Private Tales The Beating of Skin Drums

North of the Wda river, a caravan rattled along a dirt road, passing through a narrow, rocky valley. Urosh, son of Unas, watched them from behind a boulder, crouching low in the grass. Mercenary outriders rode up and down the column of wagons, well-armed, but few in number. Too few. Perhaps a dozen in all to guard ten wagons and twice as many merchants.

Placing fingers to his lips, Urosh let out a piercing whistle that echoed in the valley.

At his signal, the warband emerged from the grass as though birthed by the ground itself. More than forty raid warriors, orcs and half-orcs all, charged down upon the hapless caravan, throwing spears and firing shortbows as they ran.

Urosh charged with them. His feet tore through the grass and he vaulted off of stones. He shifted his grip on three javelins, tossing one into his right hand. He paused only long enough to aim and hurl the weapon at the lead mercenary guard at the front. The javelin's leaf-blade cut through the air in a long air, striking the guard true and carrying him fully from the saddle and into the ground in a spray of blood.

Urosh gave a loud whoop of exultation and hurtled down into the fray as orcs collided with caravanners and guards in a desperate collision of bodies and steel. Tall as a young tree and broad as an ox, young chief Urosh rushed in without fear. He wore no armor, nor anything but simple deerhide trousers and boots. A tomahawk bounced from his hip as he ran and he hurled the second of his javelins at a merchant as he rushed in, skewering him to a wagon, before taking up his ax in one hand and his javelin in the other as a spear.

Rori

Beyond the carriage door, the clash of metal and screams reached a fevered pitch, then one by one they lessened until all that remained were harsh laughter and the groans and sobbing of the wounded and dying.

The carriage door nearly ripped off its hinges when it slammed suddenly open amid the wrenching of wood. An enormous half-orc with braided hair stood just outside, along with several others. One made to dart forward and grab the woman on the floor of the carriage, but the large half-orc cuffed him in the ear.

“No prize but mine,” he rumbled, slapping his chest proudly and baring his tusks at the others. They backed away.

Blood-spattered Urosh stepped into the carriage, his axe in one hand, caked in gore and hair fiber and bits of shattered bone. He sought to grab the woman by the arm and haul her out.

“More than traders,” he said gruffly, “More than gold and spice.”

She was not expected, but looked important by her dress and by the carriage. This had not been part of the information he received from the scouts.

“Who are you?”

Rori

“A good name,” Urosh grunted.

Many nights had he traveled the sacred hunting paths in the tallest parts of the Spine. On good nights, he could sometimes see the dancing river of soul lights in the sky. Those from the furthest tundra often saw such sights they claimed. He liked the dancing rivers of light that the Allirians called auroras. And he liked the look of this woman who spoke through her fear, even though it threatened to choke out her voice, instead of being mastered by it.

He nodded in approval as he caught some whispered prayer. It was good to pray to the gods, whichever she sought comfort in,

“Be brave.” His hold on her arm stiffened to keep her upright. “You will not be harmed.” He would not let them.

He stepped over the corpse of a mercenary guard missing an arm and most of his face from ax blows, no more than red ruins which no soaked the ground.

Urosh wore a powerful scowl, “Tajnash, you did not say there would be women.”

A nearby orc on a warg looked at Urosh in answer, “I did not know. Their wooden carts all look the same.”

The crunching of bone rose as the warg’s teeth found the skull of a fallen merchantman and began to worry and gnaw.

“No,” Urosh made a sharp motion with his axe. “What’s done is done.”

He looked back to his captive, “you are noble stock? High bred?” Looking her over he thought she must be in all these fine clothes, “Your people will pay blood coin to get you back?”

Around them in the valley, the warband picked over the spoils of the day.

Rori

“A King’s niece. A fine prize then,” Urosh grunted as orcs nearby who heard came forward and slapped him about the back or beat their chests in approval.

He frowned abruptly. “Which king?”

