Private Tales Out of Place

[Scabhair]

She’d always found that her face was more expressive than the average orc’s – a likely heritage from her elven father. Whatever the reason, it let her features run the full gamut of emotion: from a confounded furrow between the brows to a slow twitch of the lips as realization dawned.

Incidentally, so did the sun.

“You know the merchants of Elbion track their cargo rather precisely, right?” Scabhair shook her head and pulled her belongings together with practiced motions. “I will take a cut, if only for the trouble of selling it quietly.”

After packing the smoked fish, the pair doused the embers with dirt and disappeared further northward. The desert was, in a way, a bore for a scout. The dunes petered out into unassuming anthills this close to the floodplains, leaving any bandit warband with few places to hide.

It was the chokepoints they had to watch out for. The bridges were a paradise for highway robbers preying on caravans. That was the trouble with Baal-Asha – as soon as it abandoned the slopes of Seret, the river sprawled into a muddy stream so wide you couldn’t see the other bank in places.

They were three days on the road, the evening slowly crawling in from the east, when the stink of burning meat filled the air. Inodeirr smelled it first and pulled up short at her side, hackles raised, ears flat. The reeds were getting flimsier in these parts, which would’ve perhaps put off a couple of humans, but the pair were orcs, and so could stalk close enough through the shallows to realise just how fucked they were.

Tiehior bridge was teeming with outlaws.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath was surprisingly quiet for such a large weight of orc. Part of that was due to soft boots and no armour. The rest was experience. Yet the lion, for its size, let barely a whisper of reeds swaying in its wake. Not something he would want to be hunted by. Not without a big shield and a very, very long spear. Maybe a ballista.

However, his skin kept him blended in well with the shallow marsh as they slowly approached the bridge. The cool water was to his knees when the sound of laughter reached them on the wind. He could see light up on the stone bridge. The water was deep below, fast enough to easily carry him away.

"Let the light fade, then go closer?" he asked Scabhair. Hath assumed she might be more familiar of what might be head of them.

 

[Scabhair]

Scabhair went to click her tongue in disagreement and stopped herself at the last moment. Damn all those months in Elbion. Spending any length of time the city dulled the senses faster than striking an axe against solid rock.

With a hand on Inodeirr’s withers, the orc pulled back to settle quietly in the reeds. It was only decades of training and mutual respect that kept the gathamhr from leaping out of the underbrush and tearing into the clueless bandits.

She could sympathise. Fresh meat – real meat, none of that salted jerky or smoked fish – smelled awful nice, even this far away.

“I doubt they’re so stupid as to douse the fire on their own,” she replied on a whisper, straining to distinguish the many voices filling the air. It was night, these raiders were likely drunk or at the very least lazy with a full belly. Even sober and aware, it would take two men to go toe-to-toe with an orc.

“But we could lure out the night watch. I count no more than eight up there. Round it up to ten if a few are asleep…” she trailed off as she assessed the surroundings again. The floodplains were treacherous terrain, full of sucking mud and sudden potholes that could break an ankle even in broad daylight.

“Besides,” a flash of teeth, “we’ve a lion.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath was partially tempted to try strolling across the bridge just to see if the bandits would even try and stop them. He could see the odd metallic glint. Perhaps they were deserters. The idea of a group of soldiers sat in stunned silence as the lion padded past their camp amused him.

Hath gestured towards a patch of land a little further back. Far enough that in a few minutes, when the skies were truly dark, they would be out of sight of any watchmen posted at the end of the bridge. Close enough that they could fire some arrows into the camp.

"Slit the throat of anyone on watch at the end of the bridge. Fire some arrows from there, draw them out?

"Eat well," he added.

 

[Scabhair]

And then there was nothing to do but wait.

Scabhair had learned to fill her waiting hours, for there had been many in her life. The hunt was a patient sort; in war it grew pregnant with fear; during exams at college it was nervous, anxious, twitchy.

