Bloodletting Part 2

by Peter J. Wacks

  Every guardsman told their own version of how Sergeant Reynolds had felled the largest of the orocs on his own. Tetra wished he could’ve been there to see it. His own feat of taking down two orocs almost felt minimal by comparison—though his satisfaction in doing so still spread a bit of warmth through his chest. Two more beasts that would never hurt anyone again. He thought of Halli and the pride was washed away, replaced with worry and sorrow.

  Hammerings and clangs rose from the next yard over. Bealdred had doffed his Dreadknight armor and returned to the forge to repair weapons and gear. Learning the burly man was a Dreadknight had come as a shock to Tetra. Tales of the Dreadknights had been told to him as a toddler, almost like they were bogeymen that would get him if he wasn’t good. It was hard to think of those stories of blood and terror and put Bealdred’s jovial, if stern, face on that.

  Tetra polished off the meat and tossed the bone to the ground at his feet, figuring he ought to continue making himself useful. Kafa snatched up the bone and scrambled to the side of the bench, happily gnawing. Shifting the mace and sword on his belt—Tetra was still getting used to the extra weight—he stood. Tetra watched the dog happily eating the mutton bone. He recalled how the dog had snapped at an attacking oroc, giving him a precious moment to rally.

  He knelt, grunting at a twinge in his back as the brace shifted, and ruffled the dog’s thick fur, scratching behind his ears. “Never did thank you for that, did I? You can always count on me for treats, Kafa.”

  Kafa wagged his tail furiously, perking up his ears at the mention of his name, but never looked up from the bone.

  “There’s the lazy git.”

  He looked over as Bealdred lumbered up. While he no longer wore his full plate, he remained clad in leather and mail with a ball mace having replaced his war hammer.

  “I thought you were working at the forge,” Tetra pushed off his own knees, grunting, but standing up.

  Bealdred shook his head and placed a large hand on Tetra’s shoulder. “I’ve got an apprentice, y’know. She can handle the smithy for now. You ready?”

  “For what?” Tetra found himself standing straighter at Bealdred’s touch.

  “Clean up duty. It’s a grim business, but we need to do it.”

  Tetra nodded despite being confused, pointing at the shovel and cart he had been using before his food break. “I’m already on clean up duty. Did I take too long of a food break?”

  “Naw. Yer fine takin’ a moment to eat. I’m reassignin’ you from the clean up yer on. I know you have a lot of drive because of your sister, git, but I think it’s high time y’got a real sense of what fightin’s about in the end.” He stared at Tetra. “Y’hear about the Lord Major?”

  Tetra nodded. Few of Illamer’s men had returned from the fray beyond the walls. Official word said someone had signaled for the trap to be sprung too early, but mutterings cast the blame at the Lord Major’s feet—though no one dared declare that in his presence.

  Bealdred scowled. “That’s whatcha get when you fight for none but yourself. A buncha men dead that never had to be. And for what? A rarin’ story to tell back at home? Maybe a nice, shiny new title?” He hawked and spat against the wall. “Titles don’t mean nothin’ when it comes to lives bein’ bled out in the filth.”

  He tromped off, and Tetra fell in beside him. “So … er … what cleanup duty are we switching to?”

  “Corpse burnin’.” Bealdred rubbed his hands against his leather armor, wiping imagined dirt off them. “There’s plenty of bodies out there, and they sure as ain’t gonna move themselves. We’ll speed things up by makin’ the corpses lighter.” When Tetra hesitated, he waved him on. “Let’s go, git. Faster we get to it, the faster we don’t gotta put up with the stink. Not gonna puke again, are you? If y’do, just be sure to not get any on me.”

  Tetra swallowed and followed on Bealdred’s heels, just as Kafa did with him.

  ***

  Chapter Five

  Malthius Reynolds

  Nine orocs had survived their assault on Drayston two days before, left behind in the scrambled retreat. The nine stood in the main hall of the castle, each shackled in dampening manacles, remnants of the Scaladrin War when the king had carefully provisioned all garrisons against border races, locked away from their magic. Calhein Drayston’s personal guard lined the hall’s sides. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows set high in the walls, lighting the chamber and gleaming on the pauldrons of the twelve guards.

