Half-Orc Redemption

by Luke T Barnett

  Gash looked to the ground, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. At last, he said, “I know.”

  Marian’s eyebrows went up.

  “You know?” she echoed him.

  Gash nodded.

  “I have always known he was there, though until I met Lilliandra, I did not know his name. I have never felt his presence. I have just known he was there. I still do not understand. But I will follow him. I will…I will do what I must.”

  With that Gash rose and moved to the door.

  “Where do you go, Gash?” Marian asked, standing to face him.

  “Dwarven mountain,” was Gash’s reply.

  “But night is falling and a storm rides the wind. Did you not feel it when you spoke with Lilliandra?”

  “It does not matter,” he replied.

  Something pricked Marian’s conscience about the way in which Gash acted.

  “Gash,” she said. “What do you plan to do when you get there?”

  Gash turned to face her. His face was hard and feral, the scowl deep, displaying his determined will.

  “I abandoned the others,” he replied. “I must return to them and complete what I have left not done. It is right.”

  Marian did not doubt those words, but there was something else, some other determination in his eyes and voice; something he was not revealing to her.

  “Gash, listen to me,” Marian said, placing her hands on his arm. “Whatever you are planning to do, if you do not do it in service to the Father, you will be walking into death. Please trust in him.”

  Gash stared at her a moment, knowing her words to be true.

  “You are mother to me,” he said plainly. “I will return and tell you what has happened.”

  He then turned and walked out the door, grabbing his axe on the way which Marian had left outside the door. Marian watched after him in the fading twilight, fear for his life rising in her as the winds rose around her. She could see determination in his steps. She knelt down on her stoop and prayed to the Father for his safety and, most importantly, his will to follow him.

  XXII. Traitor

  Gash appeared at the edge of the plain before any could discern who or what he was. A dwarven sentry was the first to notice. Mara and the others had been busy informing and training with the dwarvish army, which had gathered in the plain west of the Collapsed Mountain.

  When it was reported that a lone orc was spotted heading in from the west, Mara, who had been sitting and eating a meal, jumped to her feet and ran to the edge of camp. Several dwarves, battle-ready (though as Mara had learned, there was never a time when they were not so) stood as stone statues, forbidding this orc further ground, should he be foolish enough to come within range of their weapons. Mara stood with them, shading her eyes against the sun. Across the vast distance, she could barely make out the hulking figure of green whose weapon’s unmistakable double head peaked over his right shoulder. Mara hesitated to smile, reluctant to believe it was true. But then she was suddenly off and running. Had he been a continent away, it would not have stopped the young girl from reaching him, jumping at him, and throwing her arms around him in a fit of joyful laughter.

  “I knew it!” she cried, tears falling from her eyes. “I knew you were alive!”

  She pulled back and looked him in the face, her smile as wide as the open plains.

  “They did not believe me,” she continued. “But I knew those mountains held no power against you. H’ruk knew it too. He would not back down from it, even when challenged, the stubborn-“

  “H’ruk?” Gash said in surprise.

  “Yes,” Mara said, her smile fading at his reaction. “He took your place as leader of your clan after you…”

  Mara’s brow furrowed and she looked intently upon Gash as if some secret would be revealed in his eyes.

  “Where were you?” she asked him. “What happened to you?”

  “Where is H’ruk?” Gash asked her.

  Mara hesitated, but at last replied, “I will take you to him.”

  The two walked in silence as Mara led him. She glanced at him, noticing scars she had not previously noticed smattering his hands and arms. She noticed his ear was now half gone. She thought about his silence on the matter and the young woman began to rage within herself, wondering where Gash had been and why he had said nothing, wondering if she should ask again, and desiring greatly to know, yet thinking better of the action, and then worse, and then better again. To distract herself she began to tell Gash of what had happened the morning after he disappeared.

  “We sat and waited for you for a day. When you did not return, we began to search for you. But almost as soon as we began, H’ruk called us back together and announced we would search no longer.

