Private Tales The Beating of Skin Drums

The carriage rocked violently as the driver screamed, the reins snapping as horses panicked and bolted against their harnesses. Rori’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t seen a battlefield before, only the neat, glittering parades of soldiers marching in her uncle’s city. This was not that. This was raw, violent chaos.

Through the small window, she caught flashes: an orc, taller than any man she had seen, cleaving down a guard as though he were no more than wheat to a scythe; arrows hissing through the air and thudding into wood and flesh alike; a wagon overturning as terrified horses reared.

Inside, panic erupted. The Lady beside her clutched her skirts and bolted for the door with a scream, the maids on her heels.

“Wait, no!” Rori’s voice cracked with fear, her hand half-raised in a useless attempt to hold them back. Her warning was drowned out by their shrieks.

One cut off abruptly.

Rori flinched as the head of a spear burst through the carriage wall, wet and glistening. It dripped crimson onto the embroidered hem of her gown. Her stomach lurched. She slipped from her cushioned seat, sinking to the floor of the carriage.

The screams outside came in waves, guards crying defiance, merchants begging, women wailing. All of it seemed distant, muffled by the rush of blood in her ears. She pressed her hands over her mouth to smother her own yelp as tears burned in her eyes.

She wanted to run, but her body would not obey. Instead, she curled against the seat, skirts tangled around her legs, whispering prayers she had not spoken in years.

Please, let them pass me by. Please, let them not see.

Wood splintered again nearby as heavy footsteps pounded closer. The carriage door rattled.

Rori gasped as the carriage door was wrenched open with a crash that shook the floorboards beneath her. Orcs crowded the opening, their eyes fixed on her, faces smeared with the gore of the people she had known. Her stomach lurched, and she pressed herself against the wooden wall, desperate to shrink from their gaze.

She recoiled from the first who reached for her before another stepped in, near filling the entirety of the carriage on his own. She looked up, eyes wide and horrified. The word prize whispered in panic through her mind, and her blood ran cold. She did not embarrass herself by resisting when this one reached for her, dragging her roughly from the carriage, aware of the ax in his hand. The warm smear of blood from the fallen touched her skin, and her stomach churned.

Outside, her gaze was drawn unwillingly to the carnage; butchered bodies sprawled across the dirt, guards and merchants alike twisted in death, the air thick with the iron tang of blood. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream, every instinct screaming to run, but her legs wouldn't move.

“I…” The words faltered in her throat. Fingertips trembled against her lips, and her eyes welled with tears as she stared at the bodies of people she had known for so long..

“Au.. Aurora…” she whispered, her own name barely audible..

Closing her eyes, she let herself pray in a trembling, whispered voice, clinging to the gods she had scarcely thought of since leaving home.

"You who carries souls on the winds,
whose light warms the Summerlands,
Let me pass as softly as the sun sets,
Let the pain be brief as dawn,
And guide me safely, swiftly home."

Her voice cracked on the last line. She did not look at him, did not dare meet Urosh’s eyes, only clenched her fists and waited for her end, hoping her gods would hear and be merciful.

The sound of the orc's voice was a distant drum in Rori’s skull, a high, keening ring filled her ears and made each word seem to come from far away. She could not stop looking at the ruined bodies, their limbs a twisted puzzle she did not want to solve, and bile rose hot and bitter in her throat. She clamped a palm over her mouth, fighting a dry, animal panic that wanted to wrench itself free. She could not, would not, vomit before them. Not here.

'Be brave,' he had said. The words landed on her like a gauntlet. She forced herself to breathe through her mouth, slow and deliberate, though her heart hammered as if it might break her ribs.

He said she would not be harmed, and tears glistened in her eyes as she looked up at him. Way up. He was enormous, his skin streaked with blood and his eyes steady. How much could an orc’s promise be trusted? She did not know. She did know that they were clearly a savage, barbaric tribe who slaughtered innocents before picking at their bones and pockets. Still, his hand on her arm held her upright and that steadiness soothed a fraction of the trembling inside her.

