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7
He Who Cried
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THE MIDDAY SUN rose above the tall forest, hiding behind the heights of trees forming a shower of shade.
It was cold. The wind blew and it danced against him, along the bear hide he wore as a cloak, among the thirty hunched backs of his naked army, beside the moist grass of the hill where they hid, then finally crashing to the hill that opened into a cave. Dos approached from his side.
Dos looked like the rest of the goblins: four feet tall, a green skin, a pudgy child-like face, long pointed ears. Dos’ only distinguishable feature was the two vertical lines drawn in yellow on his forehead, and the red scarf around his neck that made gave him a heroic vibe.
Viktor heard that the goblin’s name was Dos because he was second capture of the slaver who caught him. He assigned him to this area since yesterday, a cave to the south where the trees were of consistent green. Dos had been tallying the number of those who came in and out.
The goblin held up two fingers on the left and four fingers back-faced on the right. About ninety men, Viktor told himself. It was a sign language they invented in order for the newer goblins to count better, properly. Ninety orcs.
He thought about Fog-Eyes and hoped that these men were as weak as that one. He only had a small group with him, about thirty-two goblins, sixteen of them armed with makeshift spears made from twigs and carved rabbit horns, eight of them had a stone hammer and shield, while the other eight were holding bows.
“How many guards?” Viktor whispered. In response the goblin raised one finger on the left and three fingers on the right, meaning just three.
He led his small group, creeping closer. Their small feet traveled without sound. They went above the hill, crouched beside the trees, from there he could see the three orcs by the mouth of the entrance.
Orcs in general, were one the tallest men with consciousness intact. Eight feet in height, a naturally muscular, if not bloated bodies, built heavy and sturdily. It was as if their entire species were made to conquer. To swallow everything in its path aside from themselves.
The looked like boars, if boars were able to stand. They looked almost human if not for the hair on their skin, the large tusks where teeth should be, the snouts for the nose. The light hair that surrounds the skin. It was as if a giant man had a baby with a pig. The iron swords they held in their fat hands looked like daggers in comparison.
Viktor needed weapons. It had been clear to him for months now, with their ever-growing population and strength. His army was only half-ready to the long journey ahead of them; that, and they needed battle experience.
Viktor turned to Dos, who looked like he was staring at a ghost. Within the year of their existence, it was their first time to attack an enemy stronger than them, and much more, one that outnumbered them thrice.
Canyon, Mimic, and Scaramouche had different targets of their own. But none of their targets were as big as this. Viktor could only hope that this group of wild orcs weren’t a proper tribe yet, because should they be. . .
He pointed at a specific orc, and Dos nodded. The goblin loaded a bolt to its crossbow, aimed, and shot.
One second, a wind, a leaf, then an eyeball mixed with blood. It pierced through the skull and through the head.
“I feel cold, Dos.” He murmured.
His bowmen followed quickly, firing to the one on the left. Most arrows flew past the orc, save for the one that went through the neck.
That was two.
Viktor wasted no time and charged forward. His legs moved with energy; his naked feet almost looked like they were sliding against the grass. He was giving the last orc little seconds to react, and in panic, it ran to the cave and desperately picked up a shield.
Dos shot through the shield and nailed it on the orc’s arm. Viktor ran, leaped, and buried his knife to the orc’s head in a single flash.
Breathe.
He managed his breathing, then proceeded to scan the cave, creeping silently along its walls. He wanted to know if there would be any more of them coming. He searched the first meters for any signs of torches, but he could not find any. The orcs may be deeper inside.
He searched for Dos, who was reloading the crossbow. “Ninety orcs,” he said. “Are you sure about that number?”
Dos scratched its green, bald, head, and gave Viktor a puzzled look. “I am,” he said, the red scarf around his neck swinging wind the wind.
Viktor called one of the bowmen and told it to survey around the cave, to search for any holes or other exits. Then, he turned to Dos and gave a signal to follow him.
They approached one of the dead orcs, brought out his knife, and carefully began sawing the neck off, from the skin, to the flesh, to the bone, then again. He held up a sweaty, pig head by his hand. It was about thrice the size of his own.
“When I became a captain, about seventeen, or eighteen,” Viktor started, walking towards the other dead orc to cut its head. He recalled the bet he pulled on Erin; he didn’t became a general, but he became a captain dutied in The Land Beyond the Walls. “This used to be my favorite trick, taunting an enemy with the heads of their friends. It shakes them, blind them with rage that their fighting becomes careless.”
