“Lork.” Falas’s voice was tight, controlled. “Lork, look at me. What have you done?” Bagra stood beside her, his face pale.
“Lork…” Bagra stepped forward. Lork flinched and stepped back. Bagra held up his hands. “Lork, you may not be of our flesh, but you are still our son, adopted or not. Let us help you. What happened?”
Lork threw the axe down on the floor at Bagra’s feet. “You wanted me to have a brazzkt. Well, I did! I did….” The shock and horror of what he had done hit Lork, and he collapsed to his knees, sobbing. Immediately, Falas was by his side. Bagra bent down, and picked up Lork’s axe, looking at it.
“Lork. Tell us.” Falas said.
“I..” Lork stammered through his sobs. “Calax. It was…Calax.” Falas and Bagra immediately exchanged glances, horror and concern clear in their faces. Bagra knelt down beside Lork, placing the axe in his hand. Lork tried to recoil, but Bagra clasped his fist about the hilt.
“Lork. I know I’m not your father. But I still love you like a son. I cannot deny, I am immensely proud of you what you have done. Calax has had that coming to him for years. But, my boy, your brazzkt has marked you for death in the Tribe. You cannot stay.”
“I have no-where to go.”
“Not true. You are strong, Lork, stronger than even you know. You must flee the Tribelands. You’re small, and quick for an Orc. Stick to the hidden ways. Go south to the lands of men. Find a mercenary group.”
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“I won’t kill again.”
“Then, find a small village, somewhere out of the way where you can make a quiet living. You’re a natural blacksmith, Lork. But you’re still a half-orc. You may have no choice than to become a mercenary. However you make a living, Lork, it will be better than facing your death here. Now go. The patrols will be out soon, and will find Calax. Then the hunt will begin. You must be far from here by then.”
“I’ll pack you some food.” Falas stood, tears running down her cheeks, and busied herself packing bread, cheese, and some meats in a small pack for Lork. Bagra opened a drawer in a chest and drew out a package, wrapped up well. He shook it out, and handed it to Lork.
“Here. Your father’s cloak.”
Lork, swallowing a lump in his throat, took the cloak, and fastened it around his shoulders. The cloak was long, a dark russet red, furred across the shoulders. It was good quality, warm and waterproof. Falas handed him his pack of food, smoothed the cloak over his shoulders and stepped back. “So much like your father.” She smiled. “He would be so proud of you, my dear. Your mother too. They named you well, Hope-bringer.”
Bagra nodded, putting his arm around Falas. “They would be proud indeed. As we are. Go now, Lork. Be well, son.”
Lork, fighting back tears, nodded, and with one last look back at Bagra and Falas, lit by firelight, slipped into the wet night. Quietly, quickly, he made his way to the village edge, the battleaxe strapped across his back. Heading south, he crossed the meadow where his father’s hut had stood - burnt down now by the orcs after he had died as the spot was considered ‘unclean’ - burnt with his mother's body still inside. He paused, staring at the spot where it once stood, before the sound of horns behind him brought him back to himself. He turned back to the woods and sprinted into the cool sanctum of the undergrowth - but not before he had caught sight of Eldra, standing at the edge of the village, her arms crossed, watching him with a cruel smile on her lips.