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Prince Retga

Within heartbeats, Uthur and Retga had positioned themselves between Mika and the silver-haired stranger, their hackles raised.

“If you insist on challenging, Kurr, you will do so at the customary time. In Kanijha,” said Uthur.

“Or better yet, don’t even bother,” suggested Retga.

The other orc smirked. “Oh, it won’t be a bother at all.”

A second stranger approached. And though he was hairless, he wore an air of authority about him like a cloak.

“My princes.”

Glancing briefly at Kurr, he inclined his head to Retga and Uthur, his brow markings turning from gold to gray.

“I assume you still require the use of my quarters?”

Uthur gave him a curt nod.

“Yes, captain. Or any other place we might speak with the goblin alone and undisturbed.

The other orc smiled.

“My quarters, then. I’ll show you in.”

Turning from Kurr with a scowl, Retga gestured for Mika to follow before stomping off at the captain’s side. Uthur, however, fell back to walk with her as she trailed more slowly after.

“Not you, brujhir,” he said as the elf made to join them.

The chamber was much like Uthur’s and Retga’s had been, except that it had a great, domed window at its far end—looking out from beneath the prow and over the mist shrouded forest below as the earliest light of daybreak glowed through the canopy.

She hadn’t much chance to enjoy the view, though. Being alone in a relatively small chamber with two massive orcs was all the more intense an experience now that Mika knew why their markings flashed blue in her presence. But she’d been considering her situation. Making her plans. And those plans required not only keeping her composure around the orcs, but dealing with them.

“I hope you’re prepared to speak,” said Retga, a warning at the edge of her words.

“I am,” she replied. “But I shall require refreshments first. Water, tonics of wakefullness…” she paused, frowning. “And food. Good food. Nothing unseasoned like I saw them eating down there. And gloves.”

She’d given up on the starving-herself plan.

Uthur guffawed, while Retga’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly, whether in shock or reproach she couldn’t tell.

“So you’ll have it then,” answered Uthur. “Well, the food and drink, at least. Think you’ll have to wait ‘till Kanijha for the gloves.” He paused, flashing Retga a look. “Be right back.”

Ducking through the tapestry door, he left the two of them alone.

“I have to say,” drawled the remaining orc, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. “That was easier than I expected. I suppose such a little thing as you must have a fast metabolism. Insides eating away at you, are they?”

Mika curled her lip.

“Hardly. I’ve merely had time to think, now, and have concluded that the best course of action requires communication. I could go a week or more without food if I wanted to and not even feel it.”

“Of course you could,” sneered Retga.

She huffed. It was mostly true, if only because the Deep Dream would set in well before then. Mirroring Retga, Mika leant back against a tapestry and squeaked in shock when it gave way behind her. The orc guffawed as she stumbled backward into the narrow chamber beyond, but the laugh was cut almost immediately short. Hissing, she caught a glimpse of what looked like a skull-strewn altar before rolling back through the entrance and to her feet.

Retga had slapped a hand over her nose and mouth, the intensity of her forehead colors brightening still further.

Mika’s heartbeat skipped faster as her instincts screamed at her to run. She pushed back her goggles. That’s not a reminder I need right now.

Then Uthur was back, shouldering his way through the tapestry.

“No tiny gloves aboard, I’m afraid. But I’ve got your ofke,” he lifted a clay bottle netted in rope, and then another one, and then a large basket. “Your water, and your food.” Setting these all gently at her feet, he then backed away as though she were some sort of wild animal. Retga finally let her hand down, her eyes following Mika as she sat cross-legged upon the ground to inspect the offerings.

Uncorking the ofke, she put it to her nose and inhaled deeply…detecting no trace of any poison she recognized. The orcs were unlikely to resort to that even in the worst of scenarios, but one could never be too careful. She took a sip, and at once her ears perked up. It was spicy, rich and creamy. Delicious. Invigorating.

She gulped down a few more mouthfuls then cleansed her palette with water before setting upon the basket. Like the tapestries, it was an intricate thing, but it was its contents which most concerned her. There was some kind of salted fish, with crisp little wings folded at their sides, and amagara meat, too, well seasoned. The basket had clearly been packed for an orc’s appetite, and each new parcel she withdrew revealed more beneath it. Mika sniffed one after the other—sticky rice, pickled vegetables, spiced fruit, boiled eggs.

