He could smell the cooking porridge in the air before he broke through into the clearing.
The noise of the blacksmith stirring his bellows to life made his ears prick up.
There were children awake now. Bleda could hear them playing and screeching as they threw sticks and small rocks at one another.
Bleda trudged into the village just as dawn gave way into a verdant, bright morning. The tribe was stirring— more fires being stoked to life, the scent of cooking eggs and frying meat joining the wafting scent of porridge from the huts, and the sound of the children's laughter rising like birdsong.
It was a peaceful scene, one that should have brought Bleda comfort. But his mind was elsewhere, pulled back to the dark riverbank where he had left the human to die.
He had chosen to leave the human there. Had decided without an ounce of regret in his heart to let his ruined leg take him. And yet somehow, the image of the man haunted him. Pale and broken, crumpled against the roots of the willow tree like a fallen leaf. Bleda had heard the shallow breaths, the laboured gasps, but he had walked away, telling himself that it was what should be done. A payback for the countless years of pain and torture bestowed on his people by them. Yet now, as the tribe around him came alive with the rhythm of daily life, Bleda felt a weight in his chest, a gnawing discomfort that he couldn't shake…
Bleda stood still in the clearing of his tribe's camp for a moment. He watched as a group of womenfolk shook out their fur blankets, sending dust and stray feathers into the crisp air. Nearby, a group of young hunters sharpened a series of long timber logs into deadly points, readying themselves to go spearfishing in The Silenus River. That long and meandering silver ribbon that wove its way through Corvionii. They'd need salmon and trout and stickleback for The Consecration tonight. It would be a great feast…if he got through it.
Yet every detail of the morning felt surreal, distant, as if he were a spectator watching from behind a veil. Not even his worry for The Consecration felt as intense as it had done when he'd first awoken. The warmth of the hearth fires did little to chase away the cold that had settled deep in his bones.
The human should have been just another enemy, a threat dealt with swiftly and without remorse. The long-held hatred between Orcs and humans was an undeniable truth—one that Bleda had been raised with, like the rest of his kin. But there had been something different about this one. The man's eyes had not been full of rage or malice when they met Bleda's—they had been full of fear, and something else. Something Bleda couldn't name.
A shout nearby pulled him from his thoughts. A child had dropped a clay bowl, the pieces scattering across the ground, and a female hurried to gather them up. Bleda blinked, trying to focus on the world in front of him, on the sounds and smells of home. Yet his mind kept drifting back, circling like a vulture over the memory of the human by the river. He had left the man to his fate, assuming the wilderness or his injury would claim him, that no more blood would need to be shed. But now, in the quiet moments between the waking life of his tribe, he wondered if it had been the right choice
Up ahead, a group of young orcs gathered around a central fire. They were Black Furs; the largest living warrior brotherhood of the tribe. Each one of them wore their hair cropped short at the sides, and the central panel styled into a bristling crest of spikes. They crushed juniper and blackberries into a paste, smearing the purple dye onto the tips of the crest, which gave each one of them a shock of colour amongst the muted and earthy colours of the camp. And for a moment, Bleda was reminded of the human man's helmet…
At the centre of the group sat Caldaxico, his chest puffed with pride. He had been Consecrated and accepted into the brotherhood last summer and now, with the passing of a year, was receiving his first tattoo—a bold symbol etched across his brow that marked his place among the warriors.
Bleda's steps slowed as one of the Black Furs, a hulking orc with a sneer on his lips, noticed him passing by.
"Oi, Bleda!" the orc called out, waving him over. "Come see what real warriors look like!"
The others laughed, and Bleda, though still dazed, drifted toward them, his hands instinctively going to his pouch where he kept the slingshot and stones, the only weapon that had ever felt natural in his hands. His eyes settled on Caldaxico, who grinned as the tattoo artist finished the last few lines across his brow, wiping away the ink with a scrap of cloth.
Bleda couldn't help but watch for a few moments as Caldaxico sat through the last few moments of his inking. The orc tattoo artist knelt before his subject, his gnarled hands steady as he prepared his tools. It was an ancient method, passed down through generations, holding a sharp bone needle between his fingers, its tip darkened with rich, earthen ink. His weathered face, adorned with his own intricate designs, was focused in concentration. Beside him, a small fire crackled, heating the ink in a stone bowl, casting flickering shadows across his scarred arms even in the growing light of the day.
He worked slowly, tapping the needle into Caldaxico's forehead with a rhythmic precision. The ombré pattern began to take shape, a gradient of dark browns fading into a softer, paler hue as it reached the Caldaxico's light eyebrows. The strokes were deliberate, the gradient seamless. The ritual, painstaking and sacred, would leave a mark of honour—an expression of strength and belonging - and when the tattooist nodded silently at Caldaxico to tell him he was done, the young Orc beamed with pride.
The other Black Furs, covered themselves with tattoos to commemorate their own years of service, approached Caldaxico to offer their congratulations. A warrior's first inking was a tradition. A celebration. One whole cycle of the seasons without dying on the tip of a human's blade.
Caldaxico caught Bleda's gaze, raising a hand to gesture him closer. "You've been out in the woods too long, Bleda," he sneered. Caldaxico tilted his head, showing off the fresh ink. "What do you think? First year in the brotherhood and I've finally earned this. Just wait until you see what I get next summer."
Bleda watched in silence, his expression unreadable. The mark upon Caldaxico's head was swollen and red, but it made the young Orc stand straighter. It made him try to hide the winces of pain as he raised his eyebrows at Bleda. It made his whole being bristle with arrogance.
Right in the centre of his brows was the mark of the Brotherhood: The Old Tongue symbol for courage and protection. All the other orcs around him bore the same mark between their brows and a few of Caldaxico's brothers patted his back or pressed their own mark to his in congratulations.
Bleda's hands moved quickly, responding in the way only he could:
"It looks fine."
The group snickered at Bleda's signing, some of them mimicking the motions with exaggerated flails of their hands.
"Ah, old Tongueless speaks!" one jeered, his laughter cutting through the air like a blade. "Always with his little hand-dancing. Think he's saying something important, don't ya?"
The truth was they all used the hunting language. But Bleda depended on it more than any other. Whilst the Orcs in this brotherhood would use the same symbols and gestures to communicate with one another when chasing down a skittish doe, ensuring that it didn't flee from the sounds of their voices, Bleda's accident had meant that he could only communicate in this way.
