Miller, Half-Orc

by J R Marshall

  Soldiers dragging prisoners bound by ropes; wagons and hand-pulled carts lining the roadside, some gaining access whilst others waited to be called; scribes and servants hurried through, nodding to guards, others having their papers read before being allowed entrance. It was clear that the soldiers couldn’t read for a robed official stood flanked by two of the guards, documents were checked and cargoes inspected, allowing the merchandise to be counted and checked off.

  This monster that consumed revenue, the workings of a minor kingdom for Grimnir’s rule prevailed in these parts, despite nominally part of the greater kingdom of Culanun. Everyone seemed in the pay of Grimnir and each had their grubby hands in his pockets.

  I mused that I would rule by terror, yet thinking it I knew instantly it was the least efficient form of government, spawning corruption at every turn.

  Still I sat contemplative, trying to work out the most efficient and the least corrupt way to manage a kingdom and looking back I knew I was trying to fathom a relationship between efficiency and order, or effort against reliable return.

  Was it a contradiction in terms? A realisation that ruthless equity was the most profitable.

  Flukaggrrr, a future lieutenant, would accuse me of being an intellectual prat, but, he was chosen because he had just enough comprehension to understand that brutality wasn’t always the answer, and he was well regarded whilst being immensely loyal.

  Was that my calling, to rule efficiently driven by commerce? Sometimes troubled dreams sent possibly by my enemies in craft sought to portray such a position as a pawn under the control of Tam, but there was a connection between Tam and I unbeknownst to every enemy, hers and mine.

  She had given me life as a mother births a child. Damn them, I didn’t mind that in future years when my kingdom was expanding, Tam, and to a point or extension, Grimnir, were left alone, unmolested, even protected. Loyalty counts, my only virtue, but I was still lying to myself. Grimnir was wrong, as the reader will discern; I was half human, after all.

  “Lord, you are too kind,” Flukaggrrr and others would say, but none opposed me for they knew my strengths and much was achieved. “Ignorant pig-loving peasant!” He liked the insults and above all the cruelty and plans for conquest; he and others grew rich, and never before was an orc hybrid kingdom so successful.

  But I transgress…

  My hood was cast back, the sun had risen, and estimating it was perhaps a quarter hour before I was due to knock or more precisely, present myself, I waited, observing. A soldier walked past looking at me inquisitively. Was I recognised? For good or ill?

  Rising to my feet, I walked towards the open gate, and seeking the official studying papers and without regard for etiquette walked in front of a line of merchants waiting to be called forward.

  “You must wait your turn, get back in line you’ll be called shortly,” said a soldier, trying to grasp my arm and turn me around.

  “My turn is now for Lord Grinner ordered my attendance at this hour,” as I shrugged off his hand.

  “Wait your bloody turn!” he bellowed, for from commoners he expected absolute obedience. His curse caused others to look around as I glared at him and presented a swiftly drawn dagger to his throat. There was a pregnant pause.

  “Miller?” I heard a voice shout from above the gates; a soldier peered down. “He’s expected, Hengel, allow him access.” I couldn’t see who it was but someone had recognised me.

  Hengel, feeling the cold steel pressing against his neck stood temporarily immobilised, and then for I had not pressed home the attack, with absolute precision he edged his neck away, carefully extricating his body from harm. He was terrified and had not the grace to look at me, but eyes cast low, gently turning, he walked off as though other duties beckoned.

  “You’re a lucky bastard.” I wanted Hengel to piss himself but needed another minute for the terror to reach his bladder and the time was denied to me.

  The official checking papers looked up and said, “Miller, is it? Please wait a moment, I’ll be with you in a just a second,” and he was.

  Leaving everyone stood waiting, he walked over and greeted me with due courtesy, giving his name although it sounded unpronounceable. ‘Izziguyurp-yuk’ or something similar.

  “I’m to look after you, His Lordship is breaking his fast but we are to interrupt.”

