Chapter 6

Bronwick

He sat alone in the back of a wagon cleaning away the remnants of skin and blood still clinging to his new treasures. The brawny man remained serious about his battle trophies. Bronwick enjoyed simple tasks like this, things that let him focus and calm his boiling emotions. He enjoyed tasks that did not make him think too hard. He spent his whole life battling those runaway emotions. Like a raging river of lava barely held at bay by a fragile dam, his temper brewed within. He often wondered if it was because of his orc blood, his upbringing or just a fact of life. Who knew, not Bronwick. Thinking about it too much made his head hurt. Thinking about anything too much made his head hurt. He tossed another crystal into the sack and smiled. He made a good haul. These would be worth a coin or two in the next town, which meant he could trade them for stuff. He wished he could recall the battle better. Maybe that would make a good story. People always liked good stories with their trinkets. When he lost his temper, everything just turned red, remembering anything during was hard. They shared stories around the campfire every night. He wanted a good story to share once. It was always like that though. Once he lost himself to the battle-lust everything remained a hazy blur. His rage ruled him. Sure, he remembered glowing cats, there were some screams, lots of blood, he chopped things up and he was pretty sure he grunted a lot, the battle cry of his tribe. He hoped he grunted a lot. Grunting was a sign of strength! Otherwise, the details were fuzzy until he calmed down and saw the body of the dead lady, his mangled fellow mercenary, the injured passenger and the crying music man that pissed his pants. Yeah, there were other details too, but who really cared? Those were the highlights. He realized his details were lacking. That’s probably why he didn’t have any good stories to share.

Martin hired him to protect the caravan. He half succeeded. Would the man keep him on now? Maybe he would only half keep him, who could say for sure? How would he half work? Would he keep himself on after that, maybe, maybe not? That made these crystals all the more important. Wealth kept the “civilized world” moving, the food coming, the women interested and the drinks flowing. That was the important thing to remember. He reminded himself of this regularly. His father told him that before he left the tribe. His father warned him to focus, to always remember his goals. Coins were such a bother though, remembering their value and what was good for what? Each realm seemed to have its own versions with their own symbols on them. Gold, silver or copper, which was worth more? Did one symbol mean it was better than another symbol? He preferred trading things so people couldn’t cheat him. That’s how his tribe handled exchanges, they traded with other clans, other tribes. Why couldn’t the rest of the world see how much better this was than their stupid coins? He decided they created coins to confuse people and cheat them.

Bronwick flexed his impressive muscles and stretched away the aches of battle. He got nicked a few times but nothing like that nasty rake across the chest that southerner scored. Not too bad. He would get a respectable scar from that one. The short, flame-haired man could take punishment. He admired that. He was a sturdy little human. Among his tribe, that was to be respected. He was impressed with the pretty little brown boy with the funny eyes, too. He vaguely remembered him fighting off one of those big cats. Raised in the wildlands outside the borders of any established countries, Bronwick grew to manhood in the Boar Tribe. His mother was the head of the tribe. She was a full-blooded orc. A powerful woman, nearly his height, stronger than any of the others in the tribe, with tusks bigger than his. That’s how she earned the title of chieftain. She was respected by all. His father was a sturdy human man, too, like this southerner only taller. He had to be tough to survive a life with mother. He came from a different tribe, a tribe of humans. It wasn’t normal for humans and orcs to have the same tribe. His mother was a rebel like that. The Tribe of the Boar was an oddity. Formed by a band of orc females that grew tired of orc law and absolute male dominance. They abandoned their communities and took a bunch of human males from surrounding tribes as their mates. The humans resisted at first but learned to like it. The new tribe grew and developed in its own laws and traditions. Everyone in the area quickly learned not to challenge the Boar Tribe. The union of orcs and humans made them better than either was alone. They were cleverer and that could be even better than stronger. His mother often told him that. Bronwick was the son of the chieftain. He was a living example of that union. He learned early on that strength equaled power. Those were just the basics of life. He had good blood and good bones and lots of power. He struggled with the clever part. It wasn’t until he reached manhood and struck out on his own in the world that he learned there were a lot more rules once you entered “civilized lands”. His father tried to warn him, but it was much more to handle than he expected. In the few short months since he arrived, he had soaked up a lot of knowledge. In fact, he had so much new stuff bouncing around up there that it made his head hurt. He was pretty sure some of it bounced around so hard it already fell out. There just wasn’t room for so much up there. Some of these rules he liked, some he didn’t. What he did like was that strength still equaled respect and, to most people, power. What he did not like were the details of when strength was allowed or when it was not allowed. That seemed to shift randomly. He also didn’t like that orc blood made you “dirty”. Who made up these stupid rules anyhow?

