Hungry Heart - Book #2 - Ch. 10 (Patreon)

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Chapter Ten – Belonging

Duril no longer experienced the world around him through the senses he was used to; instead of hearing the noises around him, he felt them as tiny drums beating along with his heart. His eyes were seeing more than just the shapes of orcs around him; they saw the bloodthirst in their gaze, some’s fear, and others’ rage, all in a spectrum of reds.

And more than anything, he felt the thrumming in Yarag’s huge body being transmitted to him with each move, no matter how slight, the Grand Chief made. In a strange way, his entire being appeared to be, at this point, just an extension of the other, and, at the same time, he was part of the tribes chanting behind him.

The clan leaders who had been earlier that day at the Grand Chief’s tent only to retreat with one of them killed stepped in front and growled at Yarag in the same fashion. The others made a circle around them, allowing them enough room to move, and soon the Grand Chief began to move slowly, clockwork-wise, while the clan leaders grouped together, protecting their backs and drawing their curved blades.

In contrast, Yarag was unarmed, but Duril didn’t believe he needed a weapon to begin with. As soon as the noises around them died down, the Grand Chief raised his fists and dropped them on the group of challengers who scattered away like chickens. He lunged forward as he did that, and the force of his movement left him uncovered on the flanks.

“At your right,” Duril shouted, and Yarag turned growling and slammed against one of the clan leaders who had tried to stab him as soon as he noticed the opening.

Yarag was only one, and the clan leaders were many. Yet, still, as the Grand Chief stood tall and rotated his body around while releasing a blood curdling war cry, his opponents stepped back and clutched their hands on the hilts of their swords, postponing their attacks.

No, Yarag wasn’t alone, Duril realized.

“Not-orc,” someone shouted at him from the sidelines, and his eyes searched frantically for the source of the sound.

The fight in the improvised ring had already made the dust rise so high up that Duril couldn’t see clearly. He stood on Yarag’s shoulder, keeping his balance with much difficulty.

“Not-orc,” the same voice called for him, and finally, he noticed Winglog who was pushing against the orcs gathered around to witness the challenge. “Catch!”

Duril barely had the time to brace his entire body and raise his arm as Winglog threw his curved blade at him, turning it, in the blink of an eye, into a spear of sorts. He caught it just as he was about to tumble down Yarag’s arm and steadied himself. The blade dug into his palm drawing blood, but he felt no pain, only noticing the red color and the clammy sensation that followed. After that, he clutched the weapon in his hand, just as he had seen the others do.

It should have felt like something unfamiliar, to carry that kind of weapon. Not that he had never wielded a blade in his life, but he had never been a warrior, only a healer. Yet, at this moment in his life, the pommel of the blade fit into his hand like he had held it an infinite number of times before. He swung it around to test it, and the sharp blade cut through the air with a swish.

At that moment, one of the clan leaders managed to sink his blade into Yarag’s thigh, and the Grand Chief shook under the force of the attack. That was enough to make Duril lose his balance and end up on the ground on his back.

The clan leaders shouted something, and Duril didn’t wait to try and understand what they were saying. Still clutching the blade, he jumped to his feet and began to swing it around, keeping the assailants at a distance. From Yarag’s leg, blood as dark as wine poured. The Grand Chief knelt and let out angered growls, but as soon as one of the challengers tried to find his way to land another hit, Yarag did as little as move his arm in a sweeping fashion, and the attacker was pushed away like a wooden figurine on a table. By how he cried out, rolling on the ground, the force of that blow must have caused serious damage. He was holding his sides, as if he had a few broken ribs.

Duril wasted no more time watching the orc howling on the ground and turned his entire attention on their opponents who were approaching them with enraged snarls contorting their faces.

He raised his arm just in time to counter a blade that descended upon him with the clear intention of slashing through him like he was nothing. As he pushed back the orc, he growled in the same way they all did, and swung his blade, managing to graze the other’s arm and make crimson blood blossom where it bit.

