The Forest rolled past them for days at a time. A constant, blurred, green mesh that floated past his eyes. It felt like he was growing moss over his irises.
He stopped recognising where he was when they had surpassed ten or so miles from the camp. Within a few rises and falls of the sun, he had travelled further than he ever had done in his whole existence.
They stopped each evening to rest their cart mules. Each of them were marched off of their seat in the wagon, chained to the orc in front of them, and led out into a small clearing. Once out in the open, they were arranged into a small crescent shape, backs facing the fire and the human soldiers who would bed down in the center. They always stayed close to the warmth. The orcs on the outside were left to shiver all night.
At some point in the evening, one of the human soldiers would come around the crescent to untie their hands so they could eat. A few ladles of whatever the soldiers had prepared was poured into a large bowl, and the orc at the front of the crescent would have it trust their way first.
They ate with their hands. Quick and ashamedly. As much as they could, before the next orc snatched it from their hands.
By the time the bowl reached Lorai and Bleda, there were only a few handfuls left. Certainly not enough to fill the stomachs of two hungry orcs. Bleda looked at the meager medley of soft vegetables and grey meat, and then to Lorai's face. They were both at the end of the crescent. That's why they had been left with so little. Bleda flicked his gaze over to the other orcs further up the line, and they quickly looked away at the floor, ashamed that they had taken so much from the bowl.
He tried to swallow away the knot of hunger in his stomach, pushing the almost empty bowl up towards Lorai's face.
"No, Bleda. You eat." She said quietly, placing the bowl into his lap without taking anything for herself. "I am not hungry."
He knew it was a lie. This was the second night now that she had refused food. Bleda shook his head wordlessly and offered her a small piece of carrot.
"Truly. Please…" Lorai pleaded, pushing the handful of food towards him. "Eat your fill."
Bleda paused, looking at her carefully. Lorai gave him a reassuring smile and encouraged him on.
He reluctantly took a bite of the carrot. Chewing softly, that hunger he'd tried so hard to ignore roared to life inside him. He could see why the other orcs had eaten so ferociously and quickly. It was because they were all starving. The last time he'd eaten a proper meal had been the night of The Consecration. And he had lost count of how many days ago that had been.
Soon, the meager amount of food that was left was gone. Bleda scraped his finger along the inside of the bowl, trying to get the last tiny remnants of whatever they'd been given.
"My Jenes liked mutton too." Lorai said to him, a small smile pulling the corner of her mouth.
Bleda hadn't had any mutton. He'd been left with only vegetables by the time the other orcs had finished eating their fill. Perhaps there had been mutton in the pot. Or pheasant. Or squirrel, perhaps. But telling Lorai that would make no difference. If the old orc wanted to see mutton in his bowl, then he was in no mind to correct her.
"My sister..," he signed, putting the now empty bowl down in front of him. "…When we could get mutton, she used to bake it in clay with sweet potatoes and spices."
Lorai moaned in delight. "Oh, that sounds wonderful. I could never get Jenes to eat sweet potatoes."
"How did he like his mutton?" Bleda asked. It was the question Lorai wanted him to ask, after all.
"Tomatoes. Small silver onions. Lots of parsley, if I could find it in the forest."
It felt good to talk about home. Good, but it started a painful ache deep in his chest.
For a moment, Bleda was lost. In front of his eyes, there was suddenly Morag and Gormla, sitting opposite him in their family tent, cooking fat heavy in the air. He felt the edges of his eyes prickle with tears. How long would it be before their faces became distant and watery?
Bleda swallowed hard. He wiped away his tears with the back of his hand and cleared his throat. The two of them gazed out towards the trees, as if scanning for the parsley leaves Lorai had mentioned moments earlier. But instead of finding comfort in the verdant greens and softly swaying leaves, instead fear crept its way back into Bleda's stomach. It was dark. Each shiver and small movement in the bushes set him on edge.
"Why do they always place us on the outside?" Lorai asked quietly. She glanced back to the fire roaring behind her, a shiver passing through her. "Surely they want us warm and alive. If they're going through all this trouble to take us…wherever they're taking us… then why have us freeze?"
Because we're the barrier between them and the Forest. Bleda answered silently in his head.
He'd never tell Lorai, but most likely, the humans were keeping the orcs on the edge of their clearing just in case there was an animal attack.
