Becoming the Orc Chieftain

by E. M. Hardy

  “You’re… not even… making sense… with what you’re… saying.”

  “Ha… ha… ha…”

  Kurdan ignored the huffing, preening orcs as they taunted one another, trying to make the other admit their weakness. He didn’t bother, as it would take too much effort to do so—even if he wanted to throw in a choice insult of his own. It didn’t matter, anyway. Some of the weaker orcs displayed their weakness by leaning on a tree, panting openly as they wiped the sweat away from their brows. The other stronger ones fared no better, but at least they pretended to stand strong on their own two feet.

  Now was an acceptable time to call for a halt.

  Kurdan and his band of twenty-five raiders paused from their non-stop jog through the forests. Sweating, panting heavily, they sat down beside a brook and unsealed their packets of dried meats. They also spread out the roots, berries, and mushrooms they had collected during their run.

  Kurdan and the chosen raiders had been running for three days and two nights now. It was almost time for the third night’s sleep, where orcs would grow weak and drowsy. They could push their limits for a few hours if needed, but the Sleep was inevitable. It was something that all orcs dreaded, as it left them exposed to their enemies and their rivals, but it was a limitation that they had yet to overcome. At least they were not like the lazy races—humans, dwarves, gnomes, elves, giants, and trolls—which needed to sleep every time the sun went down.

  The orc chieftain cursed his weakness, feeling the fatigue start to settle its treacherous threads into his body at the second straight day of running. By the third day, those wisps of fatigue had transformed into fingers of pain that lanced into his muscles, poking fire everywhere they reached. His chest heaved with each labored breath, though he did his best to keep his breathing at an even rhythm. He burned with desire to pant openly like the other orcs, to breathe in the night air that would help cool him down.

  But no, he was the new chieftain. He had to maintain an aura of strength, of superiority over the other orcs. He would not brook any challenge to his authority so early into his ascension as chieftain.

  If you looked weak, then you were weak; it was the whole reason why Kurdan had been able to seize upon Zurgha’s frailty before any of the other orcs could mount a challenge. This was why Kurdan poured every ounce of will he could into gathering the ambient magic in the air. He instructed his twin hearts to pump as much blood as they could, his lungs to exchange as much air as they could carry, and his muscles to explode with as much energy as they could safely contain. He was no shaman, but he knew enough about blood magic to bolster the already-impressive capabilities of his orcish body.

  Still, he was thankful that the Sleep was almost upon them. Enough of the other orcs were fatigued now that it was acceptable for Kurdan to call for a rest to prepare for the Sleep. Kurdan himself began digging out a spot in the ground where he could fall asleep, collecting leaves to cushion him as he slept. Everyone else was doing the same, preparing to dig in for the third night.

  Kurdan stared up at the night sky as he settled into his sleep-hole, relishing the way his muscles contracted after three days and nights of continuous running. He squeezed deeper into the leaves, settling in just as another set of feet padded closer to him.

  He turned to the side, and recognized Dulug. It was another she-orc, one of Kurdan’s brood-mates. She approached him dressed in nothing but the sweat steaming from her overheated body, obscuring her naked form in a white cloak of vapor.

  Wait, brood-mate? Is she… is she your sister? Are you serious!?

  Kurdan ignored the voice, beckoning his brood-mate to come lay with him in his bed. Now that he was chieftain, his authority made him far more desirable to every single she-orc in the tribe. He would spread his offspring, and he needed to do so as quickly as possible in order to sire a generation of orcs bound to him by blood.

  After all, he needed to surpass the deeds of Zurgha, the sire that had brought him into this world and the same sire that he had struck down to win his position.

  Wow. Just… wow. You guys are absolutely messed up.

  Chapter 03

  Isiah woke up gasping for breath, sweat streaming down his face and neck. He gasped a few more times before rubbing away the sleep from his face. His entire body felt heavy, his arms and legs hanging like dead weights. It was like he had raced through thick, heavily-wooded forests for three days straight—which is exactly what he had done in his weird dream.

