Each chapter of this work will consist of a single scene, though that scene might go several places. This is an experiment of mine, and I want to see if it works as a delivery device for me, as well as for you.
Thanks to everyone who took note of this new project. It might seem generic, especially for those who have read my previous stories, but this story is very important to me. It's been in my head for a great number of years, and to finally have it come to fruition as a written work is beyond exciting.
Enjoy this next chapter. Feedback is always appreciated, but all I ask is that you give it a look. It's one of my first times writing a fantasy story. I want to make sure I do it right.
"You know you're wasting your time, right?"
The dwarf didn't make an immediate reaction, as though he wasn't paying attention. The bundle of cloak that held the druid's new charge was settled in front of Big Olrec as he crushed some herbs into his palm with one massive thumb. "Aye," he mumbled, after a long enough silence that Holfield had been about to head off to the cauldron of water-soup for whatever slop passed for dinner.
"So why are you bothering with it?" Holfield asked, crossing his arms.
"If the best we kin do is make the last hours comf'ble, it'sa least we kin do." The old shaman recited this as though it were an ancient dwarven proverb. "Hope's abandoned this one. Mercy may yet come about."
Holfield scrunched up his nose and scratched at the stubble of his square chin. "To what end?"
This made Big Olrec look up, his beady, coal-black eyes widening a bit. "What end d'ye need, soldier?" His voice was a lumbering, quiet rumble not unlike that of the elf druid, and Holfield put a hand on the shortsword belted to his hip.
"That thing's not even human!"
Big Olrec had looked suspicious. Now he looked affronted. "And what a loss fer him, not bein' human," he spat. "How kin he possibly go on, not bein' human?" Holfield realized his mistake and took a step back. "Human, elf, gnome, dwarf...we're all survivors out here, boy. It turns every heart cold. But if we're too cold to help a lost civilian—"
"A bastard son of the Horde is a civilian, now?"
Offense gave way to honest anger, as Big Olrec took a strangle-hold on one of the huge metal-slab hammers hanging from his wide belt and reared up like a rabid lion. "A fledgling with none but the strength ter kill the dust 'n maggots ye'd need ter live out in his hellhole ain't a bastard o' no army!" the dwarf roared, and twelve pairs of eyes whirled to face the owners of the remaining four as Holfield stumbled backward and nearly fell flat on his backside. "Ye know which soldiers make war with people ain't done no evil to 'em?" There was a beat of silence as the young human tried to stammer out an answer. "The dead ones!" the shaman cut him off, fury rolling off of his stout frame in actual waves of heat. Dead leaves swept up about Big Olrec's boots and smoldered. "Ye're the captain's squire! I'd pegged ye one o' the smart ones! Get me a water-skin, ye great blasted idiot, and be quick about it or I'll finish the work the elf started on yer neck!"
Holfield scrambled away, nearly wetting himself in the process. Big Olrec grunted dismissively as he slipped one of his remaining leaves in between the dying child's cracked lips. He didn't give any kind of reaction as the boots of his commander came clomping up behind him, and took a long time to react even when Vant Lingham's scratchy voice proclaimed: "That one's mine, old friend. Chain of command dictates that only I have leave to terrorize him."
Big Olrec snorted derisively.
"He has good reason to fear," the good captain continued. "You've seen the eyes, same as we have. I won't speak to the druid's high-minded equality, but...young or not, innocent or not, that boy has the devil in him."
"Boy's got two devils in him, wagin' war in his guts," Big Olrec replied. "You won't hear no argument from me on the elf...might be a dumb sack o' guts, but he's got the heart most of us lost so long back we forgot where it came from." Olrec glared pointedly at Holfield as he shuffled back up to them, snatched the water-skin he offered with shaking hands, and set it to the child's lips. "I'm nary lost on account'a elves," the dwarf continued, "and I'm not needin' a lesson for the bloody ones. This one ain't old enough to've brought on the rituals 'imself. Somethin' else put yer green devil in 'im." Gesturing at the lump of cloak that served as the boy's blanket, Olrec looked back at his captain and again ignored the squire. "They're pragmatists, them bloods. This one's so scrawny, he'd be tossed outta Silvermoon faster'n King Anduin."
Captain Lingham sighed heavily. "It's infected, Olrec."
"If one o' ye calls this fledgling it again," Big Olrec cut in, "I'll knock yer arse out from under ye 'n choke ye with yer chain o' command, see if I don't."
"You've taken to...him, haven't you?"
"'E's pathetic, Vant. Look at 'im."
"I see a liability, Olrec," Captain Lingham said with a resigned look on his haggard face. "If we lose one man because of...him...that's on me. I can't afford that. We can't afford that. If you're half as smart as you've been trying to convince me you are ever since we met...you'll make the death clean, before he turns."
"I'll give it me best effort," Big Olrec said, rising to his feet after rewrapping the boy in the blanket, "but I'll warn ye, Vant. Ye mayn't got much a stance on the elf, but ye ain't seen 'im fight. If it ain't done 'til the fledgling's so far gone it's too obvious, so far gone a lamp-post could see it...if the druid gets wind o' us tryin' ter take his new cub from him...ain't a one of us makin' it back to Light's Hope alive."
With that, the old shaman stomped away.
Vant Lingham wiped a hand across his face. "Stop looking at the pathetic little thing like he made a fool of you," he muttered without opening his eyes again. "You were the one stupid enough to argue wartime politics with Olrec. Let's get moving." He turned on a heel and headed for his own tent, bigger than the others by a fraction and no more decorated than any of them.
"I'm going to shank that thing in its sleep," Holfield muttered.
"Leave it," Captain Lingham replied.
"I'm serious," the boy snarled. "Watch me."
"Don't make me repeat myself, soldier!" the captain roared, and all conversation screeched to a halt. Holfield stared, stunned, and his face went slack. Turning again and putting a hand on the axe at his belt, Lingham swept a raptor's gaze over his men. "The next time I hear a word about that damned elfling, I'll string you up myself! And that goes for any of you!"
He whirled and stalked away, sudden anger smoldering in his dark eyes.
Damned squires.
Damned elves.
Damned war.
"...I need a damned drink."
There's some not-so-subtle racism going on here. I know. But when dealing with an archaic society with literally separate races, I feel like it's an inevitability. I don't know if it was Tolkien who established the undercurrent of animosity between humans and elves, but I certainly think that its presence is felt in the Warcraft universe.
It's an important theme in this story.
See you next time.
