Things Grak Hates

by Peter J Story

  An interesting thought. But no. This honor is mine. And mine alone. I’ve worked too hard to share it now.

  The captives increase the fervency of their pleas but are still drowned out. Grak smiles and holds out a hand toward Frolan. The brute passes his knife without hesitation, eliciting a new outburst of cheers from the crowd.

  Nila and Quolo continue to solicit mercy, but Cordo goes silent. His disposition stiffens into simple resolve. Of the three, he alone was there to witness Lago’s execution. He alone understands the brutality of his fate. He alone accepts it. And Grak finds that an intriguing point of view.

  He knows exactly what’s coming. Does that bring relief? Or does that make it worse? Well, no matter. Just be glad not to find out first hand, Grak.

  He shakes off those thoughts and focuses instead on the leather hilt in his palm. It feels curiously right. Grak turns the knife over, basking in the sensation of this power. He smiles.

  At last. Time to finish this.

  He extends his arm, pressing the blade to Cordo’s neck. The man’s eyes take on a measure of fear, but they refuse to close. The crowd quiets in anticipation. Grak takes a deep breath, his smile widening. He’s calm. Controlled. Fully aware of every sensation in the moment. He flexes his arm and dr—

  “Stop!” screams Zacha, her voice frenzied, yet bold.

  Grak stays his hand, alarmed by this new defiance. He looks around and quickly finds the woman. She’s nine paces to the right, advancing slowly, with an arrow trained at his chest. By her side walks Ruch, ax in hand.

  Without hesitation, Frolan steps forward, eyes fixed on the traitors. There’s clear disappointment in his face, but also determination. He takes position in front of Grak and draws his ax, prepared to meet the pair head on.

  Itha’s voice cuts through the air. “We won’t allow you to kill Cordo!” She steps out of the nearby crowd and aims her bow. “Your accusations are false. He bears no guilt.”

  The remaining hunters emerge as well, drawing weapons and advancing slowly. All eyes watch with rapt attention.

  Grak recognizes the need to regain control. Immediately. The tribe’s support pales in comparison to the threat posed to his life right now. Unfortunately, solutions are sparse at the moment.

  Cordo’s people halt at a distance of three paces, and Ruch takes a single step forward. “Back away!” he shouts.

  Frolan refuses to budge. His team, on the other hand—outnumbered and terrified—quickly falls back to the crowd.

  Grak glowers as they pass by. “Cowards!” he hisses.

  Cordo stands up. His eyes reveal a curious fury mingling with the fading fear.

  More of the tribe steps forward to join his group with crude weapons at the ready. In all, Grak counts twenty-eight gathered against him.

  Insolent, rebellious traitors! I’m surrounded by them! Is Frolan up to the challenge? Can I risk it? Seven have already shown themselves craven. But I have thirty-two more, and they’ve been training for a good fight. And yet … who else might suddenly feel inspiration to come to the rebels’ aid? We might be overwhelmed …

  Cordo also appears to be reviewing his options. He takes a cautious step back and motions for his team to do the same. They move slowly, heading north toward the nearest unguarded edge of camp, weapons still at the ready.

  Grak begins to panic. He searches his mind in desperation, pleading for some sort of plan. But nothing comes.

  Think, Grak. Think!

  Once clear of the gathering, the rebels quicken their pace and reach the tree line a moment later. Even Cordo is making good time, revealing only a slight limp in his step.

  Surprising. And disappointing, if I’m being honest. Thought I had a more lasting effect on him. Guess not.

  Wasn’t cruel enough. That’s where I went wrong. Never should have relented during interrogation. No, even earlier. Never should have been swayed by my children’s opinions. Never should have let the man live in the first place.

  The rebels are too far out in the woods now—hunters in their element. Giving chase would be difficult. The fight would be fierce. Grak’s victory would be doubtful. He squeezes the knife’s hilt with all his rage. It provides no relief.

  Cruelty, Grak. That’s the only way to deal with dissension. Hardness and cruelty. Remember that, Grak. Remember that.

