Bloodless

by Roberto Vecchi

  “How did you know this was here?” asked Soliana as they grounded their tiny rowboat.

  “I was lucky enough to find it after escaping The Gauntlet. It seems my fortunes were the same this time,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “I did not know The Dragon’s Journey would take us this close to the Orc lands,” he replied.

  “Where did you think they were taking us?” she asked him.

  “I was told Captain Dorgo had business across the sea,” he said examining the narrow path.

  “What business could provoke a pirate from his normal area of plunder?” she asked again.

  “Slavery,” he answered.

  The rest of their ascent was marked by a disdainful silence. Unless they needed to communicate to negotiate the several natural obstacles in the narrow path, she did not speak to him, nor him to her. At times, she had to boost him up and wait for him to extend a hand downward. And at other times, they found themselves stretched to their limits in awkward positions just to grab a sufficient handhold or foothold allowing their journey to continue. Had their strength not been tapped by the five-day, sea bound journey, their ascent would have been much easier. However, when they finally reached the top, each of them collapsing on the flat, grassy covered land of the plains, their rest was short lived. As Jaro attended to the snorting of several animals, he instantly sprung to his feet.

  “Soliana, we have an issue,” he said.

  “Can you not let me rest for a moment?” she asked him, accusation lacing her voice.

  “Yes, I can. But they will not,” he warned.

  She turned her head expecting to see a herd of large animals grazing on the long, overgrown grass, or a pack of predators beginning to circle them as they lay. Had it been the herd of grazing animals, in spite of their size, unless they caused a stampede, neither of them would be in any immediate danger. If it had been a pack of predators, a show of territorial force would probably suffice to remove any threat. Plain predators often times sought to attack the weak members of the herd. If they displayed their strength, they would likely be left alone, unless the predators were physically starving. However, when she saw ten large orcs riding even larger beasts, the large and normally docile Swarthen Lizards, she feared. Joining Jaro, she also sprang to her feet. There was a very tense moment where each measured the other. Though it did not require someone of vast intelligence to deduce the precariousness of their predicament.

  Though Soliana had learned the Orcs were normally a peaceful race, she had never experience it for herself. Seeing their protruding lower jaws inset with massively jutting bottom canine fangs, witnessing their chiseled, bare chested bodies, powerfully layered with lean muscles, beholding the formidability with which they sat upon and commanded these equally large and powerful beasts, she doubted if there was anything about them not created specifically for battle. Off the flanks for their lizard steeds hung weapons of such size, Soliana doubted her ability, and indeed all men’s ability to, adequately wield them. Every sword she had ever held seemed inadequate in comparison.

  “Drebato,” said the orc on the largest of the beasts, his jet-black hair extending upward in a high ponytail only to end spilling downward across his broad shoulders. In response, the rest of the orcs dismounted, encircling both Jaro and Soliana, pressing them together with the edges of long and sharp spears until the pair stood literally back to back.

  “Kemgra,” said the deep voice, obviously issuing another command. One of the Orcs pulled something out of a small punch tied to his leather belt. With a quick flick of his arm, he threw whatever he was holding at them. However, it was nothing except for a small puff of powder. Both Jaro and Soliana coughed, trying to clear their protesting lungs of whatever they had just inhaled. Their coughing quickly subsided; however, it was not because of any conscious efforts of their part, nor had either of them been successful at clearing their breath. Had they both not unconsciously slumped into the powerful arms of the orcs, they may have never stopped coughing, or at least not until their stomachs hurt from the strain.