  Three massive candelabras, each ten feet across, hung unlit from the ceilings. They were placed high enough that during larger events, people could still watch the hall from the balcony above the main doors. A rich red rug, three feet wide, ran through the center of the room, stretching from the doors to the oak throne at the opposite side of the hall. Tapestries hung from the walls, depicting famous victories of the past lords of the castle.

  Calhein Drayston and a small entourage of his officers stood, Major Reynolds and Lord Major Illamer among them, in the hall with the orocs, discussing the questions they should ask. Only the lord and his first captain, Jahn Lahlk, spoke the oroc language. Once the questions were agreed upon, Captain Lahlk turned and confronted the prisoners.

  Lahlk was a thin, short man with close-cropped blond hair starting to show threads of silver. Reynolds admired him. Despite the small stature, the man wore command naturally, projecting his presence like a giant. He cleared his throat and spoke in their guttural language, asking their leader to step forward. The sound brought a vision of a gurgling stream to Reynolds.

  None of the orocs responded, and the captain raised an eyebrow as he looked back at the lord and his group.

  “Ask them again,” Calhein said calmly.

  Captain Lahlk repeated the question. Still, none of the orocs made any move to cooperate.

  Lord Calhein stepped toward the prisoners and spoke fluently in their tongue. His words seemed to affect them, but Reynolds couldn’t read their expressions. He wasn’t sure they had even changed, and he wished he understood what Lord Calhein had said.

  “Will humans let oroc clans bury dead?” the largest of the nine asked in broken Promencian when the lord had finished.

  The officers began to discuss quietly, and Lord Calhein raised a hand to silence them.

  “Yes,” he answered, meeting the prisoner’s eye. “We have already dis—seen to many, but I will stop and allow burial.” Drayston motioned to one of his guards and the man left the chamber.

  The prisoners exchanged glances with each other and the one who had spoken raised his head proudly. “Taro of Fangblossom will speak.”

  “Why did you attack us?” Captain Lahlk resumed questioning, this time in Promencian. Taro’s gaze switched from Lord Calhein to Captain Lahlk.

  “Humans attack orocs first. Orocs make justice. Make balance. Balance must be kept or life tree’s roots rot.”

  “Lies,” Lord Illamer said loudly. Lord Drayston gave him a warning glance and the man closed his lips.

  “The treaties forbid our people from entering into the Rocmire, much less attacking the oroc tribes,” Lahlk said quickly. “Our roads stretch around the forest for six hundred miles to avoid violating those treaties. We replant and grow trees on farms to prevent the need to harvest lumber from the forest. What could we possibly gain from attacking your people?”

  “Willowhawk harvesters catch humans in skins of Drayston, killing … gatherers? Willowhawk kill humans. Reason not matter, only truth matter.”

  “If you are referring to the men we found dead near Mirewatch, I can assure you,” Lord Calhein interjected, “those men were not of Drayston, regardless of their ‘skins.’ Humans trade skins in minutes, unlike your clans.”

  Reynolds’s instincts told him the oroc was telling the truth. The story corroborated that of the dying oroc Tetra had spoken to. Indeed, the patrol they had found had created arguments within the officer corps. He had a feeling he didn’t want to know the whole truth. Had simple
misunderstandings blown up into war?

  “Taro not of Willowhawk, but Taro fights to make justice.” The big oroc shrugged its massive shoulders. “After Foxleaf and Jaegen, balance was pure, but then humans disrupted.”

  “How then do you explain the slaughter of the village of Jaegen?” Illamer interrupted again, contempt dripping from his voice.

  Taro lowered its head and glared at Illamer. Several of the officers shifted uncomfortably. Even though they were quite safe, the oroc’s size was still intimidating. “Taro say already. Jaegen Bearoak justice for human killing of Foxleaf clan. All Foxleaf clan. Humans uproot clan, balance must be made, orocs uproot human village.”

