6

"Somethin's bleedin' wrong with me..." Barbaurak slumped so far over the railing of the ship that it looked like he was debating between hurling himself over and into the churning waters of the Sea of Nurn below.

They had cast out from the village with the worst possible timing, though after the incident with the human's chieftain, Razmat thought it better to leave those he left living to lick their wounds; an act of mercy, he told them, he expected to have repaid ten-fold the next time he came to collect. Now, a rotten desert wind, born on the curses whispered by the Khandians as the orcs took their leave, had risen to meet the chilled front from the north galloping across the mighty stretch of sea before them. A colossal cloud front of thick black clouds threatened to trample the slaving ship.

"What? Yer sea legs givin' out on ya again? Do us a favor an' aim over the side this time," Zathra perched atop a barrel, poking and prodding experimentally at the burn scars on his arm with a small dagger. "Or is tha' jab in yer gut botherin' ya? If ya'd bloody well let me try fixin' it, it wouldn't 'urt as much..."

Barbaurak didn't answer and instead curled his lip in a withering snarl.

It had been a good long while since the incident at the forgeworks, but the marks still bothered him every day. One discolored spot here hurt a little bit, another lump there stung sharply at the touch, one coil of melted flesh that ran down the length of his upper and forearm didn't have any feeling sensation at all; but each received a small sizzle of magic as he tried to soothe the aches where he could, but some scars showed little improvement at all, despite all of his efforts. The strange ability to heal himself was beyond his understanding and capacity to tame it. That irritated him only slightly more than Barbaurak did.

Zathra looked his languid companion up and down with a less than amused eye, "Don't come whining ta me when it starts ta rot. But if yer gonna kick the bucket, don't fall overboard. I'm sure some of the lads would like some... fresh...er meat. It'd keep 'em from eyein' at the slaves while I'm on guard duty. Those bastards wouldn't think twice ta blame me if something were ta 'appen under my watch. Think I'm a pushover."

"Ya ARE a pushover, stupid runt. Razmat only trusts ya ta do guard duty alone around the slaves cuz even a tark could chew up a meatless bone like you if they weren't chained up!" Barbaurak slumped back onto the deck reluctantly.

The dark waves would have to wait for their chance to drag him into the depths, but not because he cared about Zathra's nagging. No, Zathra irritated Barbaurak in plenty of other ways. It always peeved Barbaurak to watch him toy with his scars so casually.

Barbaurak's only option to drown out the endless, fiery buzz of his own marks was to focus on other things, like pissing Zathra off or thinking about... "Bet that tribute woulda gutted YOU prop'rly if ye'd been the one ta bring 'er aboard. Puny thing 'as a real attitude prob'—"

"Wait—" The sallow orc's own knife slipped in his surprise. He hissed, dropping the blade and slapping his unscarred hand over the spot before any blood could start to run. "—So THAT was the one tha' knifed ya? I thought' the Capt'n sent ya back fer... I dunno, pickin' a fight wi' the men folk?"

"I ain't ALWAYS lookin' fer trouble..." Barbaurak trailed off as the crack of a scourging whip sounded from the far end of the deck.

Khuvuld came stomping in their direction with a merciless glint in his eye.

Barbaurak cursed under his breath, "Sometimes, it comes lookin' fer me..."

The officer barked orders left and right to other crew members as he passed, snapping corded leather at those who didn't hustle to do his bidding. He narrowed in when he spotted Barbaurak and Zathra, hiding out under the overhang of the forecastle, "You greenhorn maggots think ye can just sit on yer arses chummin' like yer lords or sumthin'? Useless! Get up and get to work! We got sky trolls 'bout ta piss down on us if we can't outrun this storm!"