He thought of that huge boar. The monsters that had lurked in the deep, dark parts of the forest. The things that both orc and humankind were afraid of.
Yes. It would be better for a creature like that to carry off one or two orcs than a valuable soldier.
"Maybe it's so they don't have to look us in the eye." He signed to her.
The shadow of a soldier fell over Bleda's face. He glanced up, heart rate quickening, at the towering figure above him. He could feel the eyes of the human on him. A cruel, scrutinizing gaze.
He scoffed, looking back towards the fire at one of his colleagues. "Look! This one's deaf, Morquintus!"
"What?"
"He's deaf! I saw him doing some funny hand stuff."
The soldier called Morquintus came staggering over. He held a sack of wine in his left hand. His slim shoulders hunched inwards as he inspected Bleda's face.
"He's mute. Not deaf. He can hear you." Lorai told the soldiers firmly.
Bleda never expected it to happen. There was a sudden crack, the noise making him jump.
When he blinked once or twice and looked around with his wide, startled eyes, he saw Lorai clutching at her left cheek.
"Did I speak to you, Swinewife?!" Morquintus roared.
Rage filled Bleda. He tried to lunge for the soldier but suddenly found himself tumbling forwards, onto his chest. The bindings at his ankles bit into his flesh. He lay face-down in the dirt as the derisive sounds of their laughter filled the air.
"This pig has fire, Fidotus!" The other soldier chuckled, poking Bleda in the ribs with the tip of his boot. "If he makes it to Pelagon, then we should show him to that Patricium from Valtris."
The laughter of the soldiers was like oil on Bleda's simmering rage. He struggled against the bindings at his ankles, his breath coming out in furious huffs as he tried to push himself upright. But before he could, the soldier called Morquintus stomped down hard on his back, forcing him to the ground.
"You still haven't learned when you're beaten, have you, pig." Morquintus sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.
Bleda growled low in his throat, a sound that earned a sharp kick to his ribs from the other soldier, Fidotus. Pain exploded in his side, and he curled in on himself instinctively.
"That's right," Fidotus said, smirking as he crouched down beside Bleda. "You think you can tear a chunk out of us, eh? But I'll have your tusks if you try anything like that again. You understand me? Pig? That's all you are. A little pig-man with his little teeth."
Morquintus leaned down, grabbing a fistful of Bleda's hair and yanking his head up. Bleda locked eyes with the human, his gaze burning with defiance even as blood dripped from his split lip. Fidotus stepped forward and roughly grabbed one of his tusks. He began pulling. Twisting. A sharp pain echoed along his jaw, and Bleda thought that he was going to rip his tusk out of his mouth there and then. He started screaming. He tried to wrench his face away from the soldier before he could see his threat through. And when that didn't work, he turned his scream into a deep growl and tried to bite the soldier.
Fidotus lost his nerve and withdrew his hand with a sudden flinch from Bleda's tusk.
"Look at him," Morquintus said, laughing with amusement at Fidotus and Bleda. "Still thinks he's got fight in him."
Without warning, the soldier drove his fist into Bleda's face. Bleda's vision went white with pain. He staggered back, head spinning.
"Not so proud now, are you?" Morquintus spat, shoving Bleda's face back into the dirt.
"Enough," Fidotus said, though his tone was more playful than concerned. "Don't want to kill him before we get to Pelagon. Whoever buys him will want him alive."
Morquintus snorted and gave Bleda one last shove with his boot before stepping back. "Fine. Let the pig stew in his own filth."
The two soldiers walked off, their laughter fading into the distance. Bleda lay motionless in the dirt, his body aching, his pride shattered. Sweat dripped from his brow and mingled with the dust beneath him.
"Stupid boy," Lorai whispered, her voice trembling as she crawled closer to him. Her cheek was red and swollen where Morquintus had struck her. She reached out, awkwardly brushing some of the dirt from Bleda's face.
"Why do you provoke them?" she pleaded, her voice cracking with emotion. "Do you think it helps? Do you think it will bring Morag back? Or Gormla?"
Bleda didn't respond. He stared blankly at the ground, his chest heaving as he fought to suppress the whirlwind of emotions inside him.
