DJ felt his brain operating at full speed, trying to sort through the facts. Francis isn’t his real name? The village doesn’t like him? But the village chief is happy to see him? What in the name of—

Friar Steve said the words on every human’s mind, loudly and deliberately, accentuating every syllable. “I—am—very—confused!”

The orcs hushed, awe-struck at the human that could speak like a war horn. Steve shrunk a little, suddenly feeling everyone’s attention on him. Not far away, the village chief Gasha put her elbow on Francis’s shoulder and smiled.

“You speak with your chest, human,” she smiled. “Fear not, we will answer your questions. But for now, we must dine. Stay as long as you wish.”

Francis furrowed his eyebrows at her. “I thought—”

“It is a new time, dearest Frok,” she said. She held his face with both hands again. “It has been too long since I gazed upon your face.”

Francis held Gasha’s hand and gazed into her eyes.

DJ watched them feeling something between shock and envy. Weeks ago, he would have traded snide glances with Riley at a moment like this, but after the Highway Hag incident… there was no way. Deep down, he ached for what Francis had.

Gasha patted Francis’s cheek. “The larkbeast is almost done! Can you smell it?”

Francis sighed dreamily. “It’s been too long since I tasted larkbeast. This shall be a meal to remember.”

Gasha nodded to an orc, and they rang a bell. Like a calm flood, orcs spilled out of their huts to gather in the village center. They brought their own roughly carved bowls made of wood or stone. A couple of orcs handed spare bowls to the travelers, and everyone formed a neat line to the cooked beast.

DJ tensed as he inched closer to it. The larkbeast’s eyes were like great black marbles poking out of its rubbery purple skin. Its head tilted to its side so its jaw hung open. DJ noticed that the tongue was cut out. Inwardly, he wondered if it was an orcish delicacy. When he saw someone give it to Gasha, that confirmed his suspicion.

In that moment, they also handed a bowl to Francis. They scowled at Francis, then spat at his feet. Francis ignored the abuser. Gasha, however, bore her teeth, stood, and growled. The serving orc winced, then bowed apologetically and went away.

When DJ reached the beast, an orc with a messy apron cut off a considerable slice and dropped it in DJ’s bowl with a slap. As DJ left the line, he discreetly lifted the bowl to smell it. The larkbeast didn’t smell awful—a lot like unseasoned chicken. He was about to ask someone for a fork when he noticed all of the orcs tearing into the meat with their bare hands. Hesitantly, DJ pulled up a patch of dirt, sat with his legs crossed, and followed suit.

The larkbeast tasted just like it smelled—unseasoned chicken. Nothing compared to the cuisine of Varis, but it was better than boiled roots and half-moldy bread.

Riley plopped down next to him, followed by Steve. But as soon as Steve sat down, he was surrounded by four orcs. Riley and DJ watched apprehensively. The friar retreated within himself, eyes wide like a nervous puppy. The orcs leaned forward curiously.

“You speak loudly, human!” one said. “Louder than any human that has crossed our village!”

“Uh—thank you!” Steve hollered, not knowing what else to say.

“Your chest is strong,” another orc said. “You must be a warrior of great deeds. Tell us how many foes you have slain!”

Steve counted on his fingers, remembering Broken Lovers Pass and the House of Phillip. “Eight? Perhaps nine?”

A third orc marveled. “Impressive for a human! Me?” He beat his chest. “Eighteen orcs on the field of battle. Clean kills, each one.”

“How can they be clean when blood is so messy?” Steve asked.

The orcs stared, blinked, then burst out laughing. One of them grabbed Steve’s shoulder and shook him. “The human has jokes! I like you, human! Give us your name!”

“I am Friar Steve!”

“Fryo-steeg is now a friend of the Ironhands Clan!” an orc said. “Let us drink to Fryo-steeg!”

Orcs passed around cups filled with ale, presumably. DJ received one, followed by Riley. Steve’s fan club smacks their cups together in a toast, then drank deeply. Steve—a sober Steward of the Goddess—merely sat among them feeling somewhere between confused and flattered.

DJ brought the cup to his nose. Whatever it was, it didn’t smell like much of anything. Feeling parched from the long walk, DJ knocked back the cup and took a deep gulp. The liquid scorched his throat and scraped the breath from his lungs. He coughed and sputtered as orcs watched and laughed, jeering about how the little human couldn’t hold his liquor.

“What is this stuff?” DJ gasped.

An elderly orc appeared by his side and patted his back. “Orcish firewine. It is not best for young humans.” He spoke to Steve’s new entourage. “Orc-brothers, I desire to speak to the loud Steward and his clan.”

