Becoming the Orc Chieftain (First Orcish Era Book 1)

by E. M. Hardy

  The black strip of cloth covering her eyes moistened and began slipping as she continued her ministrations. Kurdan frowned when he noticed the extent of her injuries: eyes seared shut by some deep, fiery injury. It was a gruesome injury even for an orc, though not because of the violence of it all. No, any orc that suffered such a wound would have to be put down. Blood magic could repair bones, knit together flesh… It could not restore that which had already been lost—not if it was left to fester for so long. An orc crippled by any kind of lasting injury; an orc that couldn’t repair it fast enough and allowed it to become engrained in his mind and soul—would not be able to live with the shame of weakness.

  Alyon groaned in exertion when she finished her healing, and even the he-priest Bartholomew was heaving and huffing in exhaustion. “It is done,” Alyon said. “By the grace of Galena, she has healed the most severe injuries of your man here.”

  “Orc,” interrupted Urul, pushing Alyon aside to inspect her work. “Gnadug is an orc, not a man. Remember that, she-priest.”

  “I will do so,” she replied, bowing low. “Alyon,” whispered Bartholomew. “Your cloth.” Surprised, Alyon felt around her neck and pulled the black cloth up to cover her eyes.

  “Alyon,” barked Kurdan, his eyes on the she-priest. “Why are you blind?”

  Everyone in the hut, even Urul, started at Kurdan’s sudden question. Urul quickly remembered himself and turned back to his task of inspecting Gnadug’s condition, though his ears burned with the desire to hear this particular story. He did not like sharing space with followers of another god, and he would delight in witnessing the healer-priests taken down a notch.

  “I… I do not know what you mean to ask, chieftain.”

  “Your god is strong in the ways of healing, even more than the god we follow, Cagros. This much I have seen from the powers you have called down.” Urul jerked to attention, slighted at Kurdan’s admission not only of Cagros’ weakness but also his appraisal of a human god. “If this is so, then why are you blind?” Bartholomew was just about to speak out, to defend Alyon, but Kurdan glared at the he-priest with all the threat he could muster. “Do it. Challenge me, human, so that I may disembowel you as an example for the other slaves.”

  Alyon laid a hand on Bartholomew’s shoulder, calming him down. “I do not know, chieftain,” said Alyon in a sad and defeated tone. “I do not know why I can channel Galena’s grace to heal others as you have seen, why I can heal other injuries I obtain, but I cannot channel her grace to heal this one very specific injury of mine.”

  Kurdan grunted and shook his head. “Find out how,” he said tersely. “Give your god whatever she needs to return your sight. Do this, and your standing in the tribe will improve.”

  “Standing!?” Urul barked as he jumped up, no longer able to still his tongue. “Slaves have no standing in our tribe, chieftain! Though you have forbidden us from tormenting them, they are still beneath us in everything!” Before Kurdan could growl out his displeasure, Urul quickly recomposed himself. “I dare not defy you, chieftain, and I never have—not even when you extended your protection to these slaves. However, I do not understand what you have in mind. These things you say… they are… they confuse me!”

  Kurdan backed down, suppressing his anger as he saw the fear and confusion in Urul’s face. “Strength,” Kurdan said simply and without heat in his voice. He curled his hand into a fist, which shook with power as he held it as tight as his orcish muscles would allow. “Strength is my purpose, Urul. You cannot heal Gnadug; these priests healed him. Your blood magic, my blood magic—we cannot use it to undo the injuries of other orcs, only ourselves. It is a simple matter of finding strength where we can and taking it as our own.” He unclenched his fist and let it drop down to his side. “Even if it means admitting our own weaknesses.”

  Urul curled his lips up in disgust, but soon sighed and shook his head. “Yes. Yes, chieftain. It is a bitter truth, but a truth nonetheless.” He stood up straight and cracked the muscles in his neck as he glared at the priests. “Then I will do all I can to beat these priests at their own game. I will commune with Cagros, give all I can to prove that our ways are better.”

