I waded through the cold mountain stream, and paused to bend down and cup a handful of water to my lips. If i was human, I probably wouldn't dare do this, I thought ironically as I swallowed the icy water, enjoying the taste. As Huruk, I had rarely heard of an orc dying, or even suffering, from any disease like typhoid, cholera or indeed any illness that could be linked to impure water. Our strong constitutions seemed to be quite capable of keeping a little bacteria at bay.
The rest of the tribe continued marching through the water, and I paused to watch them cross, many of them meeting my eyes and nodding respectfully as they waded past, their backs laden with bundles of clothes, tools, food, weapons and all the sundry necessities of life in the hills. In the two months since I had 'arrived', I had already made more than a few waves, but a combination of quick thinking and brute force had quieted any aspiring challengers.
Fortunately, Huruk had always been more focused on fighting than fornication, so my distaste for the slave tents went largely unnoticed, although a few had raised eyebrows at my sudden temperance, drinking mead and ale more out of duty than pleasure.
"Getting tired, chief?" asked a sardonic voice from behind me, and I turned to face my challenger. Speaking of that few ...
"Pausing to survey the lay of the land," I countered, smiling as Janara, priestess of Ilneval scowled. Wearing leather leggings and a tunic of coarse-woven wool, she was dressed largely like any woman of the Stonegrinders, except for the necklaces, arm-rings, earrings, eyebrow piercings and hair-decorations that denoted her status as one of the tribe's clergy. She wore a sword belted at her waist, a decent piece of steel comparable to my own blade, but also carried a heavy, polished staff that was carved with orcish runes and tipped by a garishly painted kobold skull. A heavy pelt from a winter wolf hung from her shoulders, trophy from a childhood hunt that had proved, to many, the favour of the gods.
In the hierarchy of the tribe, Janara ranked third, with the high priest of Gruumsh ranking first and the high priest of Illneval coming a close second. It was rumoured that she was higher in the War Maker's eyes and favour, but the realities of custom meant that she was unlikely to rise any higher while those other two lived. In many other tribes, especially mountain orc clans, she would simply have killed them. With grey orcs, things were slightly more complicated: we weren't an smarter than our larger cousins, but we tended to be stronger willed and less easily cowed. We also respected those with connections to the gods.
So, as second highest servant to the god who was my patron, she was more than a little miffed as my attitude turned from almost fawning obedience to polite, respectful correctness. She was angry that I didn't put a foot out of line that she could jump on, staying carefully within the boundaries of tradition without actually being subservient. The habit of priests ruling from the shadows rather than in front, using the chief as a mascot and a tiller to guide the tribe, played in my favour.
Janare sniffed, and waded past me, her cloak trailing in the water behind her. At barely twenty, the same age my body was now, she was widely considered the loveliest she-orc the region had produced in living memory. Straight black hair, fine grey skin, sharp tusks that jutted from a strong jaw, ears that swept to a sharp point, she was, even to my fading human sensibilities, a handsome woman. True, she'd never be a runway model, even if you gave her a human face and skin-tone, with the stocky, strong figure of an orc woman, but my part-orc subconscious couldn't help noticing her wide hips and well-developed muscles.
Remember, boyo, she's probably had to eat human flesh as part of her initiation into the priesthood, I told myself. Remember when Ilneval said they'd eat you if you slipped up? She'd be first in line for a cut of meat!
Nearing sundown, we arrived at our destination. In front of us was a camp similar to the one we had established a half dozen times in the last eight weeks, and between it and our weary tribe stood a shitload of orcs. Standing about in clumps of brothers and sisters, battle-companions and gangs, resting their weight on spears, axe-hafts and shields, some with bows over their shoulders and others carrying huge swords, the Fleshtearers were the epitome of orcish barbarism: each one a fierce warrior, each one willing to fight and die, but as individual fighters or in small groups of heroes.
My bunch behind me weren't much better. Oh, I had encouraged, cajoled, convinced and threatened enough that they stood in a rough line, most carrying spear and round shield, with others bearing bows, javelins and longer spears standing behind. I had claimed that the concept was the result of a dream I had had, of a wall that, instead of being assaulted by orcish hordes, attacked by itself, crushing tribe after tribe beneath its earth, stone and wooden ramparts, flinging rocks, arrows and fire at those who would oppose it.
Thank you high school drama class, I mused. Not content with turning me into an inhuman barbarian, Ilneval had turned me into something worse: a politician. It had worked ... sort of. The shield wall concept was still new to them, and many were sceptical, but I had enough reputation as a hardass to get away with it ... as long as it didn't fall apart the first time we tried it for real.