The orcs bowed and left, assuring Fryo-steeg that they would return. The elderly orc that patted DJ on the back had to be a shaman of some sort. His tattoos were different from the other orcs, and he wore colorful beads around his neck made from polished rocks. His most prominent feature was a triangle made with white paint on his chest; it pointed upward.

Steve’s face brightened. “A fellow Steward of the Goddess!”

“Greetings, Steward-brother,” the orc reached out a wrinkled hand. “I am Torq. May the Goddess smile upon you.”

“May the Goddess smile upon you!” Steve shook his hand.

“Hi, Torq,” DJ leaned across Riley to speak. “We’re all really confused.”

“I am sure,” Torq replied. “Tell me what troubles your mind.”

Riley pushed DJ aside. “What happened to Franc—Frok? Why did he change his name? Why has everyone been so mean to him? But the village chief is happy he’s back?”

“Ah,” Torq said. “For that, we must start at the very beginning. Listen closely.

“Frok is the born leader of the Ironhands Clan. His father, Forgruff, was the village chief until his death two years ago. May he rest in might.”

Village chief? DJ thought in awe. By the looks on Riley and Steve’s faces, he knew they were as surprised as he was.

“In the beginning,” Torq continued, “the Goddess Uh gave orcs dominion over the barren places. We have survived through strength. You listened to your new friends boast of their victories in battle. It is in our blood. It is who we are. We fight, and we survive. It is the orcish way.

“Frok was always the largest and strongest boy in the village, but he had no desire for battle, despite his noble blood. He preferred to read books or be alone, nay-saying our traditions of struggle and conquest. When he turned old enough to lead his first battle, he decided he would conquer through speaking and agreements. Many disagreed. They called it weak. But Frok did not listen. He met the other clan with our mightiest warriors, but without weapons, only words. The enemy clan saw their opportunity. They fell upon us and slayed many. Frok’s plan failed. Many of our brothers and sisters perished.”

If the three humans could have gotten any quieter, they did.

“Such shame it brought Chief Forgruff and our people,” Torq continued. “But Gasha was Frok’s truest friend, even through the shame. She did not mind that his head was in wrong places, they were always together—like a sword and shield. Frok and Gasha were destined to marry when they reached proper age. Chief Forgruff loved her like a daughter, and he approved.”

DJ didn’t look at Riley.

“But Frok did not learn from his blunder. He wanted to leave us for college.” Torq said the word as if it were a swear. “He desired to get more book learning, then return to marry Gasha and lead the clan. It caused the clan much anger. Would he be worse after years in a human city? Why must he leave at all? Does he not love the clan as his father did? Chief Forgruff decided it must end.

“On the day of Frok’s departure, Chief Forgruff told him to never return. He was exiled from the Ironhands clan. ‘You have forsaken our way of life, so you have forsaken your place here.’ Those were his words.”

Riley gasped. DJ’s heart dropped.

“It has been eight years,” Torq said. “Frok gave himself a new name—left behind his orc-born name. There was no other heir when Chief Forgruff was slain, so the mantle passed to Gasha, and she has led us. But we knew she wished for Frok to return. Now look.”

Everyone turned to see Francis and Gasha whispering and giggling several paces away. It was like they were in their own little world, blissfully unaware of anyone else. Before long, they put down their bowls of larkbeast and wandered away. DJ thought he saw Gasha put her hand in Francis’s.

“Let me get this straight,” Riley said. “Francis’s dad kicked him out of the clan because he doesn’t like to fight?”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

“He turned his back on tradition!” Torq said. “Favoring the book over the ax! An orc must never forsake battle! It is how we survive! The Goddess made us this way!”

“Apparently not all of you,” DJ mumbled.

Torq let out a heavy sigh. “I knew humans would not understand.” He stood up and bowed. “Farewell to you. May the Goddess give you peace on your journey.” Then he left.

Steve’s fan club began to gather again, bombarding him with questions and jokes. DJ nudged Riley as he watched Gasha and Frok disappear around a hut. “Where do you think they’re going?”

Riley shrugged.

*

“So you own a shop of books now?” Gasha smirked. “I should not be surprised.”

“I don’t own it, but I help run it,” Francis said. “It’s truly a blessing. It was difficult to find a job after attending the College of Beregond, especially as an orc. Klepper gave me a chance and I’ve been there ever since.”

Gasha looked at him for a moment. “You talk like them, too.”

“What, humans?”

“Yes.”

Francis nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose that’s what comes from living among them for so long.”