Barbaurak was on his feet in a flash, but not out of any sense of obedience. The fuse of his temper was still smoking after their earlier encounter outside the tribute woman's cell, just waiting for any excuse to ignite into a full blaze of glory. He likely would have spat something foul at the orc officer, something about his gilded beak of a nose being poor compensation for other things and telling Khuvuld just where he could shove it, but the ship suddenly lurched and listed as a howling wind slammed into its starboard flank. A sudden deluge of rain dumped indiscriminately across the ship and water. So much for outrunning the storm. Voices rose to a clamor over the shrieking gale as everyone on deck grabbed the nearest thing to steady themselves.

Feet losing all traction on the sloping floor, all Barbaurak did manage was a pissant oath before he slammed into the deck, hard.

"Mind ya don't slip, azhthakim," Khuvuld sneered at Zathra, then down at Barbaurak who had dug his claws into the deck, splayed like some clumsy caragor cub learning to climb. "Razmat'll be real disappointed if either of ye slide overboard."

"Don't know 'ow ya manage it..." Barbaurak wheezed over the squall. The brunt of its initial impact passed almost as quick as it arrived while the ship started to settle back, allowing him to get back up, and look Khuvuld in the eye.

"BAR..." Zathra's severe tone of warning passed uselessly in one ear and out the other.

The officer scowled; the scourge in his hand raised in anticipation, "Manage what?"

"Keepin' yer fancy, gold gob all shiny an' clean, when it's always stuck in the Captain's sh-URGHKK!" Without the slightest hesitation, Barbaurak was heaved back by a scarred arm gagged around his throat.

Zathra violently dragged him towards the stairs leading down to the lower decks and hissed between gritted teeth, "Shut up, ye bleedin' idiot!"

Remiss to let either of them have the last word, Khuvuld's scourge lapped at the pair of orcs' retreating spines, plucking gouges of skin wherever it was exposed. He cursed venomously after them, "Don't think I won't hang yer sorry carcass from the mast fer mouthing off, machinist scum! Get yer sorry arses ta yer posts!"

Luck was only on their side for the fact that the officer had far greater responsibilities to attend to as the storm started to swell around the ship, rather than chasing after the peons, no matter how much they infuriated him.

Once below deck, Zathra released Barbaurak and threw his claws up in exasperation, "There a reason ye want Khuvuld ta flog ya, or are ya really juss that stupid?"

Barbaurak gasped and swallowed, having nearly swallowed his tongue in surprise at being yanked around like some goblin weakling, "Ye juss had ta go an' FIX things. AGAIN. Why're ye afraid of that high 'n mighty brownnoser? I bet the spoiled brat never 'ad ta work fer 'is lot like us. Not a damn bit of real fighting skill!"

"Ain't afraid, idiot. 'E gave us an order an' we've got duties—" Zathra started, but again, the ship bucked over a particularly steep wave, nearly sending both orcs skidding into the ship's corridor.

"Duties my... arse..." Barbaurak staggered sharply, found his footing, then froze, staring down the next set of stairs; down to the cabins where the tributes were confined. His voice fell to a low murmur, "When's yer next shift on guard?"

"Uh..." Zathra hesitated, then shrugged, "Should be right about now, I s'pose. Ye won't have ta worry 'bout me stompin' 'round an' wakin' ya. I'll be down below til dawn—"

"Trade with me," a bizarre look of urgency smacked across Barbaurak's face, "fer tomorrow. Morning shift."

"Wha—" Zathra snorted, "No."

"Fine, then give it ta me. Take the bleedin' night off fer all I care!" Barbaurak insisted.

"I said no," Zathra's gaze narrowed in suspicion. No amount of insisting, bribes, or threats were enough to sway him, not that he had permission to alter guard duty shifts anyway; Razmat would have both their hides if they went on about manipulating his carefully laid schedules and plans. "Juss do what yer s'posed to and quit yer pissing match before it comes back to bite ya in the arse."

With that final word, Zathra dismissed himself from Barbaurak, who glared daggers after him.

Razmat ran the ship with a literal iron fist, strict and doggedly routine to a fault, and by extension, so too did his officers. Their Captain had no patience for rule breakers, insubordinates, and the like, save one foul-tempered, scar-faced moron that WASN'T Zathra. What Razmat saw in Barbaurak, Zathra couldn't begin to fathom.

