by Stefon Mears
The orc growled something that might have been words.
“Rentissi?” panted Cavan.
“Some,” the orc said. His voice was higher than Cavan expected. Chin and jaw narrower too. And shoulders…
Was this orc female?
“You’re alone?” Cavan said.
The orc nodded. Then spat. “But I not surrender. I not slave. I—”
“Stop.” Cavan raised his empty hand, in case the meaning wasn’t clear. “Why did you attack me?”
“Alone,” the orc said, pointing to herself. Then she waved an arm to indicate the woods around them. “Elves.” She pointed to the horse. “Escape.”
Cavan pulled back his dagger and made a show of putting it away. The orc narrowed her eyes, then flared her nostrils.
“I want to escape too,” Cavan said. “I have a horse, and I have food. You can ride with me if you can promise not to attack.”
The orc nodded.
“I am called Cavan. What should I call you?”
“Uulsk.” She hesitated then, and later Cavan would wonder what kenning she almost gave herself, but she said nothing else.
Cavan held out his hand.
Uulsk looked at the hand. “You have not promised not to attack me.”
“I, Cavan, promise I will not attack you if you do not attack me first.”
“Then I, Uulsk, promise the same.”
Uulsk clasped forearms with him.
5
“What did I tell you?” Qalas said, the moment the last orc vanished back into the field of great goldenrod south of the road to Oltoss. Anger stormed in those dark blue eyes, but he kept his tone to merely harsh. “Not one orc or a dozen. I counted at least forty.”
“Enough!” bellowed Tohen.
He was in no mood for complaints. For a day with such ideal hunting conditions, it had all shot to hell rapidly. Cavan and his cronies had given them the slip. Worse, Cavan spoke that orc tongue like a native, and none of Tohen’s digging about the bastard had indicated any friendship with orcs. What else did Tohen not know?
That didn’t matter. Not at the moment. What mattered was that Cavan was gone, and that countless orcs lay between him and Tohen. And Tohen’s men were in no shape to pursue.
At least Lutik proved his luck once more, surviving two blows across the chest, either of which might have felled him. The worse of the pair was a slash from Amra that should have opened his guts, but instead caught his ribs just right.
Still, two of his ribs had been cut opened by that sword of hers, along with his armor — including two of the steel studs — and more than a little muscle in two places.
Incredible, the man’s luck. How her sword could have carved steel but gotten deflected by a rib was a puzzle Tohen didn’t understand. Not that he had time to wonder about it.
As it was, Lutik needed healers. He was pale, shaky, sweating and probably still bleeding after that orc-escorted hike, for all the bandaging Tohen had done himself. Lutik needed more than field patching, or it might be that his luck had finally run out.
Rudyar wasn’t much better off. Oh, he’d survive that cut to his leg, but it was deep. The leg wouldn’t support him, and he couldn’t even ride properly with it. He might be able to ride sidesaddle, but not swiftly, and if not, he’d end up trussed and slung over the saddle like a dead buck.
At least they still had their horses. Tohen had half-expected the orcs to keep them, but they’d handed over the reins with a simple warning not to trespass on Firespear territory again, on pain of death.
As though the Tohen had had any doubt about that.
Then there was Qalas.
Qalas, the newest hunter of the duke’s, and apparently the least certain of the pecking order. Qalas, who hefted his halberd as though he were seeking a place to sink its axe. A place like Tohen’s neck, perhaps?
“You don’t even speak Ruktuk?” Qalas said, his tone implying that half the known world spoke the orcs’ grunting excuse for a language. “You could have mentioned that before you made us look like idiots in front of the whole—”
“Did you know Cavan had connections among the orcs?” Tohen said.
“I’m not the chief huntsman.”
“But you think you should be.” Tohen turned to face Qalas squarely now. Fingers playing by the hilt of his sword while Qalas took his halberd in a ready grip.
“I would have done better with the orcs.”
Tohen laughed. He met those angry eyes and laughed. A harsh, cold sound that never came near his own eyes.