  Drayston whispered in Captain Lahlk’s ear. Lahlk nodded. “And what evidence do you have of that? Oroc tribes never came to Castle Drayston, never tried to talk about the treaties.”

  “Taro not Bearoak. Taro not know why Bearoak not talk. Bearoak ancients decide balance must be sought, or more uprooting happens.” Taro looked frustrated, like he was missing the right words, and he spoke again, this time in Rocmirian.

  Drayston raised an eyebrow and his lips went thin. He motioned to Lahlk to continue.

  “Are any of you Bearoak?” Lahlk asked. He repeated the question in the oroc’s Rocmirian. Once again, none of them answered.

  “There! You see?” Illamer spat. “They lie thinking it will save their own skins. They are filthy and dishonorable brutes. Savage beasts, the lot of them.”

  Reynolds fought down the urge to choke Illamer. The man seemed intent on hostility, like he didn’t care what the answers were.

  “Lord Major,” Calhein said calmly. Lord Illamer huffed and crossed his arms.

  Reynolds stepped forward, catching his Lord’s eye.

  “Yes, Malthius?”

  “Lord Drayston. If the orocs speak the truth, and this all started with the slaughter of one of their clans, we should be investigating.” Reynolds felt Taro’s gaze fall on him. “Perhaps answers can be found if Taro could escort a unit to the site of the Foxleaf clan?”

  Calhein crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against his left forearm. “I will take the idea into consideration.” He turned and addressed his captain. “Lahlk, put a detail together to escort the prisoners out to the field to bury their dead. Keep the men under control. I want this treated with respect.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And when they are done,” the Lord added as an afterthought. “They can bury ours.”

  Lahlk saluted and walked out of the hall as Calhein turned and started for his private chambers.

  Reynolds and Illamer followed Lord Calhein in silence as he contemplated. He finally spoke as they neared the entrance to the chambers behind the hall. “I want our scouts called back.”

  “Lord Calhein,” Illamer began to protest.

  “Call them back,” Calhein talked over him. “I don’t want anyone south of Mirewatch or the forest road—and double the patrols on the road.”

  “My Lord, surely we must pursue the oroc force? Have they not started a war with us?” Illamer sounded disgusted.

  Lord Calhein abruptly stopped, turning to face Illamer and jabbed a finger at him. “We are not at war until the king says we are. I will hear no more of this talk.”

  Illamer ducked his head. “Apologies my Lord. I spoke out of a desire for justice.”

  Calhein ignored the thinly veiled insult and turned to enter his private chambers.

  Reynolds was surprised that the younger lord felt he could be so brazen. His actions in the battle had earned him a severe tongue lashing from Lord Calhein, in private of course. None of the other officers would let on that they had heard the reprimand, though it was unlikely that Illamer thought it to be secret. Reynolds added the lord’s behavior to the list of events that were not adding up. The feeling of unease returned and he reminded himself how much he hated his instincts.

  As Reynolds walked back along the length of the hall, leaving Illamer behind the throne, he spotted motion on the balcony. Squinting, he saw a shadow unobtrusively fade toward the stairwell on the side. Reynolds grunted to himself. He really shouldn’t do this so soon after the battle, but he wanted to know who had been watching. Drawing out his Tempest magic, Reynolds slowed time to a crawl. He jogged forward, slipping through the main doors, and ran down the hallway to his right. He reached the bottom of the stairs just as his control on time started to slip. Gasping in a lungful of air, he wiped at the sweat on his face. Too much exertion.

  A second later, Tetra came into view, quietly walking down the stairs. The boy had developed an unconscious limp. He didn’t lean to either side; rather, he walked with his feet further apart than normal, easing his body’s weight off the small of his back, onto his legs. It was the only sign that he had come to Drayston seven months ago with a broken back. Tetra stopped in shock when he saw Reynolds. “Ser … Sergeant Reynolds,” he stammered.

  Reynolds gave him a wry look. “Hear everything you wanted to, Tetra?”

  The boy looked guiltily at his feet. “I’m sorry. I just had to know what they said.”