His six-foot eight-inch frame of pure muscle lent itself well to mercenary life. He was a ruggedly attractive man despite his mottled gray-green skin and tusks that jutted up from his slight underbite past his lips when his mouth was closed. Some half-blooded orcs could pass for humans, but not Bronwick. He had a pronounced brow with thick black eyebrows that matched his thick black hair which he maintained shortly cropped. His eyes were light gray and strikingly gentle until the rage claimed him. It did not take much time for people to start seeking out the massive barbarian for his martial talents. Work aplenty headed his way. It didn’t hurt that he had questionable morals and no head for coins at all. As his understanding of the customs and laws of the civilized lands grew, Bronwick came to find that his work may not have always been acceptable. Things like killing people were not allowed in most places no matter what they said to you. They had a special name for killing in civilization. They called it “murder” and that was the bad kind of killing. Breaking limbs and busting doors to homes so others could get inside were not acceptable actions in most circumstances either. Who knew? That took all the fun out of life. He decided that civilized was just a fancy word for boring. It wasn’t until he skirted a few incidents with the law enforcers that he discovered a new path to success. Caravan guard was his latest undertaking. He could move from place to place, see the lands and not draw too much attention from local law enforcement while simultaneously getting the freedom to smash heads whenever anyone or anything decided to get in the way. He still got to sleep in fancy beds sometimes and visit towns and cities, eat their cooked food, and play with their delicate women. This was the best life. Caravan guards were hired to fight off threats. He was good at fighting. That was probably his best skill. This seemed a pretty nice fit. His mother would be proud. He thought his father would, too.

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Bronwick arrived within the Villinsk borders recently and found a new level of acceptance. Thus far, he learned that orcs like his mother were not liked very much by most humans pretty much anywhere. That was probably why his mom had to capture his dad in the beginning. He also learned that “half breeds” as many called him, were second class citizens in these so-called civilized lands. His mother explained that half-humans were not equals in orc culture, either. That was a crock! How come you weren’t better in one or the other? People talked to him like he was dumb and that caused his boiling emotions to grow, to explode. Why did they want him to kill them when killing them wasn’t allowed? He lost his temper a few times and even ended up in a jail once, but he hadn’t killed anyone illegally since learning the rules. Villinsk liked half-orcs more than most places. That made it the best place for him. Someone explained it to him once, but he forgot some of why. It was something about orcs coming here and making babies during the wars and now they were people, too. The laws and rules always confused him. What he did know was that Martin and Luna were good people. They didn’t treat him weird, or call him dirty, or dumb. They didn’t look at him funny, either. They liked him. They liked him for him. They talked to him like a person. They weren’t hard to be around like most whole humans. Most whole humans in civilized lands were just weak and whiny, at least from Bronwick’s experiences in this civilized world. They would never survive in the wildlands, not for long anyway. He could see why his mother picked his father. Good strong humans were hard to find.

Tarvick the southern redhead entered the wagon, tossing his axe aside. “Your turn, half-breed,” He called out as he tried to lay down on his side but found that his wound hurt too much. That sun cat got him good. He shifted to lay on his back instead.

“That will be a great scar,” Bronwick stated with a dopy grin that displayed his tusks.

Tarvick glared at him for a moment trying to decide if he was making fun of him or being serious. He quickly realized the brute was too dumb to tease anyone. Tarvick played with his new necklace and grunted. The cord about his neck held some ten sun cat claws. It was a respectable trophy in Bronwick’s eyes. That could be traded for good stuff. This man had a wildlands upbringing. He felt kinship with the southerner.

Since Tarvick didn’t respond, Bronwick tried a different approach. “You think The Forest of Shapes will hold any fun?” The tusked man was not good at conversation, but he had been trying to improve. He simply had no one to practice with. He thought life might be better with some friends. Tarvick didn’t seem very good at it either though.

The redheaded man curled his lip. “The Forest of Shade.”

“Huh?”

“Its not Forest of Shapes, its Forest of Shade you idiot!” Tarvick grumbled as he tried to close his eyes and rest. “Stop bothering me. I’m going to rest. Get out there. It’s your watch now. Don’t let anyone else die.”

