by A G Rosai
almost midday; the brutal heat of the relentless noonday sun felt unbearable even in the shadows. My thirst-tormented body demanded water, so I pulled my canteen and drank all of its contents—a few warm sips that didn’t quench my thirst at all.
“Here,” said the orc, holding out a large canteen, “Drink a bit more; you need it.” Without any hesitation, I accepted his offer and gulped down a few mouthfuls of water. Of course, the orc’s water was warm too. Nevertheless, at that moment it tasted better than any drink I had ever taken. Only then did the obvious question come up:
“Why are you sharing your water with me? You surely need the water as much as I do.”
He said, “You can have all my water, it’s no use to me anymore.” He produced another good-sized canteen and handed it over to me. Then he looked at me, and seeing the astonished expression on my face, he added, “I’m dying.”
At first, I was shocked. If either of us looked like he was dying, it must’ve been me, not the orc, I thought. Then, I remembered his two sizeable cut wounds and the groans he had made when shifting his body. Instinctively, I looked at the injury that I assumed to be the worst: the long cut that looked deep and stretched from the middle of his chest down to his belly. He caught my gaze and laughed sourly.
“Hah, it’s obvious that you don’t know much about orcs.” He looked at his stomach and continued. “A wound like this is nothing for an orc. This, on the other hand, is killing me for sure,” he said, turning his back towards me.
For a moment, I was completely taken aback by the sight of an arrow-tail protruding from the orc’s wide back. It was just a bit below his right shoulder blade, surrounded by a lot of dried—and some more fresh-looking—blood. The amount of blood was shocking at first, but after a second look I found it not very surprising. Given that I could see only two inches or so of the outlandish-looking arrow-tail sticking out, I knew that the arrow must’ve penetrated very deeply into his body. I felt a great awe for him—his strength and endurance of pain. The same injury would’ve killed most humans on the spot, or at least rendered them stunned with pain. But the orc had survived it for God-knows how long, moving around, merely groaning once in a while.
“Do you want me to tear off the jutting part of that arrow? Or try to pull the whole arrow out?” I asked, offering my help. No living creature deserved such suffering.
“That isn’t an arrow but an orcish tr'ogh'chu crossbow bolt,” he said. Seeing the puzzled expression on my face, he continued, “These bolts are short, only seven or eight inches in size, but quite heavy as the whole of them is made of metal—even the feathers. Therefore, you can’t break them without applying tremendous force, and you certainly can’t tear off their ends while they are sticking out of someone’s back. They have razor sharp, hunting broadheads of an intricate shape designed to penetrate deep. As the victim moves, they slowly drive themselves even deeper into the flesh, causing severe pain. Their special shape makes it impossible to pull them out without tearing out an amount of flesh the size of one’s fist. That’s too much for even a strong orc to survive.” He spoke dispassionately, factually, as if it wasn’t him whose body that bolt had penetrated. In the same situation, I would’ve been panicked at the very least.
“Still …” I started, but he interrupted.
“They are often poisoned as well; mine is. The hellsnake venom kills slowly but surely over many days, and there isn’t any known antidote. If the arrowhead doesn’t kill you, the poison will. But more often you will end your own life, as the pain it inflicts in the final hours is beyond any bearable limit. I have excellent knowledge of these bolts as well as of the venom. I don’t think I have more than a day, or two at the most, left.”
For a while, the two of us sat there speechless; the orc didn’t want to talk, and I didn’t know what to say. For a second, I remembered how easily he’d disarmed me while injured and poisoned. I considered him to be an almost invincible warrior when healthy, and wondered what could’ve happened to him.
“How did you get your cut wounds and the bolt in your back?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s a rather long story.”
“And I have a lot of time. I’m not going anywhere before sundown.”
“Then I must start from the very beginning,” I listened eagerly, and he continued, “Believe or not, I never wanted to be a warrior or to fight. Unless one is being attacked, fighting is a total waste of time. I wanted to focus on more worthwhile things instead. Namely, I wished to become a farmer. I wanted to have a family and a peaceful life.”
