Hungry Heart - Book #2 - Ch. 12 (Patreon)

Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine / Chapter Ten / Chapter Eleven 

Chapter Twelve – The Scent of Memories

“I’m not an orc,” Toru said, remembering that Demophios had cast that disguise on them so that they could sneak inside without being questioned or worse.

“I can see that,” Duril replied.

“They’re not orcs!” Someone suddenly yelled, and Toru barely had time to jump to one side as one heavy blade cut the air where he had stood only moments earlier.

In the blink of an eye, angry shouts filled the air. Varg and Claw were cornered by the Grand Chief, while the orc warrior rushed toward him with his blade pointed at him. Toru leaped through the air, shifting and landing on all paws. He growled and dropped his muzzle down, to prepare his counterattack.

But just as he was about to leap at the orc warrior’s throat, Duril jumped between them. “Stop!”

As if that single word was enough, the ruckus died. Even the Grand Chief turned toward them, his fists still raised and about to descend on Varg and Claw who had shifted, as well.

“Who are you?” Duril asked again.

The Grand Chief growled. “Not-orc, you better have a reason to stop me from destroying these enemies.”

“They seem to know me,” Duril said simply.

“They’re spies,” the orc warrior growled, too.

“Put them in the biggest pit,” the Grand Chief ordered. “We’re going to question them.”

“I’d think twice about that if I were you,” Toru said.

Under his horrified eyes, the Grand Chief swept both Varg and Claw into his arms and began squeezing them. His friends were struggling to get free, but to no avail. “I don’t mind killing you all on the spot, either.”

Toru was about to launch an attack on the Grand Chief, when pain flared in one of his back legs. Another orc, one smaller and thinner than the other two, had one single tusk buried in his left leg from the back and stared at him with madness and viciousness. He roared and tried to shake his leg free, but the evil creature didn’t want to let go. While he was busy with that, the orc warrior grabbed him, moving so fast that he didn’t know how he ended up on the ground, tied like a hog.

Varg and Claw didn’t have it any easier. The Grand Chief threw them on the ground, and the orc warrior did the same to him. He could shift, Toru thought, but as he did so, the rope around his body still fit snugly, preventing him from moving any better. It looked like his companions thought the same thing, and now they were all helpless, lying on the ground.

The orc warrior didn’t waste any time and picked them up one by one.

“Wait, Duril!” Toru called out. “It’s me, Toru! Don’t you know who I am?”

Suddenly, it seemed that Duril found him a stranger, and the thought was simply unbearable. The eyes he knew so well were now opaque when they looked at him. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know who you are. Grand Chief,” Duril said as he turned toward the giant orc, “please spare their lives.”

An annoyed rumble coming from that huge belly was the answer. “If they’re spies, I’ll know, Not-Orc. They’ll meet their end.”

“And I will cook them,” the smallest orc shouted with glee.

“They’re shapeshifters, and not the kind we eat,” the orc warrior commented.

The same thing as the others had said, Toru remembered. He couldn’t stand the thought of someone even considering devouring shapeshifters of any kind. But that wasn’t the most unsettling thing. Duril was there, but it was as if he weren’t himself anymore. He looked like him, but his eyes were strangers now.

He had to be under some spell. Were there any orc wizards of some kind? As they had walked through the entire camp, they had seen only warriors and their servants, and not much else. The hierarchy of the horde was based on steel and the prowess to use it for bloodletting. A wizard would be as out of place there as a –

But of course, Duril wasn’t supposed to belong there! He wasn’t an orc, as the others had noticed, and that was why they called him Not-Orc. That still didn’t explain why Duril couldn’t remember them.

Before he had any more time to reflect on that and what it meant, he was dragged away and thrown into a hole in the ground, together with Varg and Claw. At least they were together, and surely his companions were wiser than him and could think of a plan to get Duril to remember.

He wouldn’t lose his hope that easily.

***

Varg couldn’t say he was surprised that the orcs had finally sniffed them out, so the outcome of their being thrown into that pit as a means to imprison them didn’t come as a great shock. However, what he couldn’t wrap his head around so easily was how Duril appeared to not recognize them at all. The healer had told Toru as much, and his eyes had glided over him and Claw like they were people he had never seen before.

It was good that they were thrown into this pit together as they needed to talk and find a way to get out of there, and with Duril in tow, as much as he would probably struggle at first. Varg could only imagine what was in Toru’s heart right now.

The small orc, the one who had the audacity to bite Toru’s leg, hovered above them and stirred up some dust, making it fall over their heads. “You spies came to take Not-Orc,” he threw at them viciously. “Not-Orc belongs to us now.”

“No, he doesn’t!” Toru shouted back. “His name is Duril, and he’s a healer.”

The orc leaned dangerously over the mouth of the pit. “Not-Orc is a big warrior. Four clan leaders he ran through today. And I made him the most beautiful blade that he’ll bathe in your blood!”

