We got back to the injured orc and drag him into the tent. The monster is still bleeding and my first thought is the health of the tent.

May have to toss this thing after the conversation.

“He might just bleed out if we don’t do something,” says Myran.

Cyrus cradles his chin. “I doubt it. The stories say that orcs are among the hardiest creatures the Maker created.”

“Do they?” asks Myran. “Do they also say why the Maker bothered to create them?”

Cyrus scoffs. “Not everything exists for our convenience, and some things routinely act against the Maker’s will. In actions great and small.”

“Yes, well, I’d say the orcs fall on the ‘great’ side of that spectrum.”

The orc groans.

“He’s coming-to,” I say.

There is another groan and the orc opens his eyes. At first they're placid, almost dreamy, then his whole expression changes – the malevolence pouring back in. He struggles against the ropes, but his body is weak, and the knots are strong.

“Why did you attack us?” Cyrus demands. His voice is authoritative, like a judge addressing the accused..

“Why?” the orc practically gags on the word. “Why did you come here? To our mountains.”

His voice is gravelly, like he slurped up the rocks from my driveway and is rolling them about in his mouth.

“These aren’t your mountains,” Cyrus says. “They belong to the goblin king.”

“The goblins,” the orc spits the name. “All who are friends of the goblins will die. Just as they will.”

“That so?” asks Myran. “How thoughtful of you.”

I look at the orc’s hands. They are still working against those ropes.

“Everyone who comes through our mountains will die until they recognize us – the orcs! – as the rightful ruler of the mountains. Just as it used to be.”

'Used to be'? I don’t remember that from any stories. Clearly, I don't have all the information.

“I’ve gotta tell you,” says Myran to the orc. “That doesn’t seem very likely to me.”

The orc spits at Myran. “Arrogant elves. Hide in your forests. You cowards. You will never be as great as we are.”

Myran laughs. “Since when have orcs ever been great?”

Cyrus turns to the elf. “Myran I think that –”

Then, with a speed I didn’t think possible, the orc surges upright. He’s unable to break his bonds but springs forward with his legs like they’re a coiled spring. Then he thrusts his arms at Myran like they’re a battering ram. The fists are aimed right at his head. I skewer the orc through the back just before he makes contact. With a last grunt he sags and then falls to the ground in a heap.

There’s a moment of silence.

Myran nods at me. “Thanks. Admittedly, I did not expect that.”

Cyrus turns to the elf. “You should not have antagonized the orc, Myran.”

Myran huffs. “Antagonized? I’m pretty sure ‘antagonized’ is the orc’s basic state.”

“We actually know little about them,” Cyrus continues.

Myran shrugs. “What is there to know?”

Even I am getting annoyed. “Aren’t you at least curious?”

Myran shakes his head. “I’m just happy that he’s dead.”

It’s an understandable sentiment, but it may not be a wise one.

“Not everyone who deserves to die has to,” I say.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

Myran starts to respond, but I shoot him a stern look. He closes his mouth.

Cyrus looks at me. “We may as well get moving. More orcs may come when their dead don’t return to them.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” I say. “I’ll get the animals ready.”

Myran grins. “Yes, please tell Dauntless that I say ‘hello’.”

Har. Har. I certainly will.

I leave the tent and trudge through the rain to the animals. “Dauntless, I think you should Myran said he hates all horses and wishes that –”

I stop the joke mid-sentence.

All I see are Dauntless and Eeyore. Where are the elven ponies?

“What was that you were saying, sire?” asks Dauntless.

“Nevermind. Where are the other horses? The ones Myran and Cyrus road.”

Dauntless snorts in disgust. “They bolted, sire. When the orcs attacked they raced back down the path. They could be halfway to the woods by now they were in such a hurry. Said something about not being cut out for this sort of thing.”

Son of a bitch.

“I don’t believe they were trained for battle, sire. They said something about being noble horses, not war horses.”

Apparently, sometimes the best horses are not the best horses for the job.

“This is a problem,” I say.

“Sounds like we’re done for,” says the donkey. “We should probably turn back. Though the orcs would likely get us first.”

“Not now, Eeyore. I need to think.”

The rain pours on my head and the mud curdles around my boots.

This sucks.

We can’t go back though, and Eeyore is likely right about the orcs. It’s not like we were making great time even with the horses. They have to trudge through the muck just like the rest of us. We can take turns on Dauntless and just hike as fast as we can.

I return to the tent. “We lost two of the horses. They bolted in the battle.”

“What?” cries Myran. “How is that possible?”

I scowl. “You tell me, Myran. They were elven horses.”

“Stupid nobles,” Myran mumbles. “They never figured their pristine steeds would ever have to actually fight. We would’ve been better taking rats from the sharks.”

“If that’s the case you could’ve said something about the horses earlier, like when we were still in the forest.”

Myran glares at me but eventually bows his head. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Or maybe horses just spook sometimes.” says Cyrus. “I’ve certainly seen my fair share dart off in the face of battle. Some even buck their riders.” The cleric turns to me. “The question now is what do we do about it?”

I put my hands on my hips and take a deep breath. “Well, we clearly have to push on. It’s not like the horses are fast in the mud anyway. And if there are orcs hunting us the horses won’t save us from them. We’ll have to fight either way.”

“I agree,” says Cyrus. “I believe this is a small hiccup. Nothing more.”

“Small hiccup,” Myran mutters. “Tramping through mud, water, and pebbles in the middle of a downpour.’

Cyrus eyes him. “For someone who is so proud of their peasant heritage you seem to be awfully attached to the comfort of the nobility.”

Myran meets the eyes. “It’s those who know poverty well who have the strongest aversion to it. Not that I’d expect a cleric to understand.”

I don’t need an argument right now.

“Alright,” I’ll say. “I’ll lead the way on Dauntless and keep an eye on the road ahead. I’ll keep my light shining as much as possible”

“There’s also the eyes,” Myran adds. “It may be dark but those eyes are hard to miss. And not easily confused with any other animal.”

So we resume our journey toward the mountain peak, not that I intend to reach the very tip of course – I have no need of an instagram photo – but I know the goblins are up there. Somewhere.

That afternoon the rain is replaced by snow and the ground becomes hard and slick. It’s at this moment I realize how right Cyrus was about the ‘small hiccup’ as Dauntless slips so much I have to dismount just so he has an easier time keeping his footing. Eventually, our progress nearly stalls out completely as the path is so steep that any steps forward result in us sliding back down.

“How the hell does anyone get around up here?” Myran asks.

It’s a fair question.

“At least we don’t have to worry about orcs anymore,” comments Myran. “I doubt those lumbering creatures can handle this terrain.”

“Yes,” Cyrus agrees. “But it doesn’t seem like we are having much luck either.”

Then I think back to my encounter at the temple and my learning about the white light. I remember that the reys can be used for more than just sight, or even blinding.

“Just give me a minute,” I say.

I search within and find my light. It’s easier to skirt the darkness now, and I feel like the glow is brighter than before. Focusing myself I shoot a narrow stream, not the wide band I used to blind the orc, or the even wider ray I used to guide our way. No, this is tight and intense.

I point the beam at the ice. The ground is brighter but I don’t feel like it’s changing at all. I close my eyes and focus on the light within me.

It’s for Astria. For the elves.

There is a spark, like somebody struck a match inside me, and the beam’s intensity increases. The ice starts to melt. Slowly at first and then faster until it becomes mud and we can advance again.

I think I’m getting better at this.

Never has it taken so much effort to move so few feet, but when the night finally falls we see it: the cave.