Half-Orc Redemption

by Luke T Barnett

  From his place on his throne of cattle bones, Gurak looked smugly at the youth and a loud, guttural jult exited his throat. I had learned this was the sound that meant, ‘choose’. The youth said not a word, but instead turned sideways, though his eyes remained on the brute, and raised his arm, pointing a finger at Gurak himself. The act seemed to contain a tone of malice as if the full-orc was nothing more than a toadstool to the half-blood. Gurak laughed a hideous gurgling laugh. My eyes closed as my heart sank.

  The youth had just chosen the most difficult and deadliest test I had observed: a single blow to the chest, fully drawn-back from the weapon of the tribal leader at full charge and remain standing afterwards. I had seen this test before. I had never seen an orc survive it.

  Gurak carried an axe. The weapon possessed a double-head of solid steel, each blade as wide and tall as a man’s chest. Its haft was as long as Gurak was tall and wrapped roughly in thick, leather bands. As I watched Gurak pull the massive weapon from beside his throne, the reality of the youth’s fate struck me and sunk in as a spear driven to my heart. For with it came the understanding that the youth whom I had long wished and prayed to have a good life would surely die. I might have turned away, not wanting to face what I knew to be coming. But I had been there for nearly this entire saga. I would not turn away then. I gave one last prayer for triumph rather than death.

  Hopping down, Gurak moved to the center of the gathered crowd of orcs, exercising his arms, loosening them for the blow. The crowd moved back, allowing for a wide path between Gurak and the youth who merely stood a distance away facing the brute. His fists were clenched tight. His feet were planted and placed. His body stood tensed, ready for the blow. The smug smile disappeared from Gurak’s face as he began to focus. The brute took a few, slow, practice swings. Finally, the massive orc drew back and, with a ferocious cry that boiled my blood, charged the standing youth.

  My world froze as the charge completed. I almost could not bear to watch.

  The axe blade came down hard into the youth’s chest, tearing the flesh away, chipping and breaking bone beneath. The momentum carried the heavy weapon down the diagonal of the youth’s chest and into the ground below. The youth gave a mighty bellow of pain that tore my heart asunder as he staggered back. My heartbeat seemed to skip with every backwards step until at last the steps themselves ceased and I found my mouth widening into a smile as the youth finally stood firm.

  Gurak’s aim would have been deadly, but his timing and balance had been dreadfully off. The youth’s flesh was torn wide and his ribs lay damaged or broken. But he remained alive and standing. I could not help it. I shook my spear in the air and let out a laugh of triumph. I could scarcely believe the youth had done it. But Gurak, poor Gurak, could not believe it at all. His face was aghast in horror. It was then that I knew that he had not passed nearly as severe a test. He would no longer be allowed to rule. This must have terrified him beyond words, for he quickly pulled the axe from the ground and again charged the youth, intent on finishing what he had started. The half-orc, this boy now turned man, would have none of it.

  As the axe came down, he swiftly moved forward and caught it by the haft, stopping it in mid-swing. Though Gurak pushed with all his might, he could not overpower this half-breed. It seemed to me as one trying to overpower a statue of stone. It was then that I finally understood. All the years of labor, all of the backbreaking tasks the youth had been given; they had built him up, made him stronger, while those in his tribe had gotten fatter and weaker. Even with an enormous wound running the diagonal of his chest, the half-orc still had the strength to overpower what all of them thought to be the mightiest of his kin. With a firm grip, he brought his knee hard into the monster’s gut. Gurak instantly crumpled to his knees, his arms wrapping around his stomach as he struggled for breath. The half-orc gave him no chance, however. For as soon as Gurak had made his first vain attempt to draw breath, the half-orc kicked him hard in his feral face, knocking him flat on his back. Gurak lay there helpless, as the half-orc, with a speed that exceeded the capabilities of his kin, drew back overhead and brought the axe blade down into Gurak’s skull. Everyone stood frozen, as the half-orc, his breath heavy in his chest, stared down at Gurak’s lifeless body, and what he no doubt saw as a long-awaited victory.