"Listen to me," Lorai continued, her voice softening. "You must endure this. Do you hear me? You must endure. For Morag. For the others who are still alive. Don't give them any more reasons to hurt you."
Her words pierced through the haze of his anger, but Bleda refused to look at her. He couldn't. Not when he felt the weight of his guilt pressing down on him like a mountain.
"Please, Bleda," Lorai whispered, tears streaming down her face. "Don't let them break you."
He nodded once, barely perceptible, and Lorai let out a shaky sigh.
For the rest of the night, Bleda sat in silence, his body throbbing with pain, his mind consumed by guilt and grief. He thought of Morag, her little hands reaching out for him. He thought of Gormla, her head impaled on a spike. And he thought of the soldier by the river, the one he had saved.
His memories haunted him as the night stretched on, and when the dawn came, it brought no answers—only the grim reality of another day in chains.
They slept mostly during the day. Bleda supposed that's exactly what they wanted. To keep them sluggish and tired when the convoy were on the move to minimise the possibility of an escape attempt.
Bleda tried so hard to keep his eyes open. He wanted to track the horizon, possibly catch a hint of the stars in the early morning, so he could try and track where they were. But the rocking of the wagon was as gentle as the sway of a baby's crib. With Lorai resting her head on his shoulder, her gentle warmth comforting his aching chest a small measure, he felt the pull of slumber on his eyelids.
Whilst he slept, his dreams were full of Morag's cries and those green-tinged flames. He could see Vyrna staring up at him, her severed head on the ground at his feet, only to have her open her dead eyes and scream at him with the force of a hurricane. He saw Haksa, pale and rotting, covered in mud and filth, calling him Tongueless again. Cursed. Tainted. This was his curse now. To see them all in his nightmares forever.
When that night came, he was awoken with a sharp kick to his shins.
"Move, pig-man." Fidotus spat.
Bleda gave him a growl, but Lorai poked him sharply in the ribs with her bony finger. Reluctantly, he swallowed his anger and stepped off the cart. But when most of the orcs seemed to shake off their tiredness in a few steps, Bleda noticed that Lorai remained slow and slack in her expression. He watched her carefully for a few beats. Lorai moved as if she were wading through a thick, invisible swamp, her steps dragging and uneven. Her cheekbones jutted sharply, casting long shadows beneath her hollowed eyes, and her lips were cracked and dry. Her tusks, which had once gleamed with polish and pride, now seemed dull and yellowed, their edges chipped from clenching her jaw in silent endurance.
Again, they were at the end of the crescent. Bleda's heart sank when the bowl of food was handed over to the first orc in the chain line. A young orc - Sakka was his name - ate greedily, cupping several scoops of food into his hungry mouth before it was snatched from him by the next in the crescent. He wanted to scream at them. He wished he could plead with the others to save some food for them. For him and Lorai.
She watched the frantically eating orcs too, her eyes dimmed to a glassy, unfocused stare.
Bleda huffed and grunted away as he pulled at his chains. Sakka looked up at him briefly, before averting his eyes back down to the ground and curling himself into a ball. The other orcs continued eating like pigs around a trough. The sounds of their hurried chewing and slurping drowned out his frustrated grunts.
By the time the bowl reached them, there were a few soft chunks of celery at the bottom, swimming in a watery gravy. Bleda looked at Lorai's thin face with angry tears in his eyes.
"Eat." She said, pushing the bowl into his lap.
The hunger twisted in his own guts. The tears in his eyes welled and spilled as he gazed down at the meager meal.
"I'm not hungry." Lorai said again.
Bleda watched as his tears fell into the bowl, mingling in with the thin soup. He knew what she was doing, and he hated the fact that he still wanted to eat. He felt that he should push back. Refuse the food until she had at least taken a few bites.
But he was so hungry.
His muscles felt weak. The pain in his stomach was a twisting, wrenching ache.
He couldn't hate Sakka too much if he felt like this too. The truth was that he would have done exactly the same as him if he were at the front of the crescent.
He bent his head low and scooped the wet celery into his mouth.
Bleda chewed silently. The food felt ashy and bitter in his mouth, but Lorai smiled weakly at him from her seat beside him.
"Pearl barley." She said suddenly.
Bleda swallows the last mouthful of food and looked at her with a frown.