Then she came upon one item, a soft white sphere, which particularly puzzled her. Choosing that for her first bite out of sheer curiosity, she found it to be gelatinous and cloudlike at once, a sweet, nutty paste packed at its center.

“We should have made her talk first,” grumbled Retga as Mika sampled her way through the spread.

“I wouldn’t haf,” she shot back around a mouthful of flying fish, the wings crunching pleasantly between her teeth.

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The orc narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, I think—”

“Enough. Let her finish,” cut in Uthur.

“Could be a while,” grumbled Retga. “Little cur’s got the appetite of a sawtooth, apparently. Don’t know where she puts it all.”

Mika curled her nose, took another drink of ofke and then a deep breath.

“My name is Princess Mikanasha Raska G4I2. I fled into your forest when it became my only option for survival. My caverns were attacked, and I have good cause to believe that humans were behind said attack. Therefore, in addition to having need of my knowledge, your peoples and mine share a common enemy.”

The orcs listened in silence. Mika did not look up as she spoke, instead reviewing her feast before finally selecting another hunk of amagara and chewing it thoroughly.

“I will teach you everything I know of the Stonesong,” she said when she’d finished.

It would be no betrayal to her people, after all, for what she knew was very little. It was an unteachable skill, besides.

“In exchange, I require that your people help fight our mutual enemy. To…to restore the abominations to the individuals they once were, or destroy them if that is not possible. To kill the Fleshsingers who made them and drive their people from the borders of ours lands. And when it is safe you will return me to my home.”

By the time she finally looked up, both orcs’ eyes had gone wide in shock.

It was Uthur who spoke first.

“Abominations? What manner of abomination, Princess Mikana…Mikanatasha?”

She made a face.

“Mikanasha. But you may call me Mika.”

She returned her attention to the food, eating on until finally her body stopped screaming for more.

Then she took another long breath, this one rather shaky.

“Listen carefully,” she said, looking up from one to the next of them. “Because I don’t want to talk about this ever again. You will have to repeat it to your people yourself, and I will merely confirm.”

Retga raised an eyebrow.

“Go on, then.”

Steeling herself—and now somewhat regretting eating so much food—Mika recounted the fall of UvRaska Caverns. And by the time she was done she’d lost all grip of her dignity and was crying into her sleeves. The orcs stood in shocked silence as her words trailed off at the end. Then Uthur knelt before her, reaching out a hand. She cringed back, nearly falling through the tapestry again. Frowning, he withdrew it.

“I have heard of the stitchers merging creatures into one, but never anything like this,” he said. “Continuing on and on of its own accord, with no Singers present to drive the change…” he frowned, looked up to Retga. Her brows smashed further together, frown deepening as she shook her head.

“This is beyond anything I know,” she said. “But it is most certainly human.”

“So you agree, then?” Mika wiped the last of her tears from her eyes. “You will fight them? If they can do this to my people, surely yours are at risk, too.”

Again, Uthur and Retga exchanged a look.

“We cannot make any agreements of that kind yet, Princess Mikanasha,” said Uthur. “We don’t have that authority or that power.”

She frowned, looking from one to the other.

“But you’re princes. Orcs don’t create cores, so I assumed that meant—”

“Perhaps it’s best you don’t make any assumptions, goblin,” said Retga. “It’s clear your kind has forgotten much and understands little.”

Mika bristled, her lips pulling back. But it was Uthur’s growl that filled the cabin.

“Enough, Ret,” he said, as the other orc’s hackles raised. He turned from her again, speaking on before she could say anything.

“You have joined us at a crucial time, princess. Our second-to-last king has died, and now we have entered the period of stewardship. The last king holds the throne only until the new ones rise up to claim it. And it is these new kings of whom you must make your demands. Clan Dragha alone cannot accommodate them.”

“What do you mean claim it? Are the heirs to inherit not decided in advance?”

“That is not our way,” said Retga.

Uthur shook his head.

“At this time, the princes of every clan gather in Kanijha. Together with our thralls, we battle for the right to rule.”

Mika stared at him.

“You must fight your own siblings?”

Both Retga and Uthur chuckled.

“We are not all brothers and sisters by blood,” said the latter. “Prince is not a rank, nor is it inherited by parentage. It is one of the Arkha.”

“What’s an Arkha?”

Uthur and Retga shared another look, both of them frowning.