There were many and this one might be poorer than they hoped, but then he looked on her and saw she was shattered by the scene around them. Tears welled in her eyes and she looked ready to vomit.

Urosh shook his head. “No. You are strong, be strong, Aurora with the fire hair.”

Her hair did look like flame, or like leaves in the fall, all reds and golds and browns.

“We go soon. Do not run.”

He let go of her, watching to see if she did try to make a break for it. This would go poorly as the wargs were still hungry. They had not had their fill of the carrion dead yet.

It did not take long for the warband to pick the caravan train clean, there were several more survivors, a merchant who might also be ransomed and two mercenaries - a man and a woman, both elves - who would make fetch a fine price at Bthkairk.

As the sun waned on the horizon, the orcs drifted from the remains of wagons and bodies, leaving the wreckage as the only testimony of their passage and this fight.

The camp of the orcs was nothing grand, just some tents in a clearing, with a fire in the middle. Night was falling and the air felt very cold. Urosh set this Aurora down by the fire and handed her some dried elk meat and a hunk of cheese, while the others danced and celebrated their victory around the fire. Mead flowed heavily and they drank whatever they’d found among the caravan too.

Rori

"Urosh," he grunted, spitting a hunk of meat on his knife and holding it up to his mouth. He tore away a chunk and chewed. The cooked meat tasted well enough, a boar they'd killed the day before. The caravan had spices they'd taken today. Urosh wondered what it would taste like with some of those.

Hard, jade eyes glanced at his hostage and he jerked his chin at the food in her hands.

"Eat."

A passing warrior handed him a ram's horn of mead, slapping him on the shoulder. Urosh grinned and drank half the horn, the honey wine overflowing and spilling down across his chin and chest in rivulets. He hardly noticed. He pulled away from the horn, smacking his lips and grunting with approval. Good mead.

He passed the horn to her, thrusting it at her insistently.

"Drink, it's good."

A frown creased his brow at her expression. Why did she cower, her people had died good deaths in battle. They would be welcomed into their afterlife, unless their gods were cowards who shunned war. He knew little of the Anirians, except that they were said to be strong, with battlemages, and lived far, far to the west.

Rori

“Take?” The half-orc’s broad brow furrowed. “To Vel Anir?”

He snorted, shaking his head and grabbing the mead horn back to swallow another mouthful of meat down.

“No. Your uncle is far. The Reach. Past Falwood. Past Savannah..”

Hundreds of leagues away. And should a warband of orcs seek to cross that distance - by boat or land - they would not be welcomed open armed. It would be a tooth and nail battle across all that distance. One none of them would survive. To say nothing of placing themselves in the lands of these battlemages and their hellfire magic.

“We will send paper words. He will send gold back.”

Urosh nodded to himself. This was a thing he had done before. Not on such a scale though.

“Stay.”

He got up, draining the last of the horn, then tossed it aside and wandered over to a nearby tree. He lowered his breeches and pissed on the roots. Nothing like a piss after battle. Better than during.

Grunting, he turned around and stomped back only to find one of his orcs inspecting Aurora, trying to pull at her hair and pinch at her skin.

“Back,” grunted Urosh, waving a hand.

“Fine flesh for the meat market,” snarled the orc, Bakhun, who did not step away.

Rori

Bakhun stumbled backward, grabbing at his bloodied brow in surprise, which quickly turned to anger. The orc went to pull out a knife, fingers wrapping around the handle.

Urosh shoved the smaller orc back in the chest, hard, sending Bakhun stumbling away. The orc snarled at him and Urosh straightened up to his full height, baring his own tusks in answer to the challenge. At last, Bakhun withered and scampered off, form disappearing in the shadows cast by the firelight into the dancing circle of celebrating orcs.

Grunting at the end to the confrontation, Urosh turned to Aurora, eyeing the rock.

“Good hit. Now they think twice of messing with Fire Haired Aurora, mmh?”

He smiled, tusks white in the firelight, though it faded at her expression.