"Pearl barley with mustard and cheese. That's what Jenes liked with his lamb." Lorai said wistfully.
Bleda's mouth was watering in seconds. He could taste the sharp tang of the cheese on his tongue, the zing of the mustard.
"Winter vegetables stewed in bone broth. Sweet honey cakes for afters…"
Lorai brought her bound hands to her mouth, her eyes closed. She was tasting the food in her mind. Enjoying the memory of their flavours. Lorai opened her eyes suddenly, looking at Bleda with an expectant glance.
She was inviting him, he realised. Asking him to join in with her imaginings.
He thought for a moment, trying to push aside the mushy, wet remnants of the celery in his mouth with his tongue. He tried to replace their taste with something else. Something Morag had cooked for them.
"Chicken," He eventually signed. "With thyme. Crispy skin. Stuffed with walnuts."
"Ohh!" Lorai moaned, licking her lips.
A shadow swooped down and snatched the bowl from Bleda's lap. He was too slow to react, too hungry to move quickly, but when he glanced up into the shadow, he saw Morquintus' face scowling down at him.
Lorai settled a hand over Bleda's wrist. He let his muscles relax. He let the fire die down in his eyes. Morquintus laughed and walked away, back towards the warmth of the fire, spitting at Bleda's feet as he left.
That night, the forest was alive with sounds that gnawed at the edges of Bleda's fraying nerves. The faint rustle of leaves, the snapping of twigs under unseen feet, and the occasional low growl or hoot from creatures hidden in the undergrowth filled the air. The darkness was near absolute, broken only by the faint glimmer of moonlight filtering through the skeletal branches above.
Lorai was close enough that he could feel her shallow breaths against his arm. She was silent, but her trembling betrayed her fear. Every now and then, her fingers brushed his as she adjusted her position, the faint contact grounding them both in the cold reality of their situation. Her body was tense, coiled like a spring, and Bleda could tell she was listening to every sound as intently as he was. The forest seemed to mock them with its whispers, its unseen life moving just beyond their vision.
Somewhere down the line of chained orcs, someone whimpered—a young Greenfang who hadn't yet learned to mask his fear. The sound was quickly hushed by an older orc, a sharp growl of warning cutting through the night. Even so, the faint echo of the whimper lingered, carried on the cold wind that snaked through the trees.
A sudden, louder rustle to their left made Lorai flinch, her chains clinking softly as she instinctively tried to pull away. Bleda pressed his shoulder against hers, a silent reassurance that they were still together, still alive. He turned his head slowly, his eyes searching the shadows for any sign of movement. A pair of glowing eyes blinked back at him from the underbrush—low to the ground, too small to be human. The creature let out a low, guttural snarl before retreating deeper into the forest, its footsteps fading into the distance.
"Wolves," Lorai whispered, her voice barely audible. It was the first thing she had said in hours. Her tone was hollow, resigned, but there was a flicker of something else beneath it—determination, perhaps.
Bleda nodded, though he knew she couldn't see him. His throat was dry, and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. He wanted to tell her that they would survive the night, that they would make it to morning, but he couldn't bring himself to lie. The forest was full of predators, and they were nothing more than wounded prey, chained and helpless.
He turned to Lorai to catch her eye.
"Sit up straight," he signed to her. "Make yourself appear larger than you are."
Lorai swallowed hard and did as he said, straightening her bent back out as best she could.
"Noise, too. We need to make noise."
Lorai nodded slowly and thought for a moment.
"P-potato cakes," She stuttered. "Smothered with butter."
Bleda made a noise of contentment, smiling to himself. He had to try and make a few grunts and sounds too. "Bacon and leeks… fried together-"
"In butter?" Lorai asked quickly, her voice growing louder. A little braver.
"In butter." Bleda laughed.
"Dumplings and sage. Cooked until they're browned and crispy in-"
"In butter?" Bleda interrupted this time.
Lorai chuckled, the edges of her eyes scrunching into smile-lines. "In butter."
"River trout. With so much garlic you can smell it on your breath the next day. Oh, and baked, of course, in -"
"In butter!" Lorai cried happily.
"Shut your mouth, swinewife!" A voice from the center of the crescent cried. "I'm trying to get some sleep!"
The bushes in front of them shivered again. Bleda thought he could see the iridescent glow of yellow eyes in the darkness.