As a healer, all his life, he hadn’t even thought of being in that position. As much as he was aware that he was doing nothing else but fight for his life and defend himself, he felt a new sensation growing inside him. He launched his own attack, shouting and aiming for the other’s shoulder.

His opponent barely managed to move away at the last moment, and Duril’s blade met the ground. It was just his luck that the clan leader that had attacked him was now injured and didn’t move fast enough to lunge at him again. No, that wasn’t luck, he realized, but his own self that somehow knew how to use a sword and even be good at it.

Yet, the attacker had no qualms with continuing to attack him. Not far from them, Yarag was swinging his arms, knocking over the rest of their assailants. Of all of them, only the orc in front of him, watching him with his bloodshot eyes, was interested in hurting him or worse.

This time, he didn’t wait only to react to his opponent’s moves, and lunged forward, deciding to attack, as well. A few times, his blade met nothing but air but, all of sudden, his blade met something hard and Duril watched in disbelief as the steel in his hand was half-buried in the other’s shoulder. The orc stood still, his mouth wide open in shock, and then he fell on one side. Duril pressed his foot against his chest and pulled his blade free.

The sight of fresh blood on the hardened steel only made the new feeling inside him grow. This day, he was no longer Duril the healer, Duril the gentle. He was an orc warrior who knew how to wield his sword and protect the horde from those that wished it harm.

He raised the blade and hurried toward Yarag and his opponents. His feet barely touched the ground, and he was only slightly aware that the inhuman shouts he heard so clearly were coming from his throat.

He took one of Yarag’s opponents by surprise and slashed through his arm, making the severed limb drop to the ground, gushing out blood. The wind of the desert, its power, coursed through him and he shouted and shouted, unable to stop, forgetting, memories once dear slipping through his fingers like sand.

“Not-orc! Not-orc!” the tribes chanted now, while Yarag and Duril continued their attacks, making the clan leaders scatter around, scared now of the collective power that poured out of the Grand Chief and his unlikely partner.

Power, Duril thought, this was what it felt like. The blood pumped so fast through his veins that it was making him dizzy. But he had power, he was an orc, and he was fighting for his home, his kin, like he had never done before.

***

Toru didn’t dare to bother Demophios with questions, at least not as long as Varg and Claw could hear him. He had to ask some embarrassing things and didn’t want the others to think that he was like a toddler crying for his momma. So, all he needed right now was for a chance to be alone with the giant snake and find out what his heart most desired to learn.

His luck was that Demophios had conjured an oasis so that they could rest. Claw was already feeling better, after drinking fresh water and eating some fruit, and that meant that the snake didn’t mean them harm as he had suspected before. Although he still found him suspicious and wouldn’t place all his trust in him, he wanted to discover new things and Demophios was the only one to offer him the answers he desired.

For a while, he waited for the others to slip into a nap that their tired bones much needed, and only then, he removed the pin from his shirt and held it between his fingers. “Demophios, are you there?” he whispered.

“I’m always here,” the snake replied as if he should have known that.

“I didn’t know you were awake,” Toru added, a bit miffed over each time the wise ancient creature chose to taunt him over his childish ways.

“I’m always awake,” Demophios said again.

Toru hesitated. Suddenly, he was no longer that much in the mood to talk to the snake since he was so annoying and all-knowing about everything.

“Speak what’s on your mind, young tiger,” Demophios encouraged him, his harsh voice a bit gentler now.

“So, Duril went there because he was missing his family, right?” Toru asked, deciding that maybe he should give the snake a chance to prove himself.

“These are your words. Duril is an orc, and the pull of his blood is as real as for any other creature on the face of the earth.”

“Does that mean that you want to be with other snakes and do snake stuff with them?” Toru asked, annoyed that Demophios kept calling Duril an orc. He was much more than an orc, and ever since they met, he had behaved not at all like one. Not that Toru knew that much about orcs and their habits, but they were bloodthirsty creatures, and Duril was not.

“No, my appearance is that of a snake,” Demophios said calmly, yet still managing to make Toru feel like a hard-headed child who needed to have everything explained. “It has always served a purpose.”