  Then, suddenly, his free hand went to his chest as the life’s fire began to wear off. His head moved to look at the tribe that was now his and he promptly spat in their direction. As they had long ago stopped torturing him, theirs was merely an act of cowardice and apathy rather than intended cruelty and harm. Perhaps, that is why he left them humiliated and leaderless, rather than dead. Yanking the axe from Gurak’s lifeless husk, he then turned away from those he no longer considered his kin and began to stumble off. I quickly made my way across the field and caught him just as he was about to fall.

  ‘Hold on,’ I told him.

  He was too heavy. I did my best to guide him down gently and lay him on his back. There was blood everywhere. I found myself coated with it. But I paid it no heed. Clothing could be changed. Stains could be washed clean. The moments of our lives are precious and few. And the half-orc’s were growing fewer and more precious with each passing breath.

  His face stared blankly at the sky. His mouth hung open as he struggled to breathe in quick, short breaths. I knew he did not have long to live. And there was nothing I could do to help him. But at least, I thought, I could encourage him in his last moments and perhaps guide him to a righteous death that he may awaken in Paradise.

  Gently, I lifted his head to look at me. His hand instantly reached up and gripped my shoulder, nearly crushing it, as his body writhed in agony. I ignored the pain and called out to him.

  ‘Young one. Young one, look at me,’ I told him, shaking his head slightly.

  His eyes turned to me and I smiled.

  ‘You have done it,’ I encouraged him, speaking in the Common tongue. ‘You have defeated the Gurak. Praise be to the Father! He has surely guided your hand! He waits only now for you to call upon his name.’

  As I spoke to him, I saw his eyes slowly move to look past me. His grip on my shoulder released. His arm slowly reached out for whatever it was that he saw. What it was I cannot say, for at his action, I turned to look behind me and saw nothing but the blue sky and the camp of still terrified orcs some distance away. I turned back in time to see him struggling to sit up. Blood poured more freely from his chest as his muscles contorted, flushing out what still flowed within him. Blood filled also his mouth and dribbled down his jaw. I might have tried to keep him from straining himself, but it would have done little good. Besides, I was far too astounded at the strength he still possessed to do much of anything but sit there in bewilderment and awe.

  Then, in a moment when time seemed to stand still, his lips moved to form words I did not know. His eyes were focused on a single point, either his clan or something that I could not see.

  Suddenly, time returned to normal as the youth let out a blood-spitting cough. He cringed and his other hand went to his chest as his throat let out a sickening gurgle. He then fell back to the earth, the life fleeing from him at last.

  My eyes welled up and distress filled me as I looked upon his gaping mouth and rolled-back eyes. He had died. He was gone. Immediately, I looked to the heavens and cried out my plea.

  ‘Father,’ I cried out, tears flowing from my eyes, ‘this cannot be the end for him. Is he to overcome so much only to die? Father, your wisdom is beyond knowing. I submit to it. But where is your glory in this? I do not understand! Is evil to die only to triumph from beyond its wicked grave? Let this not be so! Please, Father, incline your ear to me! Do not let him die!’

  I looked back to the fallen half-orc. My own heart was rent greater than his chest. I closed my eyes and tightly folded my bloodied hands, my arms stretched over the half-orc’s open chest as I bowed my head. I desired that my heart tear itself from my chest that I might display its contents to my king, that h
e would grant my prayer.

  ‘Your mercy is great and your will is perfect,’ I whispered, barely able to speak, my body tense with desperation. ‘If this be your will, then so be it and I praise you. I trust you, my king. But, please, if it be in your will, bring him back and teach him your ways that when he finally lay to rest, he may stand righteous before you and enter into your kingdom to be with you forev-’

  Before I finished speaking, I was nearly blinded, though my eyes lay closed, by a light shining as the sun before me. I shouted and reeled, my arm instinctively rising to shield my eyes as I fell back. It was then I heard a voice like music call out my name. I removed my arm and trembled at the sight before me. It was the likeness of a man dressed in white and shining so brightly I could scarce look at him. He stood on the other side of the half-orc’s body looking upon me and raising within me a great fear.

