They found Ryon’s village almost two days later, nestled in the verdant hills of the countryside, still mired in their grief. Arn carried the blade with the belt slung across his chest. The sword was almost as tall as he was; the hilt slapped against the back of his legs as he walked.
The country town was idyllic, built into the side of a hill, where a small cobbled road wound its way up to the crown. The houses were made of stone bricks, each a slightly different shade, drawn out of the ground at different places, different depths. It made each house look part of a set, while still distinct and individual. Each one seemed built on top of the last one as they rose up the hillside. Beneath the windows and beside the doors were wooden boxes painted soft pastels, full of flowers and lush vines growing with soft blue leaves.
Griff stood and looked over the place, imagined what Ryon was like when he lived here, pushing his boat out into the far off lake and fishing the morning away, or going out into the forest to cut down trees or hunt for deer or boar. Maybe he would plant vegetables in his garden or tend to sweet olives or silver grapes in the rolling fields. It didn’t seem like the Ryon he knew, but people changed when they left the army and went back home.
Griff had always known the old Orc to be gruff. He had grown up amongst men and so had their strange mannerisms. Griff had some of those himself, but Ryon was quiet and his eyes were thoughtful. He watched and listened. He had not been tainted by them. Still, when he fought, he struck quick, hard, and true. The Ryon that Griff knew was too rough for such a place as this, and yet perhaps there was another version of Ryon, as soft and cool as the wet grass that stretched out and away.
“Where do we go?” Arn asked.
“Don’t know,” Griff said. He reached out for the sword and, with a bit of stiffness, Arn pulled the belt off and handed it over. Griff held the blade in his hands, and then pulled it out a bit, just to look at it. While the scabbard was covered in a beautifully smooth, soft sheepskin, the sword itself was plain and utilitarian. The blade was bright, polished steel. It was not gaudy in its ornamentation, but it was not ugly. It was an Orc blade. It was made for killing, above all else. The pommel was bronze, bright, shiny, and shaped into an Orcish sun, with many rays stretching out, wavering as though from the heat, and ending in sharp points. It was the first time Griff had really looked at it. It was beautiful. “Well, there’s nothing to do for it.” He sheathed the blade. “Let’s go. Someone there will know.”
They walked through the streets as the morning sun climbed the sky. An old woman came out of her house to watch them. She said nothing. She was old and wore a weathered, threadbare checkered dress. She didn’t seem afraid, but she watched anyway. Griff was certain they were something to see, walking out of the trees of the wood, covered in dirt and blood, and carrying a sword far too big for them. They probably didn’t get many Goblins down here, either.
Though, as he walked, Griff wondered if perhaps that was untrue. This was not a human town, as he’d first assumed. There were Orcs coming out of their houses, too, or opening their windows as they boiled their morning coffee. Sometimes, even, the Orcs and humans seemed to live together. The heavy, dark smell of the roasting espress filled the morning air and Griff took a long, deep breath. It smelled like civilization again, and that put him somewhat at ease.
In all of the sea of faces, the shrouded, suspicious looks, there was one person that Griff guessed could be trusted. It was an older man, an orc, with long brown hair pulled back away from his heavy brow. He was of a height with most men, which was unusually tall for an Orc, but he still had that heavy, thick limbed build. What convinced Griff was the old Orc’s eyes, which were wide and intelligent and showed no trace of fear or hatred. Instead, he just looked and wondered. That is why Griff chose to speak to him.
“Morning,” Griff called in offering as they passed by the peeling white fence that ran across the front of the Orc’s house.
“Same to you,” the Orc said back. His accent was thickly rural and soundly remarkably human. He had lived here a long time, maybe all of his life. “We won’t stand for any trouble, I’ll have you know.” There was no threat or implication in those words, no malice at all. Griff knew then that he had made a smart choice. He smiled at the big Orc, a genuine a smile as he was ever like to give.
“We wouldn’t think of brining any.” Then, somewhat awkwardly, Griff gave an old Orcish salute that Ryon had showed him once by bringing two of his fingers to the bridge of his nose. The man just watched, his eyes heavy and passive; he didn’t seem to make much of the gesture.
“Glad to hear it,” the man said, and turned to go back inside. To get away from the strangers, like as not, Griff guessed.
“Yes, well,” Griff said, thinking to change tracks. Now, he affected an uncertain posture, trying to put on that he was lost and confused. This was a bit easier because, unlike the affable attitude he’d had only moments before, Griff was feeling a bit lost and confused. “I just wanted, I mean to say, that I was hoping you could help us, because we were traveling with a friend of ours, said he came from this village here, you see. He wanted us to come back here, after he ran into some awful bad luck, really horrible stuff, and bring his family back his sword.”
