A rather portly orc came around the corner, carrying a flaming torch. As the light fell on Lork’s face, Bagra gave a small gasp.

“What are you doing out here, little one?” He quickly picked Lork up and bundled him into his coat. “Orc or not, one this young will find himself food for the wild ones. You come with me, little lad. Falas will want to meet you. But first, you just stay quiet in there until I finish my rounds, hmm? I’m nearly done, just one more street to go…” Lork, warm and comfortable at last, quickly fell asleep. Bagra smiled. “All right, little one. Let’s get you to Falas.” Turning down a street of the tribal village, Bagra quietly slipped inside the end house.

“Well, it’s about time.” A female orc was stirring the pot over the fire. She turned to face Bagra with a playful smile on her lips. “What time do you call…. What’s this?” Bagra had raised his finger to his lips, and removed Lork from his coat. He laid Lork on the table, carefully unwrapping the cloak. “That’s…Lurgak’s cloak. Oh gods. Do you think….” Falas leant over Lork and spotted the slip of paper. Holding it up to the light, she soundlessly mouthed out the word. “Lork.” she whispered. “They called him Lork.”

“He’s half-orc.” Bagra said, sitting down heavily.

“And they left him with us.” Falas stared, open-mouthed at the baby. “That can only mean… he’s an orphan now. Poor bairn. But… do you think… he can pass as full orc? Could we raise him as our own?” Lork stirred, and opened his bright blue eyes. Falas and Bagra stared at each other, crestfallen.

“Not with those eyes.” Bagra said, miserably.

The years passed. Lork grew quickly, thanks to his orcish blood, but he was always smaller than the other boys, his blue eyes, paler skin and lack of height marking him out as different. As soon as he was old enough, Bagra took him to his father’s old forge.

“The tribe hasn’t had a blacksmith since your father died, Lork.” He said, gesturing at the cobweb-laden tools. He was a damn good one, too.” He turned to look at Lork. “Lad, you’re almost full-grown now. But you still haven’t had your brazzkt, your first kill.” Lork looked away, an expression of disgust on his face. Bagra nodded. “I know. You’re as gentle-hearted as your mother, as your father was. The brazzkt indicates how you will be held in the tribe. A human brazzkt, and you become a warrior. A beast, and you become a hunter. The more powerful or strong your brazzkt is, the more renown you gain in the tribe. Without one, Lork, you will be the lowest of the low.”

Lork looked at Bagra then. “I’m a half-orc. A non-orc. Am I not already the lowest, of the low?”

“No.” Bagra stepped forward and clasped Lork by his shoulders. “Never say that. Your father never had a brazzkt either. But he earned his place in the tribe in other ways. So can you, Lork. Learn his skill. Become the best blacksmith you can be. Earn their respect with your skill. Come, let’s see what you can do.”

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Lork nodded, tears in his eyes. “I’ll make him proud.” Heaving a deep sigh, Lork looked around the forge. Sweeping away the cobwebs, he inspected the bellows of the forge, tested the fire wood, and satisfied it was dry, began making a fire. Something came over him as he did so, as if a hand was guiding him - helping him to choose the best wood, the right metal, to know when the fire was at the right temperature, when to strike the metal and when to quench it. Bagra watched Lork in silence as the young orc forged a great battle axe, strong and sharp, elegant designs running into the handle, the perfect height and weight. Bagra picked it up, tested its balance, and nodded proudly at Lork.

“Your father’s son, indeed. Well done, Lork. Now, make something you can present to the chief. When you come home tonight, we’ll go together. We’ll present you to the Tribe.”

Lork said nothing, but turned back to the forge. A sudden longing was in his heart to make something more, to never stop at the forge - to feel the hand of his father on his once more.

Night fell, and still Lork worked, turning metal into objects of destruction, but with it came a peace that he had never known. As the stars rose, and the fires in the forge still burned, he turned to the east, and saw the bright star creep over the horizon. As he had done every night since he was able to, he stopped, and turned to face it. “Father, Mother. See me now.”

“See me now!” A nasally, whining voice came from behind him. “Oh, mother, my poor dead mother, see how pathetic I am, see the dirty half-orc.” Lork turned to see Calax, the son of the chieftain, behind him. Calax continued in a mocking tone, “and father, my poor, pathetic father, see how I turned out just like you.” Calax’s voice returned to normal as drew up to Lork, spitting the words, “Weak. Pathetic. Non-orc.” He punctuated each word by jabbing his finger into Lork’s chest. “A disgrace to the tribe. Just like your father was. He and your pathetic mother. And you, past age without even a brazzkt to your name.”

Lork gritted his teeth and growled into Calax’s face. “Say that just one more time.”

Calax grinned, lowered his face to it was inches away from Lork’s. “Weak. Pathetic. Just like your parents.” He spat into Lork’s face.

Lork felt something stir inside him for the first time. It started in his bones, then his muscles. A white heat, searing, boiling his blood. He had heard of the battle rage, of course, and seen it take hold of others, but this was the first time experiencing it for himself. Suddenly, nothing mattered except for the enemy. Calax stood before him, grinning stupidly. For Lork, time seemed to slow as he grabbed the battleaxe he had made, and swinging wildly brought down onto the head of Calax, who never even saw it coming. Again, and again. The rage roared in his ears, the blood sang in his veins and the orc side of him revelled in triumph.

Lork stood, panting, as the rage dissipated, and he surveyed the scene before him. Calax, the chieftain’s soon, his brains splashed against every surface in the forge. Lork staggered backwards, frantically looking around. He had his brazzkt now - but what had it made him? He looked back at the dismembered, mutilated corpse, and wanted to vomit. Rain began to fall, pooling with the blood and the brain matter, rivulets of gore running towards Lork’s feet. This had been his doing. And the chieftain would call for his head, or worse. His grip tightened on the battleaxe as he turned, and ran. Pelting through the streets, the rain hammering on his head, and his heart hammering in his chest, he made it to Bagra’s house. He slammed the door shut behind him, and leaned against it heavily. His eyes shut, blood and rainwater dripping from his clothes, collecting on the stone floor.