Visitors

Two

Visitors

Winter 946/947 MC

A

horn sounded in the distance, and most of the tribe stopped what they were doing, rushing to grab spears and axes. Urgon emerged from his hut to thick snow descending over the village. Many were already gathering by the great firepit, their breath frosting in the chilly winter air. He soon spotted Kraloch standing off to the side, spear in hand, watching as the hunters talked amongst themselves. Urgon stomped through the snow, coming to a halt beside his friend.

"Do you know what the horn means?" asked Urgon.

"I have no idea," replied Kraloch, "but the chieftain has gathered all the hunters she can. I suspect they intend to investigate."

"Do you think we might be under attack?"

"I doubt it. After all, what enemy would announce their arrival?"

"Well, we Orcs do not use horns!"

The hunters, including Urzath, were standing around, talking amongst themselves when Shuvog emerged from the chieftain's hut, spear in hand.

"As you most likely heard," she began, "outsiders approach. I shall lead a group of hunters into the hills and intercept whoever it is. The rest of you are to remain here and guard our homes." She turned to Ruloch, one of the oldest hunters. "Bring the elderly and young to the great hall where it is easiest to protect them. Tarluk, you are with me. Select two dozen of your best hunters."

Shuvog gave them a moment to organize themselves, then set off at a jog, the hunters following closely.

Urgon grabbed Kraloch's arm. "Come," he said. "We shall follow. This is our chance to discover who approaches."

"They might be heading into danger," warned his comrade.

"Which makes it even more interesting."

"And if a fight ensues?"

Urgon grinned. "Then we can come back and warn the others."

"You convinced me," said Kraloch, "but let us proceed cautiously, for it would not do well if we were spotted. It could lead to trouble for both of us."

Urgon grinned even wider. "You are a wise Orc, my friend."

"Wise? Or foolhardy? I might remind you we are not yet full-grown and are ill-prepared for battle."

"Come now. We may be young, but that only means we can outrun any enemy that might appear."

"Can you outrun a mountain cat?" asked Kraloch.

"What mountain cat would use a horn?"

"We should wait until the snow obscures them, then follow in their wake. Their footsteps will be easy to find in this snow."

"Good idea," said Urgon, "but stay alert. I would hate to be taken by surprise."

Shuvog and her hunters disappeared into the blizzard before Urgon led Kraloch forward, navigating the deep snow as best he could. The footsteps were easy enough to follow, but he was surprised to see how quickly the view behind them became lost in the blowing snow.

"I do not like this," said Kraloch. "It is difficult to walk in the drifts, and the village is gone from sight. How, then, are we to navigate?"

"Our chieftain has marked the path by her footsteps. You should worry less, Kraloch. Might I remind you it was your idea to follow at a distance?"

"And now I am regretting the choice."

They had trudged through the snow for what felt like an eternity when shadowy figures emerged from the whiteout. Urzath led the way, using her spear as a staff. The figure behind her, however, was significantly shorter and waist-deep in the snow. Urgon stopped, gaping in fascination, causing his companion to stumble into him.

"What are you doing?" said Kraloch.

In response, Urgon pointed. "Look," he said. "If I am not mistaken, that is a Dwarf."

The hunter, Urzath, drew nearer, then spotted the younglings. "What are you two doing out here?"

"We came to see what all the commotion was about," said Urgon.

She halted before them. "This," Urzath said, "is Gambreck Ironpick. He comes to us from the mountain fortress of Stonecastle."

"Greetings," said the Dwarf, his mastery of the Orcish tongue impeccable. "I bring you the warm regards of my king."

"This is Kraloch, son of Maloch, and this is Urgon, son of Shular and Urdar."

Gambreck moved closer, then knelt before Urgon. "I honour your loss."

"I do not understand," said Urgon.

