by E. M. Hardy
Blevins backed up a step at Isiah’s naked aggression, holding his arms up in surrender. “Woah there. I’d normally give you flak for siding with terrorist scum hiding in our midst…”
Isiah growled low and deep, the same growl that Kurdan used when he was thoroughly displeased. Blevins backed up one step further, gulping as he continued.
“…but I’m here right now because I want to say thank you to him—to your father, Bradley.”
Isiah couldn’t help but blink, not believing what he heard. “I… wait, I think I’m not hearing you right. Did you just say you want to say thanks to my dad?”
“You heard me right, Hunter.”
“For what?” Isiah’s eyes narrowed in suspicion, expecting Blevins to pull off another one of his shenanigans.
“For shutting down a Golden Sword hit squad aiming for Congressman Blevins—my father.”
Isiah stared back uncomprehending, then remembered the party that his friends and family had thrown for him. His dad had received a call in the middle of that party and had to leave right away with a gun tucked inside his jacket. Isiah didn’t know whether to laugh or cry that Blevins was the reason he couldn’t even enjoy that one with his dad.
“It was a couple days ago. My dad came home, really messed-up and shaking like a leaf while he was being escorted in by these military types. Turns out he was ambushed by GS hitmen targeting true patriots of this country, the ones looking to pass legislature that’ll keep their recruits out of our shores.”
Isiah thought long and hard, then remembered Abigail and Eddison arguing about this before. “You mean the Keep America Safe Act? The one that would have banned all forms of immigration into the country? The one that Livy’s mom and her party torpedoed because it was unconstitutional and goes against everything our country stands for?” Isiah couldn’t help the snark creeping up into his voice.
Blevins shook his head. “That’s what bleeding-heart liberals want you to believe. I think you’ll change your mind when you’re the one losing people you love to these terrorist scumbags.” Blevins’ voice cracked when he mentioned people he loved, and Isiah wondered at that moment if Charlie Blevins had, indeed, lost someone that way. Blevins straightened up and looked Isiah in the eye. “But that’s an argument for a different time. I’m here to thank your dad for protecting my dad. Dad called them by name, you know, thanking them for bringing him home, alive and in one piece. One name in particular stood out to me: that of Bradley Hunter.” Blevins smiled wide and true, something that discomfited Isiah more than he wanted to admit. “Though you throw in with trash that needs cleaning up, I want you to know that you’re good in my book.”
Isiah wanted to throw a book at Blevins’ face, to smash the disturbingly honest smile off his stupid face. He wanted to shout and scream at him, to shove his ‘respect’ up where the sun don’t shine. He felt his blood boil, his fury rising and condensing into every fiber of his being. He could almost feel the call of the blood, the same call that boiled Kurdan’s blood whenever he went into battle.
He pushed it down.
The anger-management books he just read always focused on de-escalating the tension. Find a common ground that you can work on, a shared objective that will focus the anger away from personal feelings toward a fixable problem at hand. Isiah channeled those lessons into himself, swallowing the dozen insults that wanted to pour forth from his mouth.
“Thanks, Blevins. That means a lot to me.” He inhaled deeply as he settled his gaze upon Blevins, his face morphing into a mask of supreme self-control. “I just want you to know that I plan to follow in my dad’s footsteps. I want to do the same thing he does, protecting this country against threats foreign and domestic—even if I don’t necessarily like the people I’m protecting. And since we’re on the topic of my dad, he taught me to be suspicious, always watch my back when it comes to people. It’s always a good idea to keep contingency plans in place, just in case the people I trust stab me in the back. This includes the company I keep, the friends I keep around me. Just because they’re my friends doesn’t mean they’re good people.” This was the common ground Isiah went after, which he was justified after he saw Blevins nod emphatically at his words.