  “Whew,” groaned Isiah. “That… that was intense.” He looked down, and saw the tent pole that formed in his pants; it would seem his body was also quite aware of Kurdan’s last activity prior to falling asleep. “Yeah, seriously intense.” Isiah was worried that he had some pretty worrying issues to deal with if he was having those kinds of dreams. He wasn’t even big on ye olden fantasy stories; he preferred shows, movies, and games that touched on sci-fi and modern warfare. So where did all this stuff about orcs come from?

  “Also,” Isiah whispered to himself as he stared at his pants, remembering the night that Kurdan had. “With dreams like that, looks like I need to get laid. So bad.”

  WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!?

  Isiah jumped up, the intensity of the roar tearing him out of his thoughts. His fear shot up as he recognized the owner of that rough, gravelly, and supremely pissed-off voice.

  “Kurdan!?”

  You!! You are the pest that has been spying on me!? What are you, a human mage? A soul-stealing cabalist? A necromancer? Whatever you are, I swear by the Blood of Cagros that I will rip you from limb to limb the moment I free myself from whatever cage you have trapped me in! I will crush your puny little body! I will tear your throat open and pull your lungs out with my bare hands! I will—

  “Woah there, Satan. Calm down. Just… calm down, okay?”

  Kurdan ignored him, promising death and devastation through increasingly creative methods. Isiah inhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose while trying to fight down the panic that climbed up into his chest. What was going on? Was he going insane? What did he do to deserve this? He asked himself all these questions while the voice called Kurdan continued hurling insults at him.

  “ISIAH HUNTER! I know you’re up! Stop dawdling and get down here—five minutes, tops!”

  “Yes, mom!” Isiah shouted back.

  “Scratch that,” said a more masculine voice. “If you’re not down here in sixty seconds, I’m the one who’s going up there and bringing you down here in as painful and drawn-out a manner as possible.”

  That sent a shiver up Isiah’ spine. “Yes, dad!” he shouted back with much more gusto this time. He shoved the raging promises of Kurdan away and forced himself to focus on the here and now. He picked up his phone, which he had left charging on its stand and slipped on a shirt and pair of shorts. He swung open his door and hurried down to the dining table, where his family was already in place.

  Isiah’s two younger siblings, James and Soo-Young, sat on their respective ends of the table. James was chowing away on the previous night’s leftovers of steamed rice, pickled radish, and seasoned tofu. Soo-Young on the other hand was busy slathering butter over her toast, ready to wipe it on the spilled egg yolk that covered her plate.

  “Morning, dear. You’re going to be late if you dawdle, so start putting some food in your mouth. Eggs or leftovers?”

  “Morning, mum. Yes, mum. Eggs, please” Isiah deadpanned as he took his place on the table, the seat right beside his father. The only problem, however, was that Isiah’s father was not at the table. In fact, he was standing beside the basement door, sweating through his shorts and tank-top shirt.

  Crap, Isiah thought to himself, realizing that his dad was not going to give him a free pass today. Isiah’s mother, Hwa-Young, threw her husband Bradley a wicked glance, but he stood his ground and shook his head. “Just five minutes, dear. He’s getting sloppy, skipping out on training to hang out with his friends. He needs the practi
ce.”

  Isiah’s mother frowned, but ultimately relented. “Correction, Brad: you have four minutes and fifty seconds. Now get going before I change my mind.”

  “You heard the lady, young man. Down now, on the double!”

  Isiah groaned, wanting to get some grub in his stomach, but he knew from hard experience that it was better to just obey his dad and get it over with. He nodded and followed his dad down to the underground dojo. Isiah’s father wasted no time putting on the focus mitts, slapping them together.

  “Alright, champ. Come at me!”

  Isiah didn’t hesitate. He rushed his father, bringing a quick jab to try and catch him in the belly. Bradley reacted quickly, swatting Isiah’s hand away and knocking away the follow-up punch while kneeing away the kick that Isiah sprung. Bradley reached out, tapping Isiah in the head with the focus mitt, laughing while doing so.

  “That’s the spirit! Now… think fast!”

  Bradley swung his mitt, almost catching Isiah in the nose as he ducked back. In response, Isiah lashed out with a foot as he retreated, missing his intended target.