Now it was neither. Aware. Calm, almost, mainly thanks to the steady breath she drew in and out of her lungs as she counted her arrows – a technique she’d learned from a fellow student back in Elbion. (The breathing bit, anyway.)

Suppose the city wasn’t all bad.

A point came, as they all do, when the fireside bragging came to an end and the bandits quieted to lay down their heads for the night. In this they were no different than any other party out on the plains, whether it was outlaws or Steelheart Company or Clan Charosh.

In knowing they would not go to waste, Scabhair did not hesitate as she rose from the bush like a ghost. She stuck her knife into the neck of the watchman while Hath did the same with his counterpart on the other side of the dusty road. The blade slid through the voicebox first, so that they couldn’t scream, and then they dragged them gurgling back into the reeds where they would choke on their own blood.

Quietly.

She wiped down her knife and replaced it with the sinuous shape of the recurve. Two arrows found their marks in the bandits nearest the crackling flames. One of them died immediately as the fletching kissed his throat. The other man stumbled awake with a broken arrowhead in his cheek, eyes wild as he struggled to stop the bleeding.

“To arms!” he croaked out, a red trickle escaping down his chin.

It was enough.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath's first arrow was caught by a sudden breeze and skimmed past the shoulder of his target. With a near-silent growl of frustration he knocked another arrow. The human was running towards them across the bridge when the next one struck him just below the sternum. He mandmaged about five more paces before he tumbled down. A good arrow snapped.

They were so slow to wake and take up arms that Hath was concerned that he wouldnt even get to swing his axe. The next group weaved a path towards the archers, having picked their position out. One of Hath's arrows thudded into a shield and he decided to drop the bow and take up his axe.

He snarled and took just two steps forwards; this wasn't high ground but the slope was worth holding. The green runes gave away their position. They didn't give away the lion that Hath could see wriggling close to the ground and preparing to pounce.

 

[Scabhair]

It wasn’t quite the plains in terms of solid, respectable footing, but it would do. Certainly she’d fought on worse.

Once the game was up and the bows were down, it was time for the axe to shine. Literally – one of the bandits came bearing a torch in hopes of banishing the darkness where their attackers hid.

Rookie mistake. The pool of light they shed was bright alright, but everything else sank into even deeper shadows.

Two different screams filled the air then. One was for the axe Hath buried in an enemy after he’d batted away his shield. The other was more particular – the shrill cry of a man whose flesh had been torn away from bone in one fell swoop of a heavy paw.

The second one also came to an abrupt, crunching end. The torch-bearer swiveled around, but only bloody dragmarks remained of his comrade. Scabhair stepped smoothly out of the reeds and brought her weapon down into his back.

The flames tumbled from his grasp and died in the choking sand as the skirmish dissolved into the night. In the scant light of a clouded moon, no betting man would put his money on the humans.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Decent chain mail, a swordsman's footing and a keen eye. Hath had found someone worth fighting. Hath swung twice and nearly over extended himself. The man was driven back but managed a quick thrust that nearly hit the mark.

Not nearly, did, Hath realised. There was a string across his left forearm where the human had drawn blood.

In a rage he swung the axe high over his head and roared. The bandit lunged low and suddenly Hath was silent. Rather than a mindless beast preparing for a finishing blow he smartly turned his body away from the strike. His left hand had abandoned the shaft of the axe and fingers encircled the bandits wrist. With a tug he yanked the human off balance and kicked at his trailing leg for good measure.

Hath had been looking forward to a good fight, but he wasn't above a good bit of dishonest deception to win. The chieftains didn't run for days on end and some of them were enormous orcs, as broad across the shoulders as they were tall. Hath couldn't rely on brute strength and rage against his own kind, so why would he against men?

"Please, I..."

Thunk

Hath placed a foot on the squirming man's back to pull the axe, which had embedded in bone, free. It was difficult work to retrieve a weapon or arrowhead that had stuck in bone. The next strike split a skull and the squirming stopped.