Bronwick felt his emotions threatening to spill out again. He was not an idiot. That was like calling him dumb or something. He took a deep breath through his nose and relaxed as he crawled from the wagon. The whole thing shook as his considerable weight dropped free. “All forests have shade… it’s a dumb name then.” He started to walk away but paused with a confused look on his face. He addressed the southerner with that obvious confusion. “Why did Ilet her die?”

Tarvick chuckled. “I don’t know, why did you?”

“I didn’t!” He grunted defensively. “Me and Maggie did our best! You were there, too. You were closer! You let her die, too, but closer.” The half-orc man reasoned.

“She was on your side of the caravan when she died. Makes it your fault.” The redheaded man didn’t bother to open his eyes. A grin spread across his lips.

Bronwick felt the sting of truth and it burned. It burned badly. He did say the left side of the caravan was his side. That was his own fault. He should have picked the right side – so stupid. Why did he pick a side at all? “She shouldn’t have run…” He mumbled as he headed to take his watch. “Cats chase things that run…”

He walked away sulking and wondering if Martin would make him leave since it was his fault. He hoped not. He always ended up doing something wrong that made people send him away. It wasn’t fair that Tarvick was closer to her, but she ran to die on his side. That wasn’t fair at all. And she had to go and die before they reached the magic place. He was excited to see Sub-blind. It was supposed to be a big city with lots of magic people. Magic people scared him, just like magic scared him, but it still sounded exciting. He wanted to know if lots of people there were blind. Was that where the name came from? They must have needed magic to see. Either way their magic scared him. Bronwick knew not to let people see him get scared. It wasn’t good for his image as a guard. He decided to do the best guard duty job ever tonight so maybe when he woke up Martin would want to keep him again.

He tapped his temple and grinned a dopy grin. “Smart thinking, Bronwick!”

The night passed uneventfully which made Browick sad. If he could have fought something away without losing a passenger that would have been better, but he did make sure to walk past Martin’s sleeping spot a bunch of times while he slept so he would know he was doing his job right. That way Martin and Luna could sleep better. Now all he could do was sit on his horse and wait. They arrived at Dumbar. The name made Bronwick laugh. Why would they call themselves dumb? He wanted to hurt people when they did that to him, but people came here to live anyway. It was a human town and whole humans could be confusing. He knew since he was only half human, he could only ever hope to half understand them. That made complete sense and helped him cope. It was just the way of life.

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After a good night’s stay in town and some pleasant dreams he awoke to Martin knocking on his bedroom door at the local inn. “It’s getting late. You ready to head out, Bronwick?”

The day’s light shone through his small window. He slept much later than normal by the looks of it. Martin came looking for him. Hearing the man say his name brought joy to his heart. He did not send him away after all. Bronwick jumped to his feet cracking his back, then his neck and finally his knuckles. He rushed to throw open the door. Martin groaned and turned away, shielding his eyes.

“Yes, Martin! Yes, I’m ready. And I won’t let anyone else die, EVER!”

Martin raised a hand to quiet him. He did not need an advertisement about the loss of a passenger. When he looked back at the half-orc he groaned again. “Ok, Bronwick. Let’s keep that loss a secret just between you and me. And could you go put on some clothes, please?”

“Yes, and yes, I can! I like how you always ask easy questions, Martin. You’re a good man.” Bronwick rushed to throw on his clothes and armor. Martin departed to get things in order, still shaking his head in disbelief.

Bronwick practically jogged out of the inn, happy to be included. When he reached the caravan preparing to leave town he was confused. A young man with skinny arms rode atop the horse that Tarvick was riding. Had he shrunk? Upon closer inspection he knew that wasn’t right. No, that wasn’t Tarvick at all. He didn’t even have red hair or a red beard. Why, he didn’t have a beard at all. His face was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. He was just a boy. Martin introduced him as Gregory, the new mercenary, and informed him that Tarvick was not joining them. That news made the barbarian sad. That was his newest best friend and he had already left. Bronwick worked so hard to get that close to the warrior. They spoke to each other multiple times almost each day. Now he would have to start all over again. As much as he enjoyed this new line of work, he missed having friends. Back in his village he had plenty of friends. Bronwick saddled his horse and mounted up then noticed they were adding a young girl with a big backpack to the passengers. He made a mental note to keep that one alive. He had mistakes to make up for and she looked weak.

“Smart thinking, Bronwick.” He patted his own back and grinned.