  Hah! The mewling manling thinks he can fight! So weak, so ineffectual. When I have orclings of my own, I will make sure that they tear you and you father to pieces. It would be an easy task for my offspring, the way you two move with so little power in your muscles!

  Kurdan’s ill-timed insult disrupted Isiah’s focus, and he swung too wide—resulting in his father tagging him square in the gut with a focus mitt.

  “Where do you think you’re looking, Isiah? Eyes up, eyes clear!”

  “Yes, sir!” Isiah grunted through gritted teeth, annoyed more at Kurdan than at his father. He looked up at the focus mitten, deflecting it with an elbow before stepping back and parrying a kick. Isiah stepped back once more, dodging a feint and ending up with a focus mitten tapping him in the face.

  Not only weak and ineffectual, but also dumb as a rock! I almost wish your weakling father would stop pampering you and give you a real thrashing. Maybe then the battle-lessons would get beaten into your soft, tiny head!

  Isiah growled, doing his best to ignore Kurdan, and slammed a fist into his father’s focus mitten. Of course, that was exactly what Bradley wanted him to do. Isiah was so focused on venting his frustration out on one mitten, overextending himself to punch the pad, that his father was able to tag him yet again with the other—this time on his shoulder.

  “Hold!” Bradley barked out. “What was your mistake?”

  Huffing in frustration, Isiah stopped to consider what his father said. He reviewed his actions, and grunted in disgust. “I… I aimed for the mitten.”

  “No, that’s not it. Again, what was your mistake?”

  His father’s lessons boiled up from Isiah’s memories, and he looked away in shame. “I… you suckered me.”

  “Getting there, but still not complete. Expound.”

  Isiah inhaled a breath, trying to control his temper and ignore Kurdan’s taunts. “You noticed I was getting frustrated. You offered an easy target for me to hit, something to vent my frustration out on. I fell for the bait, opening myself up for a counterattack.”

  “Very good,” Bradley said as he took off a mitten and laid his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Never forget that lesson, son. People are going to make you want to hate what they want you to hate. They will find every excuse possible to make you overextend. When you let your anger cloud your judgment, when all you want to do is lash out instead of focus on your objective, that’s when you become an easy target for your opponent to demolish.”

  Isiah nodded as he resumed his stance, his father donning his mitten once more and signaling him to start again. Strangely enough, Kurdan remained silent for the rest of the training session.

  ***

  Soon enough, a freshly-showered Isiah stepped into the dining area. A moist towel hung on his father’s shoulders while he busily scrolled through his tablet, sipping coffee as he skimmed over the latest headlines. Soo-Young goggled at cartoons on the family TV while James tapped and swiped away on his phone, no doubt crushing candies and clashing clans.

  Hah, mocked Kurdan—resuming his tirades against Isiah and his family. Typical human. So meek, so weak. I will take great pleasure visiting horror upon your family, make sure that your mother’s screaming voice is the last thing you hear before I shove my dagger into your ear and into your brains.

  Isiah fought back a gag as he looked down at the plate his mother set down, the trembling eggs spilling yolk on his plate.

  A slight gasp caught Isiah’s attention. It came from his mom, who was watching cartoons with Soo-Young. Soo-Young’s attention was captivated by the colorful animals joking around with each other while being chased by pirates with eyepatches and huge noses. However, Isiah’s mother saw none of it as her focus was completely absorbed on the small line of text scrolling across the bottom screen of the cartoon.

  Hwa-Young jumped up from her seat beside her daughter and reached for her phone on the kitchen counter. She tapped it feverishly, her slender fingers trembling. Her husband didn’t miss her reaction, and his eyes widened as he read through the scrolling text on the TV screen. Soon enough, he too was busy mashing the screen of his tablet.

  The text had stopped scrolling on the TV by the time Isiah noticed something was wrong. The reactions of his parents worried him, so he dug out his phone from his pocket and went about checking the news outlets he had subscribed to on social media.

  And that’s when he realized why his parents were so worried.

