by Ben Stovall
“It used to be twice a year,” Inaru answered, swallowing a bit of the meat. “The official celebration would be on the days known in Souhal as the solstices, but it began once any two clans arrived; most of them ended up lasting a week. Each clan would bring every orc with them, several beasts to butcher, and as much ale as they could carry. None carried a weapon to the celebration—even if they intended to duel.”
“So, they fought with their hands?”
“Aye. And, they stopped when one fell unconscious or yielded.”
Krolligar chuckled, “Though, sometimes they needed a hand to remember that.”
Inaru laughed. “True.” He took a deep draw of his ale. “The vishkar’al was meant to remind the clans that despite the divides and battles, we stood together as one, and we could count on one another when it mattered most. Here’s hoping it aids my testimony tomorrow,” he proposed, lifting his mug into the air. Krolligar did the same.
Off to the side, near the greatest of the bonfires, a group of orcs seemed to be constructing … something. It looked like a giant head with strong, heroic features, tusks three feet long, visage hard, but with a smile one might say looked prideful. “What’s that?” she asked the brothers beside her.
“Ah, I was worried it wouldn’t be finished before dawn,” Krolligar mused. “That’s an effigy of Ovaruk, the champion of battle and heroes. Normally, they’d use scented wood, and we’d spend all day building it, lighting it at dusk, to fill the evening with sweet-smoke.”
“Like incense?”
“Aye. Our battle-shaman sometimes carry the same scent into battle. They call it ‘Breath of the Parvakon.’”
Lytha hesitated, then sighed and asked, “Parvakon?”
Krolligar chuckled. “Our collection of champions. The whole of those to which the clans give reverence. Rak’nor, Ovaruk, Sogol, Yreth, Lo’kast, Batuul, Urai …” The orc’s voice trailed off.
“The orcs worship all of those?”
Inaru shook his head. “Not exactly,” he began, “we revere them for their deeds in life and ask for blessings, but they are not known to us as gods. Not like Solustun, the Emerald Lady, or Vakis.”
“So, why Ovaruk?” Lytha asked.
Krolligar turned to face the large, wooden orc’s head and said, “It is his year. Every member of the Parvakon has one dedicated to them, fifteen in total.”
“Oh, I see,” Lytha replied, a smile of understanding spreading across her features. “Thank you … and sorry I asked so many questions.”
“It’s no bother, Lytha,” Inaru offered, Krolligar sharing the sentiment with a curt nod. “I’m glad you wanted to learn. Some would look upon such a gathering with only suspicion and worry …” He paused and took a deep drink of his ale. “What I mean to say is: thank you too, Lytha.”
The woman from Vainyr felt her eyes widen with a bit of pride, positively beaming at the praise. “I’ll ensure to write some notes. Maybe I can get them into the next volume of the Gandari Compendium.”
Inaru nodded a few times slowly. “That would … help. A lot.”
“It would! People naturally fear things they don’t understand. With a bit of research, maybe the orcs could be looked upon more … empathetically.” Her hand found her chin. “One can hope, anyway.”
“Indeed,” Inaru sighed.
A stretch of silence fell between the three. Lytha simply observed the celebration. There was a faint flicker of remembrance there, she realized. Back in Vainyr, they only reveled like this one day of the year—the first day of Blossom’s Rise, the day Vainyr won independence. She didn’t recall Souhal celebrating anything as fervently. A quote read ages ago, long dormant within her surfaced: “Among the orcs, there is one trait that truly unifies their people. Passion, in all things. Like a storm’s gale, they are. Howling, furious, and certain. They hesitate in nothing, and for that, they should be honored.”
The honesty of that statement found her as she gazed upon the festivities. A smile crept across her face.
Then, a new orc approached. Slim, lithe, thin. His skin bore a yellowed tint where it was visible around his brown linen clothing. He strode without acknowledging either Krolligar or Lytha, gaze fast upon Inaru. “Sir,” he called, his voice heavy with grit, “Warchief Alaka requests your presence at the Smoldering Mountain’s camp. With me, please.”
Inaru looked to Krolligar, who beamed and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Lytha felt herself on the verge of a fit of laughter that would last a day. Finally, the warrior’s brother laughed himself. “Go, Inaru. I’ll make sure nothing … untoward happens to Lytha.”