They borrowed a satchel from one of the bowmen, made of deerskin. They put their ‘packages’ inside, then began walking back to the cave.
“It was necessary, fighting became easier so long as you ambushed them,” he continued. “Works with any beasts, may it be humans or orc or goblins, they’re all the same with sentiments.” They went into the cave, and the darkness devoured them. Their eyes easily adjusted.
They kept their movement slow, careful. “It did not matter to me, of course. They were my enemies, and I offer no mercy for my enemies.”
The place tunneled into a great height, but rather small in width. He found it hard to breathe, the space was only enough for at most two orcs to fit.
“One who holds to his emotions is one easily held hostage, I believed that for a while,” he paused, looking at the stalactites that formed above. It must have been a very old cave. “And then someone, some old orc who is somehow a monk among his tribe, I was about to behead him when he asked me why I was doing it.”
He looked at Dos, the two yellow lines that marked the goblin’s head, the goblin’s puzzled eyes. “I said, it’s because he’s my enemy, because he is a beast. His presence in that monastery is heresy. And do you know what he said?”
Dos did not respond, or rather, could not. He hoped so much for Dos to respond, that at the very least he could have a decent conversation with him. But goblins never bothered with such aphorisms. All the goblin was able to do was shrug.
“I was impatient back then,” he said. “I wasn’t really giving him a chance to speak. Already my blade was on its way to his neck,” he stepped into a puddle. From above, water formed on a stalactite, then dropped. “He looked at me, and there was so much emotion in his eyes— but it was not fear, it was pity. He was about to die, and he looked at me with pity. He said: ‘you have no enemies,’ just as his head went off.”
Viktor pulled the bear hide from his back tighter, hugging his skin. It felt like being embraced with a blanket made of hay: warm, and very itchy. He shivered, and he kept himself from scratching.
“I’ve been thinking about it since then,” Viktor continued. “That orc never really did anything to me, I just concluded that he wasn’t supposed to be in a monastery, and that beasts were supposed to die, so I did him in.”
Dos groaned.
“He wasn’t my enemy, I know.” Viktor responded. “Still, I executed him.”
They reached a place where the roof arched into a wider space, the path expanded on every side, opening into a dome. The rock formations were smooth, there were minerals shaped from a millennium of erosion. They rose from the ground, pregnant with dust. Sometimes they fell, forming a pit, sometimes they refused to be slain, standing as pillars connected to the ceiling.
“The answer I gave him was wrong,” they kept walking. “He wasn’t my enemy and I killed him.”
They crossed on what looked like a bridge, or a stair, elevating into a tunnel up above. From there, a fire shone brightly.
“But then,” Viktor paused. “Why was I doing it?”
There, they saw the orcs having a feast. A hand, severed to the wrist, entering the mouth of a pig. The other: a liver. One of them, a small child, was bitten to his kidney. The child opened his mouth to scream but his voice failed to climb up his throat. Intestines, arms, an eyeball, a heart. They were eating the limbs of the human traders that his group were tracking recently, enjoying their meat while they circled around a small campfire.
Viktor could not feel its warmth.
Most of the orcs were unarmed other than their clothes. But what disturbed him was the number. As he counted, there were only eighty-three of them, much less than the number Dos gave him. Perhaps Dos was wrong?
He turned to ask his partner, whose eyes were wide and frozen in a mesmerized unblinking shock. There was a scream, a small human girl, an orc grabbed her by the wrist and was dragging her to the fire. Viktor was about to turn back, but then— Dos charged into the feast.
Time slowed to the briefest of halts.
The campfire light eats through the dark.
The noise eats through the light.
He was able to grab Dos from the ear, but it was already too late.
Of all the sounds came the mother of sounds: the silence, itself, who bore the serene, who gave birth to the rustling of the campfire, the echo of water dropping into its puddle.
Silence eats the dark, the light, the noise.
The orcs stared at Viktor, and he stared back. He had not an inch of fear within him. He kept a stern face. It was a hard face, riddled with sharp lines from the cheekbones to the jaw, across the edges. He looked like he was carved from mineral, that wherein the trees have rot, the rivers had dried, and the stones eroded to dust, the mineral remained. His eyes were not filled with hatred, nor wrath, nor fear. The orcs stared at him and an abyss was staring back. It was the gaze of a man who stared at god and felt nothing but disgust.