  That night, or it could have been any number of nights, such was the depth of her drug induced slumber, that it was nearly impossible to correctly delineate time’s predictable passage, she dreamed. Or maybe it was not a dream, maybe it was her consciousness floating to some other reality housed deeply hidden within her own authentic, yet subconscious, desires. For whatever reason, she dreamt of men, all the men, every single one of them who had helped shape her into what she had become. She dreamt of Eriboth first, her first and only real submersion into love and loss, and pain. She dreamt of Matteos as his warmth dissolved forcing her to face the monster beneath his calm and polished exterior. She dreamt of Markis and his fire breathing act as he allowed her to draw close to another man who, though he could not really love her, did not harm her. She dreamt of Psumayn, the rigorous tutor, mentor, lover whom she desired for the stability he represented and the idea that she could become as free as he. She dreamt of Jaro, the betraying thief who had stolen the last of her refugees who had, no doubt, been sold into some heavy bonds of slavery in far off lands. She dreamt of her father who had succumb to an inconsolable necessity for escape, an escape he found at the bottom of a bottle and the brutality of released rage. And then she dreamt of Torrick. The man whom she had never seen become a man. The only one of them who possessed all the possibility of endlessness, yet she had never been allowed to see the fruition of that potential. And the only one of them all who had given her nothing except an unconditional and relentless love. She saw him, on the night she had given him away, felt him as he slipped into the last slumber and peacefulness she would ever feel, and broke all over again as she passed his little, sleeping body to Nadalize. Yet, as she dreamed, she felt a presence, and odd but familiar feeling that she was not alone, had never been alone.

  “Uthgot,” she heard in the darkened mists of her dream’s background. She ignored it seeking to more readily identify this presence.

  “Uthgot!” she heard a second time, but attended it not.

  “Uthgot!” she heard a third time. Although she would have continued resisting its demanded attention at infinitum, she was prodded by the tip of her orc captor’s spear forcing her eyes to open.

  As they did, she was roughly dragged to her feet by a large and powerful hand as it grabbed her by her hair, yanking her upright. Had there been any grogginess left in her mind, the sharp pain as a large lock of her hair was ripped out, eliminated it immediately. She turned to confront the Orc, but was slapped across her face driving her to her knees. Instantly, she felt the hand grab her hair again, repeating its powerful insistence. She had been stripped of her clothes and was covered in the dirt and grime of her cell floor. Her lip wore a swelling bruise from when she had been struck as a trickle of blood made a trail down her chin ending as it released its droplets on the ground. She was fastened around her neck with a thick, twine rope held by an orc at its end. She was half pushed and half dragged through their camp until she came to stand in front of a large, wooden throne supporting the equally large body of the Orc Chieftain. Behind him and off to the right, stood another large orc holding a wooden staff adorned with a large animal’s skull at its top end. Dangling from it was a small rope woven with several smaller skulls, some of which looked like those of man. Extending outward from the large throne were many, many orcs forming rows and rows of circles. It was clear this was going to be some sort of ritual. Though she still looked, she could not see Jaro anywhere amongst them.

  “Octor muese, ig thock ig thein!” announced the Orc Cheiftain.

  “The great Orc, Rhowthor Rhose, challenges your man for your rights. We keep what we kill,” said the orc standing next to the Chieftain as he pointed behind Soliana. She turned and saw Jaro emerge from between the orcs to her rear. He was dressed as they were, bare-chested, with only a single shoulder pauldron for armor. His body was painted with several orc symbols whose meanings she did not know. He still wo
re his trousers and boots, but instead of his long daggers, he held a battle axe in one hand and bore a small buckler shield in the other.

  “Rhoaggar,” said the orc crowd in unison. “Rhoaggar,” the said again.

  Jaro came to stand next to Soliana and said, “This is not quite what I had planned to see you naked.”

  “Rhoaggar,” said the crowd for a third time.

  “What do you suppose that means?” asked Jaro as he and Soliana looked around.

  “I have no idea, but we are sure to find out,” she replied.

  Suddenly, the Orc Chieftain stood up holding both of his hands above his head. The orcs, if they had been making any noise, ceased all of their grunting and snorting the moment the chieftain stood. And when he shouted, “Rhoaggar!”, they erupted into a wild outburst of yells and howls.

