by Ben Stovall
He left the Unruly Pony, oblivious to the empty round table in the corner, and walked out into the street, finding King’s Way and heading west. The dwarf hastened his steps, as fast as he could, nearly sprinting toward the park. His boots clattered noisily on the cobbled stone of the road. Even if the street had been clear he’d have attracted attention. As it was, the soldiers that walked down the road on either side took note of him but said nothing.
He arrived at the park’s border, and made his way inward, marching down the pathways in between the erect tents. Toward the center, a small stage had been constructed—though, more akin to a soapbox than a platform. Atop it stood Alaka and Gorban, watching the eastern approach. Tyrdun began wading through the crowd of orcs, a black spec in a sea of green. A few orcs seemed perturbed by his presence, and as he neared the center one grabbed him and knelt to look him in the eyes. His eyes were a deep yellow-green, a goatee on his jaw, and his head shaved on the sides with a mane of dreadlocked hair down the center. “Who comes?” the man asked in rough Gandari.
“I’m just here to watch,” Tyrdun answered, lifting his hands up to reveal that he carried no weapons. “I’m short ye see, need a front row seat.”
The orc eyed him inquisitively, then shrugged. “I lead you. If you lose I, I am Iltrak.”
“Thank ye, Iltrak. Lead on.” With the muscle-bound orc in heavy armor making a path, they reached the edge of the crowd quickly. Tyrdun looked at the cleared path, seeing the orcs kneel as Inaru approached them, and rise as he left. He was about seventeen feet from the stage, and the dwarf nearly called to him. But … he hesitated. He watched as the orcs bowed their heads in reverence of his long-time friend and whispered pleas in Orvok.
Tears swelled in his eyes as they cheered—all of them—as he ascended the stairs. He heard Inaru speak, guttural Orvok sounding as melodic and beautiful as Elvain from his lips. His very basic understanding of the language left him bereft of most of the speech, but the words he understood … Valor. Honor. Warriors.
City.
Change.
The orcs roared with passion as he finished speaking. Tyrdun added his voice to theirs, even though it was raw from his constricted throat, as tears flowed down his cheeks. Iltrak looked down at him. “Why do cry?”
“Because he’s my friend. And he’s going to be the best warchief there ever was.”
Iltrak beamed. “Best warchief. Yes. Warchief Inaru!” the orc’s right arm shot into the air.
“To Warchief Inaru,” Tyrdun nodded. The dwarf turned and began wading through the crowd of orcs, sniffling and sobbing all the while.
✽ ✽ ✽
Fanrinn found Joravyn’s room quite well furnished. It was larger than his, and the mage had brought two large, cushioned chairs covered in a red linen soft as silk. They were on either side of a small oak table with ornate legs, topped with a metal fixture that produced light after Joravyn spoke an arcane word upon their entry.
The floor was covered in a beautiful rug the shade of night with bright orange accents. In the center sat a sigil of the Western Arcanomancer College, leading the medic to believe it was a custom work. Against the wall sat a bookshelf lined with a few arcane tomes, history books, novels, biographies, and encyclopedias—namely, the Gandari Compendium.
With how much Joravyn had brought in to his room, he may as well have bought a house to store all of it.
“So, Stitches, what can I help you with?” the mage asked as he eased into the other chair, setting two cups and a bottle of Souhal’s signature wine on the table.
“Well, I’d looked for Ulthan and Tyrdun, but I can’t seem to find them around. After Inaru’s departure, I just wanted to talk to them … about the future.”
“I’m the third choice? Ah! That stings, Stitches. Quick, get your medical supplies,” Joravyn teased. They shared a chuckle, then the mage said, “I get it. I mean, this feels harder than it did when Clayne left. Or Illyna. Even Pock.”
“What about the Fretonian?” Fanrinn prodded, grinning.
“Oh, I’m still broken up about that,” the mage beamed.
“I figured. You kept close eyes on him. Very close.”
“I didn’t mind his lack of armor as much as you did, it seems.”
The men shared a fit of laughter. When they finally managed to control themselves, Fanrinn sighed and said, “So? Do you ever think about what you’d do without Red Watch?”