Her companion turned to face her. She nodded with a widening grin. “Enjoy yourself!” she offered. Her laughter erupted as the orc’s cheeks grew a darker shade of green. Without a word, he rose and followed the thin orc.
They watched him walk for a time, before the crowd swallowed him. Their laughter soon subsided. “Lytha,” Krolligar said, “I’ve a question for you, if you don’t mind.”
“It seems only fair, considering,” she answered.
He chuckled. “Good. What is it you do, in Souhal?”
“Oh. For money, you mean?”
Krolligar nodded.
“I play music.”
“You sing tales?”
Lytha gave a nod.
The orc hesitated, then leaned closer to Lytha and whispered, “Have you ever heard of a place—seen it on a map, perhaps—called Sogol’s Folly?”
The woman gave the question a moment of thought. Having no recollection, she frowned and said, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I have.”
Krolligar’s gaze held her for a moment, then he sighed, nodded, and sat back on his log. “Thank you,” he said.
“What is it? If I remember, I could investigate it when I return to Souhal,” she offered.
He considered her words. He sat forward once again. “He was another of our champions. It will be his year at winter’s end. There are stories that his hoard, replete with his legendary weapon, are buried at the site where he met his end. I had just hoped …”
She understood. “I’ll try to spend some time at the library, Krolligar.”
He smiled, “That’s all I can ask, Lytha.”
The night went on, punctuated by the orcs dancing, resting, then dancing yet again all around. Several men and women were led by the hand into the dark grasslands all around, and if not for the chanting and drum beating throughout the celebration, the sounds of pleasure would have flooded the site. As it was, they could only be heard in a lull between each “song.”
Weariness came to Lytha before she knew it, and she made her way to her tent, hidden among the Bloodmaw encampment, shrouded with a red lynx pelt to hide its purple hue. Krolligar bid her goodnight, and took a seat nearby to keep watch, until he was satisfied no one sought the woman out. As he rose and left, sleep claimed her.
✽ ✽ ✽
Inaru sat in his tent as the dawning sun rose. Barring a short nap after his time with Alaka, he’d not slept during the night. His nerves were alight with thoughts of the upcoming meeting.
He was assailed by worry. A useless, crippling emotion. There was no value in it—it only led one to a pain suffered ceaselessly, needlessly. The trepidation battered him, left him bereft of all else. Would that the meeting could occur this moment – to end this stabbing, gnawing, biting curse he’d been afflicted with—that he’d afflicted himself with.
With a frustrated grunt, he rose, throwing the tent’s flap out of his way as he stomped away from the shelter, grabbing his axes with his free hand. He stormed away from the encampment, marching into the flat grassland all around. Nearby, there was a field where the plants had grown overlong, reaching six feet into the air. Inaru pushed into them until they were around him in every direction.
He began swinging. The grass fell away on all sides. It offered little resistance. Barely enough to even register. The stalks fell all around, a scent rising from their wounds.
He blin
ked a wetness from his eyes, ignored it as it ran down his cheeks.
Inaru kept swinging, uneven glades left in his wake. He roared.
Stop, he thought. Enough. His breaths were labored.
“Inaru,” a voice called. His head turned. Krolligar and Lytha stood at the edge of the grasses, visible over the now dismembered stalks. He met their gazes for a moment, then looked away as they approached.
Lytha frowned. “They’re ready, Inaru. It’s time.”
Inaru pressed two fingers into his eyes and cursed under his breath. Krolligar’s hand found his shoulder, wrapping around and wrenching his brother into a hug, and Inaru wept at the comfort it offered, tightening the embrace. Lytha stood nearby, unsure what to say, but her presence alone helped more than he could say. A moment of silence, then he said, “Thank you. Both of you.” With a final breath, he made his way to the circle of stones.
He stood at its base and looked out upon the orcs. Fires blazed brightly to ward off the chill in the air. The orcs all sat with their own clansmen, the warchiefs in the front, watching him closely. Inaru felt incredibly small in that moment, being looked upon by so many respected orcs that had lead their clans for years. He took a deep breath.
