkesh.
”Pawn to E4.”
Moments later, not-Therak picked up another pawn, wearing the distinctive Kor'kron armor.
”Pawn, E5.”
Therak reached out to touch the caster, another orc. In a shamans outfit, with an axe, and heavy with child.
”Caster C4.”
”Rider C6”
Not-Therak moved the skeletal steed and its rider out, the piece itself emitting an aura of malice. The cold smile never leaving his lips, and never reaching his eyes.
Therak didn't need to think long, before picking up the queen, an orc with the unmistakable features of his mate, placing it to the far right of the board.
”Queen H5.”
Another rider, this time a human. Full armor hiding his features, but Therak knew the crest, the crossed swords and star. He knew it all too well.
”Rider H6”
Therak reach out for another piece, this one a bald orc, old. Red sash and two blades in his hands…

The two orcs stood in a circle of sand, faceless spectators surrounding them. The sun was scouring the ground, no shade to be seen. Neither fighter wore any armor on their torso, and each was armed with a simple knife. Therak wore his usual trousers, and Not-Therak wore simple linen ones. They slowly circled each other. Only interruption the occasional twitch forwards, to test and gauge the reaction of the other.
Without warning, Not-Therak burst forwards stabbing and slashing several times in quick succession, it was all Therak could do to keep him at bay, when they broke apart. Therak had several gashes across his left arm and torso. Not-Therak bore no marks at all.
They circled again, Therak didn’t know how long, could be minutes, could be seconds. But he was next to attack. Not-Therak met him halfway. Nothing outside the circle mattered for Therak, each slash, was met with a block, each stab with a counter slash.
When the two broke apart again, both orcs had new wounds, the sand beneath them slowly staining red. Within moments, they flew at each other again.

Each step was a challenge, a jolt of pain cutting through the exhaustion. The trees were rushing past him; all he could see was the path ahead of him, and the back of the â€"other- one. It was all he could do to keep up. The bitter taste of adrenaline filled his mouth, while the stench of sweat filled his nostrils.
He didn’t know how far behind him the pursuer was, but he could hear the trees creaking and smashing as they fell over, not far behind. The black mass wasn’t stopping at anything, not until Therak, or Not-Therak was consumed…
His legs were burning, his lungs were on fire. He was slowing. Not-Therak however, didn’t seem remotely bothered. He seemed to be out for a nice stroll in the night.
The void was getting closer, he could feel it. It wouldn’t be long now..

It was searing his hands; the skin was melting and sizzling against the searing hot handle on the chest. It was all he could do not dropping it. Just on the other side, Not-Therak was standing, holding the other end of the chest. One would drop it, the other would keep it. And then it would be all over, one way or another.
The walls of the circular room were glowing red with the heat, and the room itself as much of a furnace as there ever was. Sweat poured down Theraks body, every drop hissing as it reached the chest or the floor. Not-Therak wasn’t sweating at all, his twisted grin taunting, mocking the orc.
“All it takes is for me to win in one place, and all you are will crumble. I’ll be free from this prison. Free to â€"live-! Such a… Shame you won’t see it…”
Therak didn’t bother replying, he was too busy trying to not let go of the chest, and he could barely remember why he held on to it. Only that it was important to keep hold longer than his opponent.

The sand was mostly red by now. The mud was sticking to the feet of both orcs.
Neither were showing signs of slowing down, in spite of the many cuts and nicks from the blades.
The crowd around them was as silent as ever, their faceless heads seemingly watching them with an eyeless stare, not missing a single exchange.
Therak still had the worst of it, several deep gouges across his chest, and a cut just beneath his right eye. Another quick exchange left Therak with a stab wound in his side, bleeding badly.
Out of options, Therak reached into his pocked, pulling out a sparkling gem, the size of his thumb, smashing the hilt of his knife against it.
Everything exploded into white light. His left hand felt like he was trying to hold a piece of red hot coal. His eyes hurt from the flash, blinded, and he could hear his opponent hissing, stumbling around.
A deep breath to calm himself, fortunately the crowd was silent. A moment to listen, a few heartbeats to feel how the currents of air moved. He couldn’t see his opponent, but he knew where he was. A step forward, two steps. A clean cut with the dagger had the knife tumbling from his opponents’ senseless arm. A stab, pushing past ribs and into soft tissue, sliding out again. His hands grabbing his opponents’ hair, pulling, exposing the throat. A final cut. A thud of meat hitting sand. Silence.

