“Back to work!” came a crisp command from captain Vultag, and the Orcs went back to practicing or whatever they had been about prior to the fight. The man waited for the crowd to disperse before approaching Harb and Slog. He slowly looked them both over before turning to face Slog. “Go find a healer,” he commanded.
Slog saluted with his good arm, but the strike to his chest just under his ruined shoulder caused him to grunt in pain. The captain looked him over more closely. “Go see Shendis,” Vultag said, “and tell her I sent you.” Slog nodded and left the practice field.
The captain turned to face Harb. “You show some skill,” Vultag said, but Harb gave no reaction. “We do not use special moves in combat training. You were ahead in the match. Why did you do it?”
“That didn’t feel like training,” Harb replied, “and even if it was, the Dire Bear clan goes all out. They don’t even use practice weapons.” He tried to give his best look of contempt. “I wondered why you didn’t have any healers over here.”
The captain seemed to consider his words, and finally he nodded. “That might be better; these men are softer than I like. Go get cleaned up. Narg will take you to the extra tents. I want to see what you can do on a raid, so rest up; we leave at first setting.”
Harb looked over his shoulder to see the scout that had brought him in standing a few feet behind him. He turned to leave. He realized he had forgotten to salute, but it would have been awkward to pause to do it now, so he kept walking.
“Harbinger,” the captain called after him.
He stopped and turned to face the captain. He chided himself inwardly but did not let it show on his face. “Yes?” he asked.
Vultag cocked his head at him but did not admonish him for the lack of salute or for failing to say sir, which in military movies was required in a situation like this. “You should be fitted with some armor. We might have something that will fit you.”
Harb knew that he did not have any armor skills, so he decided to decline. “I don’t use armor,” he said. “It just weighs me down.”
“Suit yourself,” Vultag said, raising an eyebrow. He looked at Harb for another moment before turning to resume overseeing the practice yard.
“That was impressive,” Narg said as they walked towards the center of the camp.
“Was it?” Harb asked nonchalantly.
The scout paused, trying to gauge the response. He decided to take it at face value. “Yes. Slog is one of our best fighters. Never seen him lose a duel.”
Harb thought about his interactions with the camp, and his first impression of it was underwhelming. The Orcs didn’t seem to understand duplicitousness, and if he was able to beat their top dog when he was only first level, Dire Orc or not, then he wondered at their chances on this raid tonight. He wanted to ask about the ‘first setting’ comment from Vultag but assumed it was when the first sun set at night. He didn’t want to start asking questions that would arouse suspicion. He thought that he had done well blending in so far, but any slipup could be fatal. They did practice with wooden swords and didn’t use special attacks while training, so they were already more civilized than he would have thought Orcs would be.
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“Who’d you bet on?” he asked Narg, even though he hadn’t seen the man at all during the fight.
“No one,” Narg said. “I usually bet on Slog, but no one here is as big as you. You were swinging that greataxe around as if it was a toy. I had a bad feeling this time.”
Harb wondered at the game that he was in. He believed Narg and the other Orcs to be NPCs, or non-player characters, in the game, but they seemed very real. They certainly were more real than in any other game he had ever played. There were some games that had dialogue with the NPCs, but it was always scripted, and there was never any real conversation with any of them. His thought was that they were either also players in the game or paid staff who knew their roles and could respond as real people.
Harb was only mildly fatigued from the fight—far less than he imagined he would be. The physical sensations within the game were still a mystery to him; they were amazing. He still felt the pain of the hits from the duel.
He had seen and read enough science fiction to know that VR this sophisticated might be possible, but he had thought that it would be years away. The other option, that he was indeed on another planet, was technology that shouldn’t be realized until much farther in the future. The VR option was more plausible. The game’s ‘real death’ stuff seemed like nonsense to him; he felt like the game designers were just trying to instill an element of fear into the game. He was not about to let his character die repeatedly to test his hypothesis, but the third death might just be the way to get home.
Narg brought them to an eating area, where they each received a large helping of stew and a piece of bread. He wasn’t sure what the meat in the stew was and felt better not knowing. It was tough and salty and reminded him a bit of lamb or goat, only chewier and with a gamey taste. Maybe mutton? The bowls, cups, and utensils were all made of wood, but their quality was nicer than he would have thought given that they were Orcs. His tusks and strange jaw configuration caused him some initial problems while eating, but he transitioned from chewing side-to-side to a motion that was almost entirely done by using his lower jaw. He still used his tongue to move the food where it needed to go and found that he didn’t need to chew as much as he once had.
When they were about done eating, Harb pointed to Narg’s bandolier. “Those darts are poisonous, right?”
Narg swallowed and took a drink before answering. “Of course, but the poison don’t kill; it just makes ‘em want to lie down.” He took another drink.
Harb nodded. So, the scouts stick a few of the darts into their quarry, and then the lackluster fighters are more able to handle them. That tactical choice seemed wise, given what he had seen of their fighting. He would know more tonight after the raid. “Do you know the target for tonight’s raid?”
Narg shrugged. “Probably Gnolls,” he said. “They’re always trying to hunt on our territory.”
“How long until we set out?” Harb asked.
Narg looked at the sky. “Varme won’t be down for another three hours, so just after that.”
Harb followed his gaze. Varme must be the name for the lead sun. Harb decided to ask the name of the trailing sun. This one did not seem overly bright, but if he did suspect something odd with the question, Harb would cover by saying that the Dire Bear clan had a different name for it. “What’s the second sun called?” he asked.
Narg did give Harb a questioning look but answered anyway. “Fulgor.”
“I think that I should rest up before the raid,” Harb said. “Could you show me to my tent and come get me when it’s time?”
“I can take you to a tent, but you just need to come when the horn sounds.”
Harb nodded, and when they finished eating, the scout led the way to the tents. They passed a small group of larger tents belonging to the commanders of the clan. The tents for the soldiers were set up in a more haphazard way. Narg stopped to ask someone which tents were available, and they went into the closest of those. There was a bedroll laid out as well as a table with a wash basin atop it, but there were no other items in the tent. Harb had no idea how long they would be raiding, so he decided to take the opportunity to nap for the few hours that he had left before the first sun, Varme, set for the night.