“Are you hurt?”

The big half-orc knelt at her side, verdant eyes roaming across her figure to see if there were any injuries. He should have done this earlier. Urosh gripped her gently by both arms, moving her this way and then that way. He saw no wounds.

Rori

The half-orc stood and shrugged at her words.

“You and I are alive tonight. Tomorrow… not even the Mountain Fathers know.”

She thought too much on the future, worried about maybes. Such thoughts were a poison, a paralysis of the mind.

“Many ways to die. Bears and wolves and falls off cliffs. Why fear them all.”

Aurora should think on the dangers of this moment only, but so too the pleasures of life. She drew breath, so she should be glad. Her friends did not, so she should weep. She feared the orc, so she should be angry.

He poked her in the chest, just above the sternum. “The money will come or it will not come. We all die in time. Until then, you live. You eat,” he wrenched away a wineskin from a passing pair of orcs who gave it up after some snarling, “You drink.”

Holding up the wineskin to his lips he drank deeply, the fermented grape a sweet and bitter taste. He held it to her.

Rori

“Sport?”

Urosh did not understand and so he frowned.

“No. It is life. Today we were the hunting wolves and you the deer. Tomorrow may be the other way.”

He patted her back twice and firmly as she coughed to help clear the airway.

She spoke of unarmed and this too he did not understand. The merchants were no warriors, but they had their little knives and little swords. Raids cared not whether they be warrior or merchant. It was not as if Urosh fell upon her village and burned it all and slaughtered all her people - such would be a different kind of raid.

“We gave them good battle-deaths. They go to your gods with honor.”

The half-orc grunted with a nod. A good raid. Clean deaths, as he sought to give the game he hunted.

“My people will not harm you. They test the limits. They will not cross them.”

Or he would kill the offender.

Rori

Urosh grunted and took the wineskin, guzzling down more of the Allirian drink as she hurled her words at him as if they were spears. Oh yes. Fire in this one, as he’d thought. Good. Fire was life. Dangerous, but also warmth and light.

The half-orc wiped the back of a hand across his mouth and gave her a shrug.

“Our ways are not your ways. Life is sacred. Death too is sacred. No excuses,” he sniffed at that word, “What is, is.”

He noticed the way she stared at the blood spatter on his skin. Yes. He did need to wash. He was not a wild bear to fall asleep caked in the blood of his enemies.

A humming in his ears announced the effects of the mead and wine. Urosh gulped down another tug of wine, then tugged her by the arm.

“We go.”

He could not leave her at the camp by herself. She had been right about some things. Some among his band might not kill her, but there were other fates best avoided.

He marched her through the camp, the fire dancers whirling around them, alive with drink and meat. The smell of smoke hung thick in the air and the beat of the drummers filled the night air with a thrumming tattoo. She wouldn’t understand. She came from a different people.

Urosh led her to his tent, a simple structure lined with furs. He grabbed a change of tunics, roughspun stuff. Then led her by the arm away from the camp through the wood, not too many paces distant. The sound of drums still beat out loud from the camp, but the sound of running water joined it. A stream ran there, not very wide, but deep enough.

Pointing at the stream, Urosh nodded, “Wash.”

Leading by example, he tossed the change of clothes on to the bank, pulled off his deer leather shoes, and waded into the water, which came only to his waist. In the night, it was cold, but a good cold. Sharp and refreshing. It reminded him of the mountain air of the Spine. He splashed water across his chest, wiping away the blood and dirt.

Again he beckoned to her, “Wash.”

Rori

Urosh nodded with approval as she finally splashed some water into her face. Satisfied she wasn’t about to go bolting off into the bushes at the moment like a frightened deer, he dunked his head under the water. The frigid stream closed over his head and he closed his eyes, enjoying a moment where he felt and heard nothing but the pull of the river and the rush of its path. Then he broke the surface, tossing his dark hair and shaking it like a dog.

