Hungry Heart - Book #2 - Ch. 6 (Patreon)

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five 

Chapter Six - Zukh Kalegh

Duril walked as fast as he could, with Winglog pulling at the rope in front and Sog behind him, murmuring to himself words only he could make any sense of. All the time, his senses remained alert, and he observed his surroundings with growing interest. Anyone saying that the desert was nothing but the same thing for miles and miles had to be wrong. When he first entered the Great Barren he thought that stretching in front of him, as far as eyes could see, there were only dunes and flats, not one different than the next.

But now, he saw it all with new eyes. Winglog had to know where they were going, his steps were sure, and it had to be not only the result of the same low rumble Duril sensed in his blood, but also because he knew these lands. They were their lands. A large dune was followed by two smaller ones, and here and there, the sparse vegetation changed its color. As they were traveling at night, he shouldn’t have been so capable of noticing all these details, but his sight was more acute than ever before. Everything around him had a sharpness that he recognized, a few boulders scattered about, the way the sand felt beneath his feet, sometimes finer, sometimes coarser.

Even the desert appeared in different hues as the sun began to appear at the horizon. The meaning of time was different, too. Duril couldn’t say that he felt tired, at all, and he appeared to be very similar to his companions at this point, as they walked without complaining, as well.

He remembered what Claw had told him, about orcs preferring to move at night, and wondered briefly whether Winglog would stop once the sun was up. But as the disc of heat above them gained in power and began shooting its rays across the desert, Winglog showed no signs that he wanted to stop and rest. They continued their march in the scorching hot temperatures, just as they did at night.

Duril couldn’t help wondering at the hardiness of orcs. He was experiencing it, too, on his own skin, as he needed no sip of water, no food, and no rest, although they had been traveling for so many hours. The oasis must be far behind them now, and Duril fought to prevent his thoughts from scattering, causing him to forget.

Winglog was large and wore armor made of many leather straps crisscrossing his back and overlapping. In the middle of his back, as well as in the front, he wore a plate of metal that seemed to have been battered from seeing many battles. The lower part of his body was covered by a leather skirt made from strips of leather adorned by metal rivets. Apart from his armor, he was barefoot and didn’t have any other garments.

What impressed Duril even more, however, was the number of weapons Winglog carried. A curved blade was holstered across the metal plate on his back and a bola was attached to his belt, which must have been what he had used to take down Duril when chasing him. His entire belt was hung with sheaths, each serving to accommodate small daggers and knives of different sizes and shapes. The little time he had had at his disposal to observe Winglog from the front had allowed him to see that about a dozen spears appeared to have been woven through his armor on that side.

In contrast, Sog was considerably less armored and carried only that dagger, at least as far as Duril could tell. He only had a leather loincloth fastened around his midsection by means of a coarse rope. Where Winglog was at least several heads taller than Duril, Sog was about the same height as him, or maybe just a smidge above. But it was the two orcs’ difference in appearance that surprised Duril. Winglog had large arms as thick as trees, and his feet made the ground tremble as he walked. His girth was impressive, as were his chest and back that were large enough to compare favorably to the north wall of a house in Whitekeep. Sog, on the other hand, was willowy and bent from the waist, which might have been the reason why he appeared to be so much shorter.

He could only assume that Winglog was someone important on the food chain, while Sog was at the bottom of the hierarchical structure of the orc horde. The manner in which the leader addressed the other left no room for interpretation. Sog was a subordinate, and not even one with much value.

They reached the crown of a large dune of a more reddish color than the surrounding desert. Duril examined the sand with growing interest, and a small shudder traversed his spine. The reddish tint must have had a source that had nothing to do with natural causes. Between the grains of sand, clumped here and there, Duril could see small fragments of bone. Zukh Kalegh had to be close.

And then he saw it, a large valley stretched at their feet. The ground was almost black here, and the horde was present with a vengeance. All of a sudden there was clamor, deafening sound, as if the large dune they had just climbed had served as a shield of sorts to contain the noise within what Duril now perceived to be an ancient caldera, mostly eroded away and filled with packed sand. He stopped, impressed by the sight in front of him, and Winglog pulled at the rope hard, almost making him stumble forward, to get him on the move again.