  ‘Be not afraid, Urik of Sha’al,’ the man said, ‘for your prayer is heard. The youth shall live. He shall walk in trust and faith in the Godking. Though he falls, yet will he return. For the Godking is merciful and does not suffer his own to be snatched from his hand. Therefore now encourage him and plant the seed that brings forth life. But take heed and tell him nothing of my coming or of my message. Only tell him to be strong and of a good courage for he will face much hatred in this world. I come to tell you these things that your heart may be comforted concerning the youth. Go now and see to the task given you.’

  At the last of the man’s words, I looked to the half-orc. His eyes were closed. Strong, peaceful breaths came through his nostrils. I looked to his chest and was astonished to see it completely whole! All that remained of his injury was an enormous scar running the diagonal of his chest, from just under his left shoulder, to just right of his lower, right gut. I might have smiled with joy, but I was simply too astounded.

  I attempted to look to the figure to ask him how this could be, but he was not there. I turned and sought him in the fields around me, but to no avail. The figure was gone. I might have pondered on it further, but at that moment, the half-orc began to stir. His eyes opened. He lay there only a moment, before rising to sit and look inquisitively at me. I was rather amused to hear the gasps and shouts of fear coming from behind me. They probably thought they were all going to die. Nonetheless, I ignored them and tended to my charge.

  ‘How do you feel?’ I asked him. I spoke in the common tongue, figuring he would least prefer his own language. It is a language known to be used by all peoples. Though there are as many dialects as there are races, all dialects use the same basic form allowing for open communication throughout the races…or so I am told. I have not encountered many, but I have not yet encountered one that did not know this language to a competent degree. Even these orcs seemed to have known, thus I expected that my words were understood.

  He looked down at his chest and ran his hand along the light-green skin that had replaced his open wound. Having spent many years watching him and his tribe, I knew what that scar meant to those of his own kind he would encounter.

  ‘Alive,’ was his simple answer. It was the first time I had heard his voice that was not merely a shout of pain. It was gruff, but strong.

  He turned his head to look at me, that quizzical look still upon his face.

  ‘What came?’ he stated, meaning to ask what had happened.

  ‘I prayed for you and the Father restored you,’ I answered.

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  It almost seemed he was bitter about the matter as if he deserved and had long desired such a death. I answered as carefully as I could.

  ‘I think that he must have something more in store for you,’ I replied, ‘or he would not have done it and he would not have left you that scar.’

  The youth again looked to the scar that ran the diagonal of his chest.

  ‘For my part,’ I continued, ‘I meant no robbery against you. But I could not stand by to see a deeper evil triumph in your death-‘

  I looked away as shame covered me, the realization of what could have been striking me with near unbearable force.

  ‘I should have slain that monster when I first laid eyes upon him,’ I spoke in anger, more at myself than at Gurak. ‘I should have ended that horror myself at the very start. If I had not been so afraid of starting a war, you would not have had to suffer as you did.’

  I looked back to him, holding back desperately the tears of remorse that fought to release themselves. He simply stared at me. His face held on it a deep scowl. It was much the same as it had always been. Never had I seen his face express any kind of joy, nor gladness. Though I longed to see such a thing, I do not believe I ever will. More than simply an outward expression of his unyielding will, that ever-present scowl, I believe, was a defense against any joy that would attempt to enter his heart and distract him from his aim. And I was responsible.

  ‘Forgive me,’ I asked of him, holding no pride within myself.

  He stared at me. His eyes seemed to drift in contemplation as if he knew the words but somehow could not quite grasp their meaning. Finally, his eyes returned to me, and he spoke.

  ‘You are not orc,’ he said. ‘I will not kill you.’