“Forget about that, then. Tell me what you see. What’s Duril doing right now?”

“That is not how my insight works, young tiger.”

“How does it work? Can you even tell me anything?” Toru asked, a bit frustrated with how Demophios talked. Was he just like Agatha and Elidias, speaking in riddles and making everyone’s head hurt?

“Yes, I can tell you many things. Just ask the questions that weigh heavy on your heart.”

“Will Duril come back to us? Does he love those ugly orcs more than he loves us?” Toru blurted out.

“It is in your power to make him come back to you. And the love he has in his heart for you is different from the one he nurtures for his kin. You cannot compare the two, as they are not the same thing.”

“But which one is more powerful, then?”

“Do you love your healer? With all your heart?” Demophios asked.

“Yes,” Toru replied, not a shadow of doubt in his heart as he said that.

“Then you should give your love freely, without waiting for something in return. And if you love Duril the way you say you do, then you should understand why a part of his heart belongs with his tribe.”

Toru wanted to argue with that, when he felt a warm hand resting on his shoulder. Varg was already awake, which meant that they were only waiting for Claw to gain back his strength a little so that they could continue. Quickly, he put Demophios back where he belonged and closed his eyes, to pretend that he was sleeping.

Varg sighed and embraced him from behind. “I know that you miss him a lot. I do, too.”

No point in faking being asleep, then. “I wish that we could reach the horde already. I’ll bring him back.”

“We’ll bring him back. Don’t ever forget that you’re never alone in this, Toru,” Varg chided him, but with affection.

The wolfshifter’s large body offered him comfort, and Toru felt himself relaxing into that embrace. Varg caressed his chest slowly and kissed the back of his neck.

“You were talking to Demophios, weren’t you?” Varg asked.

“I was. He’s not saying a lot, though. He’s just like that old witch Agatha.”

“I do mind the comparison,” Demophios intervened.

Toru huffed. It was easy to forget that the giant snake who was no longer giant, but very tiny, really, was always there, awake and alert. That made him feel a bit self-conscious of how comfortable he was in Varg’s arms, so he stiffened.

“I think I’m going to put you in the bag for now,” Toru decided.

Varg lay on one side and watched him as he placed Demophios inside the bag, despite his protests.

“Demophios says some strange things,” he began as soon as he was back. “That Duril loves those orcs, too.”

“They’re his kin,” Varg confirmed. “It is the same with me and my pack. I’ll always love my brothers and sisters.”

“But,” Toru hesitated for a moment, “who do you love more?”

Varg chuckled and caressed Toru’s hair, tucking a few strands behind his ear. It was only this much he could take before he would start purring, so he moved slightly away.

“There is no possible way to compare the two. They both have a place in my heart. They are my heart. Do you think anyone could ever live with only half of it?”

Toru shook his head. He knew that Varg’s words made sense, and the wolfshifter was telling him the same thing as Demophios, but he didn’t find it easy to accept their truth. It seemed that Varg understood his torment as he reached for him and continued to caress his hair and his ears in a soothing way that made him close his eyes.

“Rest a little. We’ll need all our strength once we meet the mighty orcs and their horde.”

“What will happen then?” Toru asked in a voice as anxious as what he felt inside.

“We’ll see. But we’ll bring Duril back to us, don’t worry. It is our most important quest right now, and if I have to drag him away, I’ll do it. For you and me and us,” Varg promised.

That put a smile on Toru’s face. He lay by Varg’s side and fell asleep as the wolfshifter continued to caress his face.

***

Yarag tilted his head back and released a loud cry. The chanting stopped for a few moments, and even the opponents stopped. Duril clutched the blade in his hand hard and waited, his entire body turned into a sling waiting to be released so that it could reach its target. Then, all of a sudden, Yarag dropped his fists to the ground, making the ground shake and his attackers broke into a dash toward him. It would only last a blink of an eye, Duril thought as he watched them rushing toward the Grand Chief.