There was no easy way to describe the horde gathered there. First of all, Duril couldn’t recall ever seeing such a large mass of people at the same time. From that distance, little distinction could be made between one body or another, as they all shared the same complexion and type of armor, more or less. Yes, from where he stood, the horde looked like a mass of metal and green skin with thousands and thousands of heads.

“What are they doing?” Duril asked, forgetting that he was supposed to be silent and not allowed to express his curiosity.

Since the sun was already up above their heads, it had to be about lunchtime or even later. The horde appeared to move haphazardly, waves and waves of orcs following different trajectories as they went about tasks which only they knew what they were, like schools of fish dragged to and fro by interior forces.

“Shut your trap, spy,” Winglog barked at him.

“They’re getting ready for the challenge,” Sog whispered from behind him.

Duril tensed for a moment, expecting Winglog to have heard that and punish the inferior orc accordingly. But nothing like that happened, as the noises of the horde were louder and louder as they drew near and appeared to have drowned out Sog’s comment.

“What challenge?” he whispered back, happy to find a partner for conversation after walking through the desert like that without exchanging one word with his captors.

“For becoming Grand Chief,” Sog explained.

Duril didn’t stop to consider why suddenly Sog was so interested in talking to him after dreaming for hours of different ways to cook him. Nevertheless, he was thankful for the orc’s change in attitude. The sooner he managed to forge some alliances, the better. He couldn’t tell what fate waited for him once he arrived at the final destination of this imposed journey, but he still was experiencing the same strange calm as before.

Orcs were impressive creatures, the kind nightmares were made of, but it might have been all those times when he had looked at himself in the mirror that made him immune to their appearance. As they drew closer and closer to the bustling throng, he began observing more details.

The orc horde had an obvious hierarchy. At the edge of each gathering of orcs, there were a few not much different in aspect than Sog who busied themselves with polishing weapons, carrying buckets filled with dubious waste, and even cooking. They were either very young, Duril noticed, or very old. And some were like Sog, scrawny and underfed, many at times with a missing limb, and an overall deplorable appearance.

If everything Claw had been saying about the orcs and their customs was true, a battle for becoming Grand Chief could only be bloody and violent in the extreme. Suddenly, all the war-like sounds coming from the groups of orcs moving about made perfect sense.

“Why is a challenge taking place now?” Duril whispered to Sog, hoping for another answer.

But before the orc could speak, Winglog pulled at the rope hard forcing him to stumble forward quickly so that he wouldn’t meet the ground face first. Sog remained quiet, and Duril didn’t dare to ask the question again. The big orc marched in front, grunting a greeting to some he met in his path, but never once stopping for conversation.

It was easy to see that Winglog’s large size was enough to make him an imposing figure in front of the other orcs, but if he were not mistaken, there was also a certain hostility in how everyone watched them pass. They didn’t ask Winglog about his prisoner, although curious looks rested now and then on Duril.

To their eyes, he had to look quite hideous, which was at least a bit amusing seeing how most humans had always feared his appearance and hated his resemblance to his sire. Maybe Elidias was wrong, and he didn’t truly belong anywhere, except with the friends he had made lately, and whose memory he currently struggled to retain with all his might.

While everyone seemed to be engaged in vivid activity, the place where Winglog finally took him was nothing like that. It appeared that the orcs here were quiet, although their position in the hierarchy, far away from the edge of the camp, must have meant that they were privileged in some way or other. Their armor was as heavily adorned as the one Winglog wore and they carried all sorts of weaponry; they were taller and larger than the rest.

Nonetheless, there was a dark veil over their faces, like they were mourning someone. The way they stood directly on the ground, their shoulders hunched, their hands brought together in front, had to mean that an unfortunate event must have taken place not so long ago there.

“What happened to make everyone so sad?” Duril asked, loud enough for Winglog to hear him.