Caldaxico grinned, leaning back with smug satisfaction. "Doesn't matter what he says. What matters is what he'll never have. You know what's coming tonight, don't you?" His voice took on a mocking lilt. "Hurts like hell, doesn't it, brothers. Hurts for days. But you know what the best part is?" He lowered his voice conspiratorially, though everyone could still hear. "All of our fathers were there to help us through it. Mine said his father did the same for him too. All the way back to the Old Times."
One of the Black Furs snorted. "But Bleda wouldn't know about that. No father to hold his hand, eh?"
The group erupted into laughter, and Bleda's face remained still, though his hands twitched slightly. They were right. There would be no one to help him at The Consecration. But the weight of that didn't sting as much as it once had. He had learned long ago how to survive on his own.
"Some of us don't need our Da's to hold our hand," Bleda signed, the motions quick and precise, though his face betrayed nothing.
"Oh, of course not," another Black Fur smirked cruelly, flexing his arms. "But then again, you need your hands free, don't you."
The others grinned in agreement, some of them mimicking Bleda's hand signs again, though more lazily now.
"I've got somewhere your mother could put her hands, Tongueless!" Caldaxico hollered, clutching at the bulge of his cock.
Bleda rolled his eyes, choosing not to rise to Caldaxico's insult, or any of their attempts to get a rise out of him. The Orcs of his age, like Caldaxico, always thought of themselves as better than Bleda because they had a voice where he didn't. In his younger years, when he and Caldaxico were both Greenfangs, he might have swung a punch at him. Now Caldaxico was an inked warrior, however, he had to bite back his anger and show him some respect. Still, their attentions were now shifting, the thrill of teasing him waning as they began to focus on the task ahead.
"We're headed out into the woods to hunt," one of the Black Furs said, tossing a spear over his shoulder. "Going after deer. Or at least we would if there were any to hunt. Last herd anyone saw was two moons ago. Still, better than sitting around."
"Did you see any, Tongueless?" Another of the Black Furs asked.
Bleda shook his head. Big game like that were becoming scarce. Too many humans liked to hunt them for pelts. Stripping their carcasses raw, leaving the rest to rot in the sun, wasting all that precious meat whilst the furs made their way back to Pelagon.
That stinking, bristling human city just beyond the edges and the sanctuary of Corvionii. The home of the trappers and fur-traders. Stealing as much as they could and tearing it off the back of the Forest. The city was insatiable for pelts. And each year, more and more human hunters entered Corvionii and killed more deer than the year before. The herds were dying. Unable to replenish themselves fast enough before the next season of pelt-hunters came along. And the brotherhoods of the tribe could sense it.
"No matter," Caldaxico muttered, frowning slightly. "We'll find them, one way or another."
Another young orc chimed in, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "Or maybe the Tongueless will call them over with his magic hands."
More laughter followed, but Bleda barely registered it. His thoughts still lingered on the riverbank, on the face of the human he had left behind. His people had done this. They were the ones that had Bleda and the Black Furs hunting for the dregs of whatever the humans had left behind. Even now, as they joked and prepared for the hunt, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was unsettled inside him. The Black Furs and their taunts meant little to him compared to the weight of what he had left in the woods.
The brotherhood rose to their feet, some of them teasing up the spokes of their dyed crests of hair, others gathering their spears and throwing-nets close by. They would be journeying into the Forest together to hunt for their families and patrol the trees for any human raiders. Bleda watched as a few of them tightened a comrade's weapon strap or checked the sharpness of a spearhead for one of their brothers. Bleda was a little jealous of their closeness. A bond that ran so much deeper than just mere friendship. The mood was serious but light as the brotherhood made their final preparations to head into the woods.
But there was a sudden shift in the air. A heaviness descending over the once bright scene. And Bleda noticed the expressions on a few of the Black Furs faces change, their gazes drifting to somewhere over his shoulder.
An older Orc woman approached, her tattered cloak dragging along the dirt. Her face was gaunt, her skin stretched thin over high cheekbones, and her eyes carried the weight of grief and hardship. She walked with a limp, her bony hands gripping an oak staff for support. Her clothes were little more than patched rags, and her hair, once thick and strong, was now thinning and streaked with grey.
The Black Furs looked up as she came nearer, her presence casting an uncomfortable silence over the group.
"Are you going into the Forest?" She asked, her voice raspy from years of smoke and hunger.
The Black Furs ignored her for a moment, busying themselves with the laces of their boots or the hairs on the backs of their hands.
Eventually one of them answered, too embarrassed to leave her in silence. "We are, Mother. Yes." He addressed her formally. Using the title that all womenfolk in the camp earned once they'd born a young orcling.
"Please…" she murmured. "I need your help."
Caldaxico, standing near the fire, raised an eyebrow, though his expression held only mild interest. "Mother Lorai, if you mean to as us about-"
"My son, Jenes…" she said quickly. The woman stepped closer, her eyes flicking over the young warriors. She clutched her staff tighter, her voice wavering as she spoke.
"He was taken by humans last winter. He went out into the woods to gather firewood, but he never came back. They took him… I know they did."
The Black Furs exchanged glances, their eyes darkening. Of course they knew Jenes. From what Bleda recalled, he'd been one of them, a fellow Black Fur, and a good one too. He always came back from a hunt with something. But Jenes had vanished during a particularly brutal winter, and rumours of human raiders had spread like wildfire through the village. But that was many moons ago, and no sign of him had ever been found.
The female's voice cracked. "Please, I beg you. You're strong warriors, hunters… You know these woods better than anyone. Please, find him. I've searched, but… I'm too old. I can't… I can't do it alone."
Caldaxico's face softened, though his eyes flickered with something else—something cold. He stepped forward and placed a hand on the woman's shoulder, his voice low and reassuring. "Old Mother, Jenes is…"
"We will search for Jenes." Another of the warriors chimed in swiftly. He was an older fighter, perhaps pushing forty summers or more, and over the years, he'd earned the nickname Borug. Bor - from the Old Tongue's word for 'bear'. For he was tall and broad, his arms and face covered in a thick layer of dark, shiny hair. His voice was firm, but gentle and whatever hard truth Caldaxico had been about to say died on his tongue. "If he's out there, we'll find him. We'll bring him home."