  “That is exactly what I want you to do,” Kurdan replied, terse yet pleased at the change in Urul’s intentions. “Change. Explore. Discover. Find out how to further strengthen yourself. Do not limit yourself to what you already know. You are this tribe’s shaman, Urul, and I expect no less than complete dedication to strengthening yourself this way.”

  Urul nodded solemnly and turned back to Gnadug, coaxing his blood to build upon what the human priests had started. Kurdan, on the other hand, turned his attention toward the two slave-priests. They stood still, no doubt hoping to be dismissed from their precarious position.

  “You two, follow me. I have questions, and you will answer them.”

  ***

  “As high as… no. No, chieftain. We do not know of any human cities with buildings as high as mountains,” Alyon replied, clearly unsure of what Kurdan was really trying to ask her.

  “And wagons that pull themselves without the need for beasts of burden?” continued Kurdan. “Slates that answer whatever questions you ask them? Metal pipes that spew fire and death? Stiff, pliable materials made from hardened oil? A force called ‘electricity’ that fuels various artifacts?”

  Bartholomew grimaced and shook his head. “No, we are not aware of such magics. I have heard that some of the dwarves have these fiery pipes, but I have not heard of my kind wielding the kind of artifacts you mentioned.”

  “I already told you that our worlds are different,” Isiah said from inside Kurdan’s thoughts. “I mean, I’m pretty sure we would know if there were orcs, elves, dwarves, and other creatures of myth stomping around.”

  Kurdan nodded, more to Isiah’s reply than the answers of the two priests. “You have failed to give me what I need. Go. Return to the other slaves and continue planting your crops.”

  “Finally,” muttered Bartholomew under his breath as he stood up, thinking Kurdan could not hear him. He brushed off as much dust as he could get out of his torn robes and turned toward his companion. Alyon, however, remained cross-legged on the compacted dirt floor of Kurdan’s hut. “Alyon?” prodded Bartholomew, approaching her and tapping her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go. I am sure that old man Hubert will need our help when he inevitably mixes up Poison Creepers and Mud Creepers again.”

  Alyon remained seated, as if she did not hear Bartholomew’s words. This irritated Kurdan. “You are defying my orders,” he said, a hint of threat coloring his words. “Alyon!” hissed Bartholomew as he pulled harder at her shoulders.

  “Pardon my disrespect, Chieftain Kurdan, but I must ask: to what end are you keeping us here?”

  “ALYON!” hissed Bartholomew louder, alarmed at her sudden change of tone.

  “And now you have the gall to question my motivations,” growled Kurdan. “If you are tired of living, she-priest, then continue speaking.”

  “You do not make sense,” whispered Alyon in return. Bartholomew tugged hard at her shoulder, desperate to get her to shut up, but she was lost in her own world. “No, Bart, I must know. Please…” The he-priest turned a nervous glance at the chieftain and was all but ready to pull the priestess out of the hut if he needed to. One firm grasp later, and Bartholomew blew out a breath in exasperation. He stepped in front of Alyon, deciding the orc would have to go through him first. Not that he would be much of an obstacle, but it was the thought that counted in this situation.

  Kurdan grimaced, not liking what he saw before him. The two priests were valuable for his plans, but he would not tolerate such defiance.

  “At least hear them out,” whispered Isiah in Kurdan’s mind. “You did enslave them after all, and they deserve to know what they are getting into.”

  “Did the slavers of your world explain why they needed their captives to toil for them?”

  “No,” thought Isi
ah with a sharp feeling of distaste. “They did not. But you don’t want to build the foundations of your society on angry slaves—not if you want to push through with the plans we’ve talked about.”

  Kurdan growled louder, growing increasingly frustrated with the human boy that kept bringing up valid reasons for him to not kill the defiant priestess.

  “You will obey all I tell you to do. That is all you need to know,” answered Kurdan, addressing Alyon’s question without really telling her anything. The vague answer clearly displeased Isiah, but he was content with the fact that the priestess was still breathing.

  “It is just that you are a complete mystery to me,” replied Alyon, who continued pushing her luck. “The tasks you have us do, the way you treat us, even the way that you utilize our elderly to conduct these ‘experiments’ on materials—it is very strange, indeed.