Hath dropped to his haunces. There was a squeal of someone the lion appeared to be playing with but the dirty work was finished. As predicted the one he had killed had a quality knife at his belt. One could never have enough good knives.

"Best go finish the ones on the bridge," Hath said matter-of-factly. It could take a long time to die from an arrow wound if it didn't strike anything too vital. Better to put ant survivors out of their misery.

 

[Scabhair]

Her agreement came in the form of a determined stride that soon broke into a run. The remainder of the scattered band on the bridge was scrambling, and it was best to cleave a man in two while he was still without purchase.

Inodeirr caught up on her left, and they fell upon the bandits in unison. Claws, fangs, axe – between the pair of them they made quick work of the wounded. Like most battles this one, too, ended quickly and decisively.

When it was over, Scabhair and Hath (and the lion) were left standing in a bit of a bloody mess. The bandits were dead to a man – that is to say, they’d only left a single woman alive. Effectively neutralised with most of her fingers missing, the hissing elf wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

The half-orc tugged an abandoned saddle closer and sat down to clean her weapon. She tore a length of fabric from the nearest corpse and began wiping down the black blade. “Was this your whole party, or are there more of you in the Vadnjal dunes?”

splat

A red glob of spit landed just shy of her feet. Scabhair frowned. “Do you know how long it takes to die of a gut wound?”

The elf paled. Her bravado evaporated in the face of Inodeirr’s glistening teeth.

“So. Your party?”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath didn't clean his blade. Not when there was one enemy left breathing. Breathing, hissing and spitting like elves did when they were cornered.

Shouldn't have got hit by an arrow then, knife ears.

"Jeless aari!" hissed the elf. Hath didn't know much elvish. Not much at all. But he knew that was a very nasty thing to say to a woman.

He looked over at Scabhair with a shrug that suggested he would break a few fingers if necessary. Or at least hold the stumps of her fingers over the flames for a while. Hath's blood was primal fire and he couldn't help but notice the way the flickering firelight caught the sheen of sweat across her shoulders, the contrasting smatters of blood.

"Assuming you killed the watchmen, this is almost all. We were waiting for..." the elf paused to take a long breath. Hath padded two slow steps. The orc slipping into the elf's shadow. "...a caravan from the open air mine. We have four riders. East."

The elf cradled her hand. Perhaps the lack of blood brought on a tunnel vision as she ignored the lion and met Scabhair's gaze.

"Filth. Orc filth. Why did you even..." The elf stopped talking abruptly. Her pupils swallowed her iryses before rolling back. Her jaw fell open before the twitching started.

Hath placed his foot against the nape of the elf's neck and yanked his axe free with a gruesome scrape of bone.

Hath finally went about cleaning his axe.

 

[Scabhair]

Something wet splattered over her cheek.

She twitched.

Frowned.

“Was that really necessary?”

She wiped it off, then licked the smeared line of blood off the back of her hand.

The frown reemerged.

“Elves, am I right?”

Having holstered her axe, Scabhair stood to retrieve the corpse of the human she’d shot earlier. Once his clothes were tatters on the floor, the prime cuts came out with the laziest twist of a knife. She laid out the belly slices over the stones and began rooting about the bandits’ packs for spice.

“Leave the fire and wait for the other four to ride into an ambush?”

 

[Hath Charosh]

"Wasn't sure if she was going start swearing again or cast a spell," Hath said with a shrug. He looked down at the slender, broken frame of the formerly prideful creature.

Lifting his head up he looked at the scene around them. Rather than carry a human closer for butchering he dragged a body away. He propped the corpse up against the wall and leaned a spear next to it. Framed against the firelight, if the riders came from the east it would look like a sleeping watchman.

Hath wasn't an orc renowned for his intelligence, but there was a particular cunning to the way his mind worked.

"Might be good to put an obstacle down. Don't much like fighting mounted men in the open. Or being jousting practise on a bridge."

Something to trip the horses, snap their legs. A good arrow would bring down an unarmoured steed, but you didn't survive in the wilds taking risks.