The orc turned only to slap him lazily upside the head. “Yarag will see you now, spy.”

It was then that Duril noticed the presence of a large tent somewhere in the back, as they moved through the rows and rows of dejected looking orcs. They didn’t raise their heads to salute Winglog, and even the presence of a prisoner seemed to do nothing to shake them out of their strange stupor.

Winglog entered the tent with Duril on his heels. The inside of the tent was dark, but Duril’s eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light quickly and then he began to notice details. The tent was tall, and if he looked up, he could see that its ceiling was high above their heads.

On the ground, numerous pillows and blankets lay, something Duril found particularly odd given the hardy nature of orcs and their disdain for any sort of comfort other species favored.

“Grand Chief,” Winglog said out loud, “I caught a spy.”

“A spy?”

Duril felt a small chill run down his back at the sound of that cavernous voice, and only then did he notice that there was someone there, an orc, much larger than Winglog, who lay on a stack of pillows, on one side. His skin was a dark shade of green, much darker than the other orcs’ he had seen so far. His mouth was large and when he spoke, sharp rows of teeth were visible. His tusks were even more memorable, and Duril wondered briefly whether he used them as weapons of war. Just imagining that large orc rushing toward the enemy, his tusks lowered and ready to impale everything and everyone that happened to be in his path, was enough to make him break into a cold sweat. While until now he had been calm and even curious about his surroundings and this large tribe of orcs with whom he shared half of his blood, he now experienced the icy tendrils of fear spreading everywhere throughout his body and gripping his insides.

“Come closer, spy,” the raspy voice beckoned.

Winglog stepped out of the way and then pushed Duril forward.

“Who are you spying for?”

Duril could smell a stench coming off the Grand Chief’s skin, a smell that seemed much like that of a dying creature. It was heavier, thicker, than what he had often experienced with humans, but it couldn’t be mistaken for the natural way an orc would smell. If his first guess was right, Winglog’s superior was on his deathbed. It could be that he was old and approaching the natural last days of his life, but somehow Duril doubted it. The hostile looks everyone had thrown at Winglog on their way there now acquired a different significance.

The Grand Chief’s rule must be approaching its end, and that meant that the other groups would dethrone him soon and begin a fight for dominance. It appeared that he had landed there at the brink of an impending all-out war.

“I’m not a spy,” he began.

“You don’t sound like one.” The Grand Chief laughed but then stopped when a cough forced his gigantic body into convulsions. “But we’ll treat you like one anyway.”

Duril was certain he wouldn’t like that fate at all, whatever it was that orcs usually did to spies. Seeing how cruel and ruthless they could be toward their own, he doubted anyone considered an enemy would be treated better. Worse was more like what he suspected. Much worse.

“Grand Chief Yarag,” a voice called from outside. “The heads of the clans want to have a word with you.”

“Do they wish to feast their eyes upon this dying flesh?” Yarag called back, his thundering voice still strong despite his failing body. “I do not have time for them.”

It appeared that the clan leaders had something else in mind. Noises of a fight broke out, and soon, a group of heavily armored and armed orcs rushed inside.

“Yarag, you’re not fit to lead us,” one of them spoke.

“Says who?” Yarag shot back, forcing himself to his feet.

Duril watched in disbelief as the gigantic orc raised himself to his full height in front of him. Having such a tall tent made complete sense now. All the others, including the belligerent clan heads, fell silent, as the colossal shadow of the de facto leader fell over them.

“We say,” the orc who spoke first replied, but his voice was shaking already.

“Be gone,” Yarag ordered. “You’ll do more good for yourselves to barge in here when there’s no more breath in this body.”

“We’re here to challenge you,” the orc said, his voice more and more unsure.

A moment of complete silence followed, but it was broken by a swish through the air. Duril could feel his eyes threatening to pop out of their sockets at that display of skill. Yarag, despite his obvious state of severe illness coupled with his large heavy-set body had been so quick to throw an axe that no one had had the time to react.