"Ch-chestnuts and pears…," Lorai whimpered. "In a flaky, buttery cru-"
Lorai was cut short when a thick wooden log struck her in the back.
She cried out, her scream rippling through the forest in a dreadful echo. But whatever was hovering in the bushes in front of them startled at the sudden noise. The wolves turned and ran, disappearing back into the darkness.
"Divine Crito's beard! Fucking shut up!" Another soldier shouted.
Lorai sobbed and clutched at her shoulder but said no more. Bleda reached out a hand to her this time, squeezing her fingers tightly until the worst of her tears faded away.
The hours dragged on, the cold biting deeper into their bones. The other orcs were silent now, their fear palpable in the stillness. Bleda's eyelids grew heavy, but every time he started to drift off, an imagined noise would jolt him awake—a rustle, a snap. He prayed to the Raven Father that the wolves wouldn't come back. They most likely wouldn't. But it didn't stop Bleda from watching the trees until the sun came up.
The next day's ride was especially difficult.
Bleda dreamt of food, the taste of all the wonderful dishes he and Lorai had spoken of last night swimming around his mouth. It was torturous. His stomach writhed inside him like a nest of rats. Crying out for sustenance. For just one small bite of the lamb, or the baked fish, or the potato cakes…
The pain in his lower abdomen was so sharp that it refused to let him sleep. But each time he raised his head from off his chest, his head was so groggy and slow he could barely string a thought together. The rattling of the cart jolted Bleda awake. His neck ached from the awkward angle he'd been forced to sleep in, his head slumped against the splintered wood of the wagon's side. A soldier's barked command rang out, sharp and grating, and the cart lurched to a stop. Around him, the other orcs stirred sluggishly, their chains clinking as they moved.
"Out. All of you," one of the soldiers growled, his voice impatient.
Bleda shifted, the iron cuffs around his wrists biting into raw skin as he tried to maneuver. Beside him, Lorai remained still, her head lolling against her chest. She looked more like a shadow of herself now, her once-strong frame reduced to little more than skin stretched taut over bone. Her breaths were shallow, each one rattling in her chest like dry leaves caught in the wind.
"Move!" the soldier barked again, striking the side of the cart with the butt of his spear. The noise made the orcs flinch, and one by one, they began to shuffle off the cart, chains dragging behind them.
Bleda nudged Lorai gently with his shoulder.
She didn't respond. Her eyes fluttered open briefly, unfocused and glazed, before slipping shut again. Panic tightened in Bleda's chest. He shook her more forcefully, but her body remained limp, her strength completely spent.
"Leave her," one of the soldiers said coldly, stepping up to the edge of the cart. It was Fidotus - tall and wiry, his face shadowed in the rising moonlight. "She's dead weight. If she can't live through this, then there's no work she's good for. Not even as Mine fodder down in Salsorum. We've no use for her."
Ignoring the soldier's words, Bleda slipped his arms under Lorai's frail body. She was frighteningly light, her bones pressing against his skin as he lifted her. The effort made his own starved muscles scream in protest, but he didn't care. He climbed down from the cart, his chains jangling with every step, and carried her out into the open clearing where the other orcs were being herded.
The ground was cold and hard beneath his knees as he knelt and laid Lorai down gently. Her face was pale, her lips cracked and dry. She looked so small, so fragile, and for a moment, Bleda felt an overwhelming wave of helplessness. He brushed a strand of matted hair from her face, his fingers trembling.
He turned to the others, his gaze desperate. This time, he didn't need to grunt or make a guttural noise with his half-ruined tongue to get their attention. They were all looking. All watching. "Please," he signed to them. "She needs food. Anything. A scrap."
The orcs looked at him, their faces hollow and gaunt. Most of them averted their eyes, unwilling or unable to meet his gaze. They were starving too, their own survival hanging by a thread.
When the humans finally tossed that night's wooden bowl of gruel to the orc at the start of the crescent, they still descended on it like starving dogs. Each orc scooped up a handful, their fingers trembling as they shoveled the watery slop into their mouths.
The bowl was passed from one set of filthy, bloodied hands to the next, each orc taking their fill before shoving it onward. But as the gruel dwindled to a thin smear at the bottom of the bowl, the orcs began to hesitate. Some glanced toward Bleda and Lorai, their gazes flickering with guilt before quickly looking away. Others hunched over the bowl as they ate, shielding it from view like animals protecting their last meal.