 

[Scabhair]

“Fair,” she admitted after a brief pause for thought. “I’ve always felt more of them take up magic compared to us. Or humans, for that matter.” She turned over the meat and cast a brief gaze at the deception Hath was working at. “It’s probably all the time they get.”

“No trees out here though.” Scabhair stood with popping joints, silver eyes sliding over the mess on the bridge. Decisions, decisions.

“Let’s snap off those spears into stakes and dig them into the ground. The riders won’t see them in the dark. Either the horses spook and throw them off, or they run straight into it.”

She handed a couple of the polearms over to the other orc along with a bite of meat, then got started digging her own stakes into the beaten road.

 

[Hath Charosh]

"Maybe if I lived to four hundred I'd get bored enough to learn to read a magical scroll," he said of elves. "Or just dance around in the woods singing silly songs."

Hath did not hold elves in high esteem. He didn't even consider her mixed heritage as he spoke. Instead he was thinking about how bad it would be to die drowning. If the horses broke through and charged and there wasn't enough room he'd end up going over the wall. Hath wasn't a very good swimmer and a little weight would be enough to drag him under.

"If they don't come for a few hours we can continue on our way and camp off the roadside closer to Elbion," he suggested. There was no real reason to linger and wait for the riders to return.

He twisted a knife into the ground to work it through the dry, compact surface of the road. Then he used his weight to drive a pole home.

"Don't suppose horses are a fan of Inodeirr?" he asked.

 

[Scabhair]

She considered him for a few long moments before turning back to their work. “You realise as many elves frolic singing through the woods as orcs roar naked around fires for the Great Rites?”

There was amusement enough in her voice. She’d never have gotten through the four gruelling years in Elbion if she hadn’t learned to take stereotypes and racism in stride. Even in the college – a place purportedly devoted to knowledge and research – there were men and women aplenty who were more than content in clinging to their ingrained ignorance.

You had idiots and assholes everywhere, she’d learned. Didn’t matter much if they had a diploma or blue blood or if they just worked the fields from dawn to dusk until they dropped dead.

“We should get a candlemark of sleep or so. Spirits know when we’ll next have the opportunity.” The wide expanse of the desert was hardly ideal for setting up secluded camps that could only be covered by one watchman at a time. This bridge was likely the best they’d encounter in a long while.

“Not particularly, no. It’s why she didn’t join me when we were still with the main Steelheart caravan.” Scabhair stood and made her way back to the pleasant warmth of the fire. “Inodeirr can keep our watch.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath lifted his left fist and brushed the back of his knuckles with an open palm. It was an orcish gesture for retracting a comment or statement. As if it was being brushed away. It was more frequently seen when an orc accidentally insulted a larger orc. And that rival had started to reach for a weapon. In this instance she had a point. It wasn't on them to decide on the ways of the elves. Even if he refused to not find them amusing.

The bandits had been made of some stringy meat, so he left a few strips by the heat of the fire wrapped in fabric to cook through. No need wasting anything. Stealing one of their bedrolls just to avoid unpacking his own gear, Hath laid down to get some rest. He didn't even bother washing off the blood. It wasn't his bedroll after all.



He woke to a low growl from the lion. His heart leapt and he sat bolt upright. The lion wasn't looming over him be looking out beyond the bridge. As Hath stood up he could hear the sound of hooves, muffled by the wet ground. It occurred to him that they had put in place two different strategies that might not quite align. If they bought his propped up guard corpses they might dismount before they reached the stakes. With a quiet clatter he took up his arrows and quietly re-strung his bow, having unstrung it to avoid damaging it in the changing temperatures.

"Four did she say?" he asked Scabhair. "Don't really want to shoot some innocent riders."

 

[Scabhair]

More attuned still to the movements of her companion, Scabhair was roused from sleep moments before the other orc. She confirmed the number of riders with a clipped nod and a four-fingered signal, then hefted her own bow from its quiver and pressed back into the shadows of the bridge.

