The Orc Read online

He is expected to fight and win. Amongst orcs, talking is considered to be a woman’s thing. Orc men who talk too much are treated with disdain; especially so if they talk to the enemy, which is a sign of gross weakness and unmanly softness.” This, I admitted to myself, was true to a certain extent within our army as well.

  “Then how comes it that you are … different?”

  “They think they have no choice but to behave as they are expected to. But, in fact, you always have a choice. You just have to overcome your fear of what the results of your choices may be.” I agreed with his words, but I hadn’t thought that anyone could actually live up to it. For a second, I gazed at the orc in admiration. “I always thought it would be very useful to be able to talk to the enemy, to learn as much about them as we could, to find out why they act the way they do, to uncover their motives.”

  “That’s quite wise,” I said, and I meant it. “But how did you manage to learn our language?” I was genuinely curious.

  “I took every opportunity to start conversations with humans. When we captured your people, there were always a handful of prisoners who didn’t mind talking with me. I think they hoped that somehow they could survive their captivity by doing so. The others, I guess, had too much pride to talk to the enemy. Especially when that enemy was a despicable barbarian, which is what orcs are in most of your soldiers’ eyes. And there were always many battles, almost without cease.” He grimaced and then added in a sad tone of voice, “Fighting is all we know and all we do.”

  “You say that orc warriors who talk to the enemy are disdained. Is that what happened to you? Did your people treat you ill?” For a moment, I thought I’d solved the puzzle of the lone orc wandering in the deadly desert.

  “Disdain, yes they did. Treat me badly, they didn’t dare.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “You have to understand one thing: power is what orcs respect the most. Good warriors are held in high esteem. The best warriors, especially if they have a high rank in our army, are worshipped as if they are demigods. When an orc is commanded to fight a stronger or more skilled opponent, such as a giant or a dark assassin, he will do so without hesitation. If he manages to defeat the foe, he gains high respect and can be surer of his own greatness and importance. Oh, orcs love to think highly of themselves.” This was easy to understand, and I thought it was true for most of our soldiers too. And, I admitted reluctantly, I was no exception. “If they lose the fight, it’s still better to die quickly from the club of a giant or the swift blade of an assassin than to live with the massive and lasting shame of disobedience. And, of course, there’s also a severe punishment for disobeying a superior’s order. Usually, it is flogging, sometimes to the death. Cutting wounds and rubbing salt into them is also popular nowadays. In the worse case, you are given into the hands of a master torturer, which is …” He just stopped; I could imagine the unspoken part.

  “And you were ...?” I demanded.

  “And I was one of the very best fighters ever, strong and swift, and had a higher rank than most others.” There was no pride in his voice. “Besides, I was close to the chieftain of our tribe. We weren’t friends—friendship is really rare amongst orcs; but we were close enough.” He sighed.

  “But that’s enough said about me,” he announced. I felt disappointed. I still hadn’t learnt his story and his business in this lethal desert, far from his people. “Now, tell me, why do you wander alone in the middle of the Great Desert of Doom?” He said it firmly, leaving no doubt that it was my turn to talk. A light breeze brought a taste of the brutal heat outside of our rock shelter.

  I saw no danger in telling him my true story; it had nothing to do with orcs. It also made time pass a bit faster, diverting—somewhat—my thoughts from the unbearable heat and my torturous thirst. He listened to me closely, without interruption, not with the cunning interest of an enemy trying to figure out his adversary’s plan, but with a friend’s honest concern for a comrade in grave trouble. The orc appeared to be guileless in his whole being; in his talking, in his questions, even in his listening. He was either genuine, or he put on the best performance I had ever seen in my life. My heart suggested he was not acting, and for a second I had the unexpected thought that I would gladly fight alongside such a comrade in the heat of battle.