Bleda's stomach churned, not just from hunger but from the sight of it. He could hear the wet slurping and the low, base sounds of satisfaction as they sated their hunger. When the bowl finally reached the orc chained beside him, there was little left but a trace of gray sludge. The orc hesitated, his fingers twitching as he debated whether to scrape up the remnants or pass it on. He cast a quick, shameful glance at Bleda, then at Lorai, before dipping his fingers into the bowl and licking them clean.
None of them could meet Bleda's eyes. Their shame was palpable, heavy in the air like black, stinking smoke. But their need was greater than their guilt.
Their hunger was greater than their pity.
The bowl was placed sheepishly at his feet, the last orc to eat from it unable to look Bleda in the eye. There was nothing there. Perhaps a few globules of sticky oats that wouldn't be enough for a mouthful.
Lorai's eyes fluttered but did not open. Bleda tried to rub the meager amount of food against her cracked lips, but she did not stir. She couldn't even muster her tongue to flick out of her mouth and lick the oats off her face.
Bleda wept with bitter sadness. He grunted as he shook her shoulders, trying to rouse her from her weakness. But it was no good. She would die. Just like his mother had. Just like the rest of his tribe had. And he'd be made to watch.
Night descended like a death shroud - heavy and smothering- and the forest came alive with the low, haunting sounds of its nocturnal inhabitants. But Lorai refused to die. Bleda wondered, as he held her near, why she refused to go knowing that she had given up. She had refused her food, giving it to him instead. She'd already forfeited herself. And still, the hours of her stuttering breaths and shivering eyelids stretched on into the night.
The wolves were the first to return, their howls this time sounding like a funeral song. So much sorrow. So much grief.
But Bleda could not hear the animals. He was not afraid of them any longer. If they attacked, then Lorai's suffering would be over. His too, if he was lucky. Instead, he tuned his ears to Lorai's breathing, watching her chest rising and falling with faint, uneven rhythms. Bleda rocked her gently, his calloused hands brushing the brittle strands of her hair away from her face. He tried to whisper to her, although his ruined tongue would not let him form the right sounds. Although he hoped that his vague noises offered some sort of comfort to her.
The wolves came closer, their glowing eyes visible in the underbrush. Bleda tensed, his muscles coiling with the instinct to protect her, but the predators lingered at the edges of the clearing, watching. He saw their canine faces appear in the bushes. Their heads tilted, their noses twitching as they caught the scent of death in the air. Yet they didn't advance. Something in Bleda's hunched form, in the quiet grief radiating from him, seemed to hold them back.
The other orcs huddled together, their chains clinking softly as they murmured prayers to the Raven Father, pleading for the beasts to leave them be. Bleda didn't join them. He didn't plead or pray. He simply held Lorai, his tears falling silently onto her sunken cheeks.
The night stretched on, the forest growing colder and darker. The wolves eventually melted back into the shadows, their howls fading into the distance. The stars overhead were pale and distant, offering no solace. Bleda stayed awake, unwilling to let sleep steal the last moments he might have with Lorai.
Just before dawn, her breathing stopped. There was no grand farewell, no final gasp or words of wisdom. She simply slipped away, her head lolling against his chest. Bleda sat frozen, his arms tightening around her as if he could hold her soul in place, keep her tethered to the world a moment longer.
The first light of morning filtered through the trees, pale and gray. The human soldiers barked orders, rousing the orcs from their restless slumber.
He didn't even have time to fight them, or lash out at the soldiers before they hauled him to his feet and yanked his aching arms away from Lorai.
Her body lay small and abandoned in the clearing, her brittle hair falling over her hollow face. A child's doll that had been dropped amidst the trees.
When the soldiers ordered him onto the cart, he obeyed without a word. His heart felt heavy, his grief a stone lodged deep within him. The cart rattled and jolted as it carried him and the other orcs out of the forest, away from the place where Lorai now rested.
Perhaps she would find peace there. Perhaps the Raven Father would find her and take her to his side in the next world. Still in the trees of Corvionii. She would always be home.
