Miller, Half-Orc

by J R Marshall

  “Sometimes masters of craft seek allies in the music, as guides to the way home, but you, Miller, will never need them.”

  Faster as my mind sought the air, the stillness of the room, my mind sped back. I had already broken the meditation, but still consciousness had not returned.

  Flashing in front of my mind I could see the cascade of music, hear each trumpet, each crescendo, shards of power whipping before me, the ocean or perceptions finally speeding beneath. I was getting closer.

  I needed to wake up. I touched my nose, tapping my cheek, scratching my arm, till finally thumping my hand on the floor, I sensed a curtain descend, as a chemical barrier within the brain. I had resurfaced, the music had gone.

  Drawing deep breaths, I sat there, my right hand clenching straw, my skin cold and sweat dripping across my face. What the hell?

  I needed counsel. Where’s Tam? I was scared.

  After a while I dressed. My clothes were dry; the time spent in front of the fire had been sufficient, and sensing the abundance of energy in my body, I stepped out and grabbing some rags that were placed on a table aside the door, these to act as arse wipes for those paying for ‘good rooms’, I looked down the corridor. The inn was busy, yet still room to sit alone at a table.

  The innkeeper espied me. “Did you find the room comfortable, master?” he asked.

  “Yes, I slept well, and appreciate your accommodating me so late in the night. What time is it.”

  “Well! I guess it’s some two hours before midday, but Magda can get a better answer for you in a minute.”

  “Yes please.” I paused. “Where’s the midden?” I held a rag visible so he got the point.

  “End of the corridor, outside to your left, but you can use mine, just back here first right, and follow the smell.”

  I walked back past the barrels looking for a hound that seemed elusive.

  The rags are always reused, boiled in a metal cauldron, as cloth is seldom wasted; only after it is threadbare would the rags finally be used to make char-cloth, and added to tinder boxes.

  The cleaning of rags was typically the much-loved job of the youngest daughter within a family. I’d learnt some strange things in my youth. Never having rags, I was lucky to wipe my arse with dried moss or lichen.

  Re-entering the common area, the innkeeper was arguing with a customer who was denying the cost of something as Magda walked up, folding a brass sundial.

  “Hello, did you sleep well?” she smiled, looking up at me for I was almost two feet taller than her.

  “Yes, it was fine, do you know the hour?”

  “Tis about two and a quarter hours before the midday. Will you be wanting anything else, master?”

  Leaving the Haggard Hen, I made a point of exercising kindness and placed six copper pieces before the innkeeper and with considerable politeness thanked him for his hospitality, for the selective application of kindness as demonstrated in this instance was I was sure, an investment for the future. I think the innkeeper’s estimation of half-orcs improved somewhat that day.

  There wasn’t enough time to seek Tam, but I would try and explain to Grimnir my problem, although even access to Grimnir would be problematic. In the meantime I needed better weather protection, probably a waxed hooded cloak.

  Marching through town I passed various artisan shops, their shutters thrown back with doors wide ajar, some with their merchandise spilling onto the sidewalks. I started looking for a tanner or cobbler.

  Passing one tanner displaying sheets of foul-smelling hides, I approached, standing in the doorway, blocking out the light so my arrival was instantly noticed.

  “Yes warrior, what can I get you?”

  “I need leather cut and fitted for this helm.” Taking the iron helmet from my head, I tilted the inside towards him, asking, “It must be cured, cut and fitted within the hour, and using properly cured leather, properly thick and devoid of stench. I don’t want to be reminded of your shop as I walk around.”

  He hesitantly reached out a hand. “May I see, master?”

  “Should I go to a cobblers, or is this something you can do, and if so, how much?”

  “Tomorrow it would be four copper, but I cannot do it in an hour.”

  We settled upon eight copper and I left the helm with him, carefully taking time to orientate myself, remembering the tanner’s location.

  The tanner had given directions to a clothes provisioning merchant, with the promise that he would have the job done on time.