He threw the severed heads of their comrades at their face, and as loud as the cave could echo, he laughed.
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VIKTOR RAN AT THE TOP OF HIS LUNGS, carrying Dos with him. Aside from the one he was carrying, Viktor did not expect an ounce of competence from goblins. They were never competent. They were dumb, frail, weak, disorganized, and noisy. It was him who gave them command, taught them how to hunt, how to shoot, and now, they were attacking beasts much stronger than them. They learned to move like a proper unit, that as Viktor and Dos came out of the cave, the goblins were already in position. The ground had been dug into a falling trap, baited with the dead bodies of the orc’s comrade.
He avoided the obvious traps and went behind his spearmen, catching his breath.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
The orcs followed them outside, their heavy feet burying into the ground, into the dirt, into the grass, stomping where they passed, then falling into the trap holes dug for their sizes.
The first eight fell, the goblin’s long spears met their bodies, then their flesh. They squealed in pain, but the goblins kept shoving, pushing, stabbing.
Viktor tossed Dos to the ground, his friend hasn’t blinked yet. He slapped his face, and there was no result but a mark of pain.
One of the orcs pulled a spear, dragging the goblin with it into the hole. The other orcs did the same, and two more fell.
“Stop holding onto your spears, throw them!” Viktor shouted, partly gasping for air. The spearmen threw their spears with little precision, barely managing to hit. Further from the cave, three more charged forward, this time avoiding their traps, and his bowmen missed all of them.
He dragged Dos into a tree, then tossed him his crossbow. “If I die, I’ll kill you,” he said. “If you die, I’ll kill you too.”
Swiftly, he ran into one of the orcs who managed to avoid the falling trap, then swiped his dagger to its kneecap. The orc fell into his knee, and just as quickly Viktor’s dagger was inside its cheek.
For a moment he regretted lending his war hammer to the jester, but it wasn’t like he had much use for it either. Clearly, the goblins weren’t ready for battles yet. They treated the mock battle as if it was a game; no punishments, no rewards, no consequences.
But war has consequences.
He charged in; the orc’s axes barely missed him. He circled around the field doing as much damage as he could. Stab the knee, pierce the sides, strike the chests. He threw his knife to one of them, but it failed to hit. He grabbed a sword lying on the ground, then shoved it into an orc’s throat. “Shoot their legs!” he shouted. His breathing was not getting better, his muscles were tired.
The shielded goblins did their best to hold off the orcs, as the spearmen rotated around the flatlands stabbing whatever they could. When an orc would hit them, a shieldman would jump in rescue and absorb the damage.
The shields shatter into pieces, the arms break. From behind the trees, two goblin supporters were reinforcing them with newer weapons, newer arrows.
Dos’ bolts were always sure, but the time it took to reload was enough time for the orcs to rampage. The battle was to their advantage only because their preparation: the traps, the formation, the orcs who came out of the cave one-by-one as if lined up for slaughter. But as their enemies pile the pressure onto them increased.
An arrow managed to hit a leg. Viktor went for it; his body was small, tired, but still fast. He picked up another sword from the ground and ran, his legs were heating, he leaped to dash further when a club swung into his face— and his whole body flew.
His right arm crashed the ground the wrong way and he screamed as he felt it dislocate. He faced up, only to see a giant wooden club about to crush down on him. He rolled away, but it managed to hit his left hand.
He could hear his bones crunching inside his palm.
He rolled further. He could not stand up—he had no functioning limb to push himself above the ground. Beside him: the dirt flew, the floor shook. It missed him only by another inch.
He faced the orc, its face of a pig staring down on him, standing in its full height, its shadow casted on his body. It had a behemous size even among orcs, and its disgusting face of a pig had two eyes each and a mouth running full of saliva. It swung its club once more and he was dead. Dead, If it was not for a goblin who grabbed him by the armpit and quickly pulled him away. Two arrows went for the orc, one was blocked by the orc’s tusk and broke, the other finally hit it through the snout.
Around him, a trio of goblins took down another orc using swords they picked up, and the other one—a bolt coming from Dos.
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VIKTOR WAS SAT AGAINST A TREE, Dos crouched beside him. The goblin was looking at him with concern but was unable to express it with words.