“I try not to,” Joravyn frowned. “Without you lot I’d probably go back to Kual’apir. The enclave put an interim magister in Larion’s old seat. They expect me to take it someday. Guess I’d be out of excuses.”
“Politics? You?”
“I know, I know. Never was my strong suit, I don’t know why they went through the trouble—”
“I was going to say the opposite, actually,” Fanrinn interjected, taking a sip of the wine. “You did manage to win Souhal’s limited number of mages to fight in the battle, on your own.”
“Hah, that wasn’t even hard, though. The guild had no idea anything was coming – they pledged their support before I finished explaining the situation.” Joravyn took a draw of the wine and scratched his chin. “The enclave is an entirely different beast, Stitches. Tearing down the Ascension Act, as I’d want to, would attract a lot of attention to me. And my … proclivities.”
“It isn’t illegal in Kual’apir, is it?”
“Not exactly. But it’d be used against me. And they’d pressure me about it. ‘How can you be sure the Ascension Act will remain dead if you have no heirs to ensure it?’ It’s ridiculous.”
“What if you adopted someone?”
“They’re considered no better than a bastard. Only the emperor can make someone a legitimate heir.”
“Ah. Well, I’m sure you could get something done. I just think it isn’t as horrible an option as you seem to.”
Joravyn shrugged. “Maybe. At any rate, I’d spend every recess of the assembly here. Daraskarn is a lovely city, but … well, Souhal agrees with me more.” The mage took a deep drink of the wine.
“Any idea how your uncle is?”
“Heard from him a few months ago. Still living in Pavoss. Turns out, when you pay your workers, they don’t revolt. There was another slave rebellion. His employees actually protected him from their assault.”
“That alone should be enough to get the enclave to repeal that damn act.”
“It isn’t. Not with how many imperials it makes them.” Joravyn took a deep breath. “Anyway, what about you, Stitches?”
The elf paused in thought for a moment. “Well, I suppose I’d open a clinic in Aelindaas. Another healer to support the masses is always a welcome addition, after all. Though, if I were able I’d choose to accept King Silverthorne’s offer to work in the palace. With his resources, maybe we could work out a cure for the ilvatriona plague.” Joravyn winced at the mention. The ilvatriona sickness had plagued all Amera for years.
“Well, I’d say you’d certainly be up to the task,” Joravyn offered. “If anyone could do it, I think it’d be you.”
Fanrinn swallowed hard. “Heard it wiped out an entire town in Auzix six months ago. Such a waste of life …”
“Agreed.” Joravyn refilled their cups.
Fanrinn lifted the vessel and held it toward the mage. “Well, here’s to retirement. As tempting as it all sounds, may it be in the far and distant future.”
Joravyn smiled. “Agreed, again.”
Clink!
✽ ✽ ✽
Lytha slowly sat back at the large round table. The tavern had a few patrons, but nothing like the raucous gathering of the other night’s she’d been here. And none of the other members of Red Watch were around. Odd.
The door flew open, and an orc made his way to Lytha. Pulling his hood down, the bard recognized him. “Hey, Rhu! What brings you to the Pony?”
He bowed his head. “I’m here to extend an invitation to the ma’raak ceremony taking place in the park this evening to the memb
ers of Red Watch … where are the others?”
Lytha frowned and shrugged. “I honestly don’t know.”
“It seems I should’ve made greater haste … the ceremony is in twenty minutes, my lady.”
Lytha’s hand caught her chin. “That’s unfortunate,” she sighed. “Alright, I’ll look for them for a few minutes and then make my way out there … is what I’m wearing fine?”
“Armor?” Rhu asked. “You’ll fit right in, ma’am.”
The bard chuckled at that. Rhu left the tavern quickly, and Lytha walked over to the bar. “Mr. Hatchet?” she called.
“Evening, Lytha,” he answered, walking out from the kitchen. “What can I get ya?”
“Have you seen the rest of Red Watch around today? Any idea where they might be?”
The man frowned and shook his head. “’Fraid not, lass. Ain’t see the lot of ‘em since Inaru left.”