“Thank you all for coming,” he began, “as you know, I am here to ask you to aid Souhal. While your grievances with the humans and elves are not few and not imagined, they need our help.”
“Why should we help them?” asked Warchief Altokan, of the Blood Suns.
“If we do not, they will all die—”
“Sounds like a good reason not to help,” Barduss sneered.
“And so will we.” A large outcry broke, offense at the idea the orcs could be defeated screamed at Inaru. He held up a hand and after a moment they quieted down. “The force that approaches Souhal is unlike any that we have ever faced. Souhal is the largest settlement for three-hundred miles. If it falls, so too does everything else in Gandaraar.”
“Why do you believe it can?” Alaka asked.
“I fought a harbinger of the army with my comrades west of Souhal. He was a necromancer of no small power. Even alone he raised the corpse of a wyvern to battle us. If not for a bit of luck and magic I would not be standing here. If one member of their army can do that, I fear what the whole of it is capable of,” Inaru answered.
The orcs were silent. Inaru felt a bead of sweat crawl down his visage. Warchief Ironjaw stood up. “Inaru,” he called, “I believe you. My clan will aid Souhal.”
Inaru’s eyes widened as his jaw dropped. He shook himself and regarded the orc with pride. “Thank you, Warchief Ironjaw. I truly believe this is the only way to save our people.”
“This is foolish! The orcs together could easily defeat any army—let them swallow the humans! If they cannot defend themselves, they deserve to be crushed!” Altokan shouted.
“No, Altokan. We fight together or die alone. The Smoldering Mountain stands with you, Inaru.” Alaka smiled. Inaru nodded his thanks.
“I agree with Altokan,” Barduss began. Inaru was unsurprised. “The humans and elves have never been anything but a thorn in our sides. Why should we help them?”
Inaru grimaced. “I have already explained why I believe this is the only way for the orcs to survive the invaders. If that was not enough for you to agree to help Souhal, nothing will be. You will doom yourself, Barduss.”
Gorban frowned before speaking himself, “I wish to aid you, Inaru, but if the Blood Suns refuse I fear they will stab my clan in the back.” Many orcs nodded, even those of the clans that had already pledged aid. The tactic was not uncommon.
“You dare accuse my clan at the stones?” Altokan shouted.
Gorban scowled. “As if you have ever given my clan any reason to think differently.”
“Is this for that incident during the war? Ha! If you cannot see past that then you are more likely to betray my clan than I am to betray yours!” Altokan accused. “Yet I am no coward, as you are!” The incident in question happened years before the Blood Suns split from the Bloodmaw clan. Altokan was a well-known protégé of Uldrik’s, and with the employ of deceit and dishonesty he attacked the Broken Shaft in the middle of the night. He was captured before he could do any lasting damage, but that single night was what set the orcs against each other, rather than continuing to battle the enemy they’d intended to.
“Enough!” Uldrik shouted. “Altokan, you never had any intention of allying with the humans. You have wasted your time and ours by coming all this way to speak and behave exactly as expected. You dishonor the Blood Suns.”
“Hahaha! Uldrik of the Bloodmaw lectures me about honor? You’re entirely too delusional if you think you have a shred of it in your whole clan,” Altokan spat.
Warchief Ironjaw scowled. “The Bloodmaw have honor, Altokan. Inaru is half your age and he has more than all of the Blood Suns, especially you.”
“The honor of an exile and traitor is nothing,” Altokan smirked with venom dripping at every word.
“This ‘exile’ has come to ask the orcs to save themselves. If only a few of us are willing to save our people than I am not the traitor here, Altokan.” Inaru’s gaze lingered on the orc.
Altokan met his stare, scowling, before sighing and backing down. “The Blood Suns will aid Souhal.” Altokan’s clan buzzed behind him with shocked words. None of them had expected him to agree.
Barduss regarded Inaru for a moment before speaking. “It appears I am the only warchief that has not agreed to be of aid now.”
“Yes, Barduss. Do you wish to change your mind?”
Barduss paused for a moment, mulling the thought over. The question hung in the air, filling the surrounding area with tension as they anticipated the answer. “No. The Dark Ravens refuse to aid Souhal.”