  The castle grounds if anything seemed busier internally than externally, for as we walked between walls there were fletchers feathering arrows, bending wood wrapped in leather between weights or held fast in vices, blacksmiths both shoeing horses and fashioning weapons, bakers, tanners, hoopers, and the ever present brewer.

  Yet always administration, men tasked with the distribution of produce, the counting of numbers, bloody bureaucrats and my heart sank; there must be a better way for this seemed like a town within a town.

  As we gained access to each level in turn, the depth and magnitude of Grimnir’s stronghold became more apparent and impressive. Gates protected each ring of fortification like a giant maze, designed to hinder any attack should an enemy breach the outer walls.

  People stared at me as I walked with my guide, and even more so as we entered the living quarters and approached Grimnir’s great hall. A young fop stood to one side of oak doors.

  “I’ll not enter,” said my guide, “but this man will see His Lordship is aware of you arrival.” He offered his hand but not reciprocating I nonetheless muttered a ‘thank you’.

  Looking at the young official, my guide informed him, “His Lordship gave instructions that this gentleman be admitted immediately upon arrival.”

  So he left and I watched as the courtier looked at me, and especially my sword.

  “Get on with it, open the bloody door.” For he stared at my sword too long.

  Turning away he knocked, and without waiting entered, closing the left partition in my face.

  “Sod that!” I wanted to walk in, and with my customary brazen approach, did.

  The courtier jumped as I followed, unsure of his protocol, a scared rabbit. He may have said something but standing there I paid no heed for never had I seen such a great hall. Vast with towering ceiling spanned by mighty wooden beams, sconces along the walls, rough but impressive wood carvings outlining each high window.

  In the corner men gathered for I could faintly see the outline of a door leading to an annexe. Gathering his wits, my would-be escort commanded me to wait for he was certain of his duty and allowing a half-orc access to his lord whilst armed was probably not high on his agenda. I ignored him and walked towards the throng of people.

  “Doesn’t a lord get any peace even when he’s eating?” I said, and flapping behind me the courtier rushed forwards determined to announce my arrival, though the deed had already been done.

  Grimnir, raising his voice bid me welcome, and in undertones told those present they had better scatter for a wrathful, life-hating, murderous orc was now amongst them.

  “That’s better, tell them to piss off,” and I honoured Grimnir by bowing, all part of the act that there was no common friendship between us, then falling to one knee I requested an audience.

  Of champions appearing before their masters, I had heard stories of bowing three times, scraping noses upon the ground, but alas I was not skilled and told everyone to fuck off.

  Grimnir was a breath of fresh air, he had been right to discourage my association with fawning courtiers for I would have suffocated.

  But still play acting, I placed my sword before his feet and begged his forbearance.

  “I have private news for my lord, such that your enemies will quake, fearing your wrath, and dread will haunt their waking hours for they will not sleep.”

  It’s how everyone would approach me and I was happy to practise the art.

  Grimnir greeted me and bade me stand, whilst he finished some business, for he was, as I knew, heading down to the marshland.

  It was obvious that having walked through his town he had business to di
scuss, the town was a shit hole of depravity and the oasis of calm in this his court, belied the work or perhaps simple maintenance needed to keep the town functioning. A bit less decorum and a bit more blood would sort these characters out. I was young and naive.

  Grimnir, having dismissed everyone, led me to his inner chambers and drawing my attention to a mirror, he swept back the silks that shaded the surface so I was faced with polished silver surrounded with gold and electrum, studded with jewels. A powerful dweomer shimmered and it seemed as if mist reflected upon water, yet having no physical depth.

  This, he assured me, would allow Tam and I to communicate.

  “I’ll excuse myself, you have private matters to discuss and I need to inspect some men for I’ll be gone within the hour. Keep in touch. Will you be here when I get back?”

  “I don’t know, probably, and, thank you for everything.” I meant it for being ungracious by birth and learning I was glad to have the dwarf as a friend.