Passing my spear and shield to Garog, I drew my sword, and passed it to Bar. As both tribes watched on, I stepped forward, and faced my counterpart.
Taller, broader and far uglier than myself, Cornag had more than a hint of mountain ancestry, traits that he had put to good use in my father's day, when both of them were young heroes of the people, battling giants and ogres and wyverns together. His face heavy with scars from both battle and ritual, he walked forward and sneered down at me, his breath heavy with alcohol and near-raw meat. "You're shorter than I thought you'd be," he snarled, and his tribesmen laughed. "Are you sure your mother didn't rut with a goblin instead?" Again, his followers hooted with amusement.
I shrugged. "For my part, I didn't believe until this moment just how ugly you were: clearly, when the gods were handing out looks, someone had stuck you in the jakes ... head first!" It was the Stonegrinder's turn to bellow with laughter, and the other tribe hurled japes and insults flying right back.
Cornag growled down at me, but I stood my ground, and smiled. The tribes grew silent, and the moment stretched out, his hostility verses my indifference. Finally, he threw his head back and roared with laughter. "Ha! You're a better curser than your father was, at least," he cried, and slapped his meaty hands down on my shoulders, giving me a good-natured shake. Behind us, our respective tribes brightened up, or conversely grew sad, as it seemed that we wouldn't be fighting each other today.
"You're still shorter than your father," complained Cornag as he cheerfully passed me a wyvern-horn of mead, which I accepted with a grunt. "When we fought the Stormcrows, his axe slew many with each blow, and ran red with their coward blood!"
I hid my smile: Cornag's memory was somewhat flexible, as I recall looking down at my father years before his death. Still, no reason to shatter the other orc's illusions. Besides, everyone looks shorter than his seven foot, even my six-three. "That tale has been told many times over our fires, and they tell often of your bravery and strength in that battle," I allowed, and his returning grin was, by orc standards, positively sunny. "But now where are we? The Stormcrows are largely dead, reduced to a tribe of survivors and a scattering of renegades and little families throughout the mountains, and our tribes are still fewer than they were before that battle."
He paused, his own horn falling from his lips. "It was a glorious battle," he said firmly.
"But one that accomplished ... what?" Seeing his lack of comprehension, I changed tact. "Who did you hate more: the Stormcrows or the Hearteaters?"
He responded instantly. "The Hearteaters, may He of One Eye consume their souls!"
"Aye, the same with me. They are arrogant where there is little justification, proud where they have acomplished nothing, and cruel where there is little need and less reward. They barter unfairly for the goods their slaves produce, and they know that all they need do is sit, and breed, and laugh as we scrabble about, stealing from one another in order to pay their prices for the things we need."
The chief of the Fleshtearers grunted, and shrugged, gulping down mead. "So? They're stronger, have more warriors than any other tribe ... any three tribes! There is not much we can do about it, is there?"
I leaned forward. "And what if there were?"
Cornag's beady eyes glittered in the firelight. "Well then ... if there were ... I think I'd need another drink! Wench! Mead," he bellowed, and from the rear of the tent came a dirty, shuffling figure in rags. It took me a moment to realise that his servant was a human: the first one I had seen with Huruk's eyes since arriving in this world. Covered in dirt, hair a matted mess, it was hard to pick out that the slave was a girl, maybe fifteen, with a collar of stiff leather locked around her neck.
Cornag saw my attention, and grinned, the sight of his tusks making the slave girl flinch. "You like her? One of my boys grabbed her last time they went west. Stupid as all get out, even for a human, and not too pretty, either. Still, she understands good orcish if you kick her hard enough, and not too bad in the blankets, although she doesn't struggle as much as she used to." He raised an eyebrow. "Tell you what: if you like her look, why not take her off my hands? She won't breed, that's for sure, and she's too scrawny to make a decent meal, so she's only costing me food."
I took another look over her, and the girl cringed. "I could, in fact, find a use for her," I said slowly, and I saw the fear in her eyes intensify.
"Done!" he shouted, and smashed his drinking horn against mine, and we drank to a bargain well struck.
Later, in my own tent, I sat cross-legged on my blankets and studied my new slave. She knelt in front of me, face to the floor, shivering in fear as she wondered what fresh hell her life as an orcish captive held in store for her.
Fuck that.
"Girl," I said firmly, "Sit up. Look at me."
She slowly obeyed, hesitantly rising, bracing herself in case I was only ordering her to rise so I could strike her down again. Seeing I simply sat there, she gradually straightened, and looked at me ... although her eyes rose no higher than my chest, not daring to look me in the eyes.