He was at the end of his strength. There’s only so far an orc can run before he’ll collapse, and for Therak, it was less than a hundred yards left.
His mind was racing, there had to be a solution. Unbidden, the joke about fleeing with a gnome from a bear popped into his mind. Just as he was about to push it out again, he saw it…
“I don’t have to outrun the bear… Only the gnome…”
From his satchel, he pulled out his small crossbow, for some reason, already primed and loaded. He aimed as he ran, Not-Therak might be able to outrun him, but not with a busted knee.
He pulled the trigger, and watched as the bolt soared through the air, it was as if time stood still while it moved, the crashing of trees behind him suspended. There was only the bolt, and the knee.
With a thud it buried itself into... A tree, it had missed Not-Theraks knee with an inch.
Not-Therak turned as he ran, looked at Therak across his shoulder.
“A bolt to the knee… Really? I thought you were above tha-“
A second thud, as Not-Theraks skull connected with the tree ahead. Therak ran the last twenty yards, and as he pitched forwards on his face, Not-Theraks scream of agony filled him…

His hand was a mess, there couldn’t be much flesh left on it, all seared away by the handle of the chest. Not-Therak was smiling, it was going to be over soon, one way or another…
His thoughts were like racing hawkstriders. He had to find a solution, there was simply too much at stake this time.
Tricking him into letting go? No, wouldn’t work. Too simple. Attacking?  Maybe, but he might lose his own grip… Using the chest? That’s it! The chest! It was usually not the chest that was valuable… But what was inside!
Not-Therak seemed to notice change in Therak, his smile sliding off his face like a clown off a stage.
Therak let go with one hand, slamming the lid of the chest up, and scooping up the small flame.
Everything hurt, but more like a cauterizing flame, a cleansing fire, scouring him from his toes to his head. Everything faded away.

“Rider to C4”
The rasping voice of Not-Therak seemed more sure of itself than ever. Admittedly, it didn’t look good for Therak; there were only a handful of pieces left. But it wasn’t over just yet.
“Caster to C4”
Therak moved the elven piece, removing the undead horseman from the board. Frowning at the inevitable counter move.
“Queen, C4. Check.”
Not-Therak moved the piece, an orc in robes. Dark stains tainting her hands. And plucked away the female elf, tossing it in an ever growing pile of white pieces.
Therak frowned for a moment, thinking before reaching out for a pawn.
“Pawn to A4. Check and mate.”
Not-Therak looked at the board, back to Therak, and down to the board again.
“Check, yes. But hardly mate… One lone pawn isn’t enough for that.”
“The queen guards the pawn, and covers all ways for you to move the king.”
Therak was smirking now, he’d won. And he knew it.
“My queen, yes. Your queen is nowhere near! Are you trying to cheat me?”
The rasping voice was getting agitated, no longer as smooth as it had started. There was even a hint of fear behind it.
“That’s why I won. You failed to see it wasn’t your queen. This isn’t a game of chess. Each piece has its own motives. Its own wants. The only piece you control in your end, is yourself.”
Therak reached out to topple the black king.
“This is the game of life. The only rules here, are those we impose on ourselves. There’s no such thing as cheating when it all comes down to it. You lost.”
Silence was the only answer he recieved.

He didn’t feel sick… Breathing was no longer an effort, and in spite of the sweat, he felt… Clean.
Therak opened his eyes, the brazier was still burning, but the smells had been replaced by something akin to a rotting corpse. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness there was something that was not there before. A shape lying on the other side of the brazier, lacking the strength to stand, he crawled over to look at it. Not-Therak, no doubt about it, the stench was coming from him, though there was no visible reason to why he seemed to stink of rot. There was however no doubt that he was dead.
Therak gagged, crawling across the tent to the exit, gasping for breath.
As soon as he saw the orcs outside, he spoke with a voice that was anything but steady.
“Burn it, don’t go in. Just… burn it…”
His eyes, no longer black, but an intense icy blue, stared at the tent, as the other orcs poured oil, and set a torch to it.
It flared up like a beacon. For hours, Therak refused to move, eyes never leaving the tent. He had to be sure, no trace of that… abomination could remain. If he could only scour the image of it from his mind…

[Okiba]

Brilliant, just brilliant!

[Thrash'Nak]

That was outstanding! I loved the change of scene, coming from a less intense situation into a nerve eating race for life. Well done!