  “We have confirmed reports of multiple gun and bomb attacks in California—specifically Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Orange County. The Golden Sword has claimed responsibility for the attack, though we have received no official word yet whether the extremist group is indeed behind these incidents. The Golden Sword is the same group that was responsible for similar attacks in Moscow, Tbilisi, Jakarta, Manila, and Ürümqi. The group has risen in prominence, absorbing scattered elements of Al-Qaeda and ISIS into its operations. Elements from both the military and law enforcement are currently—”

  Isiah stopped reading when he remembered that Uncle Chunso lived in Orange County. He peered at his mom, who walked out of the kitchen with her phone pressed tight to her ears. His dad, on the other hand, grimaced as he dialed numbers on his phone—no doubt contacting his army buddies that would probably know more about what was going on in Cali.

  Oh, did your kin die a horrible death? Good. It is but a prelude to the pain and suffering you can expect from me should I—

  “Chunso?” Isiah bit back a mental retort to Kurdan as his mother barked out her brother’s name. She then proceeded to barrage her phone with Korean spoken so fast he couldn’t make out any of the words. However, her slumped shoulders and relieved sigh told Isiah that his uncle was safe and sound. It disturbed him a bit, feeling relief that his uncle was alright even though others had no doubt lost loved ones in this latest attack.

  ***

  “Dude, did you hear about what happened in Cal?”

  Isiah nodded absent-mindedly at Eddy, his mind still buzzing with the morning’s revelations. He and his best-bud Eddy were taking the bus school, and almost everyone was busy buzzing about the latest bombings to hit American soil. Both were worried, however, about what these attacks would mean for their fathers—both of whom served.

  “Crap. I hope it’s not another Iraq or Afghanistan,” said Eddison. “Dad almost got tagged in Afghanistan a couple years back. Green-on-green, a defector that decided to switch sides. He’s still so rattled by that attack that he doesn’t want me being friends with Hasan, you know.”

  Isiah shook his head. “Hasan’s a pussycat. That big old softy would rather eat a punch than dish one out. Doesn’t help that most folks would probably take that offer up if they knew he wouldn’t hit back, however.”

  Eddy sniffed as he chomped down on a snack bar, which he reached over to Isiah. “No thanks
. Already ate this morning.” Eddy shrugged and bit off another end of the bar. “You’re lucky your dad is based in Korea.”

  “Was based in Korea,” corrected Isiah. “I think he’s been reassigned back here, with how much time he spends nowadays. Not that I would know for sure since he doesn’t say squat about what he does, anyhow.”

  They passed through a military checkpoint, soldiers waving down the school bus. Bigger drones circled up in the sky while smaller drones hovered around the shoulders of the soldiers, their rifles dangling from their bags.

  “Hey,” said Eddy, a couple of nuts falling from his mouth as he spoke. “That one’s new.”

  Isiah looked at the direction Eddy pointed to, and saw a tank sitting right behind the soldiers. No, it wasn’t a tank, but an infantry fighting vehicle. It was smaller than a tank, thinner and sleeker, while also sporting a smaller turret than the ones Isiah knew from games and movies.

  “Wow,” whispered Isiah as the other kids in the bus murmured with worry. “That looks really kickass.”

  Eddy huffed as he polished off the rest of his snack bar. “Naw, I take it back; that thing’s trash. M2 Bradley, three steps down from the M5 currently in service. It’s so old it’s still using the Bushmaster cannon instead of the new railgun systems. It only has steel plating, for crying out loud. They must be desperate if they’re pulling out mothballed tanks as old as this one.”

  Isiah grinned at his friend, who was in love with everything related to military hardware. “I thought it wasn’t a tank?”

  Eddy grimaced and playfully elbowed Isiah in the shoulder. “You know what I mean, twerp.”

  Isiah grinned, then pulled out his phone. “Up for a round?” he asked Eddy, who grinned back and pulled out his own phone. Isiah swiped the unlocking pattern on his screen, and tapped on the icon for the shooter that he and Eddy loved to play.

  “Two-man?”

  “A-yup,” said Eddy, who had already logged into the game. He picked his avatar—an overly-muscled man with tribal tattoos, lugging around a heavy chaingun around with him. Isiah’s character was the direct opposite: a small man that wore a ghillie suit and sported a semi-automatic marksman rifle. “Dude, when are you gonna pick up some real skills instead of relying on spray-and-pray all the time?”