  “‘I G'uar now,’ he told us. ‘We not waste time. We return to dwarves and train. Make ready for war.’

  “‘We cannot just leave him here for death to take hold of him!’ I yelled at him. ‘We must find him!’

  “He did not answer me, or even look at me, but turned away and began walking. Grak and Trogla followed him. They did not say anything. I was not about to let that pass so I ran and stepped into H’ruk’s path.

  “‘You are a coward and a traitor to your leader!’ I spat at him. ‘If you wish to leave him to die you must first fight me and kill me, for I will not allow it, gooklak!’

  “I must have said something that grabbed his attention, for he at last looked at me and spoke.

  “‘He too strong to die here. He will come to dwarf mountain. We meet him there.’

  “He and the other two then kept walking. I followed because I knew what he said was true. I am just glad we were right.”

  As she finished, they came to a training ground where H’ruk stood, arms crossed, watching a group of dwarves practice their techniques. H’ruk glanced, saw their approach and turned to face his leader, not even giving a flinch at his sudden re-appearance.

  Gash and Mara stopped before him and the two orc-kin stood staring at each other in silence. Gash glanced at the practicing dwarves.

  “You come back to train dwarves?” he said, questioning H’ruk’s motives.

  “Orcs too strong and too many,” H’ruk replied simply in the common tongue. “I cannot defeat. You can, but I cannot.”

  “But they un-orc.”

  “Bah!” H’ruk said with a wave of his hand. “It not matter. Orc army need stopped. Like I say, it bad. If un-orc want try and stop, fine. I train, make sure they do good. They die…”

  At this H’ruk merely shrugged and continued.

  “What I care? They die, not me. They stop orc? Better. They kill all orcs?”

  With this, H’ruk could not stifle a mocking chuckle. “Fine. Then I be strongest orc, after you. They un-orc. They still worthy of nothing. She still worthy of nothing. But you prove strength by coming back from death in mountains. I follow you now. Whatever you tell me, I do.”

  Gash nodded and H’ruk nodded back.

  “Take me to others,” Gash told him.

  H’ruk immediately turned and led the two of them away. As they walked, Gash noticed the sword hanging at H’ruk’s side.

  “New sword?” Gash asked him.

  H’ruk showed distaste in his look.

  “Dwarves make it. I not like it. Too smooth.”

  “Why you not break?” Gash said remembering the practice of orcs to purposefully chip the blade to make it jagged and tearing.

  H’ruk did not answer immediately, but his face became even grumpier.

  “Can’t,” he said reluctantly. “They make too hard.”

  They followed him through the camp. Dwarves beyond number surrounded them, giving them interested, but no less stone-faced stares as they walked through. Legions stood in wide areas practicing their techniques. Others stood filtering around hastily constructed forges, making and honing weapons to perfection. Others still milled around numerous steaming caldrons and large barrels of ale, eating, drinking, and speaking in their
dwarven tongues. Gash noticed there were no horses or beasts of burden. Everywhere he looked there were only dwarves. It seemed to Gash that in their minds, they needed no other thing. All other things, including weapons, were secondary. All they needed was their dwarven kin and any battle could be won.

  It seemed to Gash that this was what it must have been like for the orc before he became what he was. And deep in the recesses of his mind, Gash mourned for his kin.

  Before long, they came upon a large crowd of dwarves gathered around a circular arena whose borders seemed to be made up of the dwarves themselves. The dwarves sat interested, smoking pipes, drinking ale, eating whatever meals they held, or just sitting, watching intently the battle that played out before them. Gash and the others could see easily over the crowd. Grak and Trogla stood locked in combat in the center of the ring.

  Trogla stood, thick, jagged sword in her bloodied hands. Her breaths were heavy. Several clean slices bled in various places across her body. Grak stood facing her, still and calm, double sickles poised to strike. His body was clear of fresh wounds.