More Orcs and Dwarves appeared through the snow, and then the young Orc noted their burden. They pulled sleds piled high with supplies, but one stood apart, for on it lay what looked like a body, wrapped in coarse blankets. He felt his heart ache, then ran forward, ignoring those around him.

There could be no doubt it was the body of an Orc, for his people were broad of shoulder and significantly taller than the mountain folk. As the Dwarf's words echoed in his head, he knew with absolute certainty who lay before him. Urgon fell to his knees, the tears coming freely.

"F-Father," he stammered.

Strong arms gripped his shoulders, and Urzath's voice spoke with reverence. "He is with the Ancestors now."

Gambreck approached. "Come," he said. "Let us take him to your village, and I will relate to you the story of his bravery."

Urgon stared at the Dwarf. Gambreck looked back through a face full of hair, yet there was compassion in his eyes. Other Dwarves trundled past, pulling the sleds, but Gambreck remained.

"Your father was brave," he said, "and gave his life to save your people. Without him, we would never have learned of your plight."

Urgon felt an anger building within him, a fire that threatened to overwhelm him. "He is gone," he spat out, "and shall never tread the paths of our village again." The young Orc wanted to lash out, to destroy something, anything to overcome his feelings of helplessness. He turned back to the Dwarf. "Why do you bring his body to us?"

"Do you not bury your dead?"

"The body is but a vessel," said Urgon. "It is the spirit that lives on in the Afterlife."

"Ah. It appears our traditions differ from yours," said Gambreck. "Your father made a great sacrifice. In our culture, we honour such bravery, even if you do not. Now come, let us follow the others before we become lost in the snow."

The Dwarf began moving again, struggling through the drifts, even though those in front had forged a path.

The Orcs of the Black Arrow were scattered across multiple villages, but it was here, in Ord-Dugath, where their chieftain lived. As such, the chieftain’s hut had been built large enough to house the entire village when needed. Urgon had to force his way in this day, as it was packed full, not only with Orcs but with their visitors, the Dwarves.

Along the centre of the room lay a long firepit, with the villagers arrayed around it. Shuvog, their chieftain, sat at the western end while Urgon's mother, as the senior shaman, was by her side. Kraloch waved Urgon over, and he sat on one of the woven mats that covered the floor.

"Has anything happened yet?" asked Urgon.

"Shuvog welcomed them, but there have been no announcements as yet."

"And the Dwarves, do they mean to stay?"

"We must wait and see."

Shular stood, her staff held high to get everyone's attention. All eyes turned towards her, then she sat, allowing the chieftain to take her place.

"My fellow tribemates," began Shuvog, "it has been a hard winter. The mountain deer fled from the storms that have plagued us for these last few ten-days. As a result, the tribe has suffered, so much so that we were forced to take drastic steps to survive. We all sacrificed, eating sparingly in the hopes we might live to see another day. Had we continued in this manner, we would all have surely perished, but one amongst us braved the elements to bring us hope for the future. The story of his great sacrifice is best told by those who witnessed it, and so I present to you, Gambreck Ironpick, one of the mountain people."

She sat, allowing the Dwarf to stand. The silence in the great hall continued, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

"We came here," the visitor said, "not only to bring you food but to honour the sacrifice of one of your greatest hunters. Without the efforts of Urdar, we would have remained in ignorance of your troubles. He braved the harshest of winters to find us, a trek that ultimately led to his demise. Our patrol found your heroic hunter, half-frozen and starving to death in the high hills of the stone peaks. He was near his end, but before he passed, he told us of your plight. We resolved to deliver aid as quickly as possible, and so we set out with food, blankets, and the body of this honourable Orc."

He paused, his eyes roaming the crowd. "Six sleds we brought, and more will follow for your other villages. We will not let our ancient brethren starve!"

Latuhl, the master of wolves, stood, signalling he had a question.

"Yes?" said Gambreck.

"What price do you ask in return?"

"None," said the Dwarf, looking over at Shuvog. The chieftain nodded, then rose as Gambreck sat, yielding the floor.