“Cavan knew exactly where he was going,” Tohen said, “and exactly how to deal with those orcs. Knowing a few more words of orcish wouldn’t have made a difference.” Tohen smiled. “But do you know what would have? Landing your first arrow.”
Qalas took a step forward. Tohen didn’t draw.
“Do you want another fight? Is that it?”
Tohen looked at his sword, then back at Qalas. Tohen drew his hand away from the pommel. He shook his head.
“If you think this is the time to fight, then you’re not ready to be chief hunter. I have two wounded men to deal with, and a lot of ground to make up. Because whatever Cavan wants with those orcs, it’s going to get him back to Oltoss faster than horses.”
“He’s gone,” Qalas said. “And if you and I will have any chance at catching him, we need to abandon these two and go now.”
“A chief huntsman doesn’t abandon his wounded,” Tohen said. “And a chief huntsman knows the fastest way back to Oltoss. Faster than anything those orcs could do for Cavan.”
For the first time in what felt like hours, Qalas said nothing.
“Save your weapon for our enemies,” Tohen said. “And help me get these two back to Riverbend at speed or we’re going to lose our prize.”
6
In some places orcs held keeps of their own. Formed towns. Even traded. But among the plains around the Dwarfmarches, the orc clans stayed on the move. They lived by raiding and hunting, fighting as much among themselves as with the humans, dwarves and elves who lived closest to them.
Cavan knew these things. But he had been long enough away from orcs that he had forgotten just how organized their clans could be.
The hike to the Firespear main camp took most of the afternoon, and Cavan spotted at least three sentry lines along the way. And those didn’t include the places where Grench interrupted Cavan’s story to get quick reports from outrunners.
Clearly Grench was well-respected among the Firespears. Probably a splinter to their chief, or on the verge of being named one. And just as clearly, Cavan could tell that he may have impressed Grench enough to rate an escort — even enough to allow Amra and Ehren to walk close behind Cavan and Grench instead of farther back and ringed by guards — but not enough to hear those reports. Each time an outrunner came up, the procession stopped and armed orcs kept an eye on Cavan, Amra and Ehren while Grench stepped aside to hear, in low voices, what the outrunners had to say.
If Grench was troubled by any of their news, Cavan couldn’t tell. Not that he expected to.
Fortunately, Cavan’s story was long. After he had met Uulsk in the Wailing Woods they had traveled together for several months before Cavan accepted that he had to return home and face his failure. Cavan was still talking as they left the great goldenrod behind and trekked among low foothills of waist-high green and yellow grasses that carried a nutty smell. Away from the narrow trail grew copses of jacaranda trees, their lavender blossoms shifting in the gentle breeze.
He continued as the afternoon wore on, while above them the sky deepened its blue, though the day never got as hot as it had threatened during the morning. The red-tail hawks continued their circling above Cavan’s interim destination. Sometimes wider circles, sometimes narrower, but always circling.
Finally, his story was coming to a close as they neared the perimeter of the Firespear main encampment.
For some time Cavan had been able to see the smoke of campfires. Do
zens or scores of them. Something like that. Cavan had been too busy talking to worry about the details. Amra probably counted them, though. Could have estimated the numbers of the Firespear clan before getting even this close.
Just as well Cavan hadn’t tried. Any estimate he attempted would have fallen well short.
Thousands. There had to have been more than two thousand orcs spread across more than a league of campsite. They looked to have been broken into smaller units of a hundred or so each, each forming a ring inside the greater circle of the whole encampment, with a large central cooking fire. Everywhere the animal hide lean-to tents the orcs used from spring through summer. Would use until the rains of fall came and they built larger shelters.
Each grouping was practically a clan unto itself, with patrols, tanners, cooks and so forth. The offspring of each grouping gathered in one place as they learned the ways of their people and did such work as they could. Their elderly gathered near the fire, but what they were up to Cavan couldn’t guess. Uulsk had never spoken of what it meant to be “old” among the orcs.