The next moment, the orc who had spoken earlier fell to his knees and then collapsed onto the ground. The axe had gone straight through his forehead and in his fall his head split open like a ripe melon. Duril unconsciously moved a few steps away, and Winglog had to pull on his rope and force him back.

“Take this scum out of here,” Yarag ordered. “Does anyone else dare to challenge me?”

The others didn’t dare to speak another word, let alone offer challenge. They grabbed their fallen companion and rushed out of the tent as if it were on fire.

Duril couldn’t tear his eyes away from the puddle of blood on the floor that was slowly absorbed by the sand beneath.

Yarag collapsed back on his pillows. After a long silence, he finally spoke again. “Tell us what you know, spy, or we will make sure to tear you apart so slowly that you’ll wish you’d never been born.”

***

“Do you really think Duril ran away to join the horde?” Varg asked Claw as they stopped for a short break, and Toru took it upon himself to run to one of the nearby dunes, climbing it so that he could see if the horde was anywhere in sight.

“The call of blood is loudest in those who have never heard it before,” Claw replied with a small nod of the head.

During their stops, Claw changed to his human self. Varg wondered briefly whether the desert was too taxing on the bearshifter, given how he had spent three centuries underground in the darkness and now was being forced to walk through the sun.

As if Claw could hear his thoughts, he began speaking. “Bears are not creatures of the desert. The fur on my back gets me so hot it’s hard to breathe,” he explained.

“Then travel like this,” Varg recommended.

Claw shook his head. “It is my bear nose that can keep track of the horde, and we’re lucky that they’re not moving just yet. I can assure you that it would be almost impossible to detect it if I were to be in my human shape.”

“You’re doing it for us,” Varg said matter-of-factly.

“Indeed,” Claw confirmed. “So it’s worth it.”

Varg nodded at him in acknowledgement and gratitude.

“There is something I’m going to tell you since we’re briefly alone,” Claw continued. “The young one doesn’t need to know it just yet so that he doesn’t get any wrong ideas in his unripe mind.”

“Feel free to say what’s on your mind,” Varg urged the bearshifter as his eyes followed Toru, who was out of earshot at a good distance away at the top of the dune.

“Let’s say we reach the horde. Let’s say that we manage to get through it and walk about without anyone asking us what business we have there. And let’s say that we find our friend.”

“No one believes that it would be that easy.”

“I know. But when we find him, he might not behave like the Duril we know. The desert began to change him the moment we set foot in it.”

“Duril is much stronger than that,” Varg protested. “And I say that because I’ve known him for a little longer than you.”

“True,” Claw admitted. “But I want us to be prepared for the worst, even if we are forced to drag him out of there, his mouth gagged and his limbs tied up. We might have to get him out of the desert before the orc blood in him quiets down again.”

“Is he truly turning into an orc? As we speak? Is this what you believe is happening?” Varg asked.

Claw nodded. “Do you remember how it was when you first started to shift?”

“It’s been a long time, but yes.”

“We’re born as cubs and pups,” Claw said. “We’re not too keen on handling our human side. At least, I wasn’t,” he added with a small laugh.

“You weren’t the only one, I can assure you of that,” Varg replied. At first, he had refused to spend any time in his human shape, as much as the leaders of the pack insisted. He had been used to seeing them as humans, and he had thought that it would be so amazing to do the same, but the first hours spent inside his human skin had been horrendous.

“But we learn to deal with it, to embrace it. We have our elders and our way of life that teaches us,” Claw said. “Who did Duril have to help him understand the change in him that must be happening, yes, even as we speak?”

Varg sighed. He had to agree with Claw. “Shouldn’t we have had this talk with him before?”

“We couldn’t even tell if he would hear or heed a call from his true tribe. He seemed so human that I sincerely believed that he wouldn’t be the kind to leave us in the middle of the night and hurry toward the sound of the horde’s horn. He seemed so balanced, so well-adjusted to his condition.”

“Will he simply forget about who he was once he’s with them?” Varg pointed in no direction in particular, as only Claw could sense where the horde was. His nose was useless in this situation, as much as he had counted on it on so many occasions in the past.