"Let us all honour the name Urdar," she called out. The Orcs passed around bowls containing a pale white liquid. Each was to take a sip, then hand it on, remaining silent as the ceremony unfolded.

Urgon watched as a bowl come his way. Everyone knew of the milk of life—it was used for solemn occasions between people of import. Yet he had never seen it handed out to the entire village before, nor had he ever consumed it himself. When a bowl was finally placed in his hands, he held it to his lips with trembling fingers. Taking a sip, Urgon felt a warmth engulf him, then passed it on to Kraloch. He watched his friend's face, eager to see if he experienced the same sensation, but if he did, there was no indication.

The ritual finally complete, Shuvog dismissed the assembly, and Orcs filed out of the hut. Standing up, Urgon felt light-headed and reached out, grabbing Kraloch's arm to steady himself.

"Are you unwell?" asked his friend.

"My senses are jumbled. It is as if the room is spinning."

"Close your eyes, and it should pass. I have heard that it is a not unknown for some to react strangely to the milk of life the first time they try it."

"Did you have the same sensation?"

"No," replied Kraloch, "but then again, I am not suffering a recent loss."

"I am not weak because of my father's death!"

"Perhaps not, but the news was a shock. It takes time to adjust to such things."

Urgon closed his eyes, willing away the sensation. He opened them to see Kraloch staring at him.

"Maybe you should lie down," said Kraloch. "Your eyes are acting strange."

"Strange in what way?"

"They are constricted, as they would be in bright light, yet the hut is dim. Let me take you home."

"If you insist," said Urgon, "but you had best steady me. I fear I might stumble."

Kraloch led him outside, and the moment they hit daylight, Urgon felt a stabbing pain in his eyes and fell to his knees, his hands instinctively covering his face. His actions did not go unnoticed, and his sister, Kurghal, was soon there, kneeling by his side.

"What has happened?" she asked.

"He drank the milk of life," answered Kraloch, "and now his eyes are not adjusting to the light of day. Is this normal?"

"I have heard of reactions like this before, but never have I seen it for myself. We must take Urgon home where he can rest until he is recovered."

Urgon awoke, finding himself wrapped in furs while the fire crackled away, light flickering against the hut's walls. Soft voices reached his ears, and he raised his head to see his mother, Shular, sitting by the fire, Kurghal by her side. Across from them was Gambreck, along with one of his companions.

"Your bondmate made a great sacrifice," the Dwarf was saying. "His honour is admirable."

"You talk to me of honour," said Shular, "yet I would gladly exchange it, were he to be returned to me."

"What you ask is impossible, but we shall ensure that at least his memory lives on as an inspiration to others."

"Why? Of what interest is an Orc's fate to the mountain folk?"

"Orcs we may not be," said Gambreck, "but his actions serve as an inspiration to us all." He turned to his companion and nodded, resulting in the fellow pulling something out of a large sack. "Please accept these gifts from our people as a token of our respect for what you lost."

Urgon strained to see what was being exchanged, but his sister's back blocked the view.

"These are fine gifts indeed," continued Shular, "and I thank you for them."

"There is more."

"More?"

"Yes," said the Dwarf. "We wish to build a memorial to Urdar, something that would allow his sacrifice to be recognized."

"And what form would this memorial take?"

"A stone pillar, the height of an Orc. We would inscribe it with runes to tell his story."

"Orcs do not have a written language."

"I have been told this," said Gambreck, "but the Dwarves and Orcs do share an ancient language. It has changed over the centuries, but I believe it would still have meaning to your Ancestors. I would like your permission to build it."

"My permission? Surely that is a decision for our chieftain?"

"I spoke with Shuvog, and she left it for you to decide."

Shular sat for some time, staring into the flames. The others waited patiently, but Urgon couldn't understand what was taking her so long to make up her mind. His mother finally stood, looking the Dwarf in the eyes.