The woman's eyes glistened with hope, her gnarled fingers trembling as she gripped his arm. "Thank you… Thank you."
The other Black Furs nodded solemnly, offering murmurs of agreement as they watched her limp away, her shoulders hunched beneath the weight of grief and expectation. They waited in silence until she disappeared into the distance, her ragged form swallowed by the village's huts.
As soon as she was out of earshot, the mood shifted.
"She still thinks he's out there?" Caldaxico muttered, shaking his head. He let out a short, humourless laugh. "She doesn't know. Jenes is long gone. There's no body, no trail. The humans probably took him far from here, sold him to some city over the Voneus Mountains, or worse. There's nothing left of him in the forest."
Another orc, leaning against a post, spat into the dirt. Trovi was his name, and in the past year, he and Caldaxico had become inseparable around the camp. "Old fool. Clings to that hope like it's the last scrap of meat in winter."
"Let her hold onto it," Borug said, his voice cold. "It's better than her knowing the truth."
Caldaxico wiped his hands on his tunic, his expression hardening. "We'll make a show of it, head out into the woods for a while. Tell her we searched every inch. She'll believe us."
"And what if we don't find anything?" asked one of the younger warriors, his brow furrowed.
"We won't," Caldaxico said flatly. "Because there's nothing to find."
The group fell into an uneasy silence, the weight of their words hanging in the air. They all knew the truth. Jenes was gone, likely dead or worse, far beyond the reach of their village. But telling that to a grieving mother—especially one so old, so poor—wasn't something they had the heart for. Mother Lorai had enough to contend with; without her son, she'd been left without a provider, a protector, a family. Hunger had driven the wits from her mind and the flesh from her body. If other families could afford to take pity on her, they did, but Lorai mostly got by on the scraps and leftovers people would often leave outside their tents for her.
"Let her have her hope," Borug muttered, turning back toward the fire. "That's all she has left."
Without another word of protest, the brotherhood moved out. Warriors nodded to Bleda in passing, their eyes still heavy with guilt and sadness. And perhaps they looked at him with a touch more kindness than they had done before. Perhaps they saw him as another unfortunate creature that needed their pity, and not their taunting words.
And Bleda hated those looks more than their cruelty.
He could still feel the brotherhood's eyes on him as he went trudging about through the camp again, but mercifully, after a few moments pretending to inspect the new ash bows the woodworker had hung outside his workshop, he felt the Black Furs disappear into the trees.
He bowed his head low and decided to send up a quick prayer to the Raven Father for them all. Some of them, like Caldaxico, might be cruel and arrogant, but they were all still members of his tribe.
"Mighty spirit of stone and sky, guard our steps as we walk the wild. Grant us the strength of the wolf's bite, the sight of the eagle's eye, and the silence of the shadows. By blood and bone, we honour you."
When he opened his eyes, he felt a little calmer inside himself.
"Bleda!" An older Orc called out to him.
Bleda wheeled around, searching for who had called to him, and found an Orc with braided black hair and amber eyes sat amongst a group of elders near a fire.
Fritigern was his name. He would have been around the same age as Bleda's father, and he too had a son taking part in The Consecration that day. He bore the tattoo of the Howling Blades on his right arm; a knotwork image of a sky-gazing wolf, two interlocking blades at its base. It was the same tattoo Bleda's father had born.
"That's a pitiful returning bounty, if ever I saw one!" Fritigern called out to him.
Bleda frowned in confusion. In truth, his mind was still a disordered mess. Jumping to and fro from the banks of that babbling brook to the here and now…
But Fritigern pointed to his belt, and Bleda glanced down at the single squirrel he had tied there.
By the blessed Raven Father, killing that squirrel felt like it had happened a lifetime ago…
He glanced back up at the black-haired Orc and the other saggy-cheeked elders who sat around the campfire. They looked to Bleda for some kind of response, one of the old Orcs ladling a mouthful of porridge into his tuskless mouth as they waited.
"Was…" Fritigern began gently. "…was The Raven Father's gift just not with your aim today?"
Bleda swallowed hard and nodded. He could tell them all about the attack of the boar, but then he'd have to tell them about the human. And what was the point? He'd be dead by sundown anyway.
"You better hope that whatever He didn't bestow on you, he's saving it for the shāgram today." One of the other old Orcs said a little too loudly. "If he misses, he'll chop your cock right off!"
The Orcs around the small campfire broke out into a burst of crude laughter. Specks of porridge flew out of all of their gaping, guffawing mouths.
"Yes. Well, let's hope Shagar Ostro didn't have too much of your grog last night, Dagaro." Bleda signed at another old Orc sitting around the fire.
The old Orcs broke out into raucous laughter again. One of them thumped Dagara on the back and chuckled into his face. "It is like piss and oil, Dagaro!"
The sip of morning broth Dagaro had been about to take spilled onto the ground as the laughing Orc thumped him again. Dagaro gave the other Orcs all withering glares as they laughed at him. "It just needs some more refining…"
"It needs emptying into the River…" another old Orc said quietly into his cup.
They all laughed again, and Bleda felt a little warmed by their good-natured humour.
When the chuckles had finally died down again, Fritigern's amber eyes returned to Bleda. Somehow he saw that Bleda's smile wasn't quite reaching his eyes. But Bleda looked at the floor, avoiding the Orc's searching stare.
"Will that be enough for…everyone?" Fritigern asked, pointing back to the singular squirrel on Bleda's belt.
Bleda played with the creature's soft fur. One squirrel… between the three of them… No, it wouldn't.
"Here." Fritigern said. He reached for a spare bowl and ladled out a serving of porridge, handing it to Bleda. "Take that for Gormla."
Bleda took it, giving him a kind smile and a nod of thanks. Fritigern had been good to him and his family after his father had died. He'd been the only survivor of the Howling Blades to live through that night, and because he and Bleda's father had been brothers in arms, he'd always been the first to lay food at their tent door, rather than see Bleda and his mother starve. So easily, he and his mother could have been like Lorai, had it not been for Fritigern.
Most of the other members of the tribe, however…
When they realised that his mother had been shamed with a halfbreed… That she'd born a half-human monster…
It was a miracle that Bleda hadn't starved that first winter after Morag was born. Most of the tribe saw her birth as some sort of ill omen. A curse. An unholy combination of Orc and human. Humans were considered amongst Orcs as demons and bogeymen. To bring one forth into the midst of Orc society was a shame so great that most of the tribe refused to have any dealings with Bleda and his mother.