“I’m sorry, I—"
“—Idiot,” Viktor said. There was no anger in his voice. Jaded as he may, he understood how the goblin reacted. A part of him knows that it was what he would have done too when he was young. “You’re assigned to cleaning duty for the next month.”
“Okay,” the goblin bowed.
“That includes clothes and weapons.”
“I understand.”
“Your army will be deprived of their free time, which will be used to workout.”
“That’s not—”
“And they’ll only eat half-rations.”
It had been exactly one year since he met Dos, and in that time, he managed to teach them what he knew about food, weapons, and crafting. They followed him and he led them, and now he was bleeding against a tree.
His arm felt like being smashed by a hammer over and over, its elbow was bent in the wrong direction. He could imagine all the bones in his hand were fractured, as he could not feel it anymore.
Dos gave him a block of wood. “What?” he asked, he did not know what he was supposed to do with it, until Dos shoved it into his mouth. He was about to protest when Dos twisted his elbow back to its proper place, and his gums bled as his teeth buried to the wood.
He spat the wood to the ground, “you should’ve—” Dos slapped his face, then pointed at the field. The orcs outside were all dead, his spearmen, seven left, were now holding swords and axes.
“We’re not done yet boss”
He inhaled, then exhaled. “If you freeze again, I’ll hang you.”
“I won’t.”
“Get two of the bowmen to the field. Give them spears.”
“Already done.”
He tried to remember the size of the cave, its length, its width, then counted the bodies of the orcs outside. “Go inside in three lines, the ones on the front should hold spears. They attack first, then the next ones in line will charge between them. There are still seventeen inside,” he continued. “Those who remained inside are surely not fighters, these ones that we killed were protecting them, so they won’t be as tough.”
Dos nodded his head and went back into the field. He spoke gibberish with the other goblins, but they seemed to have understood. They ran around switching and picking-up weapons.
He wanted to call his remaining bowmen to give him water, but he had given them no names yet. Nor did Dos. They could barely understand him either. It was Canyon’s army who was the most literate, but all they could manage was a few words made entirely of subjects and predicates. Most of the goblins they had was fairly new, even Mimic was a linguist compared to them.
He watched the red-scarfed goblin leading the annex group they formed. They started moving towards the cave.
Beside him, his face was reflected on a puddle.
He stared at his small, green frame, his long goblin ears, his sharp teeth. He led armies before, conquered half a continent, ruled and slain men beyond count. Now he sat there, reduced into this vile creature: a cockroach of the land, easily crushed between the earth and a leather boot.
You have no enemies.
His people were starved, his women were abused, his children were slaughtered. How does one assume that he, who suffered, had no enemies? By what measure? By what right? By what standard?
If these orcs were not dealt with now, their own home would have been discovered and it would be they who'd be killed; if not, they would lose against hunting animals to more capable predators, and surviving the coming winter won’t be on the table.
Goblins were weak, frail, and dumb. Their lives worth no more than dirt: the height of their value sank below the earth, as deep as a chasm dug by the bodies of their betters.
Viktor stood upright.
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INSIDE DOS WAS A BEAST, pounding on his chest among the cage bars of his ribcage—his heart beat louder and steadier than a drum. He commanded the group from the rear and stayed as far away as possible, but even then, he did not feel safe.
When orcs tried to approach, the sharp end of the long spearmen were the first thing they met; its length were too long, and they were hit before they could do anything. If one managed to pass through, the goblins holding the swords would squeeze between the spearmen and provide support.
Even if that fails, Dos’ aim was precise enough for any emergencies. As he kept telling himself: there was nothing to worry about.
Dos tried to compare his past self to the current one. If it was a year ago and he were the one in charge, he would have brought more goblins. They would run all over the cave and try to overpower their enemies with sheer numbers, and even then, half of them would have died, or all of them.
He knew this down to his very core, that only Viktor would, and could, attack an orc tribe with a squad of thirty. He trusted his leader—that much he was objectively sure. But fear was not objective. Fear is fear.
He made sure his group advanced slowly, step by step, carefully observing each corner and preparing for anything that may come. seventy-one bodies outside, he counted. Three more after we entered the cave, then two, then another four.
Water dripped from the ceiling, like sweat, dropping to the smooth stone ground or arching across the walls, hugging its shape. Dos could smell blood, mixed with the stench of rotten flesh. Partly because of the battle earlier, partly was the reek of the place they were heading to.