“His mind will be altered, without a doubt. But I wouldn’t lose hope. We have here,” Claw patted Duril’s bag, “the objects he loves most, and we also have the people he loves most, isn’t that so?”

Varg nodded. Their conversation had to be cut short as Toru hurried down the dune and back to them. Claw didn’t discourage him from running about and doing everything he could in their quest to find the healer, although they were all depending on the bearshifter’s incredible sense of smell to get them where they needed to be. And Varg could appreciate the wisdom of keeping Toru busy and feeling like he was helping find their beloved Duril, along with many of the bearshifter’s other contributions to their expedition. Their newest companion had proved to be dependable both as a close friend and an ally.

***

Toru scouted the horizon with worried eyes. How could he have been so silly before, secretly wishing that he would meet the orc horde, see it with his own eyes, and then live to tell the tale, like the hero of a children’s story? Now, the reality that Duril was out there with them was starting to sink in and self-loathing filled his mind.

Even if Duril had left of his own accord, which he still found hard to believe regardless of what Claw was saying, that didn’t mean that those bloodthirsty orcs would just welcome him with open arms. Most likely, right now, he had already been captured and tortured. That was what his heart was saying, although he didn’t want to believe it because he was afraid he might go crazy at the thought of the gentle healer in pain. And he certainly didn’t want to think that Duril was now an orc of the horde who wouldn’t want to throw as little as a look backwards at his life as he had known it.

Could he really blame Duril if that were the case? His life among humans had been nothing but a long string of hardships, always abhorred, always overlooked, and sometimes even worse. Although there had been a few people who had been nice to him in Whitekeep, Toru had seen very clearly that Duril hadn’t been much loved although all he had ever done was to help them and serve them without saying a bad word or lashing back at them as they deserved.

And then there was this damned desert, which he had been so impatient to see. He hated it, with its never-ending dunes and sand that got so hot that the soles of his feet were now painful to step on. If it weren’t for his inner tiger working to heal him fast, they would have been covered with blisters by now. And that was nothing compared to what Duril might be suffering at this very moment.

Only the thought that his friend and lover would get up and leave like that without one word of goodbye made his soul clench so hard that he couldn’t even breathe. That was why he didn’t want to believe what Claw was saying. The Duril he knew would never abandon them like that.

It was useless to scout the horizon with his eyes. Nothing different from what they had seen so far appeared. They all counted on Claw’s bear nose and how it could lead them to the horde.

He would go through it from the first to the last orc to find Duril and bring him back home, where he belonged. His home was with them, not with those creatures of the desert with nothing but killing and plundering in their hearts.

With that decision made, he strode back to Claw and Varg, ignoring the burning of the soles of his feet. They spoke little as they traveled, the only words uttered coming from Claw, who told them when the scent of the horde was getting stronger.

If Claw hadn’t been with them, they would have been in real trouble. But even if he were there only with Varg or alone, he would still scour the desert from one end to the other to find Duril. And that was something that nothing would ever change.

“Have you seen anything?” Varg asked him.

Toru shook his head. At this point, he was aware that the wolfshifter was just humoring him since they all knew they depended on nothing but Claw’s nose to find their way to the horde and Duril.

Claw nodded and shifted into his bear. Varg adjusted Duril’s bag on the bear’s back, and they began their grueling march through the ruthless sun without another word.

***

“I’m not a spy,” Duril said again. “I’m from a place called Whitekeep, and I must cross the desert.”

Yarag barked a wheezing laugh. “Whitekeep. It’s only humans there. You want me to believe that you lived among them, without being hunted down like the beast you are?”

“I’m not a beast,” Duril said simply.

Yarag leaned forward. Even as he lay there, on one side, he was still at eye level with Duril and observed him keenly. It wasn’t farfetched to guess that Yarag must have secured his place as Grand Chief not only through sheer power but through smarts as well. An intelligent spark lit his bloodshot eyes, but Duril knew better than to mistake that as a sign of kindness.