  When the chieftain sat again, the crowd quieted and began repeating, in a slow and rhythmical chant, “Rhoaggar, Rhoaggar, Rhoaggar.”

  “I am not liking this more and more,” said Soliana.

  “How do you think I feel?” replied Jaro.

  Before she could answer, she was pulled by the rope around her neck leaving Jaro to stand by himself as he watched a mountain move. Emerging from the crowd of orcs, standing nearly a foot taller than the tallest one, was a nightmare of brutish granite that must have been under some sort of magical enchantment because it actually moved, though it did not walk as one would expect from an animated block of earth. As it stepped to within five paces of Jaro, he saw that it was indeed composed of flesh, bone, and blood. It was clear this was Rhoaggar, their champion. The mountain of orc brutality turned to face the chieftain, crossed both of his enormous war axes over his chest. Jaro looked to Soliana who was still trying to fight against the bindings around her neck. The Chieftain stood up again, raised one hand in the air and let it drop shouting, “Trondix geldo!”

  In an instant, the orc champion closed the gap between he and Jaro in two enormous bounds swinging the larger of the two axes horizontally. Jaro was barely able to block it with his axe, but he still paid a price. Stunned, he fell backward. Rhoaggar was on him quickly again, swinging the same axe vertically down toward his head and shoulder. Jaro managed to twist at just the last moment evading a swipe that would have torn him in two. Thieves were not known for their fighting skills, but they were scrappers, and Jaro was perhaps the best of them. Knowing the orc champion would pursue his advantage without hesitation, Jaro swiped his hand across the ground showering Rhoaggar’s eyes with dirt and dust. He lunged left and swiped with his axe slicing Rhoaggar’s right side. It was a flesh wound, but the champion was bloodied nonetheless. Pressing his advantage, Jaro sought to hamstring the wounded champion with another slash. He missed and paid for it. The massive orc kicked Jaro square in his chest hurtling him backward through the air at least ten feet. He landed hard, producing an audible pop from his shoulder. Jaro rolled over to his stomach and tried to push himself up. His right arm gave out causing his face to hit the ground.

  The orcs roared with approval as the Rhoaggar pandered to their lust for blood. He put down the smaller of his two axes and gripped his heavy war axe with both hands. Soliana watched, still struggling against the orc holding the other end of his rope, as the orc champion slowly walked over to Jaro. When he reached the struggling thief, he picked him up with one strong hand on his head, bending down to look at the smaller combatant at eye level. The orc spoke something in orcish that Soliana could not hear. Trying to wrestle free of the orc’s strong grasp, Jaro spit in Rhoaggar’s face. He paid for that too. Rhoaggar lifted him clear off the ground punching him in the face with the butt end of the great war axe. Jaro fell to the group, limp and beaten. After a short, frightening moment when she thought life hand left him, she saw his legs and arms slightly move. The massive champion, clearly the victor, was beginning to congratulate himself by whooping his arms wildly in the air. Soliana watched as Jaro rolled over to his stomach again, more slowly this time, and used his one good arm to push himself up to his hands and knees. He was struggling to breathe through a face that had been pummeled and left to bleed from his nose and mouth.

  Again, Soliana was forced to watch as the massive orc walked slowly over to the object of his power and wrath. Lifting his impossibly large war axe high into the air, the orc champion looked to the chieftain for approval. The chief nodded slightly. Soliana grabbed the rope around her neck, pulled the orc holding it toward her and kicked him in the throat hard enough to loosen his grasp. She dashed into the center of the circle. The axe raised higher. She dove for the other heavy war axe. Rhoaggar tenses his muscles, preparing to sever Jaro’s head. She somersaulted to propel her momentum and pushed as hard as she could with her legs, sweeping upward with the axe. Steal met steal.

