Monster

“Ha’Tordeck, why do we kill?” Gi’s tone seeped into our bones.

The circle of males snarled, glad to be spared from Gi’Korik’s scrutiny. Our fingers rended into the carcass of the stag we’d hunted that morning. It was soft. The smell intoxicating. In my final sprint, I had delivered the crushing blow to its puny skull. Using a bit of antler I picked raw meat from between one of my lower tusks. All our leathers were wetted with the blood of our kill, but it only showed as a sheen off our lowly blacks. Stains of blood are a dishonor. Wind blew like god breath and the power of my crushing blow played over in my mind, with each review the pleasure of the victorious washed me anew.

“Ha’Tordeck!” his switch lashed into my bare shoulders, green black blood fed into the soil. The tight leathers he wore gleamed like fresh snow denoting his rank and superiority, he was a pure warrior. He had no need to hide; with the white he could clearly be seen, hunted, and challenged. The blood from his kills would only feed the soils and winds. His soul would remain unblemished.

“Because we are stronger.” I hissed, cowering from him. But the blow came again. Always to one of us the strikes would come. Each day he would ask us such riddles and each day he beat those who answered falsely.

“Then shall I kill you now? Am I not Gi? Found worthy of strength, honor, and cunning?” He struck again, “Why must we kill?" and again. "WHY MUST WE KILL?" and again.

"WE DON'T!" I bleated and the beating ceased. His shaggy white eyebrows pulled the wrinkles straight on his scarred forehead: his expectant look for me to say more. "To kill we have reason. To choose."

Gi’Korik shouldered the switch. The circle of peers leaned away from the dead stag towards Gi. Our master paced the raw earth, dusty autumn heat made our sweat stink. A murder of crows followed overhead impatiently waiting for their turn with the stag.

“We are Orc.” Gi’Korik said after much time. He sat down cross-legged yet still above us. “We possess might, forge great weapons, bending the elements with our power.” He raised his arm in a fist; his veins writhed like a nest of snakes.

“None finer.” Grath said. His father was blacksmith. His interruption earned him a switch to each cheek. He took it and did not dishonor the bloodless wounds by covering them.

“You,” Gi tapped Vitt upon his shoulder and then Cix, “and you. Who struck the beast first?”

Vitt bowed low hiding his vision and professing his back, a sign of trust and thanks, or in times of dishonor acceptance of revenge or justice.

“This faltered the beast, Ha’Cix you struck into its leg. This slowed it.” Gi’Korik touched me upon my shoulder, a great honor or a terrible burden. “Then Ha’Tordek crushed its skull within three paces. Ha’Tordek, would you have caught the beast on your own?”

“No, Gi.”

“Ha’Vitt, Ha’Cix, would you have been able to crush the skull of the beast in a singular blow?”

“No, Gi.” They replied in unison

“All work differently. All contribute. All feast upon the shared kill.” Gi’Korik rose dusting off his whites.

“Gi, is there not more honor in the kill?”

Gi’Korik turned into my heart. His eyes were a black storm with red strikes and yellow-cat viciousness. “Ha’Tordek… Speak your thoughts.”

I should not have asked, but the question burned my tongue and must-needed to fly. “Our first king, Vi’Jojen Kor, the carver, the bloodless, spinning teeth. We learn his stories at first breath, how he culled the madlands, how he drove out the unbelievers, killed false prophets, slew all Orc who are false-

“The Herem-dar…” spoke Fow’Lowdren.

I continued, “Are not all tales of his conquest, the slain, the great murder?” others murmured noises of agreement but dared not speak out of turn.

“Vi’Jojen.” Gi spoke, “Was his only legacy death?” His storm eyes took to the sky and for a time he breathed with the rhythm of a swaying tree. A cloud formed alone in the blue.

“Are we beasts without reason?” Spoke Gi’Korik.

“We are Orc.”

“Are we monsters who kill for glee?”

“We are Orc.” We said as one.

“Are we gods who cast this world into death for glory?”

“We are Orc.”

He spun on us like a flying ax “And what is Orc?”

Peering around like a vulture, circling. We knew not to respond. It was the question of bearing. It was why we were being trained. We privileged few who displayed prowess in the eyes of our clan-fathers, sent to the farthest shore of the frozen continent Vespiren, like a fist before impact. Here we trained, here we proved the salts in our blood. Here we learned what is Orc- then scattered in the winds for the great pilgrimage.

“When you are bound and sacked, then sent to a forsaken land of strangers, cursed to wander and face the tests of god, earth and man, always are you to think this question first: what is Orc. In this you can always put faith.” He beat his chest making himself a drum, sharing his rhythm. The deep thrum vibrated through all of us. In unison we raised fists and pounded our hearts to his beat.

“Urah.” We chanted.

“I was no older than all of you, sent to a land unknown. I woke on a beach of black glass pebbles. There I was woke by a beast of great size, no fur, and no legs except for fins.”

“Urah.” We chanted.

“Tusks dropped like swords from its mouth and roared in my face a challenge, the first challenge.”

“Urah.” We chanted.

“Do Orcs ever refuse a challenge?”

“No. We are Orc.”

“I had nothing but my hands and soggy wits to commit this challenge. I was a foreigner intruding upon rightful territory. Do I still accept?”

“Yes. We are Orc.”

“The beast was five times my weight and fanged to rip me in two. It had advantage of terrain and elements. Did I back down?”

“No. We are Orc.”

“Are strength and death the only path to victory?”

“No. We are Orc.”

“The battle was fierce, the first of many. With no luck to aid me, no blade of Orc yet earned, I fought with nail and tusk. The thing was slow but its hide was thick. Again and again it lunged trying to crush me, I caught its timing like a hungry wave, in and out - in and out. When it lunged the third time I leapt upon it and sunk my tusks deep into the beast’s jugular. The bellowing death cry was the music of my heart. The neck meat dishonorably wetting my jowels a storm struck dropping rocks of ice from the sky. Orc cannot fight the heat of the sun or slay the cutting bite of wind. This I knew as the next hardship, the challenge of endurance. The pilgrimage would be fruitful with many more hardships to come. Each a lesson, a test of our spirit, and the only path in finding within, what is Orc.”

“Urah.”