Becoming the Orc Chieftain

by E. M. Hardy

  “I want to reward your people for doing their best. I want to stop relying on fear and coercion to force your people to farm, build, and research. I want your people to actually want to do what I need them to do, to excel in everything they do, because they know something good will come out of it.” Kurdan inhaled deeply, bracing himself for what he was going to say next. “I want your people to become part of my tribe, to bind our fates to one another as equals, and I need your help to do so.”

  Kurdan was getting tired of seeing Bartholomew swinging between different reactions, as he once again left his mouth hanging in shock. He instead turned to Alyon, who seemed to finally understand where Kurdan was going with this discussion.

  “You ask a difficult thing of us, Overchief. You… you have taken us away from our homes, never to return to them. You have killed so many of us, so many of our loved ones in your attack on Greenhold, that I do not think… no, that it will be very difficult for us to simply turn around and view you as a master we will willingly serve—much less as friends or allies.”

  Kurdan nodded without a trace of a sneer or malice on his face. “This is true, and I will not deny anything that you said. I brought your people under my control, my influence, for the simple reason that I need humans who can do things that my orcs cannot.

  “This does not change the fact, however, that I would rather have willing servants rather than slaves under the lash. Would you rather I have my orcs watch your people day and night, keep them penned within a small compound as they toil under armed guard? Or would you rather have your people gain more privileges, more comforts, and even more freedoms over time as they prove their trust and loyalty to the tribe?” Kurdan stated the last point as he turned toward Bartholomew, emphasizing the word ‘freedoms’ while doing so.

  Alyon hesitated for a second, doubtlessly probing Kurdan’s aura with those unseeing eyes of hers before slowly nodding. “As you say, Overchief. I believe that I and Bartholomew have a few suggestions to help make the lives of our new people a little bit more bearable.”

  ***

  Kurdan sighed as he dismissed the two priests from his hut. Regular working hours, internal trade with a system of currency, owning their own homes, a temple to Galena for both healing and worship: these were the concessions that Kurdan had granted to the humans within his tribe. He had denied their request for free movement outside the camp, though they could do so as long as they had orcish escorts watching over them. This was especially true for the mages, who would only be allowed outside the camp under heavy guard.

  One demand that surprised both Alyon and Bartholomew, however, was Kurdan’s requirement that all manlings attend the “school” that he planned to set up. It would involve educating both manlings and orclings, training them with the skills they needed to be useful while teaching them the ways and beliefs of the tribe. The priests noted the similarities to their own upbringing as priests, when they were raised in temples dedicated to passing on the lessons and teachings of Galena. They also commented on the similarity to the human Academy, an institution that searched for and trained humans found to have talent for magic. The priests were skeptical about the idea of a ‘school’ as Kurdan put it, worried that the Overchief had some insidious plan in mind for them.

  They weren’t too far off from the mark, considering he planned to ‘indoctrinate’ them as Isiah put it. He wanted to start influencing the next generation, planting lessons within the minds of both orcling and manling so that they would come to depend on one another. Despite all their hemming and hawing, they could not outright refuse Kurdan’s command. In the end, they settled for asking him dozens of questions about what this school of his entailed before he tired of their interrogation and commanded them away.

  Kurdan got up from his desk and took a moment to examine his hut.

  It was no longer the simple mud structure that he had inherited from the old chieftain, Zurgha. It was a now a spacious log cabin, complete with a generous straw bed, a well-stocked larder, a sturdy rack for his weapons, and a smoldering firepit in the center. Among those weapons was his pride and joy, the first functional crossbow. It was currently unstrung, its flaccid poison creeper drawstring wound around the blend of orcbone and Burnt Halewood that made up the body of the bow. He looked up, noting how the roof was now made of ceramic shingles instead of rotting leaves. Those leaves were a pain to deal with since they had to be replaced after a month or so when they began decaying. A small bowl of fruits sat on a table on the other side while a sack of potatoes lay on the ground beside the table. He could simply pick up one of the tubers and toss it into the fire if he wanted to eat a simple meal. He could also use some of the flour in a separate sack, mix it with some cow milk, chicken eggs, and yeast powder to bake some bread on the flat stone placed on top of the firepit.