  I took it as a statement of forgiveness, though I was yet unsure of how it related to such, and nodded, still holding back my tears. He then moved to his feet with a grunt. I joined him as a few more shouts and murmurs came from the crowd of orcs still watching. The half-orc stood tall and strong as he faced the clan that would be his.

  ‘Where will you go now?’ I asked him.

  ‘Far from here,’ he replied.

  I looked to the clan. Many of them stood facing him with looks of fear on their faces. Some trembled, and some lay prostrate.

  ‘What about them?’

  He looked upon them a moment, no doubt battling the bitterness in his heart.

  ‘Let them choose,’ he at last replied. ‘It is theirs now. I am bound no more to them.’

  As he reached down into the grass and grabbed hold of the leather-wrapped haft, I took in a slow breath. Part of me had hoped he would not leave, but I also knew he could not stay, not after all that he had been through.

  ‘Very well,’ I stated as he raised the axe from its grassy bed and hefted it onto his shoulder, prompting a few more orcish cries from the crowd. I turned to face away from them and nodded eastward.

  ‘I do not know how far these plains extend, but I hear of a great forest beyond them,’ I said as he also turned to face eastward. ‘It may simply be folktale, but I would venture that there is something in that direction. I am simply unsure as to what.’

  I looked to him. He stood strong and triumphant. I was so very glad for him.

  ‘Go with peace,’ I told him. ‘Remember well the kindness shown to you this day that you may reflect it in all that you do.’

  He just stood there a moment, staring out over the endless plains as the wind gently brushed by. His hand readjusted its grip on his newfound weapon.

  ‘I do not know how,’ he finally admitted a bit weakly, ‘to go with peace. What kindness when I wanted to die?’

  ‘Dying is not the answer,’ I told him. ‘Death is empty and vain. Our lives have only one purpose and that is to bring glory to the Godking. To embrace that is to find peace. To ignore it is worse than death.’

  ‘Un-orc,’ he stated.

  I nodded.

  ‘Yes. That is how your tribe would put it, isn’t it? That is the course of our lives if we do not walk in subjection to him. But through obedience, he grants blessing and life anew. Keep to him. Seek his way and not your own. Be strong and of a good courage. Follow him and he will grant you the strength to do so, Gash of the Bloodaxe.’

  At this, he looked back to me and then to the weapon on his shoulder whose blade lay smattered in his own blood. In all the years he had spent with his tribe, he had never been called anything but half-breed or half-blood, names meant only to demean and belittle him. I thought it appropriate to give him a name be
fitting of both orc and man, for he was fully both, a half-orc, a son of both races with the strength of both, in his bones and in his soul. He looked back to me and nodded. I believe he found the name appropriate as well.

  Without another word, the half-orc now known as Gash of the Bloodaxe took step, heading eastward across the expanse of the Great Plains and out into a world I have never seen. I watched him go with a quiet prayer.

  I kept watch over the orcish tribe for a few days more until, broken and leaderless, the tribe split and went their separate ways, forever leaving the Great Plains. Gurak’s body was left to rot. We buried it that we might not suffer its stink. I saw the beast’s sons leading some orcs southward toward the marshes. I do not know what sort of evil inhabits that place, but it is by all accounts of the other tribes, a forsaken place. Wretched as these orcs were, I could not let them walk blindly into death. I did my best to warn them of the danger. I even spoke what I could in their guttural tongue. They would not hear my words. Gurak’s sons were too proud, too convinced of their own strength. The rest just followed blindly, despite my warnings. I said a prayer for them. It was all I could do.

  My knowledge of Gash’s life ends there. I have heard rumors, of course, from the occasional traveler such as yourself. Usually, they consist of a legend among orcs of a half-breed wielding an axe that causes anything to bleed. It sounds to me as if he is doing well. I just hope and pray he is doing good.

  Go now and tell my tale, for I do not wish it to die with me.”

  “Your tale is true, Urik of Sha’al,” spoke a silvery voice from the seat next to his sickbed, “and your heart is sure. You seek the Father and are content to rest in his sovereign will.”