It was now or never. He shouted and sprinted toward the others from a flank. First, his blade met one of the attacker’s shoulders. He pulled it out quickly and moved it through the air, making it drop again and meet flesh once more. A burning sensation cut through his middle, but he paid it no mind. Yarag moved his head to and fro and swung his fists, crushing his assailants with unbridled force.

Never before had he been part of anything like that, Duril thought. To have his entire body shake from too much power, power that needed to be released and only had to find its way out. He continued to slash and dash about, while the Grand Chief continued his own path of destruction.

And then, there was silence again, and Duril found himself standing, breathing hard, his eyes burning in his head. By his side, Yarag stood victorious as well, while their opponents lay on the ground, some motionless, some still writhing in agony.

The crowd broke into cheers, a sea of curved blades raised above a sea of heads. Duril looked around, his heart filled with pride, but gasped when he was grabbed again by the Grand Chief and perched upon his shoulder like before. They walked through the crowd that parted before them, and Duril watched them from above, believing to the tiniest part of his being that he belonged there and was part of it all.

***

Yarag took him off his shoulder only after they reached the tent. Clan leader after clan leader walked inside and made an offering, retreating quickly to allow the others waiting to have their turn. Some offered food, others strange ornaments and jewelry made from bones. Duril stood by the Grand Chief’s right, silent, not daring to speak a word. He was, however, all eyes and ears, all the time, his chest rising and falling to the rhythm of the drums still pounding in his ears.

Winglog and Sog stood by the entrance, motionless and quiet, just as him, and Duril mimicked their stance regardless of the honor the Grand Chief had decided to bestow upon him. He would have to return Winglog’s curved blade, he thought. After all, it saved his life and helped him achieve his purpose of fighting for Yarag and what his name stood for.

After the bloody fight, Yarag appeared somewhat appeased, his eyes no longer as glassy and filled with madness, but he wasn’t talking, either. He offered nothing but grunts each time a clan leader entered and presented his gifts.

The last clan leader retreated and Winglog then hurried to pull closed the side flaps of the tent and seal them inside, or so it felt. Duril still waited for a sign, this ritual unknown to him, as much as his heart burned to learn it.

“Not-orc,” Yarag finally spoke, “you belong to my clan now. Come here and kneel.”

He hurried to sit in front of the Grand Chief and pressed his knees against the ground while holding his head low.

“Raise your eyes. Today, only pride will live inside your heart. And you deserve your curved blade.”

Duril stared directly into Yarag’s eyes. Yes, the madness was long gone from them now. They shone with cleverness, but they were still dark, only the gleaming of the fire lit inside the tent reflecting off them. “This is not my blade,” he said simply and placed the weapon on the ground. “It belongs to Winglog.”

Yarag barked laughter. “No. It belongs to you now.”

Duril didn’t hesitate. He didn’t have to understand the tiny whispers coming from Sog mostly. What he was doing right now was probably unheard of in the horde. “Winglog just lent it to me.”

“Winglog,” Yarag said slowly, “had no choice. The only reasons I’m letting you speak now are that you don’t know our customs and you proved your worth fighting by my side.”

“It is true,” Duril admitted. “And I’m honored to be part of your clan, Grand Chief. But the blade should return to its rightful owner.”

Yarag shifted and growled impatiently. “A blade doesn’t change owners unless there’s blood shed. Could it be that you knew that?” He turned his clever eyes on Duril, expecting an answer.

Duril shook his head. “No. I felt the call of blood and came to find the horde.”

Yarag laughed again. “I remember that you were dragged here by Winglog and his useless servant.”

“We met, it’s true,” Duril said. “They didn’t harm me and helped me reach you faster. It must have been fate, too. My cure --”

Yarag stopped him by cutting the air with one hand. “Silence,” he barked. “One never speaks of death but at the death’s door.”

Duril said nothing. There were so many things he had yet to learn about the horde and its customs. And if the Grand Chief didn’t let him talk about the cure he had made, so be it.

“To have the blade, to honor it, you must do one last thing,” Yarag said. “Winglog,” he called sharply.