  He swiveled his gaze toward another corner of the hut, which contained a rack of smoked strips of meat from the pigs and cows that the humans began raising. His tribe enjoyed similar amenities, while humans were helping build similar cabins in the other tribes. The influx of new laborers meant that he could expect more farms, more cabins, and possibly more innovations as his research programs expanded. All these would help make life easier for the orcs as they trained for battle, beating one another to strengthen their bodies while keeping a sharp eye out for those disciplined enough to wield a pike or crossbow. His lieutenants were also training the orcs to fight as cohesive units operating off horn signals—a far cry from the crazed mob of blood-crazed orcs that knew nothing else than to charge blindly into their enemies.

  Now that he had more humans, he could perhaps set up an operation to start exploring the mineral and metal deposits around the area. Orcbone and Burnt Halewood were tough materials, but they were not malleable like metals. He could already imagine using a few metallic tools that would prove useful, like ploughs, nails, screws, pipes, and even musket barrels provided his researchers could stumble upon a compound that could match or exceed the explosive force of gunpowder. He wasn’t sure if such a tool would do anything against mage wards or enchanted armor. After the success of his crossbows and their treated Halewood bolts though, it was an option that Kurdan decided was worth exploring if it should ever come up.

  He was also keen on securing a supply of salt, for it could help preserve surplus food to create a stockpile. Once he had more Snipers, Pikers, and Berserkers, he could perhaps take down the fortress city of Witherwatch. Or maybe he could just besiege it, lock its forces down within its thick, warded walls while he sent a raiding force to capture more slaves from the nearby towns and villages.

  He was so locked away in his own thoughts and dreams, planning for the future of his vastly expanded tribe, that he almost failed to notice the she-orc that walked in unannounced into his cabin. He eyed her curiously, taking in the familiar sight of a newly-pregnant Borba. The Boneseeker’s top breeder walked in, and her pronounced bump told Kurdan that she should be expecting a brood of three, maybe even four within the next few months. At least one of those orclings would be his since he had been rutting Borba for a few months before she tired of him and set about collecting the seed of other he-orcs—most notably Gnadug. Kurdan was confident in the strength of his seed, but he did not want to underestimate the strength of Gnadug’s seed. He guessed he would just wait for Borba to give birth so he could see how many of her offspring would take from him.

  “Greetings, Overchief. Are you expecting other guests tonight? Anyone who might visit your cabin or enter unannounced?”

  Borba’s flat expression warned Kurdan that something was not right. She was alert and on guard, her muscles tensed and her gaze sharp. He instinctively drew his hand closer to the bone dagger strapped to his hip while he stood up and moved toward the jug of water on the larder—which happened to be just beside the weapon rack holding his axe and club.

  “No, Borba, I don’t think anyone will be visiting me this night. What did you want?”

  To Kurd
an’s surprise, Borba turned around and peeked outside of the hut. Once she was sure no one was nearby, she closed the door as tightly as she could, pulled down the wooden covers on his windows, and stepped closer to Kurdan. He didn’t even try to hide the way he tightened his grip around his dagger, nor did he pretend to do anything else but go for his weapons. By the time Borba approached him, Kurdan had one hand firmly on the hilt of his dagger and another settled lightly on the handle of the club that swung freely on his side.

  Borba took one look at Kurdan’s defensive posture and laughed loudly, mockingly at him. “If you plan to kill me, Overchief, then at least wait until I have given you my warning—one that could help you live just a little bit longer if you heed it properly.”

  Kurdan did not loosen his posture nor did he take his eyes off her, at least not immediately. “Deliver your warning then.”