That day, as the sun climbed higher, they reached Pelagon. The city loomed before them, a sprawling collection of wooden structures and bustling markets. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the smell of tanned leather and wet fur filled the air.
The gates, as they passed through the Western portcullis of the city, were adorned with trophies of the hunt—pelts, horns, bones, all manner of gruesome items. Blood ran down the wooden stakes, some of it dried and dark, some fresh and red.
Bleda cast his eyes up, looking at the display of antlers and bones and gore, the putrid smell of the city already filling his nose. There were carvings on the walls too. The blood from the hunting trophies dripping onto the heads and faces of the stone figures he could see. The larger figures were human, that he could tell, but he also spotted orcs carved into the stone, their tusked mouths open in screaming horror as they cowered from a huge, armoured figure.
"Divine Crito, thank you for seeing us safely back to Pelagon." One of the soldiers muttered, touching a finger to his forehead, then mouth then towards the armoured carving on the walls.
"Oh, you still owe me half for that pidgeon I sacrificed to Xegel before we left." The other soldier muttered.
"Ha! Don't make me laugh!" Morquintus roared. "You never paid me back for the tub of Alacrita you begged off me last winter!"
"What was I meant to do?! Tullia is vile when she's pregnant! She would have had my stones if I'd have let the house go cold again."
"Well, maybe if you'd kept some coins instead of spending them all at the gambling pits-"
"Who are you?! My mother-in-law?!"
The other soldier chuckled, their conversation going quiet as they passed underneath the shadow of the West gate.
"You see that, pigs?" Fidotus shouted derisively, turning back to the orcs on the cart and pointing up to the carvings on the city walls. "Does it spark a memory in you?"
Bleda didn't look up at the stone faces as they rode beneath them. Clearly it was some sort of battle scene. Orcs and humans alike held weapons in their fists, some of them wielding devices that he didn't recognise. But it was clear to anyone who had eyes who was winning; The humans all stood tall and resplendent. The orcs in the frieze reduced to nothing more than cowering, screaming animals.
"That's the Battle of Lemiux," Fidotus continued. "Your pathetic little 'last stand' at the Pass of Crito."
"Leave it now, Fidotus," Morquintus mumbled. "They need to look strong for the-"
"Ghorvak thought he could hold us there. Thought his Dreadhound would save him. And what happened? They found the beast wandering the battlefield, no rider, no master. Just a sad, lost mutt sniffing at corpses." Fidotus sneered and spat over the edge of the cart. "His carving is over at the East gate. Did you know that? The children smear blood and shit on it. I've never seen him clean in my lifetime!"
Fidotus laughed cruelly. Bleda had no idea what the human was on about. The names meant nothing to him. The story, even less so. The face of Shagar Othro flashes in his mind. That strange, dancing story of a distant war and a great betrayal that he had told at The Consecration. The details of it lost to time, the memory of the orcs that had fought in it faded and pale…
Was there more to his past? His history? Things that these humans knew that he didn't?
He wished that he'd looked at more of that frieze now. But then he checked himself. What would it tell him that he didn't already know? The orcs were beaten. Subjugated. Abandoned to this land by the leader who had pretended to be their ally.
The cart creaked onward, leaving the shadow of the gate behind. The city of Pelagon unfolded before them, its narrow streets crowded with more humans than he'd ever seen. More humans than he thought existed.
The air was thick with the stench of urine and chemicals. Everywhere he looked, Bleda could see Tanner's yards. Each street was draped with the pelts of hundreds of animals. Rabbit, beaver, sable, sheepskin… Their threads and hairs bristled as a soft breeze swept past. But the smell was rancid. Choking. Stinking.
Bleda's eyes were watering. There was no respite from it. And everywhere he looked there was another tanner. Another leather maker. He could see human workers salting the new pelts, rubbing rocks of white grit into the surface of the furs. More workers dipping the furs into huge vats of a noxious-smelling acid. And even more still hanging out the cured pelts to dry on long lines to flap in the air.
The whole process was a violation on his nose. Bleda felt like he was choking on the fumes. He couldn't understand how the humans were unbothered by it. Children ran through the streets, right past the vats of acid and the flapping furs, screaming with joy and chasing one another.