  “Even your aura is all wrong. At first glance, it is filled with danger and rage—the same as any other orc, if not more intense. You are the epitome of the orcish threat, the very example of why we fear your kind. And yet…it is not all there is to you. I sensed a glimpse of that other side of you in your duel with Gnadug. It was brief, but—”

  That was as far as she could get before Kurdan leapt forward, his fist ready to pop her head open like a grape. He barreled through Bartholomew, tossing him to the side as the priest barely registered Kurdan’s lunge. His fist stopped a hair’s breadth from her face, causing the she-priest to jump back in fright as an expanding aura of violence came crashing her way.

  Isiah was the only reason she and Bartholomew were still alive. “No,” he thought to Kurdan. “Don’t do it. You need them. More importantly, there is no need to kill them—at least not for something as trivial as a priestess sharing her thoughts with you.”

  Kurdan ground his tusk on his teeth. His mind registered the logic in Isiah’s words, but his heart wanted to silence the she-priest for identifying a weakness that she could use against him.

  “Relax, big guy. Just chill. This isn’t worth it.”

  “Priests… slaves.” Kurdan growled out the last word with as much menace as he could while withdrawing his fist from her face. “You will return to your duties. You will mention the details of this discussion to no one. If an orc asks, you will tell them I interrogated you about your human cities. You will then come straight to me and tell me who has been asking you these questions. Do you understand?”

  Both priests nodded, clearly frightened by Kurdan’s outburst. The priestess’ curiosity gave way to naked fear, which satisfied Kurdan immensely. They scrambled back, eager to leave the hut and be away from the angry orcish chieftain.

  Kurdan snorted in derision, shaking his head while doing so. “The she-man thinks she can defy me so openly just because I made her leader of the slaves,” he mumbled to himself.

  “It might pay to not scare her off so bad next time,” replied Isiah within Kurdan’s mind. “She was throwing you a bone back there, trying to reach out and make a connection to you. Not everything is about challenging your authority, you know.”

  “Then you know nothing, manling,” Kurdan said tersely. “There are many ways to challenge, to subvert power. You have to shut them down before they manage to rot away your authority.”

  “Whatever you say, orc,” said Isiah dismissively, mentally sighing and letting Kurdan win the argument this time around.

  Chapter 11

  “Aw, come on guys. You shouldn’t have,” Isiah whined.

  “C’mon, Zeyah. Don’t be a spoilsport. I mean, we did all this for you, you know, to celebrate you getting out of the hospital.” Olivia remained cheerful and upbeat as she waved a hand over to the scene behind her. A bunch of other guys and girls in full tactical gear chatted amongst themselves, wielding an impressive array of replica guns. Shouts could be heard inside the abandoned car factory, followed by the whirring and clacking of airsoft guns being fired in the background.

  “Oh man. This is so friggin’ cool,” gushed Bernabé as he stroked a replica assault rifle, marveling at the detail of it all. “You can say that again,” said Eddison as he inspected the rifle he had picked up. “This M4A1 looks exactly like the antique dad has locked away in his armory. The orange tip is the only way I can tell difference between this and the real thing.” The others in the gang were just as enthusiastic about the whole experience, ooh-ing and aah-ing over the accurate replicas on display.

  Isiah just shook his head and picked up a simple pistol. It was a replica M1911—absolutely ancient by modern standards, but it still had enough of a following for the airsoft companies to build replicas of.

  “Alright guys! Let’s suit up and give these puppies a whirl!” Eddison said, donning a vest and helmet while doing so. The others followed suit, with Olivia and Abigail helping each other out while Hasan and Bernabé were busy posing with their chosen weapons. Their guide-slash-instructor shook her head at their shenanigans. Isiah chuckled as their levity rubbed off on him, and he was suddenly eager to try out this whole game for himself.

  “Another game?” Kurdan said, watching the whole scene with interest.

  “Yup,” replied Isiah. “Remember those video games we play? The ones with all the guns and stuff? Well, this is as close to the real thing as we can get without actually shooting one another… or splattering paint all over our clothes.”