Machine-like in both efficiency, expecting the same of his crew, and appearance, Razmat unsettled Zathra to his core. The Captain maintained an augmented appearance of metal plating and ironworks incorporated into his very limbs; eerie and unnatural. A spring-loaded metal hinge made up the replacements of his legs, and another similar rig replaced one of his arms. One could always hear his approach from the twang of his mechanical limbs. The sound commanded absolute respect, if not outright fear.

Zathra knew this well; he, with his silver tongue, pulled the most weight in convincing Razmat to recruit both him and Barbaurak for his crew. Zathra had pitched himself and Barbaurak both as combustion weapons experts who would prove invaluable in becoming the dominant slaving ship off the coast of Nurn. After all, what better way to eliminate the competition than by blasting their vessels sky high — after stealing their slaves and taking them prisoner, whenever possible, of course. So, Zathra wasn't about to risk their precarious acceptance for one of Barbaurak's nonsensical whims.

But, it was not as if Barbaurak cared about Zathra's refusal in the slightest.

By the time night had fallen deep as pitch around them, Razmat's crew had been run absolutely ragged battling the elements. After rushing up and down the rigging, tethering the sails to prevent the storm from tearing them to shreds, battening the hatches, patching damage along the hull, and bailing water for countless hours, Barbaurak's entire being ached just short of the point of snapping; if he had to haul just one more bucket, if Khuvuld found just one more excuse to snap that scourge at Barbaurak's ears, he would have seized the officer and thrown him overboard, damn all the consequences!

The orc staggered past the door to his and Zathra's shared cabin, down the lower levels in the belly of the ship. Exhaustion clouded his already lacking judgement, but really, what harm could there be going down below? It wasn't as if the rules said Barbaurak couldn't visit Zathra while he was on guard duty, watching after the tributes—

"Pulat—!"

Orcish curses and a scream rose above the cacophony of the storm winds howling down the corridor, snapping the weary orc to attention. Barbaurak hardly had the wherewithal to think, but there was no doubt whose cry it was. He broke into a dead sprint, scrambling down the hall as fast as he could towards the open door of that woman's cell. Zathra was nowhere in sight.

Barbaurak's chest filled with a boiling rage; if that scrawny arse-kisser touched a single hair on her head—!

He burst through the open doorway, the cabin door slamming wildly against the wall. His eyes fell upon a scene of utter chaos.

Black blood was splattered up the wall, and flames were starting to crawl across the cabin floor, spider-webbing out from a lamp that had fallen and cracked upon the ground. The blaze lapped and cast sparks around not just the woman and Zathra, but Khuvuld as well struggling back and forth in an incomprehensible tangle in the middle of the cell.

He had only a moment to take in the scene, to try to deduce what was happening; Khuvuld's entire focus was on the woman, still shrouded in her layers of black silk. His claws swung and he gnashed his teeth like a rabid beast, only held back from tearing into her by Zathra's desperate grip. The woman kicked, trying to get away from the orc seeking her blood, but he had one of her shackles by the chain. The officer hissed something unintelligible, the murder in his eyes was unmistakable, for there was one of the woman's small, needle-like daggers lodged firmly in the flesh of his throat.

Barbaurak's vision blackened at the sight. A roar like none other gathered in his throat. It would have torn him to pieces, if not for Zathra barking a sharp, authoritative order, "HELP ME GET THEM APART!"

That command, a modicum of sense like a candle in the darkest of nights, was the only thread that kept the orc from unraveling. He leapt into action. Pulling his rain-soaked jerkin off, Barbaurak smothered it over the growing tongues of flame from the broken lantern before they could consume the hold, and then used his own bulk to shove Khuvuld off the woman.

"Yer bleedin' out! Ye need a stitcher!" The interference gave Zathra just enough leverage to get his own grip on the officer and drag him back and out of reach of his target. Khuvuld's resistance was manic, deaf to Zathra's words. He heaved and pulled until he managed to get Khuvuld out of the cabin cell, leaving Barbaurak to deal with the occupant.

