Despite being beaten and bloody and dragged by two helpful goblins, Hohza couldn’t help but feel a twang of nostalgia as he was dragged to Dr. Toran’s shack overlooking Drink Town.
Although not much older than a newborn when he was sent to the kindly doctor, Hohza had already proven a nuisance to the orc battle instructors. After beatings failed to correct his questioning and disobedience, he was sent to the elf who had been known to take an interest in unruly and difficult soldiers. Being the guest of the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows, his interests were to be indulged.
The orcs saw it as the worst kind punishment to be removed from his fellow orcs and placed in the care of an elf. They hoped that enduring an elf-like life would motivate him to act more orc-like: follow orders, kill things, and prove his worth to their Dread Lord. Little did they know the immense favor they were doing that rebellious little orc!
Drink Town was a very different place during the day. Although rotating work shifts meant there was always orcs and goblins drunkenly stumbling around, at daytime they were more sedate. Perhaps they feared their behavior being seen by the Dread Lord’s guest if not the Dread Lord themself. A child orc wandering the streets of Drink Town at night was likely to find himself hassled by a rowdy crowd who would pressure him into juggling knives or forcing drink down his throat until he vomited his guts. They’d treat him as though he was a goblin.
It wasn’t that drunk orcs were hostile towards the young. It was simply that kids weren’t allowed in Drink Town. Drinking was an honor earned by the Rite of Proving, which also when one earned his name. The adults had gone through it, so they made sure any newcomers didn’t skip such milestones in their brief, but terrible, lives.
During the day, though, kids could be seen delivering messages or weapons in relative safety.
After navigating Drink Town unscathed, the boy orc climbed the hill to the little house. With a scowl on his face, even he knew this was a shameful assignment, the boy banged his fist against the door. He cried out “Elf!”
There was no answer. Nor was there one after several, more forceful, knocks. Frustrated, the boy kicked at the door and demanded to be let in. He hollered and spit and raged impotently. Finally, trying to catch his breath, he weakly rapped at the door before sitting on the stoop to pout. He was fine sitting here in the sun until the end of the day, when he could return to kids’ home where he could sleep on the floor with his brothers. Maybe tomorrow they’d admit him to training again.
The door creaked open behind him. The boy turned and beheld the dreaded Doctor Toran. Elves were supposed to be tall, and this one was, but there were plenty bigger orcs. The boy was sure he’d outgrow this elf in time. They were supposed to be delicate looking creatures, too, and though this one’s pale skin kept to that he was almost as portly as a dwarf with scraggly hair spilling over his face and shoulders. His clothes were not orcish, though, and had a properness that didn’t belong in the Land of Darkness. He almost dressed like a goblin, with a tailored vest, shirt, and pants although they were in better condition than most goblins’ outfits. He even wore shoes! None of the Dread Lord’s denizens wore shoes. Orc, goblin, and troll feet were big and tough!
“Good morning, young orc,” Toran said to the boy as he stooped the look him in the eyes. “Terrible weather we’ve been having. Seemed like there was some awful wind threatening to knock down my door. I hope you’re okay after all that bluster.”
Stupid elf didn’t even know the difference between wind and knocking! No wonder the boy was being assigned to work with him as punishment. He already wanted to go back to punching and being punched by orcs.
The young orc’s nose twitched as he smelled something new and delicious. “What is that,” he asked. His nostrils flared to take in the aroma of what he would learn was freshly baked bread.
“They’re Yendell scythe biscuits,” Toran said. He shrugged, as though it should have been obvious. “I would offer you some but first I have to ask why you’re here. Is it a medical matter?” He scrutinized the boy, but not like the orc trainers did. He seemed concerned rather than annoyed.
“I’ve been assigned to you,” the boy answered in a pout. He kicked at the dirt. A small cloud billowed up and twisted around his toes before settling. Pebbles skittered away and disappeared into the bushes.
“You’re uninjured, then? I am a doctor, after all.”
“Orcs don’t go to doctors!” There were medics. Anything they couldn’t mend either killed you or made you stronger.
“Yes, unless they’ve been assigned, which you’ve said you are.” Toran bobbed his head. Since you’re apparently my problem, now, seeing as no one gets assigned to me unless they’re a problem, does my new problem have a name?”
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The boy had not yet earned a name. Naming came after the Rite of Proving at the conclusion of basic training. Any orc who didn’t pass was dead, and so it would have been a waste to give him a name. “Don’t have one,” the boy mumbled.
“Ah. You’re a very young one. Well, come inside anyway and we can begin.”
“Begin,” the boy asked as he lingered at the doorstep.
“With your training. I will be training you now.”
“I was being trained by the trainers, elf.”
“Please refer to me as Doctor Toran, or Toran, or even Doctor, unnamed orc,” the elf instructed his new problem.