  “Oh, before you leave ask for Zolpetre, he’s got your share of the bounty.” Grimnir walked out leaving me looking around, but ultimately focused on the mirror wondering how it worked.

  Pacing up and down but being inexorably drawn, fascinated by the mirror, I studied the arcane words inscribed along the edge, seeking any keyword that might activate the device, giving clues as to its operation.

  My study of arcane craft had been thorough but because the language was truly ancient I struggled at the inflexions and verbs used throughout the millennia. Elvish and the language of men were easy, as was the ability to speak Orcish and I could even speak a smattering of Dwarven greeting. But of the most ancient of arcana, well, I was on shaky ground. The context could either hinder or assist in fathoming the words beautifully written, each swish and flick, each dot and missed vowel, the context of words was as important as the words themselves for the language had evolved over centuries and I was not proficient in the most ancient of writings- and this device was ancient, probably more ancient than I would ever touch again.

  After what might have been half an hour I grumbled but not in anger, for I was enjoying being in the presence and trusted with one of the world’s oldest historical artefacts, the workmanship superb.

  Still as I pondered… A voice clear and yet remote, whispered, “Try as once before, for there are always ways that the earth can assist.”

  I was elated to hear Tam’s voice…

  Now I’ll stop, and explain to the reader.

  In the future I would murder, plunder, and build an empire, but every time my heart was hardened against Tam, every time my counsellors persuaded me to strike at the only free kingdom on my doorstep did I falter, my heart misgiving me. Not until Tam and Grimnir were facing ruination would I permit my men to encroach upon their lands.

  It wasn’t love and I know it sickens you as a weakness demonstrable by my words, but she was inviolable, the only standard that I adhered to, nothing else, for I would kill and maim people who begged for mercy, yet even in those future times there were complications, matters formed as a barrier in the mastery of the gods.

  Standing in front of her image, or was it an image, for I suspected a gateway where she could step through, she listened as I told her my experiences, and in so doing my synapses fired recalling the exhaustive battles, as scars on my brain triggered by the recollection.

  “I dare not, for I cannot listen any more and I tried to remember your counsel that only those more accomplished in craft needed a guide.” She said nothing, other than encouraging me to describe more.

  After a while, Tam said words that I did not expect.

  “What you describe, the troubles you face, are not known to me,” and pausing as though considering a busy schedule, “I’ll need to share your experience, as we did in the earliest of your training, but it cannot be now, for…” and choosing her words carefully, “I’ll visit you at your lodgings, the Water Rat, tomorrow morning.”

  Other matters were discussed trivial in nature, but after about three quarters of an hour the mirror gradually became opaque; Tam’s image faded.

  “Tomorrow at first light.” Her voice trailed away, and she was gone.

  She didn’t know! Of all the omnipotent people in this world, of all those wise with knowledge and experience, she was uncertain. I had assumed she would have had an instant answer, that she would assuage my anxiety.

  So it would be tomorrow she would join my mind through craft and together we would plunge once more into the violence of the earth’s song.

  I spent the rest of the day walking around Hedgetown, trying to seek Nandrosphi’s new fletcher shop, but to no avail. No one had heard the name and it was probably far too early for any meaningful progress in establishing a business.

  So having secured my silver from Zolpetre, and rebooked my lodgings for another night, I bought fresh rations and proceeded to circle the outskirts of town, it would fill most of the day and I wanted to observe the legendary hedge that gave the town its name.

  This living monstrosity, carnivorous in nature, stood nine feet tall and about twelve deep, encircling the whole town save where two stone towers spanned the main entrance, a lethal guard against invaders. Its broad dark green leaves swaying gently in the breeze belying its foul nature.

  Today like most days there would be an execution. A poor wretch, a prisoner guilty of some heinous crime would be cast within, and I was delighted to find that I had not missed the spectacle.

  Whilst patiently waiting I spoke to a man whose job it was to tend the hedge, this meant using large scythes to cut away on the internal town side of the hedge thus making more space for housing as the living abomination grew outwards.