She nodded, the frown returning to her face. “Alright, thank you.” With that, Lytha stepped away from the counter toward the rooms behind. She found the door to Ulthan’s room, knocked and … no answer. The same result at the other doors as she cycled through. She sighed, hugging herself. Guess it’ll just be me.
A few long strides and she was out of the tavern. Sunset was fast approaching, and Lytha had to admit she’d been apprehensive of late-night walks lately.
Before long, she was entirely alone on the road. The soldiers who’d been seeking a tavern or whorehouse had found one, and the street was left completely empty. Except for a single dwarf dead ahead, wearing a black jacket, gray pants, his hood pulled over his face.
“Lytha?” the man called. The voice was unmistakable.
“Tyrdun? What are you doing out here?”
A pause. “Just walking. Needed to … clear my head.”
“Well, I’m on my way to the park to see Inaru’s ma’raak ceremony—whatever that is.”
“Hah, his marriage, lass.”
“Well, even better. I was working on an orc customs report for the Gandari Compendium, I’m sure notes about a union ceremony would be quite welcome with the other things I’ve written.”
Tyrdun considered her words for a moment, then nodded, pulling his hood down. “Ok, lass. Yeah, I’ll go.”
“Thank you. I … I know this can’t be easy for you.”
“I’m feeling a lot better about it, actually,” he said as she approached. They began walking forward in even strides.
She smiled. “Good. I’m glad, Stonehammer.”
They continued in silence, the park quickly coming into a view. Against the waning light, a fire illuminated the crowd, every orc in Souhal was in attendance.
“By the mountain, that’s more than earlier,” Tyrdun whispered. Lytha questioned the statement but said nothing.
“That simply won’t do,” she said. “We need to get a better view … The battlements are too far to make anything out … Hm. Oh! There’s the old belfry north of here. If we cut through this alley, we’ll make it.”
“Alright, lass, lead on,” the dwarf replied, bowing his head. The alley had a few twists and bends, and they turned at two different intersections before arriving at the old abandoned tower. Lytha knelt at the door and moved a loose cobble out of the way, revealing a hidden key. “What in … how did you know about that, lass?”
The bard felt a bit of heat rise in her cheeks. “I, uh, I’ve been here once or twice. With some … friends.”
Tyrdun grinned immediately, then clapped her on the back. “Atta girl, Vainyri! Alright let’s go.” Their ascent was quick, rushing up the stairs, knowing the ceremony was about to begin.
Reaching the apex, they saw that they had a moment before it began in truth, much to Lytha’s surprise. They sat down a foot and a half from the landing’s edge. The view was impeccable from this height. A sea of green—of life in the dead of winter, amidst snow drifts as tall as a man. It’s quite a sight.
Lytha pulled her journal from her bag and began taking notes.
Tyrdun looked over. “That journal looks like it’s for more than notes for the compendium,” he observed.
She felt the blush in her cheeks again. “Well, I’ve been trying to write my own piece for a while now,” she answered while continuing to take notes.
“Ooh! Can I hear it?”
“Well … I haven’t finished one. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, but I can’t seem to find the right words … and most of the poems and songs I know are about remarkable events and legendary heroes. I always end up comparing myself to them … they just don’t seem to hold a candle. So, apologies, Stonehammer, but I’ve nothing to share at the moment.”
“Bah, no worries, lass. I’m sure you’ll find something to write about while you’re with us. Maybe this ceremony, for instance.”
Lytha nodded at the sentiment, seeing the truth in it. “I’ll keep that in mind, Tyrdun. Thank you.” The quill’s dance on the parchment took over the conversation for a moment, then, Lytha asked, “What do you think you’ll do, after Red Watch?”
The dwarf resettled himself as he considered the question. “I guess I’d settle down. Find a good woman in Aljorn, have some kids. Didn’t always wanna raise some wee ones, but it’s becoming a bit more alluring as I get older.”
“I think you’d be a great father, Stonehammer.”
“I … thank you. What makes you say that?”
“You’re patient and fair, but hard when you need to be—like when Joravyn and Ulthan kept arguing. Reminds me a lot of my father when I was a girl,” she said with a smile. “Oh! They’re starting!”