“Fine, Doctor Toran,” the orc said with disdain. Orcs rarely used names, anyway, especially among the lower ranks. Only War Masters and the members of their War Parties warranted being addressed by a name with any regularity. This elf was neither. Hohza doubted he could even lift one of the orc great swords. “What training could I possibly get from you? I’m an orc! I don’t want to be a doctor or an elf!”
“Those are all unrelated, little orc.” Toran stopped in the middle of his shack, looking back at the young orc who stood at the precipice. “You know, since I insist you call me by my name, it would be unfair to stick to addressing you as ‘orc.’”
Fair? Since when was that something that would matter? The boy orc shrugged.
“Probably won’t do to have you pick a name,” Doctor Toran thought aloud as he rubbed his smooth chin. “You’d just refuse. I’ll have to pick one for you.”
“I can’t be named without completing the Rite of Proving,” the boy protested. Seeing the elf’s triumphant smile made him fume. “I thought you’ve lived here a thousand years?! How can you not know that or are you just really stupid?!”
Rubbing the back of his neck, Toran sighed. “What do you remember about being born?”
It had been just over a year since the boy’s birth. He remembered shivering as the air froze his damp skin. There was pain as jagged stones dug into the soles of his feet which were too fresh to have developed their strong pads. The footsteps of others echoed in the dark around him as they all stumbled towards the cave’s mouth ahead. Even though the daylight stung their eyes it compelled them. There, the air was fresher and warmer and warmer. There, was life. Just before they exited the cave, though, was death. The boy orc stepped around a small body being devoured by ants and worms.
Outside, the pungent odor of decay was met by the stink of orcs and trolls gathered to meet the latest brood. There, the newborns were greeted by the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows, who walked around appraising his newest warriors and servants as they were grouped into classes. The boy had barely breathed fresh air before he was struck on the back and herded with other orcs.
“Pain,” the young orc answered Toran.
“I see,” the elf said. “How would ‘Hohza’ do as a name, then?”
The orc shrugged.
“It’s an old wraith word. Many of the orc, goblin, and troll names are derivations of their tongue. It refers to the anguish one feels at a great loss.”
The orc stared at the elf. Unsure whether this was an insult or something to be impressed by. Should he rush up to the elf and punch him just in case?
“It’s a kind of pain. Some might say the worst kind,” Toran explained.
“But I haven’t passed—“
“Tell them Doctor Toran has permission from Withering Sorrows to name you, regardless of the Rite of Proving. If they’ve assigned you to me, as a problem, they’ll expect me to name the problem.”
The newly named Hohza recoiled, his upper lip curling in disgust. How could this elf say “Withering Sorrows” without the title of “Dread Lord?” If you did that among the orcs you were likely to be executed!
“Right,” Toran sighed. “I’ve no need to address him as the Dread Lord in my own home. I dine with him quite often. He’s just a good friend.”
“Oh.” Hohza looked at the ground as he tried to hide his frown.
“Oh?” Toran kept a steady gaze on the newly named orc as he walked towards him, pulled him fully into the shack and closed the door. “Tell me, Hohza, why were you assigned to me?”
“I ... ask questions.”
“Such as?”
“Like why do we have to fight and why do we have to serve the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows? Thy say it’s because he gave us life, but if he only gave us life to serve him then what’s the point?”
“Ah.” Toran exclaimed in a whisper, catching his enthusiasm by cupping his hands over his mouth.
“Ah?” Hohza prodded.
“I think I’ve identified what your training will be.”
Panting from exhaustion the two goblins set Hohza down. They’d performed admirably, the orc thought. More dependable than many orcs he’d served with. He would need to catch their names and properly thank them. Hohza winced as the cuts on his back stung due to the dirt seeping into them.
“Now what,” the young goblin asked.
“Knock on the door,” the older one answered.
“You knock on the door! You’re the boss! This elf guy is a higher up, so I can’t go bothering him!”
“Well, as the one with seniority I’m delegating that task to you, Tad.”
Silence, and then: “I swear you only ever give me responsibility as punishment, Glum.”
Hohza smiled through the pain. Toran might enjoy these goblins’ company.
Tad finally knocked on the door with light, hesitant raps. It was likely late enough that Toran was asleep. He doubted these goblins could muster the strength to knock hard enough to wake the good doctor. Even when he was a child, Hohza knocked harder. But then, Toran was inclined to ignore rude, forceful knocks. Amidst grunts of pain, Hohza twisted around and uneasily got to his feet.
“He’s well enough,” Glum commented, looking up at the towering orc.
“Thank you for getting me here,” Hohza said, his eyes widened in surprise at how ragged his voice was. He took a step toward the door, but his wounds got the better of him, and he fell forward. The whole home rattled as he slammed into the front door. Someone stirred on the other side and then the door was pulled open. Hohza fell into the house. If the doctor hadn’t thoughtfully stepped aside the orc would have crashed into him. Instead, he slammed, face first, onto the wooden floor. The colorful rug soaked up the blood as his nose cracked against it. Hohza only appreciated this a moment before succumbing to his wounds and falling unconscious.