The ship swayed unsteadily beneath their feet; combined with the woman's resistance, they both toppled to the ground in a heap. Barbaurak grunted as she landed atop his gut.

She thrashed against him, with every bit of her strength, but he seized her, arms wrapped fully around her. His clawed hands clamped onto her wrists, holding in just the right way so that her arms were crossed and interlocked uselessly around herself. She couldn't budge him, no matter how she twisted and turned, but at some point, her gag had slipped, "Beast! Cur! Vermin! Do not touch me!"

"Juss calm down. I ain't gonna 'urt ya..." Barbaurak huffed, catching a lungful of the woman's scent; a strange, warm scent that made his brain turn to pudding. Suddenly, now that he was no longer standing and the immediate danger passed, Barbaurak's strength all but vanished. The strain of the day hit him like a ton of bricks and he melted, slumping against the cabin wall, feeling the woman's weight pressed against his chest.

She jerked within his grip, which simply constricted further in response, "Your kind knows only to rape and kill!"

He snorted back, "By the Eye... 'my kind' again?"

"Yes, YOUR KIND!"

"Quit with tha' stupid nonsense. YER the one goin' 'round stabbin' bastards left an' right!"

"Spirits weep for the mockery of life by such profane creatures, tongues loosed by evil magic!"

"We're not—" Barbaurak growled back in petulant frustration; how dare she imply he was hardly more than a wild beast that deserved to be put down! "—Stop tryin' ta pick fights an' no harm will come ta ya! Attackin' me is one thing, but that other bastard was an officer!"

The irony of his words was not lost on Barbaurak. He could just hear Zathra's scathing agreement ringing in his ears. The scrawny brat was sure to gloat once this had all blown over. No doubt Zathra was FIXING things even now, as usual. He would have to ask his companion just what had transpired here later, Barbaurak thought, then shook himself. He didn't want to think about Zathra! Not right now when he finally had a moment...

"He would have seen me dead!" The woman protested angrily, but her strength was wilting in the calm that followed the whole incident.

"Yer alive ain't ya? Yer doin' a piss poor job o' keepin' yer head down, if ya hoped to not lose it... Skaita... Nevermind...'E's gone now, so juss calm down..." That seemed like something Zathra would say; he was so much better at diffusing these sorts of things. Barbaurak, however, was too far beyond tired to argue, but not so far gone he couldn't muse at the spurt of Khuvuld's blood rolling down the wall. It almost looked like she had hit an artery. "Got tha' bugger good, dinn't ya? Work on yer aim next time, and ya might juss succeed."

"You insult me," The woman glared indignantly up at him with those intense gray eyes of hers. If Barbaurak didn't know better, he would have thought the storm battering the ship had been summoned by such a gaze. The timbers around them creaked, so loud it sounded as if the hull would shatter at any moment.

"Nar, Raumro..." He muttered. The sound of the storm, her voice, the soft weight of her body pressed against his... it made his aching muscles feel as heavy as lead. "Was a compliment..."

Thunder cracked above; the whole vessel shuttered. The sound made the woman jolt and curl into herself, as much as she could within his restraint. Pressed this close, Barbaurak thought he heard a pitiable sound from her, but it was so faint, he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it.

The orc's grip around her tightened instinctively, but his eyelids drooped then closed, and his words quieted to a mumble, "Shar... We'll get 'im... next time..."

***** Translations: *****

Tark - Human
Azhthakim - Half-faces, plural (derogatory) (Azhthak+-im)
Pulat - Fuck you! (Pul + Lat)
Skaita - Damn it
Nar, Raumro... - No, Stormcloud (Raum + Ro), a nickname devised by Barbaurak for the woman, for her gray eyes.
Shar - Hush

***** Author's Note: *****

Don't want to wait for more? Read chapters as soon as I finished writing them on my discord! Link in my bio! If you are enjoying WTAWTAW, please consider leaving a comment! It really makes my day to hear what my readers think!