Fritigern reached down to fetch another bowl.
"You better not be pouring out a portion for that halfbreed, Fritigern." One of the old Orcs growled.
Fritigern went still. The empty bowl hovered in mid-air, tantalisingly close to the steaming cauldron of porridge.
Bleda scowled at the old Orc who'd just spoken. Grizzled and weathered, his dark green skin was a tapestry of scars and tribal tattoos. He bore the mark of the Night Eyes- a brotherhood who had died out a long time ago- the skin around both of his eyes stained black and encircled with hundreds of tiny, etched Old Tongue symbols for sharp sight and good luck. His long, grey hair flowed like tangled moss, and was adorned with feathers and beads that whispered tales of the past. With a perpetual scowl etched into his rugged face, he always carried an air of grumpiness. Yet despite his advanced age, he still wielded a weathered axe over his knee.
Bleda fought hard not to respond with something vicious; Old men were a rarity in Orc society. Most of them died on the pointy end of a human's sword, defending the weaker tribe members as they fled further into the forest. So, the young were expected to show respect.
"It's just a ladle of porridge, Haksa." Fritigern said with a shrug of his shoulders.
"Gormla should have left that halfbreed to the forest." The old Orc bit back, spitting into the fire.
"Haksa…" Fritigern warned.
"That's what I would have done. Given the weak, deformed, unnatural thing back to the Raven Father."
Bleda's jaw tightened. A flicker of anger passed over his dark eyes. Perhaps it was the strange mood he found himself in. Perhaps it was the events of that morning, but where once he might have stayed quiet and let the elder Orcs say what they always said about Morag, his family, him…instead he felt the urge to fight back.
He took a step closer and made sure he had Haksa's full attention before he signed his reply.
"She's not a thing. And she's stronger than you'll ever understand. Don't ever speak about her like that again."
The other Orcs around the campfire went rigid as they followed the words that Bleda had just signed to Haksa. They all understood the hunting-language. But even if they didn't, they could all have interpreted the meaning behind Bleda's gestures from the twisting sense of fury they all sensed at the edges of him.
Haksa stood to his feet, the axe that had been balanced on his knee now serving as a walking stick for him.
The others sat silently. They could try and intervene, but Haksa was a cantankerous old man. A respected elder too, and he would not be denied what he thought he was owed. All they could do was just watch as this young Orc got the tongue-thrashing of a lifetime…
"You aren't a man yet, Greenfang. When the shāgram's taken his blood from you and you've been Consecrated, maybe then I'll allow you to talk to me like that." Haksa hissed, bringing his leathery face in close to Bleda's. He could feel his old-orc's breath on his cheek. The smell of his half-rotten tusks and the herbs he chewed for his joint pain. He kept his eyes downcast, refusing to look the elder dead in the eye and give him the satisfaction of seeing his discomfort. "Yes… maybe when you're a warrior. But Raven Father help the poor, reckless brotherhood that takes on a creature like you."
A few of the watching Orcs gasped. They agreed that maybe Bleda needed taking down a peg or two, but throwing in an insult like that…
"That's enough, Haksa." Fritigern said sternly. He rose to his feet and positioned himself at Bleda's back, but his presence didn't seem to deter the old Orc one bit.
"It is shame enough that your family bears the taint of a halfbreed—I wouldn't have allowed it to my family—but you?" Haksa pressed on, totally unbothered by the panting rage that now coursed through Bleda's body. "You are mute, without a voice to command or rally. Tongueless. What worth could you possibly hold for a warrior brotherhood?"
Bleda looked up, into his eyes.
"More worth than you, thräug." he signed.
Thräug. It was a word meant to deal a blow right back to him. And from the gasps he got from the womenfolk and orc children who had gathered to watch the argument, he knew that it had hit its mark. It was a word that had no set meaning, but rather invoked something that was useless, a burden, a thing that needed leaving by the roadside when the camp was next on the move…
And Bleda felt the cold thud of wood against his cheek before he even had time to draw breath.
It was a superficial blow, but one that hurt his pride as much as his face.
Haksa had rammed the handle of his war-axe hard against his cheekbone. Bleda stumbled back, feeling the throb of pain ricochet around his eye socket. The skill in Haksa's arm had been masterful; hard enough to cause some damage, soft enough not to break the skin and draw blood. Only a seasoned warrior could deal a blow like that.
"Haksa!" Fritigern roared, striding into the negative space between Bleda and the old man in a handful of powerful sweeps of his muscular legs. He placed one hand on Bleda's heaving chest and another on the handle of Haksa's offending war-axe.
"The Greenfang should be glad that I only hit him with the wood. I should have had his nose for that insolence!"
Bleda let out a low growl, bearing his tusks at the old Orc from over Fritigern's shoulder.
Fritigern tightened his warning grip on Bleda's tunic. He turned and gave Bleda a look of stern calm.
Yet Bleda's temples throbbed with anger. He bore his gaze into the spiteful old Orc's face, wishing he could deal a blow right back.
"Bleda..! Bleda!" a panicked voice called out to him.
A small figure pushed its way through the crowd of Orcs trying to peek a glance at the unfurling bit of gossip.
Morag stood before him, her wide eyes large and afraid. Her little body looked so small compared to the heft and bulk of the full Orcs. So out of place. So different. Even her hair, short cropped and white-blonde, was a shock of oddness amongst the dark and earthen colours the Orcs tended to favour. She was a ghost. A pale omen that walked amongst them, like a poison vapour or mist curling its way through the tribe.
Morag lunged for Bleda's arm and clamped on to it for dear life.
"And here it is. The little halfbreed demon herself." Haksa growled, scowling deeply at Morag and spitting at her feet.
"Bleda..! Come home… Please…" Morag pleaded, so used to the insults and taunts she'd borne from the moment of her birth. She pulled at his arm with her meagre strength, but Bleda did not budge.
"She took your mother's strength, with her demon magic." Haksa growled, pointing the blade of the axe towards Morag's face.
"Haksa, enough now!" Fritigern cried.
