The Orc King Part 2

Sometime in the beginning of the 10 Year War

Gobran clutched the pathfinders map tightly in his hands. Scribbles and faded markings marred the page. The map was ancient, but no one had ventured south into the human territories to ever finish it.

Why does King Lorkar want the map finished now?

He grimaced, staring at the sky above. He reshouldered his pack and kicked his horse into movement. Maybe it was a stupid question. The king wanted to control all of Sarai. With conflict brewing among the humans in the south he would need all the information he could get.

The forest grew dense. This was the furthest south he’d ever been on the Empire’s Highway. The road was wide, mostly dirt. Occasionally cobblestoned whenever it passed near a city or town. He scribbled on the margins of the map as he rode.

He wasn’t a pathfinder, or a Vrel, but somehow, he had found himself in King Lorkar’s employ. He traced a claw down the map, the markings leading further south into the Faewren Wood.

Just my luck.

On his first assignment he’d already been sent far south. Gobran scowled as he tucked the map into his cloak pocket. Every orc dreamed of going south, to visit their ancestors first settlements. Too bad traveling by the human’s roads he would never see them. He stared wistfully at the ancient elf-touched pines and massive oakwoods that had been standing a millennium. There weren’t many remnants of the elves left. But they were powerful talismans of the magic they had possessed.

His eyes settled on the sky again. On the horizon black and green smoke billowed in large columns over the sky. The smell of something burning had been drifting on the wind for hours now, but Gobran had not been able to decipher what it was. The mystery of it was beginning to make him uneasy.

The smoke was too big for a bonfire. The forest definitely wasn’t on fire, though. Sometimes the smoke drifted in the wind, smelling like burning meat, sometimes like wood. Sometimes it smelled like burning metals. Perhaps a forge? No, the only forge large enough to make that much smoke was in orc territories, much further north. He rode alone for hours, watching the strange changing smoke.

Then the humans started to appear on the highway. Always travelling the opposite direction of him. Moving north. At first in small groups, then much larger caravans. He knew what victims of war looked like: wide hollow eyes, travelling with whatever they could afford to carry. Younglings strapped to their parent’s and grandparent’s backs. Some were gaunt and skinny, others supporting old injuries. There were few men and boys among them.

He had been prepared for conflict, but they didn’t flinch seeing an orc on the roads. He didn’t even bother to cover his face. Most seemed to stare past him like he didn’t exist. Gobran attempted to ignore them at first, staring down at his map when they passed, pretending he couldn’t hear the children complaining of hunger. Something tightened in his chest. An uncomfortable sensation that grew worse every time he heard their complaints. They were terrified. When their children wailed it was barely more than sullen sobs. They sounded worse than exhausted. They were defeated.

I only brought basic rations, just enough to make it there and back to the camp… The excuses grew quieter the further he travelled. He caved after the fourth caravan passed and began offering them food. They tore through it ravenously. He’d hunt extra, knowing he’d come across those who desperately needed it.

Eventually the humans he helped began to talk.

“There’s war in the south,” one woman murmured. “The Southern King is dead. The emperor doesn’t care about us. The God of Light has left us.” She had been part of a larger group, nursing a child and looking after an elderly woman. The old woman’s eyes were completely white, devoid of any colour.

Gobran had winced at her words. Despite growing up among humans he’d been outcasted. He didn’t know how to comfort someone. She’d lost her home, her husband, one of her children. There were no words of comfort he could give. He turned to the old woman instead. “She’s blind,” Gobran said. “Theres a poultice you can make-”

“It’s not regular blindness,” the woman cut in. Her voice turned sad, “Mama was close to the city when it happened. It’s dark magic. I tried everything. You would be smart to turn your horse around and carry on north. There’s nothing left in the south.”

Gobran hadn’t believed her. Something in her tone had deeply unsettled him. The way she looked at him- fear and defeat were ingrained in everything they did. He had been ready to make a poultice of his own, but the humans had moved on before he could source the ingredients. That was common. The humans refused to stay still. They were terrified, moving quickly, always watching behind their backs like something might jump out of the shadows and kill them. They feared the dark.

As he moved further south, Gobran began to understand why. Disease plagued almost every city and town he moved through. Soon he began to forget his maps, the pathfinding, the orders King Lorkar’s advisors had delivered to him. He managed to chart late at night, after spending the day attempting to find out more information. Rumours of conflict among the humans had been spreading, but King Lorkar had not cared until now to investigate.

Sometimes the towns had left those dying of the dark magic on the sides of the road. Vultures picked at their bodies. Some of the birds looked strange, their skin molten and disease ridden too. The smoke grew thicker on the horizon.

Gobran wrote detailed reports of what he found: the illnesses, the “dark magic” the humans spoke of, how the roads and cities were destroyed. When he’d finally completed the map, he began moving north again. On the second night he camped near a group of travelling humans.

It was a mistake. Even Gobran’s sensitive ears missed the sounds of the Vrel’s approach. He was laying against the tree one moment, and the next, he was being dragged through the forest, his hands bound behind his back. A knife pressed to his throat.

It took him a moment to recognise the words in Faevar, the voice a growl, “You camp among humans now?”

“Not camping,” Gobran grunted. He forced himself to stop struggling as his mind caught up. He recognised the symbols on the Vrel’s coat: he was one of the First Fist. Someone else was behind his back, securing the knots around his wrists. “I was on my way to deliver my report-”

The Vrel cut him off with a snort. “We thought we’d find you dead.”

“Ha! Instead, you’re sleeping among humans,” The second Vrel spat the words out. “Did you think we wouldn’t notice you ran?” Something hard pressed against his mouth.

It was a piece of cloth. They were gagging him- Gobran began to struggle again, attempting to explain, his voice coming out garbled. They thought he had defected, that he’d run from his duties-

“You should have been back in three days. You’ve been gone for a fortnight. Save your explanations for the king.”