Miller, Half-Orc

by J R Marshall

  If I pressed on it was looking increasingly likely, for they would pick Git off, whilst they flanked me. Sodding hell! I spoke to Wisp and asked that he check the cave we had left near Krun’s cliff, just my luck if a bear had taken up residence.

  Wisp was gone for five minutes which in the dead of night seemed an eternity. Here I was alone, stood in the light snow surrounded by more than one pack of wolves, who driven by hunger weren’t getting the message that their efforts were futile, my hound cowering at the back of the shelter. At least I could see through the snow, which was turning into a blizzard.

  Do wolves like blizzards? And looking across the hills I could see more animals arriving. No wonder the drovers’ trail had been abandoned, it’s a death trap. Bear or no, we were heading back and I knew that a fire placed at the entrance of the cave would ward against most creatures.

  Wisp returning told me there were two bears within four hundred yards of the cave mouth, yet none inside, though he couldn’t guarantee the situation in ten minutes.

  What the hell were bears doing walking around at night? But I was ignorant, for many bears are nocturnal.

  Every time Wisp was with me, my mind had heightened perception, greater mental acuity, and as I swiped at a wolf that was edging around the slope, emboldened by his numerous peers, I darted into the tent, scrambling on all fours, grabbing my backpack and clutching a near frozen hound by the neck, none too gently, for there was no coming back. I uttered my craft, conjuring the waypoints inscribed in my mind, visualising the ashen remnants of a fire, fissures deep within walls, the outline of the cave mouth, and forming the best representation of where I wanted to be. I hoped that in my haste I hadn’t missed any pertinent detail.

  Transporting myself by craft could be done relatively safely up to my limit of four miles, but as Tam had taught previously, provided I knew the location and could visualise it in my mind accurately the distances could be magnified many times over. Yet the risk was immense for an inaccurate mental image could cause the effects to go tragically wrong, ported in the wrong direction, arriving in peril at a location that wasn’t safe. You couldn’t look at an oil painting of a scenic landscape and rely on accuracy, you needed to be very familiar with the destination.

  Blinking out from the rocky outcrop, and appearing some ten feet within the cave, no taller than Git, my backside sticking up in the air, I arrived as I started, on all fours.

  Wisp was absent, all normal, but I drew my sword, and bellowed into the night air, hoping to scare any bear away, for most were cowedly and would seek to avoid confrontation. But only Wisp could confirm their location, and that took a whole forty seconds before his arrival and a further three minutes whilst he checked the area.

  “One hundred and fifty yards away and moving off,” thus he spoke across my thoughts. Too bloody close, I needed a fire, and there was scant wood available; a few half burnt snapped branches but not enough for the night. I made do. Wisp would advise when the animals were farther away, but after ten minutes of occasionally shouting into the night air, I had succeeded in mustering a measly flame, and whilst it wasn’t snowing, there was still rain and I needed better warmth.

  To the reader, I always knew I had Tam’s rusty nail, a nondescript object that could bring me into her castle bedchamber, although thinking of it, I had no idea whether Git could come with me. Nonetheless it was a succour, a bisque, a letting off in times of distress, an advantage to be played when the situation was dire, for my powers of craft would not avail when distances were too great. This cave was a waypoint perhaps. I would build up a repertoire of these known locations, landmarks that were immutable and I could leapfrog between.

  The night, what remained of it, was nigh near over, yet I foraged for wood, for I would spend the next week both allowing Git to recover and plotting my passage across the mountains, plus if truth were known, I was glad of the warmth. The cave gave shelter whilst the passage through the mountains could be forgotten.

  On the second day I transported myself alone to the rocky outcrop, and discovered with some dismay my shredded tarpaulin, yet over the next four days I found landmarks that I could port to, and before the end of the week, I had furnished enough information to avoid the drovers’ pass completely.

  So it was that with better preparation and allowing the passage of time, Git and I arrived at a cairn of rocks some three miles beyond the far side of the Grey Mountains. It was a fine spring day, and we had travelled directly by craft avoiding the mountain pass, a distance of approximately fifteen miles, and sitting down I waited for Wisp to arrive whilst I unpacked my lodestone and map, the map copied from Tam’s library, and although Wisp told me there were men similar to me yet different within half a mile, I still chose to remove my mail and orientate my position.

  Lodestones, a form of compass, naturally magnetic rock would when hung by a thread, indicate north, and after twenty minutes, I marked my position, looking at the sun, triangulating the approximation of where I was, for I knew the drovers’ trail on Tam’s map, and I was simply approximating for added accuracy.