  About two hours before sunset, a crowd of people started to gather outside of the town adjacent to the hedge and I was curious to note the number of children clustered around parents, an afternoon free from work whilst mothers kept an eye on those too young and foolish. Old men with little to entertain themselves sat huddled in small groups, some playing cards, copper pieces thrown in the middle, small winnings and an agreeable pastime.

  Guards formed a cordon around the execution site, keeping the curious at a safe distance, remonstrating with any that ventured too close.

  “Tis always sad when a child is caught unaware,” said my companion. “But these executions serve to remind the inexperienced and unwary.” He examined his boot for his right sole had started to come away and the welt needed resewing. “We encourage mothers to bring their young to witness the savagery and danger.”

  Eventually a slight murmur spread amongst those waiting, heads turning towards a group of soldiers leading a small cart with a man bound cursing and swearing.

  “He was caught forcing himself on yonder girl.” The cutter nodded away towards the gate, but I couldn’t make out to whom he referred.

  “The father rightly refused compensation, even though the bastard’s relatives tried to bully him, so now he is to die. Bloody good riddance,” he spat on the ground, “I’d have castrated him and fed him piece meal, bit by tiny bit.”

  My companion walked away, he had duties, and the guards didn’t prevent his approach, as I sat enjoying the spectacle.

  Two strong teenagers under the supervision of guards pulled the cart, undoubtedly receiving a small payment, pocket money undeclared to parents or perhaps they were married, new wives struggling with an infant whilst the boys would get drunk on cheap beer, but they enjoyed their work, grinning and passing comments to the condemned. The prisoner cursed and no doubt reflected upon his miserable fate.

  Ninety yards from the gates and parallel to the hedge the boys who struggled over the uneven surface, careful never to come within fifteen feet of the foliage, stopped. Lying flat on the back I could see the condemned trying to free himself.

  The crowd now silent watched as guards proficient in their task attended and unceremoniously grabbed the man by his feet and threw him to the ground. He wriggled, desperately aware that his life was nigh
over.

  A man wearing nothing to distinguish himself stood next to an adolescent girl, both staring at the prisoner, the only other towns folk allowed within the cordon, she the victim, and he her father.

  The condemned man cried, begged and pleading to be spared, imploring the girl to forgive him, apologising and trying in vain to secure her sympathy and watching I smiled as the girl spat at him, sure in the knowledge that he had shown her no such compassion.

  “For pity’s sake, she wanted it, she was willing.” He turned, appealing to the crowd, who jeered and shouted insults, none appearing to offer any succour. Once again the prisoner pled, beseeching the girl and her father, imploring the two for mercy; he was shaking, desperation written across his face.

  One of the guards kicked him in the side, and bid him be silent before placing a hessian sack over his head.

  The girl about fourteen, of slight build, whispered something to her father, and for a moment I wondered if she was relenting, that her resolve had wavered and the worm would be spared. The father spoke to one of the guards who in turn ordered the sack removed.

  Shit, he’s being reprieved. But I was wrong.

  The man screamed for having momentarily hoped the same came to the realisation that her revenge was absolute, he wouldn’t be clubbed unconscious. Even animals led to slaughter were usually unaware before the knife cuts the throat, but no, he knew with a deadly certainty that he was to be cast into the hedge without mercy, conscious and aware to his very last breath.

  The hedge cutter, my brief companion, walked towards the condemned man, and with the aid of two guardsmen hauled him to his feet. He wobbled, screaming, his feet buckling so that the guards near carried him upright and then without warning, thrust him violently forwards; he fell perpendicular head first about seven feet from the green foliage.

  Immediately the hedge shivered as entwining tendrils reached out faster than a man could draw a sword. The plant with amazing dexterity gripped the prisoner, squeezing as he vainly squirmed.

  Slowly the man was dragged inwards as more tendrils shot out like ivy that winds around a tree, thus was the man consumed, the hedge becoming more animated, thrashing and quivering twenty feet either side.