“Do orcs have agriculture?” I asked, surprised.
“No, we don’t, except for a few acres of land here and there, primitively cultivated by slaves of other races. But as I said, we often had captives or prisoners of war; some of them told me about their simple, past lives as farmers, and I was immediately fascinated by the idea.”
“So how do orcs get their food?”
“We simply fight other people—humans, dwarves, giants, you name it—pillage their villages and lands, and take the food we need. You’re immensely lucky that your Kingdom lies at the far side of the Great Desert, otherwise we surely would attack your people also. Many villages and towns pay regular tributes to the orc tribes, so that we leave them alone. But sometimes we still attack those anyway, just to stay in practice. Typical orcish ways,” he sighed deeply. “I don’t see any reason, save for our moronic pride, why orcs couldn’t cultivate the land like all other people do. And we don’t really have much family either—at least not anything like humans or dwarves have.” Another sigh. I found it fascinating than an orc, a supposedly simplistic creature, had grown unsatisfied with his people and culture and attempted to change his fate. I was disinclined to admit to myself that he was more human and humane than many of our people. I had underestimated orcs.
“So your planned farmer’s life was a no-go.”
“Even the idea of farming sounded absolutely ridiculous to everybody except me; imagine, an orc who wants to do a slave’s work. Everybody thought it was just youthful foolishness. And, by the irony of fate—or rather, because of my bloodline, as all of my ancestors were great warriors—I had excellent fighting skills. My talent became evident as soon as I began to practice with a training sword. Less than a year later, I was already practising with a battle axe, which was almost unprecedented at that young age. Many of the elders said I was a fighting prodigy.” He mused for some moments, frowning.
“So I gave up the idea of farming altogether and became a warrior, as everybody expected. Ten years passed, and I was already one of the greatest masters of the orcish bastard sword and the heavy battle axe, and one of the most exceptional fighters of all time.” I could easily believe him, and I nodded my head when he looked at me. I saw no pride in his eyes; instead, they reflected sadness. He continued, “Because of my advanced fighting skills I was placed into the First Retaliation Cohort and later transferred to the First Strike Force—this latter being the most elite force of any orcish army. I fought all the time, without end. With practice, I became even more lethal, and with each win and fallen enemy I grew more famous. I gained higher ranks, too. Most orcs started to worship or envy me—or both. But as you know, the higher you fly, the farther you fall.'”
“What happened?”
“I preferred equally matched fights—fighting against strong and skilled opponents. Or, in the case of a lesser enemy, I would choose to fight against many of them at once. And yes, I had the chance to battle with giants and dark assassins; in some fights, we were greatly outnumbered. But in the majority of cases, these so-called ‘battles’ were more about slaughter and destruction than fighting. Most enemies didn’t pose any real threat; many weren’t even capable of actual resistance. After a while, I grew disgusted with these massacres and wanted to quit. But you cannot just leave the orcish army. In any case, what else can an orc man do but fight?”
“So you stayed,” I said.
“Yes, that I did, half-heartedly. I tried more
and more to avoid the unfair bloodshed and killing. I also approached my Warlord—a leader similar to your army’s general—with my problem, but he didn’t understand it at all. I guess he didn’t want to hear about such nonsense. He felt that I’d tried to disobey him and decided to break my defiance. He soon had an excellent opportunity. I think the confrontation was inevitable.” He stopped for a few moments again. I waited patiently.
“The Warlord initiated a preventive and deterrent strike—as he called it—against a human village that was reluctant to pay our tribute. This village was said to have a large number of soldiers garrisoned within its plank walls. Half of the First Strike Force was dispatched, led by the Warlord himself. Once there, we found far fewer defenders than anticipated. I never learnt whether we’d been deceived or the Warlord known the truth from the beginning. Anyway, we quickly broke through the makeshift plank walls and defeated the few dozen soldiers. We outnumbered them one to five, so they never stood a chance. The battle once again turned into a slaughter. The Warlord watched me closely. When he saw my disgust, he acted. He ordered all residents to be herded together in the main square of the village. Then he randomly chose a hundred of them—man, woman, old and