  Rhoaggar bellowed with rage. The chieftain stood to his feet yelling some curse or instructions. Five orcs surged forward, weapons drawn. Before they could subdue her, the orc with the skull tipped staff silence them all with what had to be a magically enhanced shout, “Yinilli muese ig thock ig thein! The woman owns herself!” The five orcs who had begun moving against Soliana, stopped and slowly returned to their places within the crowd. The chieftain stared at the orc with the staff for a moment, and then sat back down. The visibly angered, Rhoaggar snickered, issuing what was surely a vulgarity toward her.

  “Trondix geldo!” shouted the orc with the staff.

  Though she was an impressive physical specimen trained by one of the greatest swordsmen of all time, she was grossly outmatched by the massive orc. Using her momentum, she was able to swing the heavy war axe with enough force to repel his life ending attack against Jaro; however, when matched pound for pound, and momentum for momentum, she stood no chance. Her only chance was to get to the smaller axe and shield Jaro had begun the battle with. But much to her dismay, Rhoaggar was positioned between it and her. If she moved toward it, he would cut her off. Though he was massively large, his speed and quickness remained unhindered. Her only choice, albeit a poor one, was to allow him to be the aggressor. He obliged.

  He took two steps and leaped in the air swinging his axe downward in a thundering, heavy strike. Impossible to block, she danced to the left. The orc twisted to the right trying to backhand her, but she was too nimble. He pressed his attack and continued spinning until he turned all the way around in a roundhouse punch from his wheelhouse, nearly connecting. Soliana ducked just in time and kicked with her front leg impacting the Orc’s knee. Against a normal-sized combatant, she might have been successful at straining her opponent’s knee, but so large were Rhoaggar’s massive legs, that it its effect was all but unnoticeable. His heavy fist struck her cheek at that very same moment knocking her to the ground. She felt the impact rattle her head, dislodging her focus for the present, forcing her to remember the past. Out of instinct, she rose to a single knee.

  Impact. She thought of Jaro and the beating he had just received, seeing it as another punishing attempt to recompense his blame and guilt over the death of his wife and daughter.

  Impact. She thought of Psumayn and the suffering of his harsh tutelage as a means to impart his skill unto someone who could continue the excellence of his legacy.

  Impact. She thought of Markis, the fire breather, as their bond of convenience and opportunity failed to become more because she failed to become more.

  Impact. She thought of Matteos and the awful brutality he had almost taught, and surely would have taught, her son had she not acted when and how she did.

  Impact. She thought of Eriboth and the bruise he left on her soul, a soul that had endured much more pain that any physical beating she had ever, could ever, receive.

  Impact. She thought of Torrick, her son, and the unrelenting void in her soul opened on the night she gave him to Nadalize.

  Impact. Impact. Impact, and then, she thought no more.

  Instead, she drifted through space and time, inwardly, to the deepest essence of herself. Into the clarity of utter humility, she fac
ed herself more nakedly than she had ever done before. And what she found were not the words, nor deeds, nor lessons imposed upon her by the circumstances of her life. Nor did she find her guilt and pain resulting from her own oppressive failures. Long had her identity been forged upon the anvil of failure by the relentless hammer of regret. Impact after impact, it struck her soul pounding away at any hope of something greater within. So forceful was its impact, that her soul had been broken into a thousand shattered shards of love long ago. No. She found nothing of herself at the end of her own inner darkness. But she did find something.

  Sound. Resonating from within, she heard a single, clear, perfect, tone revealing the truest part of her, the part we deny because to realize it means to acknowledge it, and to acknowledge it means to accept it, and to accept it means to bear its responsibility. The tone grew bidding the ears of her truth to attend its magnificent resonance and the vibrations of her soul, those she thought had been broken beyond repair, to fuse together into a perfectly smooth, radiantly beautiful rendition of her soul’s perfected harmony. As the immortal sound blended seamlessly with her mortal identity, she understood. In that moment, when all truth of pain and brokenness revealed itself, she understood the single, clarifying truth of her life: she was been broken to be set free. Her eyes opened. She pushed herself to her hands and knees. She placed one foot on the ground, then another, and stood.