Miller, Half-Orc

by J R Marshall

  MILLER,

  HALF-ORC

  Escape from Bondage

  BOOK ONE

  OF THE HALF-ORC SERIES

  By

  J. R. Marshall

  Copyright © J. R. Marshall 2018

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  The moral right of J. R. Marshall has been asserted.

  Front cover illustration by NJ.

  DEDICATION

  To my wife, Susan, whose patience, sometimes during antisocial hours, allowed the completion of this story, without hope of monetary gain.

  To Mark Young, sitting on a beach sipping beer, reading yet another so-called ‘final’ version. He must have read the book ten times.

  To Phil Knight, playing chess, sat in my yard, papers flapping in the wind, rereading my introductions.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  PRELUDE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Anglophenia “How to swear like the British” (Youtube)

  Rollforfantasy.com/tools/map-creator.php

  (Map Creation).

  PRELUDE

  Miller’s Story

  Have you heard of ‘Good, Evil and Impartial’ as ways to describe humanoid philosophical society? Stupid, brutal, and normal could easily be substituted. I have enormous sympathy for any man who on occasion struggles with the piously self-righteous moralistic morons who claim light and blessing only originate from their deity.

  During the years of my captivity from the age of eight when bound and chained to work on a farm to the completion of my arcane apprenticeship, I had the gross misfortune to attract every stupid priest within a week’s walk, it was as though I was on the curriculum with points awarded for effort.

  Patience and self-control, which the stupid extol as worthy of contemplation and thus virtuous, are by a peculiar quirk of my miserable youth, inexorably bound to haunt and guide me throughout my life. This was not due to the divinely inspired ramblings of a spittle-spewing cleric, but rather the inexorable application of my intelligence and a weakness inherent from my mother’s blood combined with a youth filled with servitude.

  For the pleasure and benefit of my childhood I was repeatedly bound and beaten thus patience was a natural by-product that through little choice the mind cogitated on, chewing the cud, seeking a grim delight in the act of revenge. My application of justice would forever be slow and a veritable joy where possible.

  Strength came through the blood of my father and with every drop of sweat my body produced, with every callus on my hand revenge was sworn. My body grew in both stature and might; there was a brooding presence, a dark malevolence forever haunting the depths of my master’s troubled sleep.

  So it was that as with all nights, half an hour after Tam had left and an hour before midnight, Joe, my master, came to chain me, bidding me sit with my hands behind my back and with a practised skill secured me, chains fastened to a stake, a little movement, enough to sit down, scarcely to lie, but enough.

  CHAPTER 1

  Tam Bluebottle was curious, being of a race that none knew of in those parts, a halfling, that is to say not half anything, but half in size to humans. Each night I longed for her visit, loving her company, respecting her, learning skills that had my master known, would have filled his heart with terror.

  Joe had known better than to deny her access, for she was rich, with considerable influence and powerful friends. All the more curious indeed, that she would spend time with a dirty uncouth slave. Thus on one occasion Joe had tried to eavesdrop but intuitively Tam had known and rebuking Joe, he had been dismissed.

  He never questioned me, nor tried again to listen, always we were left alone. What words may have been said in private outside of my hearing I knew not. Five years elapsed, and each night she visited.

  Disused sacks made from hemp acted as a pillow or as feeble warmth during winter. Now propped against the stake, I was careful to place the most threadbare and ruined sacks on top, for given a chance my master would confiscate any that might with darning be repairable. All to save a copper penny, tight-fisted bastard, he thought nothing for my comfort. Too many nights had passed whilst chained in squalor, working all day, slaving without gratitude for a mean and ungracious master.

  No hope, no future, only misery and despair, knowing all along that there was a world outside; a world where others throve.

  Sat there bereft of boots, scarcely a rag on my body, oblivious to the night’s chill my mind dwelt on the hours ahead. The brutality of orcs is well known, violence is perhaps hereditary, but my intelligence allowed for reason and control of temper, my human side cautioned against haste.

  Crouching down, my feet planted in the dust, my right hand instinctively touched the ground, momentarily connecting with the earth, listening to the secret song that few knew. My mind was keenly attuned to the other sounds that are so familiar, the rhythmic clicking of a late Nightjar, well past dusk, an Owl, the wind drifting gently through the lattice walls of the barn, my home, my imprisonment, all that I’d known since the age of eight when Joe, my master, had bought me from an orphanage.

  Promising to raise me fairly with good pay and conditions, and train me as an apprentice miller, the keepers had known I would be treated like shit, whipped, starved and worked till I either died or fled, they had heard it all before. Nonetheless five years ago a small silver coin had been sufficient for the deal, and I had become indentured. After all, who wanted a half-orc mixing with humans, even the scum and waifs of the street?

  Tonight it was all coming to an end. Knowledge is power, knowledge everything, I was feral.