The orc warrior stepped in front and knelt, keeping his head down.

“Now.” Yarag again talked to Duril. “Bring the blade upon his neck and claim it for yourself.”

Duril stood, his hand still clutched on the pommel.

Yarag’s eyes glinted in the dark, the reflections of the fire burning like hell’s embers. “Yes, like this. To be born a warrior, you must kill the one before you. Raise your blade and embrace your destiny.”

Duril clutched the blade tightly and his arm moved up, but then he dropped it, making it sink into the ground right in front of Winglog. “I refuse to earn my place by killing off the most loyal warrior the Grand Chief has.”

He waited, his entire body calm now. The Grand Chief would probably ask for his head instead and maybe put Winglog up to kill him, instead, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He wouldn’t be part of a horde that had such a ruthless ruler who didn’t see who those loyal to him truly were.

“I’ll kill you where you stand for disobeying,” Yarag said.

“Then I’ll accept my fate,” Duril replied. “Do as you wish with my life, as it belongs to the horde, and the horde belongs to you.”

Yarag picked up the blade with a low grumble. It looked so small in his hand. Duril turned toward him and didn’t close his eyes, as Yarag played with the blade, making it glint dangerously. Then, all of a sudden, the Grand Chief raised it and then it descended quickly.

Duril waited for the pain to slash through him, but only the blunt edge smacked against his shoulder, making him wince and stagger. He raised his eyes, confused about what the Grand Chief’s true intentions were.

And Yarag started laughing. “Orcs,” he said cheerfully, gesturing for Winglog to stand and Sog to come nearer, “we have a noble in our midst!”

Duril blinked a few times, not understanding. He would surely get a bruise where Yarag had hit him with the blunt edge, but it was nothing that wouldn’t heal in a few days.

The Grand Chief handed Winglog back the blade, and the orc warrior sheathed it quickly. While Yarag continued to be amused, Winglog and Sog appeared wary, probably not used to the things happening in front of their eyes.

“You did well, Not-orc, not only when fighting by my side, but right now, as well,” Yarag said as soon as the last bouts of laughter died from his voice. “No orc should shed another orc’s blood unless challenged. But you will need a blade of your own. Take the useless slave. Go with him and choose your rock. From it, you’ll make your blade. Now go.”

Duril didn’t wait to be told twice. The fire burning inside the tent produced enough smoke to make his eyes water. How the Grand Chief and the other two orcs could manage to breathe that air was beyond him, but probably it was something learned, which he would also get accustomed to, exposed to it enough.

He went out into the evening air and breathed in deeply, filling his lungs. The events of the last hours were fresh in his mind, but that didn’t make them feel any more real, and his mind struggled a bit.

Sog gestured for him to move along. “Let’s go, Not-orc, let’s go and find your rock.”

The orc walked in front, only turning from time to time to urge him to hurry. Duril could only guess what was inside Sog’s heart. “You’re not useless,” he blurted out.

Sog turned toward him and flapped his arms about. “The rock, the rock, we must find you the rock.”

“You helped me cure Yarag,” Duril insisted.

Sog’s big eyes grew even larger in his head, to the point that they looked like it would take little for them to pop out of their sockets like marble rocks. “You tricked Sog,” he said quietly after that.

“I had no choice,” Duril replied honestly. “He was dying.”

Sog shifted his weight from one foot to another. “We’re not supposed to talk of it.”

Duril nodded. “I know. But it’s just you and me now.” They had walked rapidly out of the camp, and they were in the open, in a sand field that was peppered with rocks of various shapes and sizes.

Sog didn’t appear to be fully convinced. “What if someone hears us?”

“Who?” Duril pointed around them, as far as their eyes could see. “Whatever we talk about, it will be only our secret.”

Sog brought his hands close to his chest in the same defensive manner Duril had seen him use before. “A secret? The horde should have no secrets.”

“And yet, those clan leaders conspired to murder Yarag, didn’t they?”

Sog nodded thoughtfully. “Secrets are bad.”