  On the way I bought some rations, a cooked leg of lamb, full water skin, and a small sack to hang at the belt, and arriving at the destination of the outfitters, I looked around. Was I being followed?

  I sensed eyes upon me. No, not just the curious, something more!

  Well, it was probable, every footpad had scouts, and I looked like a stranger, for with every glance to my left and right, with every hesitation at a junction, it was obvious to any would-be thug that I was unfamiliar, a visitor from out of town.

  Well, it shows industriousness on the part of the local opportunists. Perhaps it was Ralpor, maybe he had hired some thugs to get his revenge; the toerags would rob me, and Ralpor would gain satisfaction.

  The provisioner situated down a shaded archway had a plethora of merchandise on display – harnesses, ropes, hoods, boots, tack and wares for a multitude of purposes.

  Stepping either side of displayed items, I was quickly noticed by a woman, tall and slender, greasy hair tied back, and wearing an apron replete with tool belt, knives and counting pole. She instructed a boy to enquire upon my needs.

  “Get me the woman,” I said, “for I don’t want a boy serving me, I have silver and need a waxed cloak, complete with hood. I want to be dry in a storm, now go and tell your mistress.”

  The boy, somewhat scalded, left and spoke to the woman, who listened carefully and after a moment sent the boy on another errand. She approached, hiding her nervousness, this was after all, her domain. Nerves belying her confidence, she stood alone before a storm, a half-orc, and such creatures are notorious for brutality.

  “Warrior, how might I help? The boy says you need clothing against the rain, what had you in mind?”

  “A hooded cloak, waxed and made with quality material, I want to be bone dry in a storm, likewise it must cover me as you see me now.”

  I knew this would be a problem, for I was massive, and the chances were against me, but with considerable good fortune, three were found that fitted and seemed well constructed.

  The cost was too much; six silver pieces with the least desirable of the three at five.

  “Bloody hell, I’ll be impoverished at this rate,” but arguing was not getting me anywhere. In the end we settled on the least conspicuous of the three; it was dark green, almost black. I managed a modest discount, five and a half silver pieces.

  “I need to borrow your boy for fifteen minutes, there maybe someone stalking me and I need a rear exit from this courtyard, and guidance to the tanner,” whose name I gave.

  “Six silver for you ask too much, the boy is needed,” but she relented as I started to remove the cloak.

  The boy led me through alleys and streets, quickly for he knew the way none better, and I bribed him with a copper piece.

  The helm fitted, and after five minutes’ adjustment I was satisfied.

  My hood in place, I travelled with greater purpose to the square where the caravan would depart. As I approached, the streets became more congested, and with my cloak fastened tight around my body I placed a hand on the haft of my dagger. Where would Grimnir be?

  The gates on the south side of the town lay open and a steady stream of traffic was moving in that direction. Whilst many trains jostled for position, giant shire horses scraped their hooves, anxious of the noise and clamour.

  There were mighty wagons alongside smaller carts, the comparison stark, for these the largest wagons were owned by wealthy merchants or possibly partly owned jointly with others. The rich and those n
ot so blessed. Some men-at-arms, though not many, tried to keep the peace as families streamed toward the gates, others seemed content to watch and wait without apparent activity nor readiness to leave.

  Grimnir had said there would be hundreds in this caravan, and perhaps there were, but families sat on a cart or clerics riding mules, two hundred souls with their possessions produced quite a sizeable line.

  This is too crowded. I didn’t like being jostled. There will be thieves in this crowd, and the tight, confining space would benefit their work. Today, Cragtor would provide rich picking and I didn’t want to be one of those targeted.

  Most established trades had a Guild to promote and protect the interests of its members; thieves were no exception, being bound by rules and mutual support, for thievery was a profession just like every other.

  Pushing back my hood, so that my face and helm were more visible, I hoped Grimnir might find me, though I suspected he wouldn’t acknowledge my presence, at least not yet.

  “Warrior!” said a man sitting on a mid-sized wagon drawn by two large oxen. He had a wife and three children with him, the wagon was unusually long with four wheels a large tarpaulin draped over the rear contents. One of the children, a small boy, sat at the back feet hanging over the side.