“Er,” said Uthur after a moment. “There is not a shared word for it. It is like…gender. But not. Or a caste.”

“But also not,” said the other.

“Princes are rare, just a few born to every clan per generation. We are leaders, strategists, masters of war. Not all leaders among orcs are princes, of course, but only princes may become kings. Often, all princes of a clan join into the same thrall. But our generation of Dragha had many princes. And so before we can take part in the Rite of Gold, we must fight Kurr and his thrall to decide which shall represent our clan.”

“I’m…not sure I understand,” hedged Mika, looking from one to the other. “You’re princes because you’re good strategists?”

Retga groaned and started pacing.

“Er, no,” replied Uthur, a hand going up to rub almost awkwardly at the back of his head. He laughed. “It feels strange to explain this to another adult. But…different orcs are born with different types of bodies and tendencies. And each has their own unique vurkha.” He stopped as he came to the word, broad nose curling. “I suppose the closest translation for that one is scent, but it’s more than that.”

She sniffed, wondering which smell of theirs was particular to princes.

“In any case,” he rushed on, “what’s significant right now is that you understand that you cannot make any large-scale demands until the new kings are installed. But I can promise you that if you join our thrall and we are victorious, we can ensure you the most favorable outcome you can reasonably hope for.

Mika’s ear twitched.

“How many Threls are there?”

Retga snorted. “Just the one, thank all that is powerful.”

“Thralls,” corrected Uthur. “Oh, that is confusing. But no, not the elfblood. It is another word without direct translation.”

“It’s pack,” the other prince said from behind him, crossing her arms. “Family. Mates and friends. The people we fight alongside and for. The people we protect and who protect us. The people we make children with, and the people we raise them with.”

“All adults of age in our society must find their place within a thrall or be claimed by one,” said Uthur. “And that is why one of our first tasks upon reaching the city shall be to blood you into ours. But anyone in our clan has a right to claim you by challenge, which Kurr intends to do. And I doubt he’d be half so amenable to your requirements.”

“Kurr’s an asshole,” supplied Retga. “Gargling piss’d be better than being in the same thrall as him. Trust me.”

“She’s not wrong,” said Uthur. “But time is running out. In all likelihood, the same fight which determines whether or not we join the Rite will be the one which determines whose thrall shall blood you.”

Mika bit into her lip.

“I do not like this term, blooding. What does it mean? Will I be forced to mate with one of you?”

At once Uthur’s hands flew up to wave away the words.

“No, no no no,” he breathed. “Mates are chosen from amongst your thrall, but you don’t have to mate with anyone or everyone in it.”

Mika considered.

“So. What you are saying is that it is in my best interest that you win not only the fight that is to come, but the bigger fight which that fight will win you access to?”

“Yes,” said Uthur, looking rather relieved to have moved on from the topic of mates.

“You are about to ask something of me,” guessed Mika.

The iron-haired orc exhaled through his nose as he considered her, lips quirking up to the side.

“Yes. If you were to fight with us, it may all but assure our victory. Both against Kurr and in the Rite of Gold.”

Mika’s blood chilled.

“I…I am not a fighter,” she said. “And Ixos…” she shook her head, hugged herself tighter. How much is it safe to admit to these creatures?

Retga smiled.

“Oh, you won’t need your little bug,” she said. “We’ve got better.”

Mika glared up at her. “What do you mean?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

What do I do? What do I say?

“I cannot do it. I am not a fighter.”

“All Singers are fighters, when they must be,” insisted Retga.

But a thoughtful look had come over Uthur’s face.

“What are you then, Mikanasha?”

She sputtered for a moment—found herself giving the question actual consideration. But then the prescribed answer rose to her lips and she swallowed back her unholy thoughts.

“I am a princess.”

His gaze remained fixed on hers.

“And what does that mean, among your kind? What is your role?”

“My role is to ensure the continuation and well-being of my people.”

Uthur exhaled through his nose.

“In that case,” he said, “I recommend you use the coming hours to consider what course of events aligns with the best interests of your people.” He rose to his feet, towering over her and blocking out much of the lantern light. “Stay here and rest if you will, you’ve the captain’s permission.”

“Or come out and observe,” suggested Retga. “Keep your eyes on Kurr, and learn about the man whose thrall you may join, should we fail.” She smirked, her blood-colored eyes lingering on Mika as she followed Uthur out.