“Uh-huh,” the man said, reassessing the small group, narrowing his eyes. “But he didn’t come back with you?”
“Died,” Arn said, his voice full of the appropriate amount of passion and grief. “Gave my axe to the damn earth for him, I did.” The Orc waited for further explanation, not understanding the expression. “Shame, damn shame, it was.”
“Aye,” Griff agreed. “Well, like I said, a bit of bad luck. Maybe you knew him? He was a good man.” Griff pushed the sword back into Arn’s good hand and took a searching, tentative step forward. Damn, but Arn had helped him out just there with his stupid, earnest expression. The old Orc had already relaxed again, leaned a little closer. “If you could just show us which house was his we’ll be on our way.”
“Ryon always talked about this place,” Arn put in, his voice suddenly wistful. “It’s more beautiful than I’d imaged, damn true.”
“It was Ryon, did you say?” The Orc asked. He seemed to consider. “Killed in the army, I’d guess?”
“Killed a hero,” Griff said. It wasn’t so bad a thing to say, as lies went. It was even sort of true, if you looked at it a certain way. “Well, he saved my life, you see.”
“Saved all our lives, the giddy bastard,” Arn put in. “Well, damn near did, and more than suffering once, at that!”
“Hmph,” Roach said, a snort of disapproval at their lies, but the old Orc just looked at him and smiled down knowingly.
“But we told him we’d take his sword home. It was his last wish. When they put us out for our leave, you know, we thought we’d make it come true. For all he did for us.” Arn nodded his head. The tall Orc looked at them hard for a long moment, then his face softened.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“That sounds like Ryon,” he said. “Come inside for a moment and we’ll talk some more. You’ll want to clean up.”
***
The Orc, who Griff soon learned was named Arnest, lived alone in a small house of cobblestones with a hard slate floor. It was too small, with tables and chairs overflowing with papers. There was a heavy smell of tobacco hanging in the air, a deep brown scent to compliment the coffee. It was cramped and crowded and by far the nicest places that Griff, Arn and Roach had stayed in the last year. Arnest settled into a wooden chair and started unpacking a small box.
“Would any of you care to share a cigarillo with me?” The tall Orc asked. They already had their coffee and Roach was in the back of the house washing himself. Arn, of course, said yes. Griff had also seen, though Arn had tried to hide it, that he’d put a bit of spirits into his coffee.
“No, thank you,” Griff said.
“It’s not the quality, I hope. These are not very good, but they smoke well enough.” The Orc rolled one in heavy brown paper and when it was finished he passed it over to Arn. Arn took a book of matches from the nearby table and fiddled with them. When he finally got it lit he took a long, deep drag.
“Better than the last shit I smoked,” Arn confessed. “Some kind of shit from Zhan, I think. Nasty stuff.” Griff rubbed his face. For his part, Arnest did not seem to notice. They just puffed and sipped in silence for a while.
When the cigarillos were butts smoldering in the ash catcher and the coffee cups were empty, Arn had a turn with the wash tub.
“More coffee?” He asked them as he stood. “I’m sorry I cannot offer you more. These are lean times.”
“Another cup would do me well,” Griff said and followed the old Orc into the kitchen. There was one long wooden bench where dishes and papers and things were kept, and a small wood burning stove at one end that was still smoldering and warm. “What problems have you been having, if I could ask?”
“Well, I hate to say this, but it’s the army, most of it. If they aren’t coming here taking our taxes themselves, they’re ignoring the bandits that are raiding the trains and cutting off supplies.”
“I hate to hear that, to be sure,” Griff said. He tossed the dregs of his coffee out the window into the garden and washed the cup in a small basin of rainwater. “No accountability out here. Does bad things to some people.”
“Aye,” Arnest said. “That’s true enough.” He took some water and refilled his boiler before scooping in the coffee and setting it to boil. He stood against the wall for a moment. “Well, there’s nothing to be done. Anyone that could fight has long been taken away from a little place like this. We just have to ride it out.”
“I suppose,” Griff said, rubbing at his chin. “A shame nothing could be done for it, though.” Of course, there was nothing to do about it at all. This was the order of the world. Even if Griff could have, he wouldn’t have changed anything. It wouldn’t have done any good.
After a few moments the coffee finally boiled, and Arnest poured another three cups. When they had finished those it was Griff’s turn to wash. He went out into the garden, to an alcove with a cobbled stone floor, and took off his long-coat and shirt. He even stripped off his heavy denim pants and stood there in next to nothing, shivering in the cool water. It was a wonderful feeling, even after so long spent huddling against the cold of the rain.
***
When they were all washed and well, Arnest led them up the road. It was inching nearer to midday when they came to the edge of the fields, a ways out of town. Roach had wrapped himself up in his dark brown cloak, so that he looked like a bug trundling through the grass. He’d barely said anything, and Griff could tell he was uncomfortable.