✽ ✽ ✽
Inaru watched Krolligar’s paint covered fingers reach toward his face. He shut his eyes tight as his brother smeared two red lines down his brow, to the bridge of his nose and all the way to his chin. Krolligar then cleaned his hand before dipping his finger into the white paint next. “I still think this isn’t the time for this,” Inaru muttered.
“Hold still or I’ll mess up,” Krolligar retorted. “Then we’ll have to start over. Again.” Inaru exhaled a great gust from his nose, knowing the truth in his brother’s words. “For what it’s worth, I agree,” Krolligar offered. “No doubt Alaka is just ensuring her legitimacy as your partner before the battle can potentially claim you.”
“It won’t.”
“Hold. Still.” Krolligar ordered, pausing his actions. “This is a very delicate process.”
“How did you even—”
“Stop talking!” Krolligar shouted. He chuckled for a moment. “Uldrik had me paint him once. He wanted me to know how, in case he needed it done. It took hours to get it right, but I guess it’s coming in handy. Granted, another orc could’ve done this, but they would have been less patient with your jabbering, I think.” Krolligar splashed his hand in the water and moved the bowl of blue paint over.
As he dipped his finger in the bowl, Inaru asked, “What is it supposed to mean?”
Krolligar thought about it for a moment, trying to get the memory right. “The two red lines are your lives before, Alaka’s and yours. The white line on your jaw that leads up the center of the two red lines is representative of your new life together. These blue dots I’m adding now are only used for warchiefs. They’re for the orcs that rally behind the union … which I guess is all of them, now. But I’m not going to paint that many.” He chuckled. Inaru had to hold his own laugh in as Krolligar continued. “Alright, I think that’s it. Wasn’t so hard, all you had to do was shut up a minute.” He smiled.
“Let me see it,” Inaru asked. Krolligar directed him to the now still water on the table. It looked just as his brother had described, and he had to admit that only the meaning behind the marks gave them any beauty.
“I know you weren’t exactly looking,” Krolligar began, “but you have to admit Alaka isn’t an ugly orc, at least.”
Inaru laughed heartily. “You’re right. She’s beautiful. I just … never expected any of this. I was always sure I’d end
up dead before I would return to the orcs. I couldn’t conceive a traditional warchief wedding in my future.”
“I’m hoping you’re aware it’s in your very near future now,” Krolligar quipped. They both chuckled at that.
“I’ve been to a human wedding before,” Inaru started. “It wasn’t as different from this as I was expecting. There was a custom I’m not sure if we have. Ulthan stood beside Clayne, the man who was getting married, and gave him a ring to put on the woman’s finger. Is that part of the ceremony?”
“It’s not unheard of, to have someone you trust beside you. But we don’t exchange rings—we use these.” Krolligar held up a ceremonial knife from a box and handed it to Inaru. “You take it and make a thin, shallow cut on the back of the left hand. Then you take some of the blood and smear it on the forehead across the lines.”
“A very primal custom,” Inaru observed.
“The cut is supposed to scar over, a reminder of the ceremony, I guess. So, a little like this ‘ring’ the humans exchange, I suppose.” He sheathed the dagger and handed it to Inaru who slid it into the back of his belt.
Rhu opened the flap to the tent. “It’s time,” he said quickly before ducking back out. Krolligar and Inaru exchanged a glance before they left the tent as well.
The sun was low against the western wall of the city, casting a glowering orange curtain over the amassing orcs. The ones closest to Inaru bowed and stepped out of the way, opening a path leading to the middle of the congregation. There stood Gorban, in front of a slowly starting fire.
Inaru took small, deliberate steps toward the center, where he had slain his father not even a day before. Though he stood towering over the orcs who knelt in his presence, the whole ritual left him feeling small. Inaru caught the quick whispers of hopeful pleas that broke on the words of others and distance alike. They asked for things both mundane and exotic—a short winter, a bit of klonto beef in the stew, a new blanket, an enchanted sword, a pair of boots—nearly anything was on the lips of the orcs he passed.
With a heft of finality, Inaru stepped into the center and turned to stand shoulder to shoulder with Gorban, Krolligar standing on his left. The aged orc smirked at him. “Your brother did well,” he acknowledged. “It’s nearly perfect.”