  With a bloodthirsty battlecry, Trogla charged Grak, her sword swinging for his midsection. Grak held his position until the last moment, dodged, spun, and raked his blades across the female’s back. Trogla screamed and fell to the ground. The dirt stabbed at her wounds. She screamed again and, in rage, jumped to her feet and charged Grak again. Grak caught the blade of her sword between those of his sickles and twisted them, jerking the sword from Trogla’s already injured hands and tossing it aside. Before she could react, his blade tips were on the sides of her neck. She stood there, wide-eyed, her hair tattered and tossed. At last, she sunk to her knees and stared at the ground in shame. Her voice forced out a single word in orcish. Grak removed his blades and replaced them in his belt.

  The match finished, Gash moved his way through the crowd and into the ring. He stood there on the edge, just staring at the two. Grak only stood staring at Trogla a moment and then turned to leave. As he raised his head he saw Gash standing there, and started. His hands instinctively went to his weapons. Gash made no aggressive move, he simply stood staring at Grak with his deep scowl. Neither Grak nor Trogla moved either. All three of them seemed frozen in time, but all who observed could feel the tension hanging in the air like a thick fog. The silence was at last broken by Gash’s rough voice giving sound to a single word in the common tongue.

  “Why?”

  Trogla snapped her head and looked up, her eyes wide.

  “G’uar?” she said in disbelief.

  Struggling, she pushed herself to her feet.

  “G’uar,” she repeated. “You alive-“

  She stopped as she noticed his glare was not on her, but on Grak. She looked to Grak and saw the pensiveness in his body language. His muscles were tense. His hands gripped solid the handles of his sickles. His eyes were fixed upon Gash. Trogla looked back to her resurrected leader and then back to Grak.

  “What this mean?” she said. “I not hear challenge. Say you!”

  “Trogla!” H’ruk called from outside the ring. “Leave ring.”

  Trogla glanced at H’ruk, then once more at the two warriors and then reluctantly backed out of the ring.

  Grak did not answer Gash, but stood, seemingly uncertain of his next move.

  “Tell them,” Gash ordered him.

  Grak did nothing but stare at Gash. At last, his stance shifted and he pulled his weapons from their holsters. Having no desire to satisfy Grak’s intent, Gash defiantly pulled his axe from its holster and thrust it, blade down, into the dirt beside him. Grak’s scowl deepened and he bared his teeth. With a roar of anger, he charged Gash.

  His swings were fast and accurate. But Gash had seen him fight before and his anger was making his swings sloppier than they should have been. Gash easily dodged and back-fisted Grak in the side of his face. The blow sent Grak stumbling sideways. Regaining his footing, he looked back to Gash and raised his sickles. His look became focused as he realized his error. He would be more dangerous now, and Gash knew it. He would have to end this quickly.

  Grak charged again and this time leapt into the air, his sickles poised to bring a deadly strike. Gash waited for the right moment during Grak’s fall and reached up with a speed Grak had not expected. His hands gripped Grak’s wrists and held them in place while the rest of him continued to fall the short distance that was left. In that moment, Gash brought his head forward, allowing Grak to smash his nose against Gash’s hard skull. There was a sickening smack. Grak’s head bounced back as his legs continued to swing forward and Gash released his grip. The full orc landed hard on his back, stunned by the pain. His weapons jarred from his hands. Gash seized the opportunity and grabbed his axe. Turning, he brought the tips of the blades down on either side of Grak’s throat, pinning him.

  “Tell them!” Gash shouted, leaning over him.

  Grak merely spat blood in the half-orc’s face. Gash raged and kicked Grak hard in his side. Grak’s body lifted from the ground, but was halted by his neck impacting the blades of Gash’s weapon. He landed, coughing, desperately drawing in breath.

  “Tell them!” Gash shouted and was about to strike him again before Mara jumped in front of him.

  “Gash, stop!” she told him as she halted his leg’s movement with both hands. “Why are you doing this? What has he done?”

  Gash ceased his assault and stared at Mara as his emotions cooled. His breath was heavy. Seeing the look on her face, he suddenly realized he had lost control, and silently set his mind to never let it happen again.