One great ring in the center of the campsite. Twice as large as the outer rings, and with at least twice as many orcs. That was where the standard of the Firespears burned. Literally. It looked to be a great spear carved from a single tall, thick tree trunk.
The sharpened tip of that great spear burned bright, even in the afternoon sunlight. But the black wood within the flames still held its oval shape, as though the fire could do no more than harden it.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” muttered Ehren, as he had every time the procession paused. Probably still worried about being sacrificed to their god of darkness.
Louder, Amra said, “That would make one hell of a battering ram.”
Grench smiled, but said nothing in response. Cavan started to ask if it had ever been used as a battering ram, but she clapped him on the shoulder to cut him off.
She turned to the orcs of the procession. Those, Cavan had been able to count. Forty-eight, not including Grench, but including the ones who had escorted Tohen’s group to the road, and returned along the way. She barked orders at the group, and thirty-six of them split off and looked to be returning to one outer ring or another.
The final dozen surrounded Cavan, Amra, and Ehren. Grench spoke in quiet tones.
“Uulsk was right to name you orc-friend,” she said in Ruktuk. “I will even say she was right to teach you our ways, as you taught her human ways. But do not talk of her to Chief Ozzik or Iresk the Hawkspeaker.”
Cavan did his best to give Grench an orcish glare. “I call Uulsk a friend and will not deny her.”
“You speak like an orc,” she said, shaking her head, “but you still know little. Uulsk was a rider.” Grench spat, but it looked more like reflex than a statement, so Cavan tried to ignore it as she continued talking. “An orc who needs a mount is no fit orc. Great Tilnak gave us legs for a reason. Horses have many uses, but riding is not one of them.”
“But the elves—”
Grench snorted, and Cavan remembered the first lesson Uulsk taught him: reasons do not matter. Only actions.
Cavan nodded. “So, where do we find—”
“You stay here,” Grench said in Rentissi, speaking as much to Amra and Ehren as to Cavan for the first time. “You are not enemies, but you are not welcome in our camp either.”
“But,” Ehren said, “how will we—”
A red-tail hawk landed three strides away. It screeched, a cry so loud Cavan had to fight not to squeeze his eyes shut.
“I think,” Cavan said, when he could hear again, “Iresk knows we want to speak to him.”
* * *
Cavan had heard stories about Iresk the Hawkspeaker over the years. Some said the orc stood tall as a troll, with skin their same peat color. Some said he had a third eye in the center of his forehead and a third ear growing out of the back of his neck.
Everyone seemed to agree that gods and demons alike listened when the Hawkspeaker spoke, and the most vicious tangleweeds would part for him at a word.
Cavan had known a wizard or three in his travels, and none he had met ever compared to Master Powys. But the moment he first laid eyes on Iresk the Hawkspeaker, Cavan wondered if he had finally met his old master’s match for power.
To begin, Iresk looked too young to have been alive during all the events that the Hawkspeaker was said to witnessed or caused. If the orc had seen thirty-five summers, Cavan would have been surprised. While that might have meant that the name and title were handed down from master to apprentice, Cavan didn’t think so. For one, solid reason.
Power.
Cavan could see the orc’s power, like a nimbus of faint, violet light spreading out from his dark green skin. He wore no armor, not even the hides that some orcs used. Instead he wore a half-kilt of what looked to be pale green goblin skin that hung to just below his knees, bound at the waist by a lion-hide belt. A pattern of scars crisscrossed his chest, too deliberate to have come during battle.
But he had seen battle, and bore those scars as well. Several on his shoulders and arms, and one that cost him his right ear. And perhaps his tusks. He once had two thick tusks growing from the bottom of his mouth, but both had been broken off, and what remained of them had been carved with runes Cavan didn’t recognize. He did recognize the large, curving sword that hung from that lion-skin belt. Vicious-looking steel, it could probably take a head from its shoulders in a single cut.