  “Very well.” Borba huffed in offense and dissatisfaction before boring her eyes into Kurdan. “Your seed is weak,” she whispered low, “unable to take root, and you will lose your position once the other orcs find out about it. That is my warning, oh mighty Overchief.” She turned around sharply, intent on leaving as quickly as she could. She instead found herself pinned to the wall, her face mashed against the solid Halewood trunks of Kurdan’s cabin as an Orcbone dagger settled point-first into the flesh on the back of her neck, right above the base of her skull.

  “Explain.” There was no heat in Kurdan’s voice, but neither was there a trace of threat within it. The single word was, however, filled to the brim with lethal intent.

  “I will, Overchief, if you will let me go. I cannot think well when my life is being threatened by the same he-orc I am trying to save.”

  Kurdan held his blade for a heartbeat longer, then released Borba. She grunted less in pain and more in dissatisfaction, loathing the way Kurdan treated her after approaching him with the intent to help.

  “You are free. Now… explain.”

  Borba wanted to shoot back a sharp reply toward the Overchief but held her tongue all the same. One of the perks of being the tribe’s best breeder was that she could get away with insulting, berating, and even maligning the most powerful orcs in the tribe without consequence. She stared down other crueler orcs far more frightening and intimidating than Kurdan—and those were the ones that beat her to an inch of her life for refusing to submit. They did not, however, end her; she was simply too fecund to kill. This was why she shot Kurdan her own withering glare, waiting for him to react. They carried on for a few more moments before Borba gave in and huffed in frustration.

  “Do you remember when I let you and you alone rut me, Kurdan? I always wondered why you took much longer to finish than other he-orcs I have rutted with. You also failed to enjoy the experience as much as others have. For you, it was all duty, all function. You did your job of breeding, and that was it. No pleasure, no satisfaction; just a spasm of muscle, a splash of seed, and you were done. Still, I did not accept other he-orcs at that time, for I wanted to breed a clutch that I would be sure was your offspring.

  “Yet as time passed, I remained lean even as the bellies of other she-orcs started to grow larger. I started suspecting, which is why I shunned you and took on Gnadug. Not even a month later, and the signs were there.” She lowered both her eyes and her voice as she continued. “How many of the she-orcs you rutted exclusively show signs of bearing offspring?”

  Kurdan was already blocking out most of what Borba was saying, not wanting to hear what she was telling him. He had spent his entire life under the shadow of Zurgha, dedicating every waking hour he could in preparation for usurping the chiefhood from the old orc. His low position in Zurgha’s hierarchy ensured that he would not have she-orcs throwing themselves at him. Casual dalliances aside, his days were consumed training, scheming, planning, forming alliances, and watching for the right time to challenge Zurgha for the position of chieftain. Only when he attained the mantle of chieftain did he actively start rutting as much as he could.

  Her question, however, knocked him out of his denial. She had given him a task, something to focus on, and his treacherous mind raced to pick out names ever since he had started rutting wildly. Dulug, Shelur, Ragash, Ushug, and a dozen other she-orcs—they were pregnant with orclings, but they didn’t rut exclusively with him. They were the ones who mingled with other he-orcs, rutting freely with those they wanted to. No, that was not right. None of the she-orcs talked with him about exclusivity. He didn’t know for certain which of the she-orcs mingled and which ones held out, waiting to bear his offspring. Only Borba was open about her intentions about bearing offspring she could say for certain was his.

  “You cannot even give me a straight answer, can you?” Borba’s tone was not mocking, haughty, sneering, or belittling. No, she was genuinely sad about it—though not for her own sake.

  “I have watched you since you were a little orcling, Kurdan. You have never lacked for ambition, even when your father, Zurgha, did everything he could to quash your threat. You still ended up usurping him, taking the mantle of chieftain for yourself. I waited for you to achieve your potential, to see whether you were just another stupid upstart or if you could really do more than just swing a club with your member flopping about. Your actions and their results speak for themselves, which is why I am here right now.”