"Girl," I said again, this time softer (sort of: with the way the orc language was constructed, it was hard to actually speak softly), "I am Huruk, chief of the Stonegrinders. I am not Cornag, chief of the Fleshtearers. Do you doubt me?"
She was clarly confused, but shook her head violently, her messy hair tossing about her shoulders. "No, master Huruk, I do not doubt."
I nodded. "Good. Since I am not Cornag, I do not act as he does, nor demand what he does. I demand only two things: obedience, and honesty. If you obey, and tell me truth, you will neither be harmed nor forced: do you understand?"
She probably didn't believe me, but she nodded. "Yes, master Huruk, I understand."
"Understanding is good: belief will take longer. Fetch mead, and two mugs," I ordered, and she scuttled over to obey, handing me a mug and pouring liquid from the earthenware jug into it. Then she looked down at the other mug, confused. "Pour one for yourself," I said, and she blinked, then slowly did so, pausing every so often in case I changed my mind. I just sat there, looking at her over the rim of my mug.
Eventually, she was kneeling in front of me, full mug in hand, and at a gesture from me, took a sip. She swallowed, almost choked, but recovered, and took another.
After a few moments, I spoke again. "What is your name?"
She seemed startled by the question. "B-rigitte, master," she stuttered.
"Brigitte. Good. Brigitte, do you enjoy being a slave?"
Her eyes darted up to fix on my face, and her expression conveyed the obvious response: 'What do you think, orc boy?' Then she realised her mistake, and lowered her eyes again in a hurry.
"Good: an honest response. Brigitte, hear me: were you to be freed, today, what would you do?"
She blinked, but risked an honest answer. "Go home," she mumbled.
"Home ... through the mountains, that you do not know, past bands of creatures who would simply re-enslave you, or kill you, or eat you ... with no weapons, no supplies, poor clothing and, as I see, being underfed to begin with."
Her eyes began to shed tears of hopelessness.
"Brigitte," I said again, and she startled. "Brigitte, I am going to offer you a chance." She blinked in confusion. "If you behave well, if you are honest with me and obey me, if you do not make trouble ... then I will ensure that you are returned to human lands." I raised a hand. "I will not promise to reunite you with family: that is likely beyond me. But as far as to the nearest human kingdom, I can safely promise." She didn't need to speak: I could tell she doubted me. "I will not swear, for you will not believe me, nor my gods. Instead, I will simply say that, if you do not behave well, if you are not honest, and if you do not obey ... I will return you to Curnag. Do you believe that?"
She nodded fiercely. "Yes, master Huruk, I believe. I believe."
"Good." I gestured with my mug, and she obediently took another gulp. "So, to begin. You speak, and understand, my tongue well. I know a little human, the Common tongue," I used the appropriate translation of the language's name. "Me speak little, speak bad. Orc not same, not work same, so speak bad," I spoke in her native tongue, and I saw her understanding in her eyes. "Talk like child, or broken in head. Sound stupid. Am not stupid, though." I shifted back to orc. "So, from now on, each night, you will come to my tent, and we will talk. In Common. You will tell me of your lands, your kings, your gods and your merchants. You will describe how they live, what they believe, and who they bow to." I nodded to a corner of the tent. "You will sleep there after: I will not beat you, or rape you, or torture you." I put down my mug, and she followed suit. "We will begin now," I said firmly.
"Wait," she said, before cringing. When I gestured for her to continue, she said softly, "Do you want to learn to speak, or read as well? To make marks, and understand them," she explained.
I chuckled. "I can read, girl," I assured her, to her surprise. Huruk's father had forced him to learn, to accept the tutelage of the priests, saying it would make him a better chief to be able to read the legends, to read messages from other chiefs, to leave marks in stone and carved in trees. Huruk had never been a good student, but he knew the letters. Orc used a form of dwarf script, and very little high art was produced, but most priests and many chiefs - even a few warriors - were literate.
Then I started. "You mean you know how?" I asked incredulously.
Brigitte nodded.
I smiled. "Who were you before, that you were taught to read and write?"
She hesitated. "My father ... he was a merchant. He let me help him manage his legers, and read his maps and books."
I nodded. "Well then: it seems you are even more valuable than I had thought: you may earn your freedom faster." Then I shifted back to Common. "Now, we talk. Your name is?"
She hesitated, then swallowed. "My name is Brigitte. I am a slave."
"Me ... am Huruk. Not be slave always," I said firmly.
It didn't matter if she didn't believe me: one day, hopefully, my word would be made good.
If I lived long enough.