  The man who had hailed me was encouraging the oxen to greater effort as fighting for space, the wagon laden with what seemed a lifetime’s paraphernalia, moved slowly forward yet constantly jostling for advantage.

  “My name’s Nandrosphi, are you heading to Hedgetown?”

  “What business is it of yours?” I asked, looking at him. His wife was scowling and whispering in his ear.

  “None at all, sir.” He leapt down, passing the reins to his eldest son, marching over, hand outstretched, a cheerful smile on his face.

  “But it’s a bloody long way, and if you fancy a ride, I could bribe you?” He was cocky and I didn’t dislike his approach. “My wife’s a bloody marvellous cook,” he looked me in the eye, “but don’t tell her I said so.” He grinned, looking at me whilst hiding his doubt, for he was taking a chance. Glancing down, he observed my mail, and knew that such armour only came to those competent in battle.

  “Now why would you want to do that?” I asked, though suspecting I already knew. His wagon would be one of the slower ones, and it was obvious there weren’t enough soldiers.

  “Can you raise the tarpaulin over the wagon, as shelter against the rain?” I wasn’t bothered about getting wet, but even though my chainmail armour was lightly coated with oil, it was still made of iron, and yesterday’s drenching had already caused a slight discolouration, the early signs of rust. Chainmail needs regularly rubbing down with sand and cloth.

  “It does indeed, master warrior. Give me your name, sir.”

  So it was that I sat alongside Nandrosphi; we had agreed that I would be fed, and that one of his children would clean my mail each afternoon – half an hour’s daily work was sufficient to keep rust at bay. I dared not be without it at night, so the boy would clean during the noon stop, or at other times when the caravan paused along its journey.

  So not everyone hates my breed, I thought as I sat there, the seat mercifully sprung, for the wagon pitched and tossed as it remonstrated with every undulation of the street.

  “It’ll get easier as we get out of town, Miller.” He passed me some weed, and asked if I’d tried it before.

  I knew of drugs, of herbs and plants used for medicinal purposes, and said that I needed them not. “My only vice is beer.”

  “It’ll take three days to Hedgetown, shall I send Dan back to get more? For I fear there’ll not be enough if you drink heavily.”

  Now that, I thought was a good idea; the sun was out, the clouds mostly parted, and I had by good fortune found someone that on the face of it might offer decent company. We were approaching the gate, but I could walk faster than this lurching charabanc.

  “I’ll go,” and leaving my pack, sac, axe and cloak behind, for they knew their life depended upon not touching my equipment, I headed down a side street. I had seen the sign ‘shambles’, and wanted to enjoy this trip. After all, I ate a lot and was hungry.

  Looking like a warrior, and I bloody well purposed to be, people moved out of my way, and striding into the slaughter house sought an employee.

  “Give me twelve pounds of quality beef, and one cured leg of lamb. Wrap the leg up and the beef salted, you must have some already prepared… Now!”

  “Err, oh, err…”

  “Now! I’m in a hurry,”

  In the end I paid one silver and three copper, whilst they fabricated the order as best they could, seeking out hung beef, and cannibalising another customer’s order till mine was right.

  I told them to fetch a barrel of beer. “You, lad, he works for you doesn’t he?” I asked the older lad in attendance.

  “Yes sir, but we don’t sell beer, you could try down the pathway, old Meg may have something to sell.”

  “You bloody well try down the pathway… and it better be good. Stop pissing me around.” I growled and made it perfectly clear that I needed better service.

  It was midday, when I set off with a barrel of beer under my arm – for I was immensely strong – the meat slung in a sack.

  I couldn’t see Nandrosphi’s wagon, and after a few minutes a horn sounded and I heard someone say the caravan was underway.

  A quarter of a mile farther, my arm was starting to ache but Nandrosphi was just ahead. Looking over his shoulder, he stayed his wagon until I caught up. The sack was loaded and the barrel more carefully heaved aboard.