  One by one, the rebels pass through dense vegetation, concealing all but a trace of their continued movement. Soon, they’re all gone from view. Except Cordo. He’s simply standing there, eyes locked on Grak, saying nothing.

  Finally, after a long, tense moment, the man takes a deep breath and calls out. Somehow, he manages to draw on a hidden reserve of strength to project his weakened voice with surprising clarity. Even his tone carries without ambiguity. It’s full of acrimony, yet eerily calm.

  Grak’s ears ring with the man’s chilling words. “This isn’t over, Grak!”

  15 - And Rebels

  Grak despises rebels. Especially the cowardly kind. Sure, he was furious at Cordo's defiance eleven days ago, but at least the man was open about it. In contrast, the six that later sneaked off to join his rebellion have incurred Grak's wrath beyond words.

  Those scum. Those craven, ungrateful piles of manure!

  Grak grimaces with rage. This tends to happen when he thinks about the traitors. He closes his eyes and takes a soothing breath.

  Calm, Grak. Calm. You’re here to find relief. You’ll be swimming soon, and that should ease some of the tensi—

  He remembers a moment too late that blindly traversing stony ground isn’t recommended. He trips, but manages to plant his staff on firm ground, avoiding an embarrassing fall. He straightens his posture and looks around to make sure no one saw the stumble. Other than Mazo, everyone is occupied with safely making their own way over the rocks. Grak gives his staff an appreciative look.

  Ah, thank you, my friend. Where would I be without you?

  He runs a hand down the shaft, admiring the oaken pattern. As always, its beauty steals his breath for a moment. He’s impressed with how well Yado followed instructions. Even down to the intricate etchings of Grak’s accomplishments.

  Though why he resisted my directions about the ornament is beyond me. Can’t believe he was so squeamish about the matter. Practically refused to put the thing on.

  That’s true for the most part. Yado did express discomfort when Grak asked him to adorn the top of the staff with Lago’s head. But, in the end, the threat of brutal punishment was the only convincing the man needed.

  And Grak believes the extra bit of effort was well worth it, as the ornament is easily his favorite feature. Even more so, now that the smell is almost gone.

  You never fail to impress, dear Lago. It seems like each day I discover some new talent of yours. Unlike this feeble bunch.

  Grak gestures to the sparse group surrounding him. Despite his rousing speech back at the trail, very few opted to accompany him down here. Only fourteen, to be exact. He wonders if he should have used fewer insults.

  Or perhaps more? Hmm, well, hindsight. No matter. More room for me to relax.

  After several more moments of careful navigation, Grak reaches his spot just below Brownhand. Mazo follows close behind and takes up his position three paces away.

  Grak eyes the distance. “Maybe another two paces.”

  The guard obeys and takes up his new position. Satisfied, Grak drops his drying cloth and surveys the river as it laps seductively at the rocks below.

  The water’s clearer than I remember. And it even looks more refreshing. Wouldn’t you say so?

  Grak looks to Lago and lets out a soft chuckle.

  Hmm, I suppose so. You’re a witty one, my friend.

  He leans the staff against Brownhand and begins to remove his tunic. But something gives him pause. Brak is standing just beyond Mazo, gazing intently at Grak’s feet. Or the general area thereof.

  Finding this behavior highly suspect, Grak attempts a whisper. “Mazo, watch this one i
n particular. There’s a shifty air about him.” He’s definitely improving in both quietness and subtlety.

  Mazo looks over his shoulder and nods in reply. Turning back, he gives Brak a nudge—a gentle one, by Grak’s estimation, though he doesn’t like to make a fuss over such trifles. And yet, in this situation it may have been too gentle, as Brak hardly seems to have noticed. He just keeps staring, lost in thought.

  Grak is feeling self-conscious now. And a little annoyed. “Look, Brak, I already told you. This is my drying cloth. I don’t know what happened to your tunic.” He feels the truth is best left unspoken in this situation.

  Brak wakes from thought at the sound of his name. “What? Oh. No, that’s … not … just … Well, look at the rock, Grak. Wasn’t the water up to the mouth last time we were here? It looked like the rock was drinking from the river. So much so, we named it Redmouth.”