"And she's been a smear on the fortune of this tribe ever since." The old Orc continued, heeding him not an iota. "Each year we are pushed further and further into the Forest. Each year more and more of the herds fall to the arrows of the human hunters. Each year there are more and more faces missing from around the campfires…"
"And my father is one of them." Bleda signed furiously, stepping forward from behind Fritigern's back.
"Your father wouldn't have let that thing live." Haksa growled, staring into Morag's little face. She whimpered and shrank back away from him. More than once, Morag had come back to their tent with a few bruises and welts on her body. She always tried to hide them from Bleda's eyes. "She knew that your father wouldn't have let her breathe for long. She killed him."
Rage boiled within Bleda. He surged past Fritigern and Morag, wanting to put his fingers inside the sagging flesh of Haksa's neck. But the old Orc was quicker than him.
His hands flew at lightning speed. The butt of his war axe raised again. Another crack of wood meeting flesh wrought the air.
But it wasn't Bleda who cried out this time.
He went breathless. Sucking in a deep gulp of air.
The world halted as Bleda looked around, desperately trying to figure out what had just happened.
And when he glanced down, he found Morag clutching at her nose, blood oozing between her fingers.
The watching womenfolk and males turned from him. Some of them with jet-black eyes. Some of them leaking out guttural snarls from their throats as they looked away. All of them trying to control their blood-rage.
"Haksa!" Fritigern roared, trying his best not to look at Morag's bloody nose. His nostrils flared as he tried to breathe away his blood-rage. "You've gone too far now!"
"She got in my way! I was going for the Greenfang again!"
Bleda's veins filled with violence. The blood-rage roared to life inside him and he felt himself slowly slipping away, giving way to more and more anger.
His throat vibrated with a low, guttural growl. All he could see was the red liquid oozing out of Morag's fingers. He wanted more. He wanted to spill more…
"Bleda!" Fritigern commanded, slapping both hands down on top of his shoulders.
Bleda's black eyes snapped to him. He wanted to rip, tear, bite…kill whatever was getting in the way of him and his rage.
"Bleda…breathe now." Fritigern said slowly.
Morag's small whimpers of pain rippled through the air.
"Don't look at it… Don't look at it…"
Bleda fought to close his eyes. Every muscle in his body was screaming at him to move. Pounce on the old Orc and start tearing bits off him until he stopped moving. But he clamped his eyelids closed, only able to see the red mist at the edges of the blackness.
"Try and recite the Raven Father's prayer." Fritigern said calmingly. "It's what my father taught me to do. I'll say it with you. Mighty spirit of stone and sky…"
"…Guard our steps as we walk the wild…" Bleda reeled off internally. "Grant us the strength of the wolf's bite, the sight of the eagle's eye, and the silence of the shadows. By blood and bone, we honour you."
The blood rage began to fade. The pounding behind his eyelids began to slow.
When he felt brave enough to unclamp his shut eyes, he looked around. All the other watchers seemed to have mastered their blood rage long before he. Most didn't even have the lingering blackness in their eyes anymore. Bleda, once again, was hit with a wave of embarrassment and fear. Once more, he'd proven to himself that the blood-rage was something that he struggled to conquer. If Fritigern hadn't been there, then he most likely would have killed Haksa.
Bleda searched around for Morag. One of the womenfolk had pressed a cloth to her face, hiding the blood from view, but he could still hear her quiet sobs from underneath the rag.
"Her nose is broken." The female Orc said quietly.
"She…she got in my way." Haksa repeated again, his voice now feeble and ashamed. "I was going for the Greenfang…"
"Why don't you take her to Shagar Ostro?" Fritigern said softly, a hand still poised on one of Bleda's shoulders. "Perhaps he'll be able to-"
But he stopped abruptly when Bleda shook himself free of his steadying grasp. He strode straight for Morag, pulling her from the fawning care of the female Orc who was tending to her. She whimpered slightly as her little body was heaved about, but Bleda did not stop. He had her by the arm. His teeth clenched and his gaze vacant as he pulled Morag away from the prying eyes of the crowd.
He marched little Morag all the way back to their tent, not looking back once. He flung the door flap aside and dragged the poor, crying girl inside behind him.
Once inside, he let go of her arm. It flopped to the side and she instantly placed it back over the cloth in front of her nose. She cried softly in the dark quiet. Bleda too panted with anger as he stood in the centre of the tent. It wasn't the blood-rage. Not this time. It was pure, natural hatred.
He should never have let Haksa rile him.
No, it went deeper than that.
They were all cursed, as far as the tribe were concerned. No better than the tainted beasts that prowled in the darkness of the forest. Lost. Beyond saving.
Him, the Tongueless one. Morag, the half-breed demon. And his mother…
"What happened?" A sleepy voice asked from somewhere within the tent's darkness. Both Bleda and Morag went quiet, turning to the voice with startled surprise. "I heard shouting outside…"
Gormla shuffled into full view, her gaze dreamy and her hair wild. Bleda hadn't seen her up and about like this in a long time, yet her back was stooped and her feet dragging on the ground. Her skin had turned a sickly shade of green - like the scum that sometimes formed at the edge of the riverbank - after years of refusing to leave their tent. She looked old, she felt old, But she couldn't have been more than forty summers old. There was nothing inside her that spoke of life. Her soft brown eyes looked like the eyes Bleda saw staring up at him after he'd made a kill in the forest. There was nothing there. Just a memory of life.
"Mother, you can return to your bed. You don't need to-"
But Bleda stopped his signing as Gormla shuffled her way past him, pulling up the thin sleeping smock that had slid off her shoulder. She bent before Morag, staring into the girl's water-logged eyes and gently teasing away the rag she held in front of her face.
Bleda turned away sharply before Morag could reveal her ruined nose to him once more.
He heard Gormla's gasp. Sharp but unsurprised.
Their mother swallowed once, feeling the small bristle of the blood rage inside her, but she blinked a few times and it was gone. The tribesmen always seemed to say that the womenfolk mastered their rage much swifter than the male Orcs. After all, they were forced to see more blood in their lifetimes once the Raven Father had visited the change into womanhood upon them.
Morag's little cries grew in intensity as she showed her mother her injury. Her bottom lip quivered as she let Gormla's fingers trace over the wound. Morag fell into Gotmla's arms with a wail, burying her face into the dark, matted hair at the base of Gormla's neck.
Gormla shushed her crying daughter, rocking her from side to side. "It's alright, little one."