“He also taught me, however, that anger, disillusion, and frustration are the Golden Sword’s greatest recruitment tools. They want us hating one another, divided in so many ways, so that they can swoop in and play the role of savior to the oppressed and downtrodden. That’s how they get their recruits. If Hasan or Olivia or any one of my friends turn out to be the threats you imagine them to be—irrefutably, irreversibly, and definitely proven—then I will gladly put a bullet into their heads just like my father would. But until that day comes, until I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they are dangerous to the people around them, I will continue treating them with the dignity that they deserve.” Isiah kept his gaze leveled upon Blevins as he continued, completely serious and without a hint of mockery in his voice. “I’m not asking you to be all chummy with people you don’t want to, but at least don’t give the Golden Sword any more fuel in this war they’re waging against us.”
This was Isiah’s attempt to find a shared objective with Blevins. And from the way that Blevins hesitated, biting his lips as his eyes sparkled with tightly-controlled emotion, Isiah realized that he had finally found the common ground he was looking so desperately for.
***
Isiah hobbled on his crutches, hurrying out of the library to make it on time for the first class of the day. In his haste, he missed a step and stomped down on his foot harder than he intended. His legs could take the impact without a problem, but he was pretending to be injured right then. The loud crack of the plaster as it slammed down on the concrete was not gentle though, and he looked around for possible witnesses to his mess-up.
He ended up spotting the grinning face of Bernabé leering at him from behind his spectacles. “Hey there, Orcy McOrcface. First day back to school, and you’re already messing up your cover.”
“Really? You’re sticking with that stupid nickname?” Isiah grinned back, shaking his head as he shuffled along, slowing down his pace to match his supposedly-injured legs.
Bernabé shrugged. “What can I say? It has a certain ring to it.”
“It’s stupid, and you know it,” said Isiah as he hobbled closer to his pal.
“You’re just posing,” Bernabé chuckled back. “You know deep down that it’s cool.” He continued chuckling as he turned his head around and tilted it toward his approaching friends. “Speaking of losing your cool…”
The rest of the squad stomped up, various brows furrowed in worry. “Hey,” called Eddison as he waved toward Bernabé and Isiah. “You alright, Zeyah? Someone said they saw Blevins corner you in the library, on the second floor, right when no one was around.”
Bernabé stopped grinning and turned toward Isiah with alarm… and then he promptly slapped another stupid grin on his face. “Please tell me you pulped his sorry ass with your orcish super strength.”
Isiah waited until the rest of his friends caught up to him, worry written all over their faces. “It’s all good. He and I had a few words, came to an understanding that will hopefully get him off our backs for some time.”
Olivia reared back, eyes wide with disbelief. “You managed to talk some sense into Charlie Blevins? The same racist, narrow-minded, pig-headed, douchebag that even our own principal couldn’t touch? That Charlie Blevins?”
Isiah chuckled halfway through Olivia’s tirade, nodding all the way. “Yep, that’s him alright.”
Eddison, Hasan, and Abigail joined Olivia, all four mouths hanging open in wonder and amazement. Bernabé just laughed out loud. “What did you do to him? Strangle him until he cried uncle? Kicked him in the nuts so hard he’s going to start calling himself Charlotte in a few months?”
Isiah’s face contorted into a grimace at that mental image while unconsciously tightening his knees together. �
��No, that’s not how it went. He and I just had a friendly chat, managed to see eye-to-eye on some things.”
“Really, Zeyah? You’re going to play hard-to-get again? After the lecture I gave you a few short days ago about keeping secrets from your pals?” Abigail groaned and threw her hands up in the air in disgust. “Eddy, be a dear and knock some sense into your best friend.”
“Oh no, I’m not touching that,” Eddison said as he backed away in a hurry. “Now you know I love you, but I don’t love you enough to smack around Orcy McOrcface here when he can easily snap my arms into itty-bitty little pieces.”
It was Isiah’s turn to groan in exasperation as he glared at Bernabé. “I am never going to forgive you for that stupid nickname, Bear.” Bernabé just shrugged as he turned away, fake-whistling in fake-innocence. Isiah then turned to Eddison with a disapproving scowl on his face. “And do you seriously believe I’m going to do something as stupid as break the arms of my best friend?”
“Who knows?”