The house of pale bricks and broken thatching stood alone, where the long vines of grapes and the squat olive trees grew, twisted and half wild. In the front, beneath each window, a sun-bleached wooden garden box sat, forgotten. Only one of them had anything growing in it, though it was only weeds, tangled, brown and wild. There were chickens and goats in the unkempt yard. They milled around the back, behind a ramshackle fence and sun-bleached lean-to .
Arnest removed his flat hat and took a deep breath, steeling himself. “This is where Ryon used to live,” he said. He looked from Griff to Arn to Roach, twisting his cap in his big, strong hands. “You’d better let me go in first and tell his wife why you’re here.”
“Probably a good idea,” Griff said. “It would be better for her to hear it from someone she knows.” His voice came out grave and rough, more than he’d meant for it to. Still, he couldn’t help but feel relief. He’d never liked giving people bad news. It was often a good way to get yourself stabbed.
“Yes, well, I will be back,” Arnest said. Then, he walked up the dirt path and knocked on the door. The Goblins held back, watching, but they didn’t see who opened the door and let the Orc in.
They sat outside for a long while, with the animals in the grass and the sun drifting higher and higher into the white of the sky. The day was humid, after all of the rain, and pleasantly warm. It was a shame that such bad news was coming to this woman on such a bright day.
Griff sat with his back against the fence, trying to rest but finding himself unable to. Arn had no such apprehensions, and was snoring soon enough. Roach had disappeared into the tall grass, though Griff had made him agree to not wander far. It was important for all of them to be there, he thought, though he couldn’t put a finger on why. Roach didn’t really object, though he’d shuffled off soon enough.
Finally, the wooden door opened again. Griff picked himself up and kicked Arn awake. Arn sputtered and cussed but quickly got up as well. There, on the porch, Arnest stood with a short, tired looking woman. Griff was surprised to see that it was a human, with soft auburn curls and a wide, plain face. Her eyes were big and wet, and she stood close to Arnest. Still, she stood up straight and faced what was coming.
“These are the Goblins I was telling you about,” Arnest said, gesturing to Griff and Arn as they walked up the dirt path. Griff raised his hand while Arn gave a stiff, awkward bow. He was wearing the sword again and he fumbled with the buckles.
“Here, ma’am,” Arn said, pulling the sword off and holding it up to the woman.
“We are very sorry for your loss,” Griff said.
“Awful, truly sorry,” Arn said. He handed the sword over to Arnest, who took it for the woman. She looked down at the three of them (when had Roach come out?) but didn’t say anything. “Ryon wanted us to bring this back to you, after. We thought we would. It seemed real important to him, and he was always a good friend for us.” She looked over to Arnest and he looked down at Griff. None of them was sure what to do. The woman seemed unable to speak, Arnest wasn’t sure what to say, and Arn was babbling like a fool.
Griff didn’t like this. He’d wanted to avoid it, but he couldn’t now. It was going so badly. He thought before that maybe they’d get a reward. Now, he realized there would be no reward. He realized it wasn’t fair anymore for him to hold on to it. So, he dug in his pocket for a small envelope and handed it over to the woman.
“This, too,” he said. “Ryon’s pay. It’s not much, but it’s what we got.” The woman took that and nodded, too. Arnest, for his part, gave Griff a knowing look and Griff realized the old Orc thought this was the lie, that there had been no money, besides what the Goblins had.
It took Ryon’s wife a long time to pull herself together. She didn’t scream or gnash her teeth, but a steady stream of tears flooded out of her eyes and she held the sword close, cradling it. Finally, she wiped the tears away and looked at the envelope.
“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was soft but strong, resolved. She couldn’t look at them anymore, but she set her jaw and steeled herself. “I can’t offer much of a reward but I could…well, I did a little work with a doctor, you see. Back home, before I lived here with Ryon.” She finally looked up and met Arn’s gaze. “I could help a little. Your friend. Maybe some food, a place to rest. I don’t have much but I…”
She couldn’t say anymore.
“Aye,” Griff said. “That’s what Ryon would have wanted, surely.
“I know he would,” Arn said. “That Ryon. He’d say something gruff though, so we don’t think he’s too suffering soft.”
“Aye,” Arnest said. “That he would.” He nudged her a little and she forced a sad, distant smile.
“Well,” she said. “I guess I have to, then.” She turned over to Arnest and gave a nod. In that moment, she seemed to come back to life. She let out a shuddering sigh as the spent tears ran down her cheeks, but her eyes were different, set and determined. “Are you busy Arnest, or can you help me today?”
“I can help,” he said. He turned his attention back to the Goblins. “For them, I will.”