by A G Rosai
young, even children—and ordered me to chop off their heads, in the hope of discouraging any further troublemaking. But it was an order to cold-bloodedly execute one hundred unarmed, and most likely completely innocent, people. And I refused …” Another pause.
I sat in silence, listening to the drama unfold. I wondered what I would have done in a similarly vile situation. Undoubtedly, this particular orc was completely different from the stereotype that I had held of orcs. I’d clearly been prejudiced before, and that had been a mistake. In no way did he resemble an abominable brute bragging about his cruelty.
“I suppose your received a punishment for doing so.”
“Oh yes… The usual sentence for defiance is flogging. But my case was … a lot more serious.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I disobeyed a direct order of our Warlord, who’s the highest in command. To make it worse yet, I did this in front of hundreds of orcs and humans, during what was considered to be a 'combat situation.' As you can imagine, I greatly damaged the Warlord’s authority and pride. Add to this my growing popularity and fame, which could have posed a threat to his position, plus the fact that he didn’t like me in the first place, and you’ll see why he inflicted the most severe punishment possible for a warrior who hadn’t committed a felony before.”
“What a prick!” I shouted in anger. I hated people like the Warlord with all my heart. I hated people being treated unfairly with a vengeance. “And that punishment was …?” I demanded.
“To become deprived of all ranks and possessions, demoted to a slave status, and sentenced to fight in one of the great arenas for twelve seasons. That was almost the same as a death sentence, as there are twelve fights in each season, meaning that I had to win a hundred and forty-four times. And there’s a quite simple rule for these 'matches,' as they call them: two or more gladiators enter the arena, and only one—or none—comes out. Only a handful ever survived twelve seasons. But, very unluckily for the Warlord, I did win all of my fights,” he laughed. “Thus, as per the ancient orcish law, I regained my so-called freedom and, unfortunately, my army position—although it was a lower one.”
“You’re a truly great warrior,” I said, and I meant it.
“But a truly unlucky one.” Seeing my questioning look, he continued. “I was placed back under the command of the same Warlord, and he wasn’t quite done with me yet.”
“Couldn’t you just leave?”
“Heh, no. By the orcish law, leaving the army is judged as high treason, so quitting the military wasn’t an option. Regrettably, I still cared too much about what others thought of me, and I believed that I could not live if I were stigmatized as a traitor.”
“But you’d already disobeyed an order.”
“That’s not the same. Refusing to carry out an immoral, vicious order, even if given by the highest ranked officer, is one thing. Committing treason is another. I’ve told you already, for an orc male the only way is the way of the warrior.” He paused for a while. I guessed that he was mulling over his life and the orcish ways.
“So, I had to serve under the same loathsome Warlord again,” he picked up the story from where it was left off, “Soon came another opportunity to test my obedience. It was another easy victory, and the enemy—human soldiers—surrendered quickly. The warlord decided that a deterrent was needed. So he chose ten women and ordered me to … rape them to death and then eat from their flesh while their husbands watched the act.” Hearing this, I was stunned, and suddenly felt nauseous. “Some sick orcs find raping females of other races morbidly exiting, especially if a lot of pain or death is also involved; I despise them, and so do most other orcs. I looked around and noticed the disgusted expression on many of our warriors’ faces; some eyed me in anticipation, wondering what I’d do. I knew many of them still respected me for my former merits and my fighting skills, not to mention my hundred and forty-four wins in the arena. Then I saw the horror in the eyes of those poor women—and their husbands, parents, and children … and I knew what I had to do.”
“You disobeyed again?” I asked, still trying hard not to throw up.
“Better. I tried to kill our Warlord. I knew that I would’ve had support if I’d managed to kill him; many orcs hated the Warlord too. Also, I thought if I’d ascended to the rank of warlord I could’ve ended those senseless killings and massacres.”
“And have you managed to kill him?” I asked impatiently, although I already felt the answer.
“The Warlord must’ve expected something like that, as he was prepared for an assault. He stood quite far from me, surrounded with two dozen of his best personal guards. I knew I had no chance of getting close enough to him, so I decided on a ranged attack.”