  With neither thoughts nor senses alarmed, nor mind dimmed by fear, words were uttered that are immutable, indelibly impressed upon my mind, even now remembered. Tumbling across my consciousness, I can still smell the air, hear the sounds, feel the dirt beneath my feet, thus began the application of a spell, so well-rehearsed that at least in this, there was accomplishment, a simple incantation.

  Click! An abrasive grinding of metal followed by two more snaps.

  Two shackles raising and twisting as though guided by an unseen hand, vibrating gently as though an excess of force sought further application.

  Watching, chains loosened, the padlocks in betrayal of their creator lay fallen upon the floor, the rusty chains that bound me to my stake were falling away. Such a simple thing, two locks undone.

  The farm, which grew hops, wheat, barley and milled grains for the production of beer, was positioned about three miles south west of Gledrill, a large town of some wealth as it lay at the mouth of the River Arunun which was itself navigable, lying adjacent to the great sea, and thus the docks throve. Trade came from distant lands and onwards into the interior of the kingdom.

  In any farm or mill, for Joe’s farm was both, there were tools, knives, hammers, and such-forth, yet my master had always sought to limit my access, a va
in attempt, indeed futile, but he had essayed nonetheless. Perhaps he slept better, for I have noticed how easily people deceive themselves.

  Hidden and buried behind a plinth, lay a rusty twisted knife, scarcely more than the shards of a scythe bound with a wooden decaying handle that I had reinforced some days before, such that now the haft better fit my grip. This along with a reaping hook would be my weapons for I knew my master always carried a knife, maybe not whilst he slept, I knew not.

  Gently opening a side door and stepping outside, the air was fragranced with the pollens borne on the winds of a harvest, the grass seeds and the scent of spring. I stopped and listened. Ned, one of my master’s three dogs, looked up, espied me, cocked his head. “Quiet, get down,” I whispered. Ned settled; I was familiar, thus no alarm necessary.

  Not so geese, for these most base of creatures since ancient times have been used as wardens against trespass. Geese would not shriek at me, for like Ned there was a familiarity, but neither would they be silent, thus in the gentle night I circled around the back of two buildings, an indirect route between two sties – the pigs grunted, but no more than that.

  Hesitant and wary, I listened, but no sound forewarned or disturbed my purpose. The house fashioned of timber and wattle, thatched with straw instead of rush, for it was cheaper, was lit under a waning moon standing like some colossus, the beginnings of a climb, a crag, a portent of hard labour to come. Knowing that when I entered there would be no retreat other than to flee, a fugitive in the countryside, hiding in hedgerows, stealing from farmsteads, and likely destined for the gallows.

  Armed with my reaping hook and rusty bent knife, I stood in front of the door bolted and barred from within, indeed all the ground floor windows were equally secure, shuttered internally for added protection. There was but one glimmer left, an incantation, needed for later.

  Nonetheless this was not my route for I knew of a grate, inconspicuous to any would-be intruder, but providing disused access to the cellar, itself adjoining the larder which led in turn to the house kitchen, that would be my ingress, my access to my master’s seemingly impregnable fortress.

  Chaos was descending upon the world, tonight this oasis of peace where all slept according to their dreams would be rent asunder.

  Never again would Joe, his wife, and ignorant daughter treat me like shit.

  Violence was stalking the farmstead, and I was death personified. Apprentice Miller, the half-orc bastard, slave and servant, was about to shed blood and commit murder. Too many times have you whipped me, too many times have I bled.

  Walking some fifteen feet along the south-west facing wall and with caution sliding between a narrow gully, the disused grate appeared, or rather it showed as a rough indent of something below. Grass and dirt had long ago concealed the true outline, but having worked cleaning my master’s cellar, its existence was known to me.

  Bending down, it took longer than expected to remove the earth and soil that had built up over time; each piece was carefully removed, placed aside, the intent to replicate its former condition upon departure.

  Eventually the rusty iron grate was revealed, approximately four feet by three feet, lying flat within an outer cast-iron surround.

  Taking hold and with considerable care the grate was prised aloft, making barely a sound for the soil cushioned the edges whence metal met metal, perhaps a slight grinding, not more than sand rubbing against stone. Nothing to infract upon the peace of the night.

  The upper sides of the passageway appeared matted with fungus, like some undisturbed crypt, violated by the moonlight it thought never to see again. Slowly dropping beneath the house I crawled, descending lower until coming upon ancient lime-clad walls which years before had been whitewashed. Now many years later my sides scraped against the edge, leaving a white decaying residue on my body and clothes.

  Eventually after what was probably only fifteen feet at most, the passageway came to an end, a short drop to the cellar floor.

  Lowering myself down, silently and with care, my orc heritage gave me the ability to see in the dark, albeit only in shades of grey, for there was absolutely no colour perception. Nonetheless this ability to see in greyscale was enough to gather the reaping hook, and familiarise myself with my surroundings. The room smelt damp, it was indeed useless for storing foods, grains and the like, even iron left long enough would rust away. Only a couple of barrels with rusting hoops lay decomposing on the floor.