“And reading much.”

“That too, yes.”

The two of them wandered through the darkening village, their fingers laced together. Every other orc was still dining on larkbeast back at the village center, so they had the rest of the village to themselves. Gasha took the chance to give Francis a tour. She pointed out the village’s apothecary, blacksmith, distillery, and garden. All the while, Francis watched Gasha’s face in the moonlight, silently in awe of who she had become.

She caught his eyes. She pulled him close. Her voice lowered to a sweet rumble. “I’ve missed you greatly. I hoped this day would come. The village whispered. Many thought me a fool.”

Francis brushed some hair out her eyes. “I missed you too. Desperately. The young knight’s quest brought us together. And I will always be grateful for that.”

Gasha’s eyes sparkled. Her hands moved from Francis’s shoulders to his chest, slowly feeling with thick fingers. “You are still strong.”

“And you’ve become stronger.”

“But your bloodline is special,” she said. “It would be shameful to let it end.”

Heat swelled in Francis’s chest. Gasha’s eyes did the rest of the talking. The moment bent and strained until it snapped. Francis burrowed his fingers in Gasha’s hair and pressed his lips against hers. Gasha welcomed it. Her hands explored his chest and back.

Francis lifted Gasha and pinned her back against a nearby tree. They sank into each other’s passion, drinking from a vessel filled with eight years of longing.

When it was over, they melted into each other’s arms and their heartbeats settled. They held each other, laughing softly and kissing each other’s burning skin. Francis stroked Gasha’s hair.

“It will be a boy,” Gasha said. “Strong and tall, like you.”

“He’ll have a strong mother,” Francis replied.

Gasha’s eyes met his again. There was something different was in them now—a dash of sadness. She took his hand once more.

“Come,” she said. “There is one more thing for you see.”

Francis didn’t have to ask what it was. Something inside him already knew. But he followed nonetheless. She led him to a large cabin. Around its base, flowers and trinkets were scattered—signs of remembrance. They lifted a flap that hung over the door and entered. Inside, Francis saw it.

Candles lit all about, illuminating the large cabin with a dull orange flicker. Various incense and spices made the cabin thick with a medley of scents. Urns were placed all around, marked with names and dates. He followed Gasha as she led him to a particular one. It didn’t take long. She didn’t touch it. She just stopped, put a hand on his shoulder, and pointed.

This urn looked to be the most recent. It was formed out of charcoal black clay, and it was large enough to reach a human’s knee. Francis took a deep, steady breath and picked it up. The words were printed on the side.

Chief Forgruff

8A 937

Gasha rubbed Francis’s back as he turned the urn in his hands. He didn’t weep, which surprised him. But as he thought about it more, it wasn’t that surprising. After all, his father had been dead to him—or he had been dead to his father—for over eight years.

“So this is him?” he muttered.

Gasha nodded. “Four arrows pierced him in our battle with the Fangtooths. It was his bravery, along with others, that earned us this land.”

“That’s how it’s always been,” Francis said. He let out a sigh and his shoulders drooped. “Why are you showing me this? It’s you he loved, not me.”

“He did love you, Frok.” Gasha rubbed his shoulder. “But he was a Chief first. Father second.”

“A father ashamed of his son.” Francis set the urn down.

Gasha stood before Francis and held his face again. “But I am chief now. And I say you can stay.”

Francis smiled sadly. “That wouldn’t be wise. You already know the truth: I’m no longer welcome here.”

“You are if I say you are,” Gasha said fiercely.

Francis shook his head and pulled her hands down. “Your heart is fighting a battle your mind has already won. You saw how our—your people treat me. They haven’t forgotten what happened. There is no forgiveness in their hearts. They would hate you if you brought me back, and you know this.”

Gasha started pacing back and forth, her hands on her hips. Her strong jaw flexed with thought. “They will learn. They will see the past is the past. They will learn to see forward.”

“They won’t.”

“Then I will order them to give you respect.”

“As She-Chief, you need all that respect for yourself,” Francis said. “There hasn’t been a She-Chief for hundreds of years. And I know many elders still see orc-sisters as hardly more than vessels for childbearing. Orders to bring back a banished orc would make your authority crumble and break. They would rise against you. It’s better for you and everyone that I remain in exile.”

Seeds of tears grew in Gasha’s eyes. “Do you not want to return to me?”

Francis was on her in a heartbeat, holding her face. “For eight years I craved your touch. Ached to hear your voice. I slept for thousands of nights wishing I was here to keep you warm. I want to return to you so badly that everything inside me is breaking.” His voice settled. “But I am exiled. And you are She-Chief. We can’t simply go back to the way things were. Our—your people would never allow it.”