That statement caught Isiah by surprise. He stared at Eddison, taking in the way he stood at rigid attention, the tension in his neck as he forced himself to project cool calmness. No, Isiah only saw someone ready to run at a moment’s notice, and it hurt him deep down in his core to see his best friend react this way to him.
Abigail, however, simply smacked her boyfriend in the back of his head—catching him completely by surprise.
“Man up, you wuss. It’s Zeyah we’re talking about here, not some psycho. So what if he can rip you to pieces? He got us out of a crash that would have killed every one of us, Eddy, and I think that buys him a little trust on our part, yeah?”
Eddison had the humility to duck his head down in shame, nodding in agreement. “Yeah. Yeah, I get where you’re coming from. It’s just that… that I don’t know what to think here. First my best friend says that he’s possessed by what he calls an orc, and now he’s off cavorting with our worst enemy.”
“To be fair,” Isiah interrupted, trying to get on the good side of his best friend. “He’s the one who approached me—not the other way around. Besides, I’m just as surprised as you are about how Blevins is suddenly being all conciliatory and stuff.”
Abigail turned away from her boyfriend, narrowing her eyes as she locked them upon Isiah’s. “Oh yeah. We were talking about that right before Eddy here derailed the discussion.”
Isiah cursed inwardly, regretting opening his big, fat mouth.
“I’ll get back to you later, dear,” Abigail said as she bumped Eddison with her hip, trying to knock her boyfriend out of his funk. She rounded her attention back to Isiah, crossing her arms and spreading her legs out in defiance. “So, Orcy,” Abigail said as she tapped her foot and tilted her head. “What’s up with you and Blevins all of a sudden?"
Isiah groaned, hating the fact that Abigail had him firmly locked into her sights after his confession. He also wanted to slap the smug grin off of Bernabé’s face, who was no doubt brimming with joy over how everyone was using that stupid nickname.
Isiah fought off Abigail’s interrogation, Bernabé’s teasing, and Eddison’s suspicions all the way into school—completely unaware of the man seated inside a nondescript car, scowling as he followed Olivia and Hasan with his eyes.
Chapter 28
“Freedom.”
Bartholomew glared across the desk, no trace of fear or hesitation in his face. Kurdan’s first instinct was to beat that defiance out of the he-priest, to break his body over and over so that fear would be the only emotion he had left of him. Bartholomew looked ready for such an outcome, steeling himself for whatever blow was coming. Alyon didn’t even bother pretending to be discreet. She clutched Bartholomew’s shoulder, pulling him back down to his seat. The he-priest shrugged her off, however, and continued glaring at Kurdan—daring him to hurt him the same way he hurt Alyon in front of all the prisoners.
Kurdan did no such thing. Instead, he inhaled through his nose, held his breath for two seconds, and exhaled as slowly as his lungs would allow.
“What kind of freedoms did you have in mind?”
This question took both Bartholomew and Alyon by surprise. Bartholomew gaped, shocked by the outcome. He was so sure that Kurdan would hurt him, beat him down, that he wasn’t quite prepared for such a reasonable response from the normally abrasive orc.
Alyon, however, recovered much quicker than her counterpart. “Chieftain—no, Overchief. I… I am not sure what you are saying. Are you asking us what we want, what we think the others want? Is this what you are asking us?”
“Yes, she-priest, I am demanding that you—"
Kurdan huffed, annoyed by the way that the two humans were making things more complicated than they needed to be. That, and Isiah’s annoying buzz of dissatisfaction shot through his mind, reminding him to be less of a ‘douchebag’ as he put it.
“Yes, Alyon, you are correct. What do you and the other humans want in exchange for your services?”
“Set us all free, let us return to our homes, and never darken our doors again.” Bartholomew regained his balance, resuming his aggressive push and practically daring Kurdan to harm him in one way or another.
“This diplomacy of yours is not working,” Kurdan thought bitterly to Isiah as he glared back at Bartholomew, who Alyon was trying to calm down by pulling at the sleeve of his robe.