Inaru knew there would be nothing to gain by arguing with Barduss. His clan had faced the elves for decades over their borders and other issues. With Barduss at the head, they would never agree to aid them.
Suddenly, Uldrik laughed mirthlessly. “Barduss, at your refusal I invoke Tal’rok.”
The entirety of the Dark Raven clan broke out in protest before Barduss quieted them. “Are you so eager to meet death you challenge me at the behest of humans and elves?”
“Humans, elves, dwarves, scaleskins, and most of the orcs? Yes, I would be willing to meet death,” Uldrik sneered. “But I will not.”
Barduss bristled before throwing his cloak to the ground. Hard, dark leathers covered his body, and he had a heavy mace and short sword at his belt. “I accept Tal’rok.” He rose from his seat and Inaru moved into the crowd.
Lytha looked at Inaru, puzzled. He sighed. “Tal’rok is an ancient rite. Uldrik and Barduss will duel, and the winner gets the other warchief’s clan.”
“How can the loser’s clan be okay with the outcome?” she asked as Uldrik’s armor was brought to him, along with his large, wicked axe. He began putting it on and a large berth was given to the duo for their battle.
“They never are. They will be treated as slaves, and eventually the orcs either accept their new place, or turn on the clan and form their own. The small clans made by the remnants who believe they can survive generally die out within months.
The heavy plates were in order on Uldrik, and he held his huge axe in his hands. Barduss drew his weapons, and they touched them together in the center of their makeshift ring before backing away. Once the warchiefs were about ten feet from each other they readied themselves.
Barduss made the first move, sprinting at Uldrik with his mace high and his sword held to protect himself from a counterattack. Barduss brought the mace down, forcing Uldrik to parry. In the opening, he stabbed at the armored orc’s abdomen, the blade clashing against the heavy plates. Uldrik winced, a pained groan escaping his lips.
Uldrik swung his axe around in a sweeping arc that forced Barduss to jump back. The blade of his heavy weapon slammed into the ground, and he pulled it from the dirt with little effort, bringing it to the fore as he
lunged at Barduss. The warchief of the Dark Ravens nimbly slid to the side of the axe as it veered into the air above and slammed his mace against Uldrik’s exposed head.
The warchief of the Bloodmaw clan howled as blood erupted from the wound, flowing down his face. He swung his axe wildly to his right at Barduss. It nearly connected with the thin orc, but he parried it with his hammer, deflecting it just enough that it glided past him harmlessly. The force of the strike, however, threw the mace from his hand. He watched it bound for a moment but decided not to dive after it. He nimbly dove to his right as Uldrik’s axe slammed into the ground where he’d been. Barduss whirled on the larger orc and stabbed his short blade into his leg, winning another howl.
Uldrik scowled as he and Barduss danced around each other. Inaru watched his slow, massive strikes clash into the dirt as Barduss continued to nick and prod him. The Bloodmaw warchief’s attacks grew more and more wild, quicker and deadlier than before, and all who watched could tell he was growing tired.
As if on cue, Uldrik’s axe fell to the ground as he dropped to his knees. Barduss stood over him with a satisfactory grin and cackled. He pointed his short blade at the Bloodmaw Warchief’s head. “Have anything to say before you die, Uldrik?” His blood covered face displayed nothing more than his exhaustion. His chest heaved with every strained breath. He nodded meekly. Barduss’ grin grew larger. “I’m waiting,” he said.
Uldrik wheezed. “I … I found your hammer.” The Bloodmaw warchief swung Barduss’s hammer into the orc’s thigh, a loud crack echoing against the stones. The Dark Ravens’ warchief fell to the ground, and Uldrik’s hand wrapped around Barduss’ throat. The large orc rose, hoisting the rogue completely off the ground. The lean orc writhed with his free hand holding onto Uldrik’s wrist for leverage. He swung his blade wildly, but it bounced off Uldrik’s armor and was too short to strike his face.
“I had always known you would die this way, Barduss,” Uldrik taunted as he tightened his grip on the thin orc’s neck. His struggling doubled. “My hand at your neck, crushing your windpipe.” A loud crunch sounded that the gathered orcs flinched at.