“Y—yes,” she whispered at his question, the syllable barely more than a breath. The word traded in on her dignity like a coin she had been forced to pawn. She drew her chin up as if she could call some small dignity back into being.

“My—” She stopped, the word husband sticking in her throat. Honestly, she wasn't entirely sure that if her life was left in his hands, he'd part with his much loved coin for the sake of her safe return..

“The King is my uncle,” she managed, voice steadier now despite the constant urge to keep her breakfast in her stomach. “If I am returned unscathed, he will meet your price.” She folded the hope into a practiced certainty because hope, even borrowed, was safer than despair.

She kept her gaze on Urosh’s face a moment longer, testing, bargaining without words, then let her eyes drop to the massacre again, as if anchoring herself to the awful proof that she was still alive.

Rori should have been screaming. She knew that. Somewhere inside, there was a voice begging her to shriek, to claw, to run. But her throat was tight, locked by the sight of slaughter that still burned in her mind. She could not think beyond it.

Her chest heaved, a sharp gasp escaping her lips as the orcs slapped each other’s backs and beat their chests in triumph, the sound thunderous, brutal. The force of it looked enough to send any ordinary man sprawling into the dirt.

“The… Anirian King,” she answered shakily, the words spilling out before she realised she had spoken. Her gaze lingered too long on one of the beasts gnawing at a soldier’s remains, bile rising again, until the deep rumble of Urosh’s voice pulled her attention back.

Strong? The word twisted inside her. She did not feel strong. Her limbs trembled, her body still felt smeared with the blood he had dragged her through, and her mind reeled with horror. She was hollowed out, emptied, her fear a cavern inside her. And yet, when he looked at her, expecting something, she nodded, dazed, as though agreeing might keep her alive.

At his warning not to run, she swallowed hard, hugging her arms around herself as he released her. She did not move. She wasn’t stupid.

By the fire, she folded herself small, tucking her feet in close, the flames’ warmth doing little to thaw the chill inside her. When he offered food, she took it because refusal seemed dangerous, though her hands shook so badly she nearly dropped it. She brought the meat to her lips, but chewing was near impossible; the taste of iron still clung to the back of her tongue, the stink of blood thick in her nostrils.

Around her, the orcs danced, shouted, drank deep, their victory roaring into the cold night. She glanced up at them, brow furrowed, before her eyes found the one who had torn her from the carriage. She studied him, his scowl, the hard set of his shoulders, the blood still drying on his skin.

“What’s your name?..” she asked quietly.

“Urosh…” she echoed softly, tasting the unfamiliar name as though speaking it might make him more real, less monstrous. Her fingers tightened faintly around the chunk of food he insisted she eat, though the sight and smell of it still turned her stomach.

At his curt command, she forced herself to raise it to her lips. Her jaw ached from clenching so hard, but she bit off a small piece, chewing slowly, forcing it down as though swallowing stones. Her throat convulsed, and she coughed once, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, but she managed not to be sick.

When he thrust the horn toward her, she flinched back instinctively, eyes darting to the mead spilling over his chin. His insistence left no room for refusal, and so, she reached out cautiously and took it. The carved ram’s horn was heavy, slick from his grip. She brought it hesitantly to her mouth, the sweet, sharp scent filling her nose.

She drank just enough for the mead to wet her lips and tongue, then took another large gulp of it. “Good,” she whispered hoarsely, offering it back to him.

Her eyes flicked to his face again, trying to read him, searching for some hint of mercy or cruelty in the gleam of his gaze. Around them, the orcs roared their victory, untroubled by the carnage left behind. She tucked her legs closer beneath her skirts, arms folding protectively around them.

"Will you take me to my uncle?.." she asked, aware of how far they were from Vel Anir..