Duril sighed. That wasn’t what he wanted to say. “But this one is good because it’s ours. Together, we helped heal Yarag. He is now in good health, all powerful, because you cooked that stew that cured the poison from his blood.”

“I did,” Sog confirmed and his face contorted into a sly smile. “It was good stew. He ate it so fast. I wish I could have eaten the leftovers.” His chest heaved with a heartfelt sigh.

“No, that could have killed you. That’s why I didn’t let you have it.”

Sog’s eyes lit up again. “Sog has a strong belly.” He patted his midsection with pride. “I can eat anything.”

Duril felt compelled to explain. “I believe that, but given how strong the poison that put Yarag down was, there was a chance you could have fallen ill, too. I just didn’t want to risk it.”

“Why?” Sog cocked his head and gave Duril a long look.

“Because you’re part of the horde and my people, too.”

Sog laughed at first, then he pushed one hand against Duril’s shoulder. “The Grand Chief just made you part of the horde. You’re my people,” he said with pride and emphasis.

There was no way to argue with that, so Duril nodded. “I didn’t want anything to happen to you.”

“To me?” Sog’s amusement turned into wonder. “But I’m nothing but chum.”

“Yet, you’re important. Say, could Winglog have made the delicious stew you cooked for Yarag? Or could have I? No, it was you. You’re as important to the horde as anyone else.”

Sog’s face stretched into a large smile. “Sog is important. Sog is not useless.”

Duril nodded, encouraging him. “And even now, Yarag asked you to help me get my rock. Why would he do that?”

Sog perked up his ears, waiting avidly for an answer.

“Because,” Duril continued, “he wouldn’t entrust this task to anyone else. You see?”

Sog grinned, his face nothing less but an expression of pure happiness. “Sog is good at picking rocks. You’ll have a great blade, Not-orc. Let’s see, let’s see now.”

Duril followed Sog as he sauntered away through the field of rocks. “How are these even suitable for making blades? They’re nothing but stone.”

“Ha! You know nothing, Not-orc,” Sog replied, visibly proud of his knowledge. “The heart of each rock is made of iron. We’ll take it to the fire and burn it until it turns into hot honey.”

As he talked, the orc moved around, stopped from time to time by one rock, sniffed it, kicked it, and then walked forward. Duril was quite curious about the entire process. “How will you know which rock is good for making a blade out of it?”

“Sog has his secrets,” the orc said slyly.

“And I thought you said secrets were bad,” Duril pointed out.

“Will you tell on Sog?”

“No. We have our secret, too, about how we saved Yarag, don’t we?”

Sog nodded with enthusiasm. “For you, I will pick the perfect rock. Your blade will be the sharpest. You’ll cut through enemies like they’re made of butter.” He laughed, delighted with that image. “And Sog will cook them.”

Duril somehow doubted he wished to be part of that particular arrangement but he didn’t want to ruin Sog’s obvious happiness at the prospect. He waited patiently for the orc to stop by a rock.

In the meantime, he raised his eyes to the sky on which the first stars twinkled like tiny precious stones. They belonged to him, he realized, the same feeling of bliss and freedom flooding him as before.

And yet, there was a tiny part of him, one he could no longer understand, as if it was a long-forgotten friend he hadn’t seen in many years. This tiny part was pulling him back, wishing for him to remember.

But to remember what? On the canvas above one star lit and began burning a shimmering trajectory as it fell from the ceiling of the world. Another quickly followed.

“Shooting stars,” he said as his eyes took in the spectacle.

Sog stopped and looked at the same thing. He suddenly became frantic. “Let’s choose your rock fast. It’s bad omen, bad omen, Sog knows.”

“Bad omen?” Duril asked. “I thought you could make a wish upon a shooting star.”

Sog shook his head as his large hands felt the rocks impatiently. “And what if someone wishes for the world to be rid of orcs?” he asked.

Duril said nothing. Orcs didn’t wish upon shooting stars, did they? A sudden sensation of loneliness coursed through him, but lasted only for a moment.

TBC