"It hurts, Mama…" Morag said in a quivering voice.
Gormla stroked her hair and carried on with her rocking. It broke Bleda's heart to hear. This is the mother that Gormla should have been all along. But the last fourteen years had been taken away by nights punctuated with sobs, days spent rotting in the furs of her sleeping chamber, hours spent staring dead-eyed into the distance…
"Was it Grakthor's boys again?" Gormla asked.
Despite his sadness, Bleda couldn't help but crack a small smile. That had happened last spring.
The Grakthor twins had always found Morag an easy target to pick on. Every day when she went to the river for water, they'd set on her, give her a few kicks in the ribs and take her water bucket. Until one day, Morag decided to take her beating, as per usual, but the water they carried off with them had a little tang to it. Morag had spiked it with a few dead rats she'd found down by the riverbank. The twins had had the shits for almost a whole moon-cycle after that.
Bleda turned towards then both, trying hard to avert his eyes away from Morag's face. He made a small grunting noise to get his mother's attention.
"No. It was Haksa." He signed to her.
"That old bastard? Is he still alive?!" Gormla asked.
Bleda widened his eyes. Another surprise. This is how he always remembered his mother talking before his father died; with fire, with edge. She was always quick to laugh and to swear, quick to hurl an insult or shout her love for Bleda and his father. She was always the first to start dancing and the last to stop laughing… No wonder some of the elders thought she'd had her soul snatched away by some invisible force.
"He wanted to hurt Bleda." Morag muttered quietly.
Gormla's eyes drifted up to her son. She looked at him for a long time, all the while stroking Morag's hair, and waiting for him to explain. It made his guts squirm with discomfort. Despite that surge of her old self that seemed to have bobbed to the surface, Gormla's eyes still looked dead. Dead like the squirrel on his belt.
"It meant nothing, Mother." Bleda signed hurriedly. "Just the usual prattle and superstitions."
"He said that Bleda was worthless." Morag butt in quickly.
Bleda shifted uncomfortably on his feet. His mother's gaze went from Morag's tear-streaked face to Bleda's darting eyes.
"I…" Bleda hesitated, his hands going still. "…I didn't think she'd heard..."
Gormla looked at the ground, her eyes watery. "Worthless..?" she breathed.
Gormla's breath hitched, her hands trembling as she slowly raised her head to meet Bleda's eyes. The sorrow in her gaze deepened, but beneath it was a flicker of something sharper—something raw.
"Worthless?" she whispered again, the word heavy on her tongue. Her voice cracked, but she forced herself to go on. "My son? My Bleda… worthless?"
She blinked, and a tear slipped down her weathered cheek. "You… who fought for breath when others may have choked. You, who learned to stand like a warrior when your legs could barely hold you. You, who took care of this family…when… when those who should have, could not…."
Gormla paused, looking down at herself in shame. Still in the bedshirt that she'd been in for weeks. Still stinking like unwashed sweat and body odour. Still with the scent of disappointment and despair on her skin.
"You dare call yourself worthless?" She added quietly.
Her voice grew firmer, though it trembled with emotion. "I don't care what he said." Her gaze drifted to Morag then back to her son. "And you shouldn't either. You are my blood. You are my heart. And no one—no one—can take your worth from you."
She extended her arm, her hand reaching up to touch Bleda's face. "Don't you dare ever forget that."
The flap of the tent snapped open with a violent gust of wind. Cold air and dust swept over Bleda's face.
Shagar Othro stepped into the shadows, his eye single blazing under the shadow of his fur-lined hood. Bone ornaments clinked softly against his chest with every step he took, and the thick smell of dried herbs and incense clung to him like a second skin. He was a large, imposing figure, and even the dim light of the tent could not mask the raw authority he carried.
Yet he stooped. He sagged and withered and bent. The Shāgram was a patchwork of scars and stumps. His leathery green skin was a mapwork of white, healed lines and newer, redder marks. One arm ended at the elbow, the other carried a twisted walking stick of elmwood. His tusks were chipped and worn. Both of his kneecaps had been shattered many years ago. He was a walking testament to all of the injuries and illness that could be inflicted on a singular body.
Yet he was the oldest Orc in the tribe by many, many years. The age radiated from him, like the warmest bonfire that Bleda had ever let warm his skin. That magic he had rippled underneath his skin. That shining, burning eye smouldered like a hot coal of pure sorcery.
Bleda stood frozen, his mother's hand still resting on his cheek, both of them startled by the abrupt intrusion. Morag, who had been standing off to the side, shrank back instinctively as Shagar's sharp gaze swept the room, his eyes narrowing when they landed on her.
Morag's eyes widened in fear, her hands trembling as she unconsciously gripped the edges of her mother's bed shawl. Bleda instinctively stepped forward, his body tensing. His hand, still raised from signing to his mother, faltered mid-air as Shagar's dark gaze moved to him, sizing him up.
"Shagar…" Gormla began, trying to steady her voice. "We…we welcome you to our-"
But the elder was already advancing, ignoring her.
He loomed closer squaring up to Bleda, his burning eye boring right into his face.
"I heard what happened. I heard what she did," the Shāgram growled, his voice cutting through the silence. It was a voice of dirt and gravel. Pain and muck. "The cursed one. Spreading her misfortune with every breath."
Gormla tensed, ready to try to defend Morag, but Shagar Ostro held up a hand, silencing her before she could speak, and Bleda noticed he was missing several of his fingers. Gormla's courage withered away beneath his outstretched palm.
Bleda ground his tusks together. Of all the Orcs in the tribe whose hatred burned for Morag, Shagar Ostro was the one whose hatred burned the brightest. He had been the first to cry "demon" after she had been born. He had been the one to begin those cursed whisperings. And he was the Shāgram. He was the voice that the tribe listened to.
His remaining eye, usually bright with disdain, softened slightly as they shifted back to Bleda. For a moment, the harshness in his voice subsided. "And you?"
"I am unharmed, Shagar." Bleda signed to him, his expression cold.
"Good. Good…" as Shagar Ostro muttered. "When I heard Haksa had struck you… On the day of your Consecration-"
"Haksa stuck you also?" Gormla asked, looking to her son with concern in her eyes.
"Quiet!" The Shagar hissed.