Somehow he'd never pictured human children in his mind. It was a strange shock to see them. He'd always pictured humans as monsters. Fully grown men. Hunters with broad shoulders and large arms. Seeing the children, playing with each other in the streets and sitting in the doorways of the squat houses made him pause.
A female child darted out from a house, a handful of mud clutched in her small fist. She flung it with all her might and the wet clump splattering across Bleda's chest. Bleda didn't react. He sat stiffly, his gaze fixed on the ground, his face a mask of quiet defiance.
"Filth!" another pink-faced child screamed, hurling a stone that struck one of the orcs in the shoulder.
The orcs cowered together inside the cart, trying to protect themselves from the onslaught of abuse, but more stones and mud were flung at them as the cart trundled on. The children squealed with delight each time they struck one of them.
More children joined them. Until there was a small crowd of a dozen or so flinging scum at them. Their jeers grew louder as they neared the marketplace. Stones, rotten vegetables, and handfuls of dirt flew from the crowd of children, striking the orcs as they passed. Bleda felt the weight of their hatred, the sharp edges of their scorn cutting him like the skim of a dagger over his skin.
He glanced at the others in the cart. Their heads were bowed, their shoulders hunched, their chains clinking softly with every jolt of the wheels. None of them spoke. None of them looked up.
Ahead, the marketplace came into view. Wooden stalls lined the square, their tables piled high with the city's goods—furs, pelts, and other wares. Hundreds of people milled about the stalls, inspecting the animal skins and arguing with the vendors. This place was noisy, rude, offensive.
But above the stalls rose a huge stone building. It dominated the marketplace like a throne presiding over its court. It was massive, constructed from weathered limestone blocks that gleamed faintly in the sunlight, their pale surfaces streaked with veins of gray. Columns lined the front, tall and fluted, their bases cracked and worn from centuries of use. Atop each column, intricately carved capitals twisted into shapes of laurels and snarling lions, as if to remind all who passed of the strength of the empire.
The façade of the building was painted in red and gold, though the colors had faded with time and neglect. The red was dull, like dried blood, and the gold flaked away in uneven patches, revealing the bare stone beneath. Murals stretched across the wide walls, depicting scenes of battle between humans and orcs. The artistry was brutal and vivid—human soldiers, their expressions fierce and triumphant, driving spears into orc warriors who recoiled in agony. One panel showed a towering human general, his helmet adorned with a plume of blue feathers, raising a severed orc head high above his army. Another mural depicted an orc chieftain on his knees, his hands bound, as a human soldier drove a sword into his chest. The details were grotesque, the colors stark and contrasting, designed to inspire awe and fear in equal measure.
A grand staircase led up to the entrance, its steps worn smooth in the center from countless feet over the years. The railings were carved with intricate patterns of vines and flowers, though the beauty of the craftsmanship was marred by the grime of the marketplace. At the top of the stairs, a pair of massive bronze doors stood ajar, their surfaces embossed with more scenes of human triumph—victories over beasts, barbarians, and, most prominently, orcs.
Humans lingered on the steps, their attire marking them as the wealthier class. The men wore fine tunics belted with leather and embroidered with silver thread, while the women's dresses flowed in layers of silk and linen, their necks and wrists adorned with gleaming jewelry. They stood in small groups, their conversations punctuated by laughter, their eyes watching the approaching orcs with thinly veiled disdain.
The air around the building felt heavy, oppressive, as if the weight of its history pressed down on all who approached. It was a monument to human power, a temple of arrogance and cruelty, and as the orcs were ordered to dismount the cart, their bound feet shuffling closer, chains clinking softly, the better-dressed humans on the steps watched with detached interest.
In front of the stairs was a huge, sunken pit. Humans lingered on the carved stone steps, eating legs of roasted meat or gambling over a game of dice. The soldiers shooed them away as they led the orcs down, into the center of the pit. More curious faces started to draw near, appearing at the top of the pit and staggering down the stone steps to get a closer look at the prisoners. Soon, every step, every place was filled with scrabbling and jostling humans. Bleda couldn't help but shiver under their gaze. His stomach churned. He could feel the weight of a thousand eyes on him, could hear the whispers and laughter that followed in their wake. But he kept his gaze forward, his jaw set, his arms still aching with the memory of Lorai's lifeless body.
She was gone. So was his mother. So was Morag. So was everyone else.
And now, so was he.