  This land east of the Grey Mountains was about one hundred and thirty miles long, wider in the south yet narrowing the farther north, bordered by the Eastern Sea, and full of petty kingdom states who for the most part were in constant turmoil. Tam had warned there was one significant practitioner of craft, by the name of Edric, and he had built and supported an empire of barbarians originating in the far distant east, far the other side of the Eastern Sea, yet there were others still, less powerful, three his lieutenants, most scarcely sorcerers, but there were perhaps eight in total.

  There was smoke away to my south south east, almost southerly, and I needed to find shelter or acquire it one way or another; it was six hours before midday, and I walked cautiously towards a clump of trees, towards the humanoids Wisp had described as similar to me, but Wisps understanding of people was still very limited. One of the first lessons I had furnished him was the approximation of distance, a philosophy wholly alien to a spirit entity, yet he had picked up the concept quite well, so when he described one hundred yards or two miles he was with practice fairly accurate.

  Redressed in mail, my backpack lighter, devoid of tarpaulin, yet still I was ladened down, I walked forwards. I was free of Culanun, but like the coming of age, it seemed no great difference and hesitating, hand on the pommel of my sword, I asked Wisp for guidance.

  Shit! Wisp shot back into my conscientiousness, knocking my thoughts aside.

  “Three twenty feet to your left.” And looking, I couldn’t see anyone, which meant trouble. “Like you but different.” I wondered if Wisp meant orcs.

  “Get your stinking hides out here!” Pointing to where I knew they lay hidden, stepping back a few feet, I looked at Git. “Stupid useless hound, couldn’t smell a cesspit at twenty feet?” And I kicked Git back, for I wanted to kick him forward, but he would die. What was wrong with the hound?

  There was a pause for nothing happened and I repeated my words in orcish, thinking to do the same in elven, yet everyone spoke the common tongue, it wasn’t necessary.

  The application of craft is a combination of your potential to fashion spells and the ability of an intelligent mind to store and recall the energy stored in the body, plus the means of gaining the connective forces deep in meditation. Tam had counselled against vanity, saying depth of mediation wasn’t the same as power.

  There were magnitudes of craft; a practitioner could cast many weak spells or only a few powerful applications and I, having known I would only be transporting myself once, plus an allowance for escape, had several options available to me, all weak in effect, only one useful for this situation.

  So drawing my sword, I bellowed that they were turds, and that I would slaughter them all if they hadn’t been spawned in a puddle.

  Twenty feet wasn’t so far, and so walking slowly forwards, brandishing my sword, seven orcs stepped towards me, some rising from thickets, others advancing out of trees. />
  I already knew what I wanted, this would be my first test. I needed to dominate and kill their leader, so I watched, looking for authority, judging who if any had control, and I would probably fail in dominating for no one succeeds at their first attempt and I was very young.

  They snarled, spoke with little varied vocabulary, not many words greater than five letters, as a child might speak, and with crass, banal stupidity.

  Looking at them I was hopeful to find some redeeming qualities, a sense of humour, intellectual comprehension, anything! Yet their filthy rags were riddled with lice and ticks and their manners betrayed their witlessness. I had found myself a band of feral, ignorant orc peasants, not a great start.

  Standing before them dressed in mail the contrast was stark; my sword was probably worth more than the whole of their possessions, and looking them in the eye, one after another, they shuffled nervously and I was despondent.

  There is a futility in ignorance, never mind how much I could try to teach these individuals they would always be a liability.

  Eventually one spoke then followed by another, demanding that I drop my weapons and submit. The seven orcs wielded clubs and daggers and one had a pitted sword.

  “You’ll live if you give us your copper and silver,” thus spoke two at the same time, a well rehearsed challenge, for the two spoke identical words.

  “Such ambition!” I said, and staring at them I wondered how they had managed to survive for they couldn’t rely on intelligence and their leadership was of dubious quality.

  “May I keep my gold then? Thirty pieces, if all you want is copper and silver?” I watched. I didn’t actually have that much gold but this was mildly entertaining.

  All my future years I would make sure my followers were intelligent, and I was off to a bad start.

  I drew my sword and told them to lie on the ground or die and surprisingly one complied whilst the others rushed at me, screaming and cursing in orcish. They died, although it was slightly harder than I imagined for fighting is at least one task ignorant orc peasants can manage.

  So I had my first follower, the only one of the seven who had the wits to know they would lose.

  It was a beginning, barely. His name was Berrek and he lay at my feet, a supplicant for he had witnessed my sorcery and was glad to be alive.

  “Get up, and clean my armour with sand and cloth.” He knew how.