He could remember it well, the image stuck in his head since he had seen it: the orc’s sharp teeth sinking inside skin, bleeding the flesh, tearing through. The beasts were eating humans raw, chopped their arms and their bodies then their mouths started to work.
The restaurant, Crab Locke’s, its manager was an orc. He couldn’t believe how far off civilized creatures were from their barbaric counterparts.
They reached the dome part, and Dos became more alert, pointing his crossbow in corners, in holes, in the chasms. They walked towards the bridge, the roof curved into a formation of stalactites, and from afar they could see shadows amassed into shapes
About nine left, Dos concluded. He confirmed this with Crobropp, who was one of his most talentented scout. Crobropp was one of the older goblins, about ten months within their group. Viktor had not given anyone names yet, so Dos ordered them around saying their true names.
The group proceeded to a halt. He squeezed through them and addressed Gorglblop to keep their position. Slowly, he crept towards the end of the corner to peek. His heart drummed so loud he could hear it. What am I afraid of, he asked himself. What am I afraid to see?
When he turned, his heart sank. The remaining orcs were huddled on a corner, their faces were pale, their arms thin. five of them were children, they were small, almost the same size as him, two were women. Their skin was pink, hairless, their mouths did not have tusks. And the other two didn’t look like they would fight, as their hands trembled before the axes they were holding. Dos walked towards them, or at least, he tried. His legs froze where they stood.
You have no enemies.
Viktor’s words echoed inside his head. He wondered why Viktor told him that story. Was it a puzzle? Was it a lecture? He could not hold his crossbow straight; his elbows shook when he tried to move.
He remembered Goglblop behind, the group was beginning to move. Crobropp crept beside him, wondering what was going on.
He told them they were children and elderly, orcs who couldn’t fight. The wild orcs had a system where the weak serves the strong. These are the weak. The fodder. The social bottom feeders among their kind.
When Dos communicated this, the goblins responded with hopeful eyes and smiles of an easy victory. Goglblop tapped him by the shoulder, then gave him a thumbs-up approving his work. Crobropp led the rest, charging towards the cave, towards the light. Half of them surrounded the orcs that huddled together, the other half grabbed the nearby torches and stomped on them, then put out the campfire.
They could see in the dark. The orcs could not.
Dos wanted to stop them. There was a tremor inside his chest, as if it was a cage. And inside was an animal pounding his ribs, begging him.
His allies circled around the remaining orcs, their weapons pointed at them. He could notice their relaxed posture, the excitement in their manic limbs. Goglblop turned to Dos, waiting for his command.
He wasn’t my enemy, I know.
The orc men had dropped their weapons and embraced their kids, they squealed and made noises, perhaps telling the young ones that it is going to be okay, that they were going to be safe, that the others will be coming back soon. The children trembled in their mother’s arms, and they all were blind in the dark. They were scared and they were begging him. In their eyes Dos could see them begging him.
He should have ended their life seconds ago, now he could not bring himself to move nor to speak.
Still, I executed him.
He could only manage to stare, as their blood spilled from their bodies to the cold of the walls, mixing red with the stone. Their voices drowned into the sound of metal meeting flesh, drowned to the cheers of his comrades.
They won, and in that single moment, Dos' sight was suddenly muddled with water.
He wondered what it was, this water. It was completely new to him. A liquid, rolling from his eyes, down his cheek.
What was it?
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Wild Orcs I.
[Entry from The Gaian Expeditions, courtesy of the Empire of Amanila]
If humankind didn’t build Amanila, and if Semos wasn’t there to construct The First Walls, then the Orcs would’ve removed humans from the food chain long ago.
If goblins are the summons of nature, and humans are the antithesis of nature, then orcs are its conquerors, its apex predator, its hunters and dawn-breakers. They knew how to bend the mountains into their will, how to shape stone into metal, how to break objects into shapes and back into form. The best of the orcs knew of alchemy and axe.
A race that was simply built superior to every other. A height twice the size of humans, and a strength that could carry trees; immune to heat and cold, immune to sickness, to poison, to claw and fang and lightest of force, to Witchcraft, to the Sanguine Rot.
As if everything that knew how to kill just saw them and gave up.
Everything that exists is theirs to take and theirs to use. The land, the mountains, the sea, the sun.
That is of course, until the spears of men understood how soft is the flesh against the sharpness of blade.
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