  I told him about the dragging war between the Kingdom and the Eastern kobold tribes; how our last battle ended up in a stalemate, decimating both armies; the growing number of corpses buried—or burnt—at the end of each day as the fights became more and more desperate; the Army General ordering the seven of us to take word of the hopeless situation to the Supreme Commander of the Eastern Armies, whom we would ask for immediate reinforcements in order to avoid the fate of complete obliteration; how it was decided that the only route quick enough lay across the desert; the kobold surprise attack on our squad two days deep into the desert, killing everyone but me; my discovery that all the pack horses and all the supplies had been looted and the suicidal decision that I would carry on with my mission nonetheless; my miserable, lonely journey in the endless desert; not finding any shelter whatsoever by dawn after last night’s march; and finally, finding the rocks by happenstance.

  “It was foolish to think you could make it through the desert alone and without any provisions, but I do understand your decision,” he said, once I finished my story. “I think this whole plan was quite bold. Even if you’d managed to avoid the ambush, you would’ve lost all of your horses long before reaching the far end of the great desert.”

  “Yes, we knew the horses would all waste away and die before reaching the first outpost; but us—or at least, some of us—would’ve make it.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” he mused, and then asked, “How did the war start?”

  “The kobolds attacked one of our trade caravans,” I explained.

  “Wasn’t it escorted by soldiers? I haven’t heard about kobolds attacking well-defended caravans.”

  “It was; fifty well-trained and heavily armoured men-at-arms. But the caravan was carrying a very precious load. The kobolds found out about it somehow, gathered a huge horde, and attacked it.”

  “Let me guess: your people were transporting singing iron ore, right?”

  “Yes. How did you know about that?” I was truly surprised.

  “Some of the human captives are really talkative when afraid. We orcs always knew that any weapon made of the rare singing iron is far superior to a common iron counterpart, so naturally we’re interested in any rumours about it. Regarding that particular incident, we also learnt that the kobold raid wasn’t successful. But we haven’t heard anything about what happened afterwards. So?”

  “The escort repulsed the attack, but at the cost of the lives of more than thirty guards. The Supreme Commander felt that retaliation was due, and the King supported his idea. Within a few weeks, we started what was supposed to be a quick strike against the kobolds, to teach them a lesson; but, they had much larger and more organised forces than anybody had thought. The quick strike escalated into a major offensive and later into a many-years-long, full-scale war.”

  “When, exactly, did that initial attack on the caravan happen?”

  “Eleven years ago,” I answered after a quick count. The answer startled me.; I hadn’t thought it’d been that many years.

  “Hah!” the orc snapped scornfully, “And what’s the tally of deaths?”

  “Nobody knows for sure, but it’s thought to be at least forty thousand warriors on either side.”

  “Forty thousand dead … and eleven years of suffering … to revenge the death of thirty. What an utterly stupid way of wasting people and time!” His face showed both anger and sadness. “Mankind isn’t any better than the orcish race when it comes to idiocy,” he sighed, shaking his head, and I had to fully agree with him. Then, he asked, “Why didn’t your commander call the attacks off—or even propose a peace treaty?”

  “The Supreme Commander is a headstrong man,” I admitted; I wou
ldn’t have said this anywhere in the Kingdom, as his intolerance of criticism was well-known, and he had an extensive network of informants. It felt a bit peculiar that I could talk to an orc more freely than to my own kind. “Faced with growing losses each year, military advisers recommended that we end this war, from which the Kingdom couldn’t possibly benefit.” Kobold lands were arid, almost completely unsuitable for agriculture, and quite poor in resources. “But the Commander refused to even consider the suggestions. At one point, the kobolds put forward a peace treaty, but he turned that down too. After a few years, the King himself started to worry about the war, but the Commander kept assuring him of a final victory.”

  “Sounds like a man full with pride and self-esteem. I reckon once your commander started the war he couldn’t afford not to win it, especially as the losses grew. He must be the kind of person who—no matter what—always has to triumph, always has to win an argument, and always has to be right. Otherwise, his self-glory would diminish, and that, to him, would feel terrible—like becoming worthless or unimportant. I feel sorry for such people.”

  “Exactly,” I agreed. It was amazing how clearly this orc saw people and how little information he needed to understand various affairs.

  By then, it was