  “Your wife better be a good cook, for I eat like a horse, but I’ve one spare leg of lamb, and twelve pounds of beef. I’ve not tested the ale, but it should be potable.”

  I reached in my pack for the spare leg of lamb I had previously acquired; it was pre-cooked and sold by the same merchant that had provisioned my ration pack. A late breakfast, I offered none to my companion.

  According to Tam, the distance to Hedgetown was some thirty-eight miles, but was that as the crow flew, or the road wended? Nandrosphi didn’t rightly know, he just knew of it in days and hours. Already the faster parts of the convoy were spreading out. Nandrosphi’s wagon having set off in advance of the main column was still near the front, but it was apparent that come nightfall we would be catching up.

  His wagon was slow and as I suspected we were passed by all those more fleet afoot, indeed everyone walking was faster. This is why cities are built adjacent to the coast or adjoining a navigable river, overland travel is slow, especially transporting cargo.

  Noticing that Nandrosphi drove slightly on the left and that we were being passed by all and sundry, I told him I wanted to sit on his right-hand side, “Better to observe my fellow traveller,” but really to be more noticeable by Grimnir, who I feared might pass me and I would go unobserved, I needed to talk.

  Nandrosphi explained that he was seeking to establish a fletcher’s shop, that is one who makes arrows, for, “There is little need for many fletchers amongst the safe and civilised parts of Culanun.” Arrows are required in times of war, which is why he was moving his family to Hedgetown. “Not much need when the enemy is far away.”

  He bemoaned that bribery and corruption had driven him to despair. “The least competent and most sycophantic have gained business at the expense of our struggling business.” Though he assured me he was the finest fletcher in the kingdom.

  Now in this I was mildly interested, not because I felt sorry for him, but I wondered how it was managed under Tam’s administration, for she had mentioned the very same word when describing the characters that plagued her court.

  We left around midday, with the sunset expected four hours before midnight.

  “Have you travelled in a caravan before?” I enquired.

  “Oh yes, a few, but this is the final leg.”

  “When do we stop?”

  “When I was travelling to…”

  “I don’t
need to know! A simple answer please!” I wasn’t trying to fall out with him, I just wasn’t that interested in the small talk, not that there was much else.

  “Well, typically an hour before sunset, it allows for stragglers to catch up.”

  “So now?”

  “Yes, I guess so. Look ahead, they are already positioning.”

  I could see the caravan corralling around the road, wagons and persons positioning themselves, none wanting to be on the extremities of the gathering, yet some, the wiser, seeking a good pitch, knowing that after the latecomers arrived they would be left with a fine location yet not belatedly too far from the centre of the ever enlarging camp.

  A rider on horseback galloped past; he wore padded armour, and seemed to have a purpose. I stood up, looking back, trying to work out his destination, for this looked like a paid soldier, not a mercenary such as I.

  The rider stayed his mount about four hundred yards behind, but it was difficult to see, different sized wagons and mounted parties partially blocking my view.

  “Is it safe to leave my possessions in your care?” I asked, for the weather was dry, and I wanted to walk.

  “You want to get down?”

  “I do. There’s no need to stop, I’ll find you.”

  Jumping down, I watched as Nandrosphi’s wagon lumbered on; he had experience of camping and it was clear that I would only be a hindrance.

  Turning back, I shouted out to his wife. “I want four pounds of steak, it’s in the sack.” She watched me as I walked away.

  Sitting atop a gentle sloping mound I observed as riders galloped to and fro, noticing with increasing certainty the arrival of Grimnir’s entourage.

  Why did people mass around him? Had they no business of their own, or were these the arseholes of his court? My would-be false friends, surely not all, for some would have relevant business.

  My head turned, looking for the direction that Nandrosphi’s cart had veered, for it would be easier in an hour or so to find him, all the while waiting for Grimnir’s approach.

  It took twenty minutes for Grimnir’s party to pass, and the sun was setting. I had counted only twenty soldiers, even allowing for possible duplications.