“What are you, then?” Yarag asked.

“I’m a healer.”

Yarag broke into another wheezing laugh. “You think trickery like that will help you, spy? Let me guess. The next thing that will come out of your mouth is that you can help me, expecting me to be a dum-dum who would accept poison from you under the pretext of a miraculous treatment.”

“I don’t know if I can help you unless you tell me your symptoms and how you became ill.”

Yarag’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “We have a clever spy here. Put him in the pit. I need to think of what best to do with him.”

He waved them out. Duril guessed that the Grand Chief must be too tired to question him properly after his earlier exertion. But that didn’t mean that his reprieve would be long-lived. The horde was seething in the anticipation of violence, and Duril felt he was caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place.

***

Sog pushed him into a hole in the ground that barely allowed him any room to move. If he had been an orc as large as Winglog, he would have found it difficult to do anything else but stand, something that was bound to wear down even the hardiest of the orcs.

“Hey, Sog,” he called, when he noticed that the orc sat by the edge of the pit, probably put in charge of guarding him.

“What do you want, spy?” Sog asked, his voice a croak. Since the theory that Duril was someone who wanted to infiltrate into their midst with the intention of finding some important secrets, the smaller orc took it as the truth.

“How did you lose your tusk?” Duril asked gently.

Sog stared into the pit, at him, and there was curiosity in the way he blinked and continued to sit there, examining the captive. “Sog won’t tell you a shameful thing like that.”

“I don’t have an arm.” Winglog had thought it inadvisable to release him from his bonds, so he could only move his legs.

“Did something eat it?” Sog asked, after a short deliberation with himself.

“No. I was in a war, and the enemy sliced through it.”

Sog let out a ragged laugh. “And did they eat it, after?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Too bad,” Sog said with a heartfelt sigh. “I would have turned it into a delicious stew.”

“Are you a cook?” Duril wished he could steer their conversation away from the topic of how tasty he would be if Sog were allowed to drag him to the pot. Even so, he needed to do it slowly, without letting the other know of his real intentions.

“A cook, yes,” Sog said with excitement. “I’ve always been a cook.”

“What will happen to you if Yarag dies?”

Sog looked fearfully around. “No clan will want Sog.”

“Then you surely care that he survives, right?”

Sog leaned over the pit, craning his neck and staring at Duril. “Yarag is the Grand Chief. He dies, and Sog will be hacked to pieces and fed to the crows.”

“Then how about I teach you how to heal him?” Duril couldn’t be sure of his plan, but it was the best he had. If Yarag died, chances were that chaos would break loose in Zukh Kalegh. And that could easily mean his demise.

“You only try to poison him,” Sog said with determination.

“I won’t do that. But he’s dying anyway. He smells like death,” Duril said quietly.

Sog shifted and moved his head about as if he was trying to wrap it around what Duril was saying.

“You’re a great cook, I bet,” Duril continued.

“The best cook, Sog is the best cook,” the orc began to sway his body forward and backward while holding his crossed legs with his hands.

“So you’re the one who gives Yarag the food he eats, right?”

“Yes, yes, even though Sog only has just one tusk left, the Grand Chief doesn’t want another cook. Sog is the best,” he added with conviction.

“Making a healing potion is not that much different from cooking. But first, can you tell me what happened that made Yarag fall ill?” Duril prayed inwardly that Yarag wasn’t only dying from old age, and he had miscalculated everything.

“You’re a spy,” Sog reverted to his initial speech. “I can’t tell you that.”

“Sog, if you’re the one to heal Yarag, he’ll be thankful. Maybe he’ll give you more than a dagger to carry.”

“More than a dagger?” Sog said slowly, considering the idea and probably finding it tempting.

“Yes, definitely more than a dagger. Maybe a curved blade,” Duril insisted, hoping that sounded good enough for Sog.

By how the orc started to fret and mumble incoherently, owning a curved blade appeared to be a good thing. If that were all he had to work with, he would just have to make it work.

TBC

Next chapter