Gormla bristled with fear. She shrank back away from the spiritual leader of the tribe and made a grab for Morag's arm. That small glimpse of the brave, fiery woman she used to be was long gone. Stamped out. Back to the withering, cowering thing she'd been since the night of the fires.
Gormla pulled Morag close behind her, hoping to shrink back, away from the Shagrām, and retreat back to the safety of her bed, her furs.
"No. Leave the half-breed." The Shāgram commanded.
Gormla stilled. Bleda could see her trembling slightly. Morag too. She thought about finding her strength again. Bleda could see her trying to gather together what little bit of bravery she could. But in the end, she released Morag's arm and hugged her arms around her thin body. The Shāgram didn't even need to look at her when he waved her away, and Gormla went scurrying back into her sleeping chamber.
Shagar Othro took a deliberate, shaking step towards Bleda. His cheeks felt hot as the shāgram's fire-eye screamed with intensity. Staring directly into him. Seeing inside him.
There was a long tense moment of silence. Bleda's forehead began to prick with sweat.
"Honoured Shāgram, I'm not sure what you-"
"The Raven Father marked you. Just as He marked me." Shagar Othro spoke levelly. His voice was a rumble. Like distant thunder. "You carry His power in your blood. His gift. But you've never used it, not fully, have you?"
Bleda did not answer. Not immediately. The Shāgram's bluntness felt like a punch to the guts, and he was winded. He'd spent the last few moon-cycles in the lead up to The Consecration avoiding the tribe's spiritual leader. For this exact reason. He'd thought himself quite the clever hare, slipping out of the hunters snare before he could be caught. But here now, the hunter had reached inside the warren and dragged him out by his kicking legs.
"How did you know?" Bleda finally asked, glancing up into his eyes for a brief moment.
"Don't insult me, boy." The Shāgram grumbled. "After all the years I've walked this earth, I can sense the same song that sings down my veins in yours. I've waited four hundred winters for the Raven Father to put that song into someone else. I could find you with my eyes closed. On a moonless night. In the midst of sleep..."
Bleda shifted on his feet. Suddenly all of his attempts to avoid Shagar Othro seemed pointless. This was always going to happen.
"And what if… what if I don't want to?" Bleda asked tentatively. "I mean… there are brotherhoods… Warrior bands that I… that I want to…"
The Shāgram bristled, his eye burning with disdain.
Bleda's hesitant words hung in the air. The fire crackled ominously behind the spiritual leader, casting his shadow large and flickering against the walls of the tent. His aged face twisted in disbelief, his tusks bared as his lips pulled back in a snarl.
"Brotherhoods?" Shagar spat the word like it was poison, taking a step toward Bleda, his broad hand lifting as if to strike. "You dare speak of those reckless bands of fools in my presence? You think playing at being a warrior means something in this world? Means something to you?"
Bleda flinched as the Shāgar's hand came down, a sharp crack ringing out as the elder's palm connected with his shoulder. It wasn't a hard blow, but it carried with it a lifetime of frustration and disappointment, of the expectations the Shāgar had placed on him. Bleda's body tensed, his heart pounding in his chest as he instinctively raised his hands, ready to sign an apology, to explain himself, but the shāgar cut him off with another angry hiss.
"You think your place is out there?" Shagar jabbed a finger in the direction of the forest, his voice rising with every word. "Running with those mindless brutes, pretending that they're fighting back against the menace that hunts us? They might think they are… but they are like salt in a stream. Washed away. Drowned in the onslaught. Do you wish to throw away your life in blood and dust when you have been given the Raven Father's gift? Instead of fighting you could save! Save this tribe, Bleda!"
Bleda shifted uncomfortably under the weight of the elder's fury, his gaze dropping to the ground. He clenched his fists at his sides, fighting down the urge to argue back.
He wanted to fight. He wanted to protect. Just like his father had done. The brotherhood he'd seen this morning, their lives weren't salt. They raged against the humans who thought they could take them with no consequences.
"You and I, we are the only ones who can channel the spirits." Shagar Othro continued. "The others—they are blind. Weak." He cast a disgusted glance at Morag. "But not us."
"My father was not weak." Bleda signed, his hand movements firm and defiant. "The other warriors, they are not weak."
"Without us, everyone is weak, Bleda. Look at her," Shagar Othro said, pointing to Morag. "Broken, fragile, cursed. She is nothing but a vessel of misfortune. But you…" He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. "You have the power to heal her. To take her pain and bend it to your will. You can fix what's been broken."
Bleda's hands trembled more visibly now. His eyes flickered with uncertainty. He hated the way Shagar Othro spoke about Morag, the venom dripping from every word, but the truth of the elder's words gnawed at him. The power in his blood—the healing—was undeniable. He had felt it, in the heat of the hunt and in the stillness of the night, a force simmering just beneath the surface, waiting to be unleashed.
Shagar Othro leaned in, his face inches from Bleda's now, his voice almost a hiss. "Heal her, Bleda. Show them what you are. You don't need to speak to wield this power."
Bleda hesitated, glancing around his tent and finding his mother hiding behind the flap of her sleeping chamber. Her half hidden, worried eyes begged him to tread carefully. Gormla didn't trust the shāgram either, but perhaps she knew of Bleda's gift. Even if they'd never spoken about it. Perhaps she had sensed it too, just like Shagar Othro had, even if only briefly, and feared what it could bring.
Morag whimpered in the corner, clutching her face, her breaths ragged through the broken bridge of her nose. Her sobs had quieted, but the pain etched across her face was unmistakable.
Bleda turned back to Shagar Othro, his hands clasped awkwardly at his sides.
"How…how do I-"
The shāgram thrust his fist outwards. Bleda flinched at the sudden movement. Morag whimpered, expecting another slap or punch or similar treatment. But Bleda looked at the clenched white knuckles as Shagar Otro kept his hand level and straight. When he'd calmed his beating heart and blinked away the adrenaline, he saw something squirming out from inside the shāgram's closed fist.
It was a mouse's tail. Worm-like and wriggling.
"I found him in my mattress this morning." Shagar Ostro said, inclining his head to invite Bleda to take the creature. "The foresight of the Raven Father."
Bleda slowly held his palm out. Without warning, the shāgram dropped the writhing mouse into his hand. The poor, stunned creature landed on its back, but Bleda was quick to slap his other hand over it, smothering it in darkness again.