With nobody to tend to the flames, the campfire had died down to an unassuming pile of twinkling embers. The darkness left them with the advantage – if the rest of the bandits were human, and indeed bandits at all.

Her heart synced with the canter of the approaching hoofbeats as they waited for the people to peel out of the overcast night. Finally serendipity and animal nature conspired to unveil the nature of the new arrivals – the clouds were blown apart by the gale of high skies, allowing a glimpse of moonlight to find fertile soil in the glinting desert.

In that moment, Scabhair saw everything – the way the sand sparkled like piles of diamonds, the three crocodiles lurking in the muddy waters farther downriver, but above all the thundering wing of Eshkezi cavalry bearing down the dusty road.

“Shite.” She turned her gaze to Hath. “We need to leave. Now.”

At the click of her tongue, Inodeirr slunk forward from her spot at the base of the bridge, green eyes alert in the night. Scabhair swung herself onto her withers and held out her hand for the other orc.

“You can’t outrun a horse.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

He couldn't outrun a horse. There wasn't even enough time to sprint to the other end of the bridge before they ran him down. In the open, at night, he could press himself down into the ground and make himself almost impossible to find to cavalry. The other option was abandoning his weapons and leaping into the water. Let the currents carry him until he could swim for a bank downriver. He had done so before. Tools and weapons could be replaced.

There was always negotiating. A lone orc in the middle of murdered humans didn't stand much of a chance in that regard either.

Hath didn't like the idea of riding a lion. They were nimble creatures for their size and he guessed he was almost as likely to tumble to his death as escape. Yet he didn't give it much thought before taking the offered hand. Thinking too long on a problem was for human wizards.

Hand clasped her forearm and she yanked him upwards with a strength that suggested she had a firm grip on Inodeirr. His new short sword was left behind, as was his spear. Fortunately his bag hadn't been properly unpacked. It would have been a shame to leave the dried meat or his axe. One bow remained strung and over his shoulders. He hoped the string didn't slip free of the groove or snap. If the lion suddenly had its flanks whipped by it he couldn't imagine that going down well for himself.

 

[Scabhair]

Riding a lion was not at all like riding a horse. Scabhair had learned that lesson fairly late in life, and had since then maintained that all horseriders were lazy layabouts. Lean back in a saddle and trot along leisurely. Even galloping wasn’t much effort on their part, especially with a well-trained mount – didn’t even have to stand up in the stirrups if they got lucky.

Gathamhr, though.

Suffice to say that there was a good reason for human admiration of orcish thighs.

“Hold on,” Scabhair hissed out between her teeth as she pressed up against the buck of Inodeirr’s withers. “We’ll cut around through the dark and—”

A great ruckus of screams and agonized neighing swallowed the last of her words. She pulled them up short behind a knot of stunted desert shrubs and slid off the beast in the next beat. Their vantage point left something to be desired, but at least there was no chance of being spotted by the humans’ weak nightsight.

Soon enough the remainder of the patrol stumbled down the bridge. Their curses echoed across the flatlands as they whirled this way and that in futile attempts to find their invisible assailants.

Finally their leader barked a command and they disappeared farther down the road in a cloud of dust.

Scabhair released her breath and relaxed her fingers on the bowstring.

“Come. With some luck one of them carried rations.” Or troop movement orders. Mercenaries could turn such information into gold like those infamous alchemists from the Gilded quarter in Elbion.

 

[Hath Charosh]

Even a brief run had his heart pounding. It wasn't the same as the rapid and heavy drum of his pulse when he met battle. It was a frantic, nervous beat. The lion ran close to the ground, its paws seemed to flair out in all directions as it turned far more quickly than an animal that size had a right to.

His fall to the ground was not so graceful and he was lucky not to snap his bow. Hath still had to sense to press himself low to the ground. Better to do that and stay hidden than to test his balance and give them away. Once he had his bearings he drew himself up and watched the human's futile search.