Scratched along the blade were more runes Cavan didn’t know. The letters weren’t Rentissi, nor the bastardized form of Rentissi that orcs used for their written Ruktuk. And they weren’t any language Cavan had learned with Master Powys.
The Hawkspeaker’s long black dreads hung down past his waist, tied in three places along the way with what looked like sinew.
But he did not have the typical orc smell of blood and dirt and foul sweat. Instead a thick, heavy smell wore about him. Like decayed flowers and charred fat.
His eyes were yellow, matching those of the large red-tail hawk on his shoulder, and they looked straight through Cavan the same way Master Powys had, when Cavan was first apprenticed.
And the Hawkspeaker did not come alone.
Apart from the hawk on his shoulder, two others circled high in the air above.
Following the Hawkspeaker were three big, brutish orcs with bald heads, dark green skin, and wicked, double-headed axes. Their chainmail had not been made from single sets, as Grench’s had, but it looked sturdy enough, and covered them neck to wrist to thigh. Their thick tusks grew long and unbroken, stained brown with blood. And they smelled more of old blood than anything except perhaps foul sweat.
Almost an afterthought, a young orc trailed behind them. Skittish. Unarmed except for a dagger that might still have been too big for him. Or her. Cavan couldn’t tell which, though the little thing wore only a half-kilt like the Hawkspeaker’s, apart from a pack on his — Cavan decided that a topless orc was probably a male orc — back.
“These three do not speak Rentissi,” the Hawkspeaker said, his voice strong and smooth and deep. “And this one” — he gestured to what had to be his apprentice — “must learn. So let us use your tongue today. When we meet again, we will use mine.”
Cavan wasn’t sure what to say. That wasn’t any kind of orcish greeting he’d ever heard. But before he could say something at least, Ehren spoke.
“And on that day we will share a meal. And you shall give thanks to my gods, and I to yours.”
The Hawkspeaker smiled. “Very good. I wondered if a Zatafista would have the courage to match my offer.”
Now Ehren looked relaxed. More relaxed that Cavan had seen him all day. So much relief in those clear blue eyes.
“Let me guess,” Amra said, one eyebrow high, “you’re not going to be sacrificed?”
The Hawkspeaker laughed, which wiped the smile off Ehren’s face. His words came out an irritated kind of comfortable, as though he’d known the Hawksp
eaker for some time and heard the same joke too often.
“Tell me your people have never sacrificed a priest of Zatafa to Randech. Then laugh.”
“Why should I begin our conversation with lies?” The Hawkspeaker sank down to sit cross-legged among the tramped down yellowish grass at the edge of the great Firespear encampment. “Perhaps it wasn’t for our safety that you were not allowed into our camp.”
His three bodyguards spread out around Cavan, Amra and Ehren, taking up positions by their horses. That made Cavan nod in approval. Not at anything specifically orcish about the action, but about the implied threat to their mounts instead of their persons. The Firespears had thousands of orcs nearby. And as Grench had pointed out, these orcs were used to swift travel on foot. If Cavan and his friends caused trouble, the bodyguards didn’t have to kill them immediately. Killing their mounts would ensure they couldn’t get away.
Ehren sat, mirroring the Hawkspeaker, though slightly to one side so Cavan could sit opposite him. Cavan did, sitting the same style.
Amra broke the pattern. She sat with one boot under her and the other leg outstretched. It looked casual, but Cavan knew she could spin up and into action from that pose faster than Cavan could from his.
“Don’t your hawks ever eat?” Cavan said, glancing at the two ever circling up above. “They’ve been up there all day.”
“Have they?” the Hawkspeaker asked, with the same maddening little smile that Master Powys used when Cavan asked a question his master considered obvious or unworthy. “How many hawks do you see?”
Cavan looked up. Two red-tail hawks, flying lazy-looking circles. He was about to say so, but stopped himself. Something wasn’t quite right.
Cavan muttered soft words. “Neela asa.”
The sky above darkened to his eyes, then lightened. Lightened. Grew almost gray-white from its natural rich, deep afternoon blue.