“This is part of the whole process,” replied Isiah, who was just as irritated with Bartholomew as Kurdan. “The other guy’s being a pain in the ass, but you’ll get more out of him if you can secure his cooperation. The same stands for your humans in general: slaves will only bring you beasts of burden toiling away, ready to betray you when they sense your weakness. Allies, however, will be there to help you out as long as you help them out when they need you. Though to be honest, you’re going to have a hard time convincing these folks, considering you started out enslaving them and all.”
Kurdan brought back his attention to Bartholomew. He shook his head, rejecting the he-priest’s conditions. “I cannot grant those freedoms. I need you humans here in these lands, producing food, building infrastructure, and conducting research for the tribes.”
“Then why are you even bothering asking us what we want!?” Bartholomew shot back, barely containing his anger. “We’re your slaves, aren’t we? If you don’t like it, you can just knock us around, break a few bones, and force us to aid you in your infernal machinations. You can just hurt us for no good reason at all, just like what you did with Alyon, so why bother tormenting us with promises you can’t even keep!? Dammit, you even granted me leave to follow Alyon, to keep her in check, and then you slap her down in front of all the prisoners like… like she hasn’t been submitting to your twisted demands this entire time! One time she lets go, one time she lets her emotions get the better of her when we see our fellows of the cloth, and you can’t even give her decency during her moment of grief!”
Bartholomew panted with exertion, allowing all of his pent-up anger and frustration to come boiling out of his throat without restraint. “Shush, Bart. Please calm down. I’m alright. Calm down now.” Alyon pulled harder at Bartholomew’s sleeve, silently pleading with him to let things go lest he incur Kurdan’s full wrath.
The Overchief, however, only stared long and hard at Bartholomew. He didn’t lash out or rage at the he-priest. He didn’t even scowl or grimace, which only unnerved Bartholomew as the silence drew on long enough for fear to begin gnawing away at his anger.
Kurdan finally huffed in indignation, and both priests froze in anticipation at what he would say next. “The slaves I have just recently captured fear me, as they should. You? They accept you. They see you as one of them, prisoners of circumstances that I have coerced into the position. They now respect you, see you as one of their own, even as you hand out orders that you receive from me. When I first enslaved you, I had to constantly instill fear within you and the humans I captured along with you. Everything I had you d
o was done at the point of a blade, or under the threat of death or violence. Even when I appointed Alyon to lead the slaves, I continued to threaten your people into submission. You learned over time that it is better to obey than to rebel, to gain rewards for your people instead of facing the pain and punishment that defiance brings. You know this—but the new slaves do not. And so I publicly shamed Alyon, punished her for an offence that I would much rather dismiss, because her shame would buy the sympathy she needs to lead the humans without me or my orcs constantly threatening them.
“So no, I will not apologize for what I did with Alyon, for it brought about the outcome I desired: cooperative humans that I do not need to terrorize every minute of the day.”
Bartholomew cocked his head back in surprise, not quite believing what the Overchief was saying to him. Alyon on the other hand, nodded slowly—confirming her suspicions about Kurdan’s sudden outburst that day.
“As for why I am asking you these questions, it is for one simple reason: I want my humans to be more than slaves.”
This time, Alyon joined Bartholomew as they shared a moment of stunned silence. “More than slaves?” Alyon inquired, once again recovering her wits ahead of the other priest.
“Yes,” Kurdan replied as he nodded solemnly, his eyes focused on the strap of cloth covering the she-priest’s blind-but-seeing eyes. “More than slaves.” He found it annoying that she could read his aura while he couldn’t read her eyes. He wished that her eyes were normal, that he could study them to get a better idea of what was going on in her head. His time with Isiah made him realize that human thoughts and emotions tended to leak from their eyes.
“And what do you have in mind for us? What more do you expect to gain from us other than our toil and our labor?” Kurdan was sorely tempted to fling his chair at the he-priest, who had apparently overcome his fear once again and continued pushing his luck, seeing just how far he could push Kurdan. Instead of flinging that chair at him, Kurdan breathed deep once more and decided to give a straightforward answer.