"Very well," she said. "You may build your monument."

The Dwarves both stood, bowing deeply.

"Thank you," said Gambreck. "We shall leave you now and mark out a suitable location." They turned, leaving the hut in solemn silence.

Kurghal turned to her mother. "What shall I do with these?" she asked.

"Bury them," Shular replied, "just as I must bury my feelings for Urdar."

Urgon felt anger building within him. Did she not care for his father? He knew his sister had no love for his sire, but his mother's words drove a knife through his heart.

Kurghal rose, the bundle held before her. Whatever it was, it was wrapped in a blue cloth—an unusual colour amongst Orcs.

"I shall see to it," she said, making her way to the hut's entrance. She paused for a moment, looking back at her mother, then lifted the flap, departing into the cold, wintery night.

A wave of frigid air drifted across to Urgon, and he tightened his grip on the furs. He tried to guess what gift the Dwarves might have left, but he could think of nothing. Closing his eyes, he was determined to return to sleep, then heard the soft sobs of his mother as she finally mourned the loss of her bondmate.

The following day, the Dwarves set to work. Urgon and Kraloch watched them chisel stone blocks, curious as to what they were doing. The mountain folk laboured away at it for nearly a ten-day, until finally, a stone obelisk with four sides and a cap shaped like a small pyramid emerged at the edge of the village. It stood just above Urgon's head, but was thin enough he could put his arms around it, should he so desire. Once the Dwarves were done, Urgon asked them about the strange markings decorating the sides.

"Those," explained Gambreck, "are Dwarven runes. They tell the story of how your father saved your people." He pointed at a symbol. "You see this one here?"

Urgon stared at the mark. It consisted of two lines at an angle, forming an arrowhead pointing upward. Above this was a single line pointing to the sky, while between them sat a horizontal line.

"What of it?" the young Orc asked.

"This is your father. It's the symbol of a mighty hunter, for that is the true meaning of his name. Maybe one day you too will gain fame as a hunter?"

"Are your people hunters?"

"Some," said the Dwarf, "but as we live in cities, such a trade is rare."

"Then how do you feed yourselves?"

"We farm."

"We live in the foothills and can't grow anything here. How, then, do you manage to do so in the mountains?"

"We use large underground caves to grow our crops.”

"It must be quite something to see," noted Urgon.

"Indeed it is. When you're old enough, you can visit Stonecastle and see it for yourself. You would be welcome there, Urgon of the Black Arrows."

"I would? What have I done to earn such a reception?"

"You carry your father's legacy."

A warmth came to Urgon's cheeks, turning him a darker green. "I am humbled by the offer." He gazed once more at the runes. "Tell me, if you would, why this symbol? All I see is a series of lines, yet you say it represents a great hunter?"

"It does. The bottom lines represent the legs of a hunter, the horizontal line his spear."

"And the line that points to the sky?"

"The upper torso and head," said Gambreck. "When we work stone, we use straight lines whenever possible."

"And this is how Dwarves communicate?"

"It is. We call it the ancient tongue. At one time, we shared it with your distant ancestors."

"They would have to be distant indeed," said Urgon, “for to my knowledge, no one here has even heard of such a thing.”

"Perhaps one day your people will return to the ancient written language of your forefathers?”

"Perhaps," replied Urgon, "but I doubt it will be in my lifetime."

"You might be surprised," said Gambreck. "You are yet young, with an entire life ahead of you. Much can happen in that time."

"Yes, but my people do not live as long as Dwarves. You will still tread this land when my descendant's descendants have long since joined the Ancestors."

The Dwarf smiled. "Also true, but I've a feeling your legacy will last much longer than mine." He patted the monument. "Mark my words, your father was very brave. I think you are destined to follow in his footsteps."

"And die in the snow?"

"Hardly. There are many ways to impact the lives of your people, Urgon. You must find your own path to tread."