He waded forward frowning at her as she still crouched there by the stream, lightly splashing herself in the face. Leaving the rest of her filthy. Urosh snorted. City dwellers.

“The rest of you will stink, Anirian. Wash.”

He pointed insistently at the middle of the stream where he water ran deeper.

Rori

She hurled the word orc like a curse. Not the first time. His own people did the same, had called him half an orc - half a warrior. These words only fed him as dry timber feeds a flame. It led him to train harder, fight fiercer, until he rose as a leader of exiles and clan outcasts of this new war band.

No sign of annoyance crossed his face at her insult, he let them roll from him, no more than rainwater on stone. Though he nodded again with approval as she stripped from her dress and in her undergarments only stepped into the stream to bathe.

Urosh splashed more water across his back, looking away from her toward the camp. She would not catch a cold tonight. Last summer he killed a great cave bear in the Spine and took its hide. The thick brown fur would keep her warm in his tent. He had other furs, but the bear was the warmest and so he would give it to her.

He would need to figure out who else among the camp he could trust to watch her, he could not be with her every moment. Others might try to despoil his captive and that would not do. He would not allow it. No. They would sleep tonight and he would find someone in the morning who he trusted and -

Amid the sound of the drums and the running water he heard splashing. Urosh spun around and watched as the fire haired maiden ran for the far bank. He watched her for a moment, annoyed. She ran with the determination of fear, swiftly.

Not swift enough.

Grunting with annoyance, he gave pursuit, sloshing through water until his bare feet slapped on the far shore and carried him hard and fast across the ground with the speed of one born to the forests and the mountains. Quick as a stag, he hurtled after her as they broke through underbrush covering where woods met the stream bank.

Ever alert, Urosh caught a glimpse of several pairs of amber eyes in the darkness as he ran. Wolves. Urosh ran faster, gaining on her with every step.

Rori

Urosh slammed into the lunging wolf with all the weight of a charging boar, launching the black-furred beast backward. It twisted as it fell, writhing on the ground only a moment before springing back up again, but away from Aurora.

She lay fallen upon the ground where the wolf had tackled her, a rock raised to ward them off. Alone, they might tear her to pieces.

Urosh would not let them.

The drums seemed distant now in Urosh’s ears compared to the pounding of his heart that galloped within his chest as he bared his own teeth in challenge at the gathering wolves. Many waited there, a whole pack. Urosh slapped his chest and growled back at them.

They fell on him, in a flurry of slavering jaws and snapping teeth. One seized him by the forearm, fangs ripping into his flesh and seeking to wrench him to the ground while another, gray-furred one went for his leg. Urosh kicked that one mightily in the chest and heard and felt the crunch of ribs beneath his heel. The beast yelped and whined, but another took its place.

Pain lanced up his arm from where the black furred demon clung to him, its weig he dragging him off balance. He clubbed it over the head with a fist, stunning it, then wrapped it up close to his chest in a crushing gripping. He could feel the jaws of another close around his thigh and another scratching at his back. He stood like a mountain, unmoving, and crushed the black furred pack leader to his chest squeezing his forearm around its throat with all his strength until he felt a trachea give and its growling turned to gurgling. It let go of his arm as it struggled to breathe, but he snatched it up, one hand on lower jaw, one on upper, and pulled them apart with a brutal motion and a savage roar. Its jaw dislocated and it flopped away from him on the grass, whining and gurgling pathetically.

He smashed a fist into the one gripping his thigh and it yelped and bounded away. For a moment, the wolves circled, watching their leader thrash about. Then the black furred one shot up and ran out into the darkness. The rest followed.

Where once there had been only snarling and violence, now there was a sudden stillness. Urosh grunted. He could feel his own blood flowing warm and freely from his forearm and thigh and scratches on his back. He sank to a knee beside Aurora, his chest heaving for breath.

“Are you…” he sucked in air, looking over her drenched form now covered in dirt and grass, “bitten?”

Rori