  Reynolds leaned against the stair wall. “You’re lucky one of them spoke Promencian. You would’ve risked Lord Drayston’s discipline for an earful of nonsense otherwise.”

  Tetra nodded, still looking at his feet. He started fidgeting nervously.

  Reynolds let him stew in his discomfort for a moment longer. Best let him imagine what that discipline would have been. Finally relenting, Reynolds sighed. “Off with you. I’m sure there is plenty of work to be done around the castle.”

  Reynolds watched as the relieved boy slipped past him and ran toward the courtyard. Plenty of work indeed. He shook his head and headed to find Mikkels. He needed a friendly ear to figure out what to do about the Foxleaf clan.

  ***

  Chapter Six

  Halli Bicks

  Light streamed through the forest’s canopy, warming the afternoon. Warmth from the heat vents in the oroc village filled the air, leaving the ground clear of snow. Spring was near. The cave was unusually quiet, as was the camp beyond. Without the harvesters rising to prepare for their daily hunts, only the saplings and ancients remained, reducing the tribe to a tenth of its normal number.

  Ever since the warrior-hunters headed off to assault Castle Drayston, the air throughout the settlement felt woven through with ever-tightening threads, poised to snap. And if they did, Halli didn’t doubt the human prisoners would be on the receiving end of the backlash. Since watching the meeting of the clan, Halli had come to understand what a wide schism existed. Gnarrl and his supporters knew what they were doing was wrong, but something in the oroc mindset made them stick together as a clan. Halli couldn’t fathom doing something she knew was wrong just because her friends had decided to.

  The day after the clan fighters left, Halli sat down with the other girls and emphasized how careful they needed to be until the warriors returned. The saplings had been far crueler to the captives than the harvesters. They bolstered and treated the abuse as posturing in front of the other saplings.

  “Just do as you’re told. Don’t make a fuss. Finish whatever task they set you to, keep quiet, and never struggle. Some of them are looking for any excuse to blame and punish us, and even the weakest of them could easily kill any of us.” She didn’t mention that, with Gnarrl and Kunat gone, she didn’t trust any of the remaining orocs to stand up for them if the humans got into trouble again.

  “Why blame us?” Laney asked. “They’re the ones who attacked first.”

  “They don’t see it that way,” Halli said. “It’s complicated. One of their clans was attacked by humans, and they don’t understand that it wasn’t us.”

  Laney frowned but didn’t argue further, and the rest of the girls did as told, keeping low profiles around the camp and only interacting with their captors if approached by them first. They even got to mingle with the boys, who helped out with some of their more laborious chores. Halli delighted in seeing
Sven more often, though any time they tried to gather in one another’s caves, an oroc ancient intervened and separated the groups.

  When Halli commented on this one evening, Laney smirked.

  “Maybe they’re afraid we’ll start growing more humans.” The twinkle in her twelve-year-old eyes surprised Halli.

  Halli scoffed and tried to deflect the statement. “Oh, now, they’ve got to know it doesn’t work like that. How do you even know how that stuff works, Laney?”

  “Doesn’t seem like they know much about us at all,” Laney said. “I don’t think they really want to, either. I knew more about it from my mom by nine than they do.”

  Halli shook her head and went back to preparing dinner for the girls.

  Several saplings rotated guard shifts by the cell, but none followed them when they wandered through the settlement or performed chores. Nor did any orocs reinstate the earthen bars to keep them contained. Halli sensed the presence of numerous, powerful Geists and figured they remained on alert in case any more humans tried to escape.

  One morning, she studied the camp from the edge of the path leading down to the river. In the warrior-harvesters’ absence, Halli gained new insights into the oroc clan. In all the time they’d been there, fighters had always been present, too, with groups of the harvesters taking turns to provide food for the rest. They far outnumbered all other roles, so their absence left a remarkable gap—while revealing a more domestic side to the species. The saplings laughed and played. The ancients murmured to one another as they made meals and wove head coverings out of vines and leaves. Some sang in the hooting oroc fashion, and Halli listened to this in fascination. Most of the singing was about the cycle of the world and how orocs fit into it.