  “Interesting,” Kurdan said. “I will enjoy watching this game of yours. If anything else, it is at least better than watching you and your friends cluster around this television-thing of yours.”

  Isiah chuckled at that, knowing full well how bored Kurdan was of all the gaming he was subjected to. The guide assigned to Isiah’s group double-checked their gear. He tightened up the vests where they needed, adjusted the helmets so they wouldn’t fall off, and gave last-minute safety tips on what to do.

  “Remember,” the big woman said. “Don’t pummel someone you’ve already tagged, especially if you see them wince from the hits. Avoid aiming for the head, even if everyone here is wearing a helmet. If you get close enough to someone to confirm a kill, shout ‘BANG’ instead of hosing them down. If you get hit, shout out ‘HIT’ and raise a fist before slowly walking out of the play area and back to your assigned respawn area. Don’t pretend you haven’t been hit. Cheaters will be pelted with a couple dozen rounds, and their pleas for surrender will go ignored. If you think someone’s breaking the rules, approach the nearest marshal and we’ll help you out.”

  Their guide smirked and tapped a finger at her hand. “But most important of all: go out there and have some fun!”

  ***

  Isiah knew he was supposed to be having fun, but the simple fact of the matter was that he wasn’t.

  The match started off well enough. Bernabé, the gigantic ass, charged forward while shouting out the name of some guy called “Leeroy Jenkins” for some odd reason. He wound up getting sprayed down with plastic pellets from several directions, followed by insane laughter from the team doing the spraying. The suicidal idiot was laughing his head off as well, going at it as hard as—if not harder than—the other team. Eddison, Hasan, and Abigail chuckled at Bernabé’s antics, though he and Olivia shared a puzzled look with one another. At least Isiah wasn’t the only one who didn’t get the reference.

  Things got a bit more serious after that. Eddison and Hasan set up positions beside a window, getting up and popping off a few shots before ducking back into their defensive positions. The plinking of little plastic balls signaled that they were receiving fire of their own. Abigail and Olivia teamed up to cover another corner, peeking out and hitting off a few shots of their own. Isiah was at the rear, patiently guarding their flank while the others traded shots with the other team. Nobody wanted to advance to the flag just yet, not when both teams were trading fire so aggressively.

  At least, as far as Isiah could tell.

  “HIT!” shouted someone from the other side of the wall Isiah’s gang was defending.
A thin man shot his hands up from the discarded, sprayed-over tires he was taking cover behind. He then calmly got up and walked leisurely back to his team’s spawn point where he would wait for the allotted five minutes before he could ‘spawn’ back in.

  That was when Bernabé’s timer came down, and he began crouch-walking toward Isiah’s position—at least before he got pinged by a plastic pellet.

  “What the heck? Aw, crap. HIT!!!” shouted Bernabé louder than he should have. His warning came too late though, as two flankers from the enemy team came up and tagged both Eddison and Hasan. The two cringed as bursts of pellets pelted them down until they raised their hands and shouted their respective hits. They slumped down, dejected, as they straightened up and walked to their spawn points. In the meantime, Abigail and Olivia fell back to a more defensible position—leaving the flag completely unguarded. The other team knew this and sent a runner to go grab the flag.

  Isiah squeezed the trigger on his pistol twice, sending two pellets down on the runner. Isiah quickly shuffled back under his shrub as the runner cussed and ranted about his role as decoy before raising his fist and declaring a hit. The other team halted their advance on Olivia and Abigail’s position, choosing instead to secure their flank to make sure their next runner wouldn’t get tagged too.

  Isiah swung his head left and right, instinctively picking another shrub to set up his next point of ambush. He settled down and waited, peering down the sights of his all-too-inadequate pistol. He wished he had more money to rent out the bigger guns, maybe a rifle of some sort, but the pistol was all he could afford. On hindsight, maybe he should have accepted Olivia’s offer to pay for a better weapon.

  Then again, this was just a game. This was all pretend, all make-believe… so why was he hyperventilating?