  Grak rolls his eyes and mutters, “I would never come up with such a poor name.”

  Brak either fails to hear that or ignores it. “The water level is lower now. By a whole foot it seems. And then some.”

  “That’s strange,” interjects Hambo. “Are you sure?”

  Brak nods. “Oh yes. Positive. Isn’t that so, Grak?”

  This isn’t the way Grak wants to spend his time at the river. He rolls his eyes and adds a layer of annoyance to his tone. “Sure, Brak. You’re right …” He lowers his voice. “I suppose.”

  But that didn’t work. They only seem more interested. Worse still, several others are now flocking to the conversation.

  Brak scratches his head. “What do you suppose might cause it to drain?”

  Everyone falls silent, pondering his question.

  Hambo turns to a nearby woman. “Escha, come here. Look at this.”

  She walks over, followed by even more onlookers. While their distance is sufficient, the sheer number of gawkers is making Grak uncomfortable. He’d like to ignore them, but feels odd undressing with so many watching.

  “I believe it might be disappearing,” says Hambo with a clear sense of pride in his theory.

  Brak’s face turns to worry. “You mean, we’re running out of water?”

  A torrent of questions follows with no apparent recipient and no immediate answers. In Grak’s experience, that usually signals the beginning of a theory session.

  Best to end this before it gets too boring.

  He looks about for Frolan and quickly spots him another thirty paces off. The brute is pointing to the northern sky, discussing something with a handful of guards. Grak tries to follow the man’s finger, but only sees several birds.

  The buffoons get excited over the strangest things. Act like they’ve never seen birds before. And nondescript ones at that.

  “Frolan!” shouts Grak, unintentionally silencing the nearby gawkers.

  The brute returns a nod, then dispenses several quick orders before trotting over. He arrives promptly and pushes his way through the gathered theorists until he reaches Grak’s side.

  Frolan leans in and whispers, “Sir, we have a situation. We’re still not sure whether it poses a threat, but there’s smoke rising just ahead.” He crouches to Grak’s height and points. “See it there?”

  Grak admires the man’s sharp vision. The wisp is barely visible: a thin curl of light gray against a stark and cloudless azure. By his estimation, it’s rising just beyond the hill there, where the river bends around to the west before turning east again. In fact, it almost appears as though several tendrils are ascending.

  Very curious. And ominous, if I don’t mind my saying.

  Grak nods. “Ah, yes. I see it. Well, our course of action seems clear enough. Let’s go see what’s burning.”

  Frolan looks alarmed. “Sir? I … I don’t believe it’s wise for you to join us. We’ll only have a small scouting team. No more than five, for the sake of speed. Should Cordo choose to strike, you’d be safer here. Or back up at the trail with the bulk of our forces.”

  Grak rolls his eyes. He’s getting tired of Frolan’s timidity. Cordo’s escape changed the brute, causing greater withdrawal and apprehension in him. And the man’s anxiety has only increased since then—to the point where it’s been bleeding into his judgment. He even insisted they postpone this move, reasoning that Cordo's roaming band posed a greater threat on the trail.

  Grak shakes his staff at the brute, who cringes away from its falling debris. “Who’s the leader, dear Frolan? I am. And I need to know what’s taking place. And I can’t be hindered by your fear.”

  He switches to a soothing tone. “Yet at the same time, I understand your concern for safety. I share it, in fact. But the solution is simple. Leave the five here and bring the other twenty-five with us. I see no reason why more people would slow us down. You’ll see, friend. I’ll be alright. Not a thing to worry about.”

  Frolan nods reluctantly. “Yes sir.”

  The brute turns and makes his way back to the other guards. Despite his reservations, he’s swift in dispensing the necessary orders.

  There’s a good man. Can’t get too upset at him. Always obeys in the end. And his concerns are valid enough. Can’t blame him for voicing them. They’re just ultimately unnecessary is all.

  Unnecessary, as Grak reasons, because he has the clear advantage in strength. His first order of business after Cordo’s escape was to increase the number of guards. Considering it wisest to err on the side of caution, he settled on seventy-two. Of course, he would have preferred more, but was limited by able-bodied tribe members who had seen at least fifteen snows. And even of those, too many were pulled away for hunting and other vital duties.