  Gash looked to Grak, anger and pain coursing through him. The full orc lay breathing heavy and trying weakly to dislodge the axe. Gash would have liked nothing more than to smash the full-orc’s face to pieces with his foot. But he knew that was not the right choice and so he refrained. If he could only tell him. If he could only find a way to make him understand all the pain he and others like him had caused. But there was no way and Grak would never fully comprehend without living Gash’s life. That in itself was a great pain for the angered half-orc and it made Gash yearn to seek out the one who knew every slash of pain upon his heart, inside and out. He would. But first he knew he must deal with the situation at hand. It was obvious Grak was not going to talk. Gash had to think of a way to make him talk, for he would not accuse him himself. Finding Trogla in the crowd, he called to her.

  “What penalty for orc attack leader without challenge, according to clan?”

  Trogla looked confused, but answered, “Death, G’uar.”

  “And what for un-orc?” he quizzed her.

  Trogla glanced to Grak, still confused, but nonetheless answered.

  “According to tribe, un-orc not worthy of death. Often get beating, but that all. Not worth killing.”

  Gash nodded, stepped up to Grak and placed his foot on Grak’s chest. Grabbing the haft of his axe, Gash pushed on Grak’s chest with his foot and pulled the massive weapon from the ground. Grak reeled in pain as Gash sheathed his weapon.

  “Beating over,” he said. “You may go.”

  He then turned his back to the injured orc and walked away. He had not taken two steps, however, before hearing Grak’s gurgling, growling voice speaking in its native tongue.

  “You dare call me un-orc!” he choked, pulling himself to his feet. “If I’m un-orc, you are ten times less than an un-orc! You spare your enemies! You ally with dwarves and refuse to take control of a mighty army of your kin! You say you are of one womb with a human!”

  At this, he spat and coughed more, before continuing.

  “Sick you make me! You bring shame and weakness to the name of orc! You want me to admit that I tried to kill you? I proudly do! I attacked you on the slopes without a challenge because you are not worthy of a challenge! You know nothing of orc! You forsake our ways for the weak! You dare call yourself an orc! I spit on the name of Gash and I curse it in the name of Grot!”

  This elicited a word of shock from Trogla. Gr
ak turned and shouted at her.

  “Silence! You’re no better! You follow someone who embraces un-orcs and make a friend of one yourself so do not speak in my presence again, female!”

  He then turned back to Gash and continued his ranting.

  “Face me, coward!” he shouted. “You will not leave me as an un-orc! You will kill me and give me the death I deserve! I have lived as an orc! That is more than you can ever rightfully say, you filthy half-breed!”

  At this Gash turned halfway back to him, turning his head to look at him full on. Grak stood there, breathing heavily, thick blood and dirt smattered across his face, intense hatred glaring through his eyes. Gash stood there in silence, staring down his intended assassin. All that he had experienced ran through his mind. He thought about Grak, about Trogla, about H’ruk, even about Gurak. He was so far from that first day of freedom, so far from who he was.

  He thought about his clan and their lostness; of their worship of Grot, a god of falseness and such great weakness that none would have followed if they had known the truth. But they didn’t know and they did follow. And Grak was a walking example of the results.

  This was not the way it was meant to be. He was certain of that now. But Grak could not see that. Gash sincerely doubted he ever would. But he was his kin. That he also could not deny. And so he could not just dismiss him. He needed the truth, whether he accepted it or not.

  “You wish the death of an orc?” he asked him in the orcish tongue.

  “Yes,” Grak replied calmly, but as serious as the death he sought.

  “You do not know what you seek. This is not the way. It is meant to be better. We are meant for better than this. Strength is not found in killing. Honor is not found in death. Death is empty and cruel. If you seek it, then go and seek it elsewhere. I will have no more of it, not according to your ways. But I will seek the true way of the orc, what it was before we became what we are. Go and seek your death, if you want. You will not find it in me.”