Her brow tightened at his answer. It was lifetime between here and Vel Anir.. Her ransom would come, perhaps, but only after a slow, awful waiting. If the caravan failed to reach its destination, her husband would track them down from the wreckage they'd left behind. Whether that prospect filled her with relief or dread she could not tell. Both felt like knives twisting in her gut.

She kept her eyes on the fire as Urosh told her to stay. Orcs moved through the camp with the careless brutality of animals, and she felt the weight of their stares on her now that she was sitting alone. One of them inched closer, his fingers greedy as they found the silk at her shoulder. She turned away, forcing herself not to show the panic that wanted to tear out of her.

“Leave me be,” she snapped, the words sharper than she’d meant. Fear ran like ice under them, but the sound steadied her more than prayer had.

Urosh’s voice cut across the din, his order had given her a sliver of safety, however thin. For a moment she felt a small easing until green fingers tugged at her hair.

Her fingers found a rock at her side. It was small, ordinary, but it felt solid and true in her palm. For one hot, bright instant she weighed the choice, to yield and be pawed at, or strike and risk whatever wrath that would bring down on her. The memory of the slaughter, and of the merciless way those orcs treated the dead, hardened something inside her.

“I said leave me be.” Her voice did not tremble now.

The orc reached for her face. She swung. The rock met the side of his skull with a sick, dull thud.

Adrenaline still roared in her veins, so loud she could hear it in her ears. The moment the stone struck flesh she’d felt a wild, animal surge of triumph, snatched away an instant later by the sight of Bakhun’s twisted, bloodied face. When the knife flashed in his hand, her pulse stumbled, terror slicing through her chest like a blade of its own. She could barely breathe.

And then Urosh was there. The sound of his shove was like thunder, the smaller orc’s snarl cut short as he backed away, retreating into the firelight’s edge to lick his wounds. She knew, somehow, that he would not forget it. Nor forgive it.

Rori’s heart pounded as she looked up at Urosh. Her breaths came too fast, shallow and unsteady, but her scowl held, a brittle mask she wore like armour. The rock slipped from her fingers, tumbling to the dirt, and she curled her hands into fists rather than let him see them tremble.

She expected fury. Retribution. But instead, he praised her. The words made her blink, uncertain whether she’d heard him right. He knelt, his shadow falling over her, and she felt his hands, large and rough, but careful as he searched her for wounds. She didn’t flinch, only frowned at him, the tension in her shoulders refusing to ease.

“I’m fine,” she said quietly, though her voice still shook with the aftershock of fear.

Her gaze lifted to meet his, the firelight catching in her glassy eyes. “It’s going to take quite some time before you get your coin…” she went on, her tone steadier now with something between despair and grim realism. “Do you really think I’ll survive that long?” her brow arched.

His way of thinking really was that simple. The blunt certainty of it both baffled and frustrated her. As his thick finger prodded the centre of her chest, she glanced down at the spot, rubbing it with a faint scowl as though to wipe away the touch.

“I didn’t mean wolves or bears or cliffs,” she muttered, exhaling a huff of disbelief as she watched him drink. Her gaze slid past him, over the camp, to the orcs laughing around the fire, their faces smeared with blood, to the few survivors from her caravan huddled against a tree in terrified silence.

“I meant your... tribe.” The words came quieter, taut. “I won’t be worth much if they take a knife to my throat when you’re not looking. None of us will."

Her eyes returned to him, searching for any sign that he understood. Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t. He spoke of living and eating and drinking as though life were no more complicated than a hunt. As though the dead strewn behind them were just… part of it.

When he held the wineskin out, she hesitated before she took it, fingers brushing his as she brought it to her lips. The smell was strong, sweet and sour all at once. She drank deeply, perhaps more than she meant to, and the burn of it caught her by surprise. She coughed, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, the sting sharp in her throat.

Her eyes watered, and she frowned up at him again. “You all slaughtered innocent people without thought,” she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “Unarmed people, for what? Sport?”

Her voice was soft but edged with something brittle and dangerous, grief tempered into anger, and too much courage for her own good.