  Slowly ascending the stone stairs my thoughts focused on each and every step; silently, without a sound I would seek revenge, my master would pay, his wife murdered and as for his daughter, well, we shall see. Having been subject to every depravation, humiliation and torment, there was a debt to repay.

  Knowing the brutality of my father’s blood, the furious rage, the bloodlust heaving war within, my heart laboured, my limbs shook, but caution ruled, there would be no impatience, care and stealth resisted the urge to rush in and destroy. There would be no warning, each step would take an age.

  Entering from the adjoining larder, the kitchen served as the main room of the house, its hearth set back in the wall formed an alcove whereupon during cold winters the family could sit either side of the fireplace, the hearth glowing with the failing embers of the previous day’s fire, a small cauldron hung atop, probably containing a stew of mutton that would still be warm the coming morning.

  With my mind focussed, my bare feet felt the undulation of the cold flagstone floor, each step taken gently and with great care, not a sound, they would be asleep upstairs. The house contained perhaps three main rooms downstairs excluding the larder and cellar, but as to upstairs, master had never allowed me to see. Why would he, not the least mistress kept complaining of my filthy, and how much I smelt.

  Walking down the passageway I smelt oil in the air, and turning a corner and seeing a faint glow, stopped. Standing at the foot of the stairs I cursed my lack of insight. Shit, I’ll have to charge, damn! I cursed my incompetence, my mind considering the options.

  In front lay the stairs, made of wood. Each run of this stairway ready to creak and groan under my considerable weight, in the stillness of the night, to place a foot on those most ancient of timbers would have been as a trumpet blast from some city herald announcing my arrival.

  Atop the stairway hung an oil lamp; the smell of oil had been unexpected, now I knew the origin, the flame was turned low, almost guttering and in jeopardy of being extinguished by anything other than a gentle draught, but this night Joe had set the flame correctly, ‘saving a penny’. My mind considered the options.

  Joe and his wife, but probably not the daughter, would be asleep in the main room, first left atop the stairs, probably, for whilst I had considered their likely location, my lack of knowledge of the first floor was a concern. With downstairs windows and doors barred the chances of the family escaping at least swiftly were slim, that’s what I wanted, it was crucial the daughter or wife were trapped.

  Grasping my reaping hook in my right hand, and my makeshift dagger in my left and steeling myself for this, the most dangerous and perilous of moments, I charged.

  Storming up the stairs and upon the landing within three mighty strides, I kicked open the wood-panelled door. So violent was my assault that the door whilst ajar hung now on one hinge, like some cantilevering bridge, swaying for a moment.

  The room was dark, the feeble light from the lantern hung on the landing ceiling was insufficient to illuminate the room. Tight-fisted shit, should have turned the flame up, his undoing. As for me, I’d got it right, there lay my master and his plump, ugly, nasty wife. The lack of light was ideal, all to my advantage.

  Hell, like some contiguous nightmare was loosed, Joe was sitting upright, hand outstretched desperately trying to orientate himself, reaching for something with his right hand, no doubt a weapon, whilst his eyes tried to adjust to the grey image he could scarcely make out in the doorway, so dim was the shadow.

  Mistress trying to get out of bed caug
ht my reaping hook as I wielded it with fury but not much skill. It swung across her face, like a small sickle at the end of a pole, and rent a three-inch gash to her cheek just below the left eye. She fell back, both hands clutching her head, screaming.

  Lunging forward and thrusting down my left hand stabbed wildly at Joe, missing. I stepping back and swang the reaping hook, but succeeded only in clubbing my master on the side, such was my ineptitude.

  Joe with little to guide his aim but much in the way of motivation leapt in my direction, guessing at where I stood, indeed with some modicum of success, for half grasping my hip he tried to pull me to the floor. My knife swung sideways and downwards, striking his shoulder; the blade scraped on bone, as the ragged blade naturally serrated, tore flesh. The wound was grievous.

  Joe, releasing his grip fell crashing to the floor in writhing agony. I stabbed each leg, He’s not walking anywhere, then moved to the far side of the room and grabbed my mistress by the hair. She screamed hysterically, franticly wriggling as I, lifting her head and forcing her neck forward, dragged my blade slowly across her throat; she was making too much noise. Blood pumped from her severed arteries – she coughed, choking, trying to draw rasping breaths. In shock she lay twitching and convulsing for perhaps a minute, but she died too quickly.

  My master begged for mercy, first threatening then pleading; he offered gold and silver, all a lie, for I knew it was hidden and a deceit. If his life was spared, mine in turn would be forfeit. Besides, the daughter would tell. Of that there was little doubt, she did.

  Joe died slowly, my dagger initially stabbing lightly in his throat, not intending to kill too swiftly, then thrust below the ribs, flesh pierced, tissue and sinew forced aside, blood spilling onto the external blade, cutting and slicing into cartilage and thrust upwards towards his ribs. He looked into my eyes as I sought to hurt, five years of misery being revenged.