  Borba inhaled deeply then stared intensely into Kurdan’s eyes as she continued. “I give you this warning because I want you to be prepared for the time when this deficiency of yours gets out. The tribes worship the ground you walk on because of your innovations, because you have done what no other orc has ever done. But once your virility comes into question, once everyone else realizes you cannot bear offspring, then they will realize that you are not as invincible as they imagine you to be. Your legend will come crashing down the moment they smell your weakness. Once they realize that you are just an orc—an imperfect, impotent orc at that—they will scramble all over one another to claim the mantle of Overchief for themselves.”

  Borba bowed—a rare sign of submission and respect within orcish society—before turning around and leaving, gently closing the door behind her. Kurdan remained where he was, standing beside his weapon rack and gripping the handle of his club so tightly that blood started trickling from between his fingers.

  Impotent.

  The word played over and over in his head, crumbling the supreme confidence that Kurdan held within himself. He was not a complete orc, not when he was unable to create offspring of his own. Every orc faced death on a regular basis; they welcomed it, even. This was because they knew that they would leave a legacy of their own behind. Rutting and breeding were the core duties of all orcs. Fighting, hunting, foraging, raiding—all these were simply a means to an end, the perpetuation of orckind. Any orc unable to do this duty, any orc unable to perpetuate his or her lineage was not a true orc. No, they were defects that were culled as soon as their weakness was brought to light. All of Kurdan’s achievements, all his glories—they meant nothing if he could not pass his greatness down the line.

  That’s when Borba’s words truly sank in.

  Dreams of a litter of defiant, rambunctious orclings faded away as Borba’s words settled in. The school he envisioned would have given his offspring an advantage, the stability of the farms ensuring that they would focus solely on their strength and their smarts. The strongest of his orclings would have grown up capable enough to usurp the chieftains of the other tribes, cementing his grip over the orcs. He could have been a father of dozens, and they would have helped him achieve his dreams.

  Now… now those dreams were nothing more than empty shadows and bitter dust—all because he was defective.

  It is worth noting that orcs are a confident race, bordering on the brash, combative, and arrogant. They take pride in their strength, of running headlong into challenges that often shatter upon the force of their rage and bloodlust. They push themselves further than the other races, constantly pushi
ng their boundaries to the limit. This is why they often live short lives, as their recklessness often leads to their deaths. Those brave few that live, however, go on to establish stronger, tougher, and daring lineages.

  The thing about orcs, however, is that their frame of mind plays a major role in determining the condition of their body. A complacent orc grows weak and soft, like Zurgha when he became too comfortable in his position as chieftain. For Kurdan, his immense grief at Borba’s news took hold not just on his mind and spirit, but also on his body. His impressive muscles atrophied, thinning out and finding themselves unable to bear the weight of his body. His tough, leathery skin grew soft, pliable, and vulnerable. His bones thinned and hollowed out while his once-gleaming tusks turned yellow. Even his eyes started to sink into their sockets, thick bags pulling down the flesh underneath the lids.

  All this happened right before a wild-eyed Urgan kicked open the door to Kurdan’s cabin. Borba was on his heels, attempting to pull him away from the cabin. The ambitious orc would have none of it though, backhanding Borba and sending her sprawling into the dirt. As Urgan’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of Kurdan’s cabin, his face split into a massive grin as he witnessed the once-indomitable orc age before his eyes.

  He had been watching, waiting, and learning—just like Kurdan when he had stalked Zurgha for all those years. Kurdan’s tactics in dealing with the Gorefists, Stonetusks, and Fleshrippers revolved around trickery and deceit. Urgan had seen how Kurdan pulled off these miracles of his by pretending to do one thing while meaning to do another. Urgan had learned from those experiences. He had pretended to be an obedient little orc, all while watching for weaknesses to exploit. He had suspected something was wrong when Borba ceased rutting Kurdan and instead went to Gnadug. His suspicion was piqued when he followed her as she snuck into Kurdan’s cabin in the middle of the night, and it was confirmed when he overheard their discussion as he pressed himself near one of the windows.