  In the end, numbers will decide our survival. And not just a single swelling of our ranks. Constant increase. Beyond what the tribe is currently capable of. But how? Require a minimum number of offspring from each person? Maybe. Not an immediate solution, though.

  He presses his mind further. Still nothing. He looks to Lago.

  What are your thoughts on the matter?

  Grak is shocked. He didn’t expect to hear a response like that.

  What? You’re not even trying anymore, are you? I’m fairly sure that was your worst idea yet! How would it even work?

  He listens respectfully.

  Hmm, I suppose that’s true enough. It’s certainly a daring plan. Heh, you always were a bold one, my friend. Well, let’s discuss this later. It looks like they’re waiting for me.

  Grak takes a final, longing glance at the water. It’s still begging, waiting for him.

  Soon, my sweet. Soon.

  He turns to the gawking crowd and puts on his commanding voice. “This is my spot!” Several heads look up at him. “When I return, I expect this whole area to still be available.”

  All are motionless and returning blank stares now. Several nods of fear and uncertainty reveal at least a mild understanding.

  Still, Grak has to be sure. “This whole red rock here. No one else is allowed on it. Mazo, you’re in charge while Frolan’s gone with me. I expect you to enforce this rule while we’re away.”

  The man nods. A bit too eagerly. Grak wonders if he can truly trust him with such an important task. He looks to Lago for counsel.

  Hmm, I suppose you’re right, friend. Though I wouldn’t say I completely trust him with my life either. But point taken.

  Grak returns the man’s nod. Still, just to be on the safe side, he opts to stress the point once more. “Remember, Mazo … my rock.”

  Grak creeps along the ground. While his girth is no longer an impediment, the movement is still awkward. This strikes him as odd, considering that no one else appears to be having difficulty. He pauses to search for the source of his troubles.

  The new knife seems a logical culprit, considering that Grak had it made at three times the normal length. Though if that is the cause, he’ll gladly deal with the discomfort. He’s quite proud of the idea, after all, and considers the thing a vital advantage in hand-to-hand combat. “My slicer,” he cal
ls it in front of others, or simply “Slicer” when it’s just the two of them and Lago.

  Hmm, on second thought, I don’t see how that could be the problem. It’s hardly in my way.

  Grak’s reasoning is sound. The blade is dangling unobtrusively at his side in a special belt and sheath he ordered crafted. He categorizes it as “unlikely” and ponders his other items.

  Of course! Must be the staff. Difficult to carry while crawling. I suppose Frolan was right about that.

  Well, no matter. He still deserved the scolding. I can handle him being withdrawn, but when he starts to think he knows better than me … well, that’s getting serious.

  Though I can’t imagine he’d take it any further. He would never betray me. He’s always been loyal. Not the same cut as Jafra and Cordo and their lot. Just needs to relax.

  Grak ponders the man for another moment while fixing Lago’s disheveled hair.

  Still … best to keep an eye on him. Isn’t that right, my old friend? For his own good as well as mine.

  Grak resumes his crawl and soon joins the others at the crest of the hill. Through keen observation, he notices they’ve removed their caps, so he does the same. With great care, he wriggles closer and peers over the ridge. Several intricate details immediately grab his attention.

  A second river? Flowing into this one? Best not to tell Brak about that. He’d probably find some way to gloat.

  “What do you make of it?” asks Frolan.

  Grak shrugs. “Well, I suppose there is a second river after all. Best to keep that to ourselves, though. Lest the tribe get any strange ideas.”

  Frolan nods. “Yes sir. I’ll swear the guards to secrecy.” He pauses awkwardly. “But what do you make of the people there? Do you think they’re Cordo’s rebels?” he asks with a twinge of anger.

  Grak considers the man’s question while studying the view below. As the river wraps around this side of the hill, it splits wide and becomes two separate branches. The one they’ve always known bends north and east before disappearing around the trees, while the other runs far off to the west.