“Couldn’t you challenge him to a duel?”
“Heh, no, you can’t do that. It’s not possible to challenge a warlord to a duel under any circumstances. That would be treason too. A warlord can only be appointed by a chieftain. But, of course, if the warlord happens to die somehow …”
“… You need a new warlord.” There was a startling similarity between the orcish army and that of the Kingdom. One couldn’t challenge our Army General, let alone the Supreme Commander, to a duel either; and the latter was appointed by the King.
“Exactly. And with what I hoped would be the support of my fellow orcs, I had a fifty-fifty chance of being appointed to warlord. I’ve mentioned that I was close enough to the chieftain. The other possibility, naturally, was execution.”
“So how did you attack him?”
“I pretended that I was preparing for the raping. I grabbed my axe and leant forward as if I was to lay it on the ground. But just before releasing it, I suddenly twisted around and with all my might and skill threw it towards the Warlord. It was a huge, heavy battle axe, far too heavy and unbalanced for this kind of use, and I had no time for any aiming. Still, I almost made it. But only almost. The axe hit and wounded the Warlord, but not fatally. After a shocked moment that became obvious. He shouted orders to kill me— and all of the other orcs started running towards me. I still had my good old bastard sword, and I fought like a devil—for my life,” He looked deep into my eyes and added sadly, “Not even one of them stood up for me. Not one! Those cowards!” I could feel and understand his disappointment.
“I knew I couldn’t win, and I didn’t want to cut down my people either, so I tried to flee. Unfortunately, I still killed—or injured very badly, I didn’t have time to check—half a dozen orcs while I was breaking through. Then I felt the crossbow bolt strike my back. A coward didn’t dare to fight me face to face, so just shot me in my back. But I didn’t stop.”
“How did you escape?”
“The incident took place in a village situated where the first sand dunes of the Great Desert start. I knew that the hunt for me was on, and that all orcs would attack me on sight, so I had to stay off orc-dominated land. The only direction I could run was into the desert. Lucky that orcs don’t ride horses, isn’t it?” he asked, laughing bitterly; his laughter quickly turned into a muttered groan—it must’ve been the poison or the bolt, or perhaps both.
“Why not? I mean, why don’t orcs have horses?” I asked.
“One reason is that we’re too bulky and heavy for them. They couldn’t carry us very fast or far, and orcs are excellent runners anyway; both short and long distance. The other reason is that horses are afraid of orcs. I think they just can’t stand our odour.” I couldn’t smell anything unpleasant, but I knew horses had a remarkably keen scent.
“I see. What happened then?”
“There isn’t much left to say. I’d been running for some hours with my pursuers not far behind me, when finally, to my luck, a sandstorm helped me to lose them and cover my tracks.”
“And now you are here, in the middle of the desert.”
“Indeed.”
“You’re a really amazing orc … an amazing person. I wish you weren’t dying,” I meant what I said. I felt that something precious and
unique was bound to leave this world, and that filled me with sadness.
“I may be dying, but at least I feel free—for the first time in my life! So my fight was not in vain. Many orcs are slaves, and will always remain slaves, even in their deaths.”
“What do you mean?”
“For my entire life I’ve been fighting without end; I never, ever had an inclination to do that, but it seemed there was simply no other option. Doing something you don’t want to, and having no real choice—aren’t these the characteristics of a slave?”
“You’re right,” I said. He definitely had a point, I admitted to myself. Why had I been battling with kobolds for years? I couldn’t find any good enough reason to justify that.
“At least I was good at fighting. Strange as it may sound, not all orcs are—by orcish standards—particularly talented fighters. But, seeing no other way, they’ll live their frustrated lives as barely adequate—or at best, mediocre—warriors, instead of doing something else that they’re good at and can enjoy. Wasted years… wasted decades…” He sighed.
“We, humans, are mostly the same. Seldom do we see the chance to change our lives. Blimey, most of us don’t even feel the need for a change!”
“It’s not only that. One can be slave to many masters: pride, fame, fear, desires, greed, the urge to live by tradition, and the need to be