It was utterly black. Bleda had seen as much in the brief moment it had been exposed to the open. His sharp intake of breath as he met the Shāgram's eyes showed his surprise.
Shagar Othro nodded, his expression sincere. "A gift from Him to you, Bleda."
He'd seen the shāgram heal before. In those dark longhalls, with the burning incense and smoke swirling around him. And he knew that it always needed a beast. An utterly black beast. If there was even a single spot of colour or whiteness on the animal, the Raven Father would not accept it as payment.
There was always a price for magic.
And that's what had Bleda's heart fluttering anxiously.
Shagar Ostro sensed his hesitancy. "Come, Bleda, it's just a broken nose. You want to take her pain away? Then do it." He took Bleda by the shoulders, turning him around slowly until he was face to face with Morag. She was still crying with fear and pain, still holding that small, bloody rag to her face. "You can, Bleda. You can remove her pain. The mouse is a gift! The Raven Father wanted you to have it. Otherwise, if there were no black beast…"
The Shāgar faltered, touching one of his hands to his vacant eye socket.
"You should be grateful for the gift, Bleda. No beast means the Raven Father takes the price from you. I lost this for an Orc called Vorlok." Shagar Othro said, pointing to the missing eye on his face. His voice suddenly turned quiet and misty. "He was a great man. An even greater leader. He took a human arrow when he was helping the orclings of the tribe escape into the forest. The tribe needed him… There was no time to go hunting for a black beast…"
Bleda went still. He'd heard of Vorlok. But if his memory was correct, he had walked the earth in the time of his grandfather's father… He cast his curious gaze up and down the shāgar, wondering where all his other scars and mutilations had come from. Who else he had saved with his magic. How much of himself he'd given up for others…
"Even still." Shagar Othro said suddenly, sharply pulling Bleda out of his curious musings. "A few Orcs might have noticed a broken nose on one of the Greenfangs receiving The Consecration tonight, and I'm sure the gossip would have flown…but no. No need for all that."
Bleda could feel the mouse moving around inside his palms. The brush of whiskers and fur against his skin made his arms erupt into goosebumps.
"Well?" The Shāgram asked impatiently. He inclined his head towards Morag and waited.
If he'd have had his hands free, he might have asked how to start. How to even begin.
"You don't need instruction." The Shāgram said, somehow sensing his questions. "Feel it. Let it move through you."
Bleda turned on his feet. His shoulders were hunched, his eyes fixed on the clasp of his hands in front of him. He flicked his eyes to the door of his mother's sleeping chamber. She was still standing there in her night dress. Still in shadow. Watching passively. His head filled with bitter thoughts.
Why would Gormla intervene? She hadn't for the past fourteen years. Why start bothering now?
Bleda took a tentative step toward Morag, his hands shaking as he held the tiny little mouse. His pulse quickened, and a strange warmth began to tingle in his fingertips. The power stirred deep within him, coiling like a serpent ready to strike. It had always been there. Waiting to be awoken.
The shāgar appeared at his side, just watching, eyes gleaming with anticipation.
Bleda knelt before Morag, his hands hovering near her face. Her eyes widened in fear as she recoiled slightly, unsure of what was happening. His heart stirred with shame. He didn't want Morag to be afraid. He didn't want her to be afraid of him…
Bleda's chest was tight with hesitation. But he closed his eyes, trying to feel that uncoiling animal inside him.
He felt the mouse in his palms, its tiny heartbeat fluttering and frantic against his skin.
The warmth in his blood heated. The magic demanding the sacrifice.
The tingle in his fingertips turned into a glow. A gentle roar. There was something beautiful in it. A feeling that made his veins sing.
But it made his stomach churn. His whole body felt like it had lurched into a state of discomfort as the magic pushed its way through him. As if it needed to force him down deep into a tight, far away place so the magic could rise to the surface.
His fingers tightened around the tiny creature's fragile body. It squeaked, just once, before its life flickered out.
But Bleda grasped on to that life before it could flit away.
He held it between his fingertips like a writhing tadpole that wanted to wriggle back into the bullrushes.
The glow around his hands grew brighter. Holding the life was like holding a smouldering piece of charcoal. It burned him. It needed to be put down somewhere else.
Bleda opened his eyes to find Morag's face. Her gaze widened, a mixture of fear and awe in her returning stare. He nodded his head once to her, and in a stupefied trance, she let the rag drop from her face.
Bleda could see past the blood now. The magic showed him the crushed bone and the clots forming in her septum. He could see the nerves and sinuses in her face firing off signals of pain.
And he could feel that scalding little life in his hands pulling. Aching. Begging him to let it go to her.
Bleda reached out the tops of his fingers to Morag.
Morag gasped, a flash of light filling her vision as Bleda's hands worked. The pain in her nose flared for a brief second, and then—just as quickly—it faded. The swelling began to shrink, the bone slowly knitting itself back together. The bruise on her cheek softened, the discoloration fading into pale, unblemished skin.
The tent fell silent as Bleda withdrew his hands, breathing heavily, his brow damp with sweat.
The whole process took only moments, but it felt like an eternity. When it was done, Bleda withdrew his hand, breathless and shaking, the dead mouse limp in his grip. The tingle in his fingers ebbed away like the receding waters of a lake. The warmth in his chest faded to a dull, aching throb, and he cast the creature's body aside, his hands trembling.
Morag blinked, reaching up to touch her nose in disbelief. Her fingers traced over smooth skin, no longer swollen or painful. Her searching hands brushed away flecks of dried blood from off her pale skin.
The breath caught in her throat as she realised the pain was gone, the injury healed completely.
The Shāgram smiled—a cold, twisted smile. "You see now, Bleda? This is your power. Your purpose."
Bleda, still kneeling, looked up at Shagar Othro, his chest heaving. The lingering remains of the power still buzzed beneath his skin, but now it felt different—darkened, tainted by the elder's words.
The shāgar turned on his heel, satisfied, and hobbled out of the tent without another word. His presence left a chill in the air, and though Morag was healed, the tension remained.
Bleda's hands trembled in his lap, the power receding, but the weight of what he had done lingered heavy in his heart. He looked at Morag, then at his mother, who watched him with wide, worried eyes.
Gormla approached him, her voice barely above a whisper. "My son… are you alright?"
But Bleda couldn't answer. He could only sit in the silence, his hands aching with the echo of power he wasn't sure he ever wanted to wield again.