Orc 1 (Patreon)

This month, Ky requested that I write a Tarzan-style story with orcs instead of gorillas. Okay, sure, I'll give it a fling.

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With sword out, Nargol peeked inside the wagon. Most of the caravan had burned. The unburned wagons looked more like sea urchins than vehicles, with arrows sticking from every wooden surface. Seeing no one to fight, she tore open a burlap bag and skeins of colorful wool spilled out. “Nothing useful!” she growled.

Humans had a ridiculous amount of free time. Judging from the remnants of the caravan, Nargol figured it was because they didn’t bother learning how to fight. What else could explain why they’d cut the wool off of sheep, spin it into yarn, dye it colors, and then knot it endlessly until it turned into clothing? Orcs just slaughtered the sheep while their wool was the thickest, tanned the leather, and stitched the pieces into vests. It was far simpler, quicker, and the lambskin vests were warmer than human “sweaters”.

She hruffed around her tusks and was about to leave, but a tiny motion caught her eye. Pointing her sword into the dim light, she managed, “You there! Come out!” in the common tongue.

Nothing moved. No one replied.

Refusing to be drawn into a trap, she sliced the bonnet free from the wagon’s sideboards, then threw the oiltarp up across the wagon’s bows, letting the sunlight spill in.

“Find something, my daughter?” grunted Karguk, his heavy boots crunching against gravel.

Nargol pushed a flimsy blanket aside, exposing a tiny pink form inside. Her face softened, her lips drawing tight between her tusks. In a low voice, she said, “A human child.”

The older orc grunted as he looked around the smoldering caravan. “I’m sure its parents are dead. There will be no reward in carrying it to a settlement.” He peeked over her shoulder and his lips curled in disgust. “Throw it to the wargs. Better it fills their bellies than the scavengers.”

His thick green fingers reached toward the child, but Nargol shoved his arm away. “No, wait,” she said.

Karguk sighed, lowering his eyes. “Don’t do this,” he whispered. “Humans … they are squishy and fragile … weak.”

Nargol nodded and rested her chin on the wagon’s edge. “They are,” she whispered, but her eyes didn’t leave the girl in the basket.

Karguk stepped closer. He put an arm around Nargol’s muscular shoulders. The other, he extended slowly toward the child. He poked at her, pushing her lips apart. “It has no teeth, no tusks,” he whispered. She grabbed at his finger, but it was too thick. She couldn’t hold on. “It’s grip is as weak as candlelight.”

“Yes,” agreed Nargol, but her big red eyes never left the child, never blinked.

He reached for the basket. “I will—” he started to say, but she shoved his arm away once more.

Karguk sighed. With his meaty fists, he grabbed the big orc by her biceps, turning her until she faced him. Then he waited until she finally looked away from the child, finally met his eyes.

“Nargol,” he said quietly, “you are the war horn in my battle, the blood in my beard, the gristle between my teeth.”

He grinned wide at her, and she finally managed a small smile too.

“But it is human,” he reminded her, “it cannot replace Yagh—”

In an instant, the smile vanished from her face, the ever-present look of anger returning. In one smooth, practiced motion, she pulled the dagger from her belt and drove it deep into his chest.

# # #

Karguk walked through the tall grass, summer sun beating down on his green head. Big beads of sweat ran down his cheeks before vanishing into his shaggy grey beard. A small axe jingled from his belt as he strode toward his daughter’s house.

Squat and wide, the house reminded him of a dwarf. Stone slabs piled high to form walls, narrow tree trunks and sod formed the roof. Out front, much of the grass had been trampled flat and a massive black warg sprawled across it, legs pointing up, and belly baking in the sunshine.

“Nar!” chuckled the orc. “Who’s a good boy, Nar?”

The warg looked over at him. His wolfy jaw split wide, exposing huge fangs and a tongue that lolled to the side. Nar panted harder and his tail beat back and forth, throwing bits of dry grass into the air. “Me,” he growled.

“Yes, you are! Yes, you are!” agreed Karguk giving the warg a belly rub that bordered on vicious. Nar’s jaws clamped around the orc’s middle, and his tail beat the grass all the harder.

Eventually, the orc pulled from the warg’s grip with only scratches. He stood upright and Nar whined, begging for more belly rubs. “Where’s Nargol?” asked Karguk.

Nar yawned wide, letting the orc see down his throat. “Nargol play with Shelur,” the warg said, closing his eyes once more.

Karguk looked about but saw no one else, just a grassy clearing in the woods. Eventually, he looked back at the warg. “Where are they playing, Nar?”

The warg nudged his snout toward the hide that functioned as a door.

“Inside?” the orc asked. “They’re playing inside?”

The warg said nothing, so Karguk walked to the house and peeked around the curtain. “Nargol?” he asked.

Nargol looked up from where she was sitting on the floor. “Ah, Father,” she said with a wide smile. “Come and join us. Shelur will make you a drink.” She patted a bare spot beside her.

Karguk frowned for a moment, his eyes tracking the toddler as she wandered around the home. “Yes, all right,” he grumbled. Then, he unhooked his axe from his belt and set it on the floor beside him as he sat. “Nar said that Shelur was playing inside today.”

She grinned some more. “Yes, she doesn’t like getting dirty,” Nargol explained.

“Doesn’t like—?”

Shelur tottered by, pausing for a moment in front of the older orc so she could press a drinking horn into his meaty hands. “Yes, okay,” he said, taking the cup. The child wandered off then returned a minute later with another cup. He held up his drinking horn and the child poured her cup into his—but it had been empty to start.

When Shelur left, Karguk turned to his daughter and slowly turned his drinking horn over, showing her that no liquid drained out. “It is empty,” he said.

She grabbed his hand and turned it around, so the drinking horn was right-side-up. “You pretend the cup is full now,” she hissed at him. “You pretend to drink from it, and you tell her it’s delicious.”

“But that’s stupid,” he growled.

“This is Shelur’s game,” Nargol growled back, not losing eye contact with her father. “This is how she likes to play, and you will play by her rules.”

Frowning, the older orc pretended to drink from the horn. “Mmm, that is delicious, Shelur,” he said, his voice strained and unamused.

The child squeaked excitedly and bounced on her bare feet before heading back to the kitchen “to fetch more”.

“This is a stupid game,” he grumbled.

“This game makes her happy,” Nargol explained. “She doesn’t like throwing knives. She doesn’t enjoy skinning squirrels. But she likes making pretend.”

“You should…” Karguk said before his words trailed off. He closed his mouth.

“Good,” his daughter grunted before accepting a plate of imaginary snacks, “you have learned not to tell me what to do with my daughter.”

Her father scowled harder and rubbed at his shoulder with one meaty hand. “Yes, well you stabbed me the last time I did.”

“Ooh, these are delicious, Shelur,” his daughter said. “Did you make these yourself?”

The child burbled something and wandered away.

Lowering her voice, Nargol growled, “Don’t be so dramatic, father. I didn’t stab you that hard at all.”

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Reviewer's link: https://docs.google.com/document/d/1RCTVzVZ34jOYN69-Wc3OkSz7-YS12PumOgSr5t57myg/edit?usp=sharing

Thoughts?