"Their rations are the worst," he muttered. The complaint about dry, hard biscuits carried by human soldiers was in contrast to the grin on his face. There was a bounce to his step as he carried his belongings back towards the.bridge. Riding on the back of a giant lion was not a natural feeling, but it certainly brought an adrenaline rush.

Scabhair

 

[Scabhair]

She shot an odd look at his retreating back, but said nothing as she followed a few paces behind. There were rations and there were rations, and certainly the humans knew jack all about the latter. Still, on the road any food was welcome. Especially in Amol-Kalit, where animals were just as interested in having you for lunch as you were in the reverse.

Even for an orc, hunting in the desert was no easy task.

“We’d best keep moving,” she said after they’d collected their fill from the dead soldiers. “Off-road, in case those bandit outlooks ride back tonight.”

Not that there was much difference between one beaten stretch of dirt or the other. Their only advantage would be the darkness and the sparse shrubbery that could serve as cover at a distance.

It was only after several hours of quiet marching that Scabhair pulled free from her wayward musings about the composition of sand in different regions of Kalit. “Any thoughts on your first lion ride?”

 

[Hath Charosh]

"Hah!" he went, flashing her a toothy grin. "Did not get a chance to compose any at the time...more concerned with clinging on and quite how close the ground was as it flashed past."

And of course not being run over by cavalry. That was an important factor in being willing to mount an oversized lion.

"It's impressive," he admitted. "How do you even train a lion to let you ride it?" he asked. Hath was used to travelling alone in silence. This was the most he had talked on the road in a long time. It wasn't unwelcome to have another pair of eyes and someone else making decisions when there was danger in unfamiliar territory.

 

[Scabhair]

A fond smile curled over her fangs as his words sparked the memory of her first ride. His words only registered after she pulled herself out of the reminiscence.

“That’s…” she trailed off as her eyes picked out the lithe form of the lioness against the night sky. Inodeirr was stalking a ways from the pair, tail swishing low above the sand. Probably caught the scent of something juicy, then.

“...a very good question. I suppose it’s tribe tradition.” Scabhair shifted the weight of her travel pack. “We’re all of us raised into it – the gathamhr and Aiforn. The way shamans tell around the fires of the Great Rites, we were already hunting with her kind in the Age of Uroghosh.”

She shrugged and returned her gaze to the road on their left. “Who knows, really. We’ve never kept written records, and too many of us have died or left since then.”

“Besides, you don’t ride them as much as you would a horse.” And this she added with an emergent grin, “That’s a whole ‘nother animal.”

 

[Hath Charosh]

Hath liked old traditions. Instead of wanting a different world there were tribes who lived in much the same way as they had for a thousand years. Or even longer, they didn't keep strong records. Sometimes a tribe kept a record of every head shaman and chief and that gave a rough idea of how long they had been around. If the world was good then why did it have to change? Why did it need tinkering with?

"They are trained from young?" he asked, matching her grin. "A fully grown horse isn't likely to eat you when you bother it."

He saw the lion hunker down to the ground and vanish from view. A few seconds later he saw the moonlight flash off her flanks. There was the sound of a scuffle, but it was brief. Either she had caught some nocturnal rodent or it had vanished back down its hole.

In his mind more questions were queueing up on the subject of the lion. There was a tribe from further east that had domesticated birds of prey and used them to hunt. He wondered if the companion species became aware of the relationship over the generations too.

 

[Scabhair]

“As are we,” nodded Scabhair, eyes once again on the brush that had swallowed Inodeirr. (And where Inodeirr had swallowed something young and tender.)

She let out a full-bellied laugh and flicked her pale eyes to Hath. “So you don’t bother it. Same as you wouldn’t bother an orc that’s having lunch.”

Her wink was a subtle thing in the darkness before she turned to face the shadow of the Mayim oasis in the distance. It was a hunched herd of flat roofs and blooming trees jutting out from the arid wasteland stretching between Baal-Asha and Cairou.

“It’s why Aiforn appears small as far as tribes go. Half of us are gathamhr.”