Gasha gulped away a hardening throat and gave one loud sniff. “What of your child that grows inside me? He will need his father.”

“This is the Ironhands Clan,” Francis said with a half-smile. “He will have a village full of fathers. I won’t be a stranger to you and the child, and I will do all that I can to support you from afar. This I swear to you on the ashes of my father.”

Gasha took a great, shaky breath, and when she let it out, it came with a trickle of a tear. She wiped it away quickly. “You were always the voice of wisdom. It angered me and it still does.”

Francis chuckled in his throat and kissed her forehead.

“When do you leave?” Gasha asked.

“Whenever the young knight decides,” Francis answered. “I’ve vowed to be his protector as we venture to the Spine. We’ll stay as long as we wishes.”

“Then we shall show him hospitality like the Ironhands Clan never has before!” Gasha proclaimed. “You shall never leave!”

Francis smiled and held her tightly. “I will always love you, Gasha, She-Chief of the Ironhands Clan. Today has been a gift. ”

By the time they arrived in the village center, everyone had finished eating their larkbeast and the clan was practically drowning in firewine. They danced and sang songs, stumbling and hanging off each other. No one seemed to notice that Francis and Gasha returned—at least no one except DJ. He locked eyes with Francis and gave a little smile. Francis returned a smile, but it felt forced, like it was locking inside a profound sadness.

They stayed with the Ironhands Clan for three days. By then, DJ felt that they had had enough. But during that time, the Ironhands Clan gave DJ the best that they had to offer, almost to the point of smothering. They fully replenished the party’s supplies for the trip to Blight’s Respite. They made sure the party was always first to eat at every meal. They even offered to take DJ hunting with them—a great honor—but DJ had no desire to see a live larkbeast up close.

Francis spent every possible moment with Gasha. They even spent each night together, sleeping in her hut. Normally, DJ would feel nervous sleeping without a big intimidating orc nearby, but he whole village was full of big intimidating orcs that had to treat him like royalty, so the fear was diminished.

Riley spent her time trying to learn as much as she could from orcish hunters. She knew that orcs living in this environment had more to teach her about foraging and hunting than anyone else could. A few friendly she-orcs took her to gather mushrooms and edible plants and even challenged her to an archery contest. They outclassed her easily, but Riley took the defeat with grace and accepted their helpful tips.

And Steve could hardly get a moment’s peace from his admirers. The four orcs they met during their first meal—Glib, Kork, Urg, and Gnoth—followed Fryo-steeg everywhere, insisting on playing games, eating meals, or challenging each other to contests of manhood. He was beat badly in a pull-up contest. His fan club could out-eat him at every meal. But Fryo-steeg was the first to headbutt a larkbeast skull so hard that it cracked. The four orcs positively lost their minds when that happened.

But at last, it was time to leave. The village saw them off. Gasha commanded a special ceremony to be performed marking DJ, Riley, and Steve official “Friends of the Ironhands Clan.” She went one by one marking a red square on their foreheads. When she painted Steve’s forehead, his fan club barked and whooped in approval.

But she didn’t mark Francis’s forehead. Instead, they held a gaze that could have written thousands of sad stories. They held it for as long as they could before the clan grumbled.

For the next four days, they were led out of the Nether Regions in the same manner as their arrival. A guide silently led them to secured caves along the way until they reached the eastern drawbridge reaching over Traitor’s Trench. Their footsteps clomped along the wooden bridge until they set foot in Fairdell. With that, the drawbridge went up, and they left the Nether Regions behind.

As soon as the boom of the drawbridge sounded, Francis let out a large sigh, as if a weight he had carried for eight years had been let go.

DJ turned to him. “You okay, Francis?”

Francis nodded half-spiritedly. “In the years since my exile, I’ve experienced every emotion. At first, I was angry—I felt abandoned by my people. But with time, reflection, and study, I began to feel peace again. I had to search deep inside to find forgiveness.” Another sigh. “I know my home is no longer with the Ironhands Clan, but happiness is still within reach.”

DJ was hesitant to say the next part, but he said it anyway. “You’ll miss Gasha, won’t you?”

“I always will,” Francis admitted. “I missed her for eight years. Orcs mate for life. She’ll always be my love. I shall do my best to love and support her from afar. That is how things must be.”

DJ patted Francis’s shoulder. “I’m glad you came on this journey with me, Francis.”

Francis smiled down on DJ. “As am I, young knight. As am I.” He tousled DJ’s hair.