Toru growled and was ready to counter each of the words thrown at him, but Varg pushed his shoulder against him to stop him. “Let him gloat. If we don’t talk to him, he’ll get bored. We need to plan.”

“You’re lucky the Grand Chief wants to sleep,” the orc threatened them from above. “Or else, you’d be stew. Sog will make a delicious stew out of you tomorrow.”

“We’re not to eat,” Toru replied, ignoring Varg’s advice.

“Sog tasted you,” the orc said. His eyes were glinting with hunger. Varg wondered why he was so skinny and underdeveloped compared to the other orcs. It had to be because he was just a servant and never allowed to eat his fill.

“You bit my leg, you filthy creature! Wait till I get my fangs in you,” Toru growled.

The orc neighed like a horse, prey to a bout of laughter. “I’ll eat you. I’ll lick your bones clean.”

“Sog, is it?” Claw intervened.

The orc perked up his ears at the sound of his name as if he hadn’t been the one to say it to them. “Yes,” he said cautiously.

“What battle did Not-Orc fight today?”

Sog puffed out his chest. “The biggest. A challenge for the Grand Chief. He fought side by side with Yarag, and they won.”

“How did he fight? Where did he get a blade from?” Claw asked calmly.

It was good that the bearshifter was talking because, that way, they could learn more. This orc seemed easy to fool, but unfortunately, Toru was also easy to stir, and someone with authority had to intervene. Therefore, Claw was a balancing presence and one that would help them out of their current predicament. He remained silent and listened carefully. To his relief, Toru did the same.

“Winglog threw his blade at him, and he caught it, like this.” Sog waved one of his long arms through the air. “And then he slashed and stabbed and killed.” He gesticulated wildly, to portray the events. “Sog made him a blade of his own. Yarag told Sog, ‘go help him pick his rock’, and Sog went, and then he saw the most beautiful rock with a blade in her heart and grabbed it for Not-Orc.”

Varg found the account astonishing, and if he hadn’t been witness to a new Duril who seemed so engrossed into practicing with his blade the moment they had reached the Grand Chief’s tent, he would have found everything truly hard to believe.

The skinny orc was pushed away and the warrior that had to be the one called Winglog, if his guesses were right, stared down at them. “Sleep on what you’ll say to the Grand Chief tomorrow.” With that, he pulled a large lid over the mouth of the pit, leaving them in complete darkness.

Their eyes adjusted slowly, but it wasn’t like it was hard to tell where everyone was, not with how close they were forced together.

“I’d say we’re in quite a pickle,” Claw began.

“You can say that again,” Varg said tersely.

“Why doesn’t he remember me?” Toru complained. “Any of us? They must have used some foul wizardry to make him forget like that.”

“Did you look around, kitty? Do these orcs appear to you as capable of anything else but mayhem and bloodshed? I don’t believe there’s any magic involved.”

“Then what is it?”

Claw sighed. “Maybe we should ask our wise companion. Demophios?”

There was no answer. Varg searched for the glint of silver on Toru’s pendant which was actually the wise snake. None was to be found. A new wave of unease coursed through him. “Toru, where is Demophios?”

As well as he could, Toru put his chin to his chest and tried to scout the front of his shirt for any signs of the magical artefact that had helped them so far. “I don’t see him.”

“He must have fallen while we were busy fighting the orcs,” Claw said. “And they grabbed Duril’s bag, too. Demophios might be in their paws.”

“This is bad,” Varg murmured.

“What should we do?” Toru asked. “If they had only let me talk to Duril, I would have made him remember.”

“I’m afraid that’s not something they’ll let us do anyway. What we need to focus on right now is to make a plan about what we are going to tell Yarag. The Grand Chief, let’s admit it, doesn’t appear to be a very reasonable orc.”

“What had Demophios told us? That we must be honest?” Varg said. “Then that should be our strategy.”

“But what if we’re honest, and he doesn’t believe us?” Toru asked. “And he gets to keep Duril all to himself?”

“Duril must have felt the call of blood all too powerfully,” Claw explained. “His loss of memories may just be temporary. A new life has just opened to him. Given time --”

“We don’t have time,” Toru interrupted him. “And that foul creature wants to eat my leg.”

Sog hadn’t been that particular about wanting just the one leg, but Toru wasn’t far off. They didn’t have time, and now they were minus one ally.

“We could ask them to let us open Duril’s bag and show him all the things dear to him,” Varg suggested.

“Like cabbage?” Toru asked.

Claw chuckled. “Maybe that would help, too. But Duril has many wonderful things in there, doesn’t he? His tome, his herbs, right? Once he touches them with his own hand, maybe he’ll remember.”

“More than by touching me?” Toru said, his tone making it clear that he took affront at that.

“I doubt Yarag, the Grand Chief, will let us get too chummy with Duril. For them, he is Not-Orc, and they appear to lay their claim rather fiercely.”

“Yes, because everyone loves Duril,” Toru said with a huff. “But he should only love me.”

“If I could, I’d bite your ear so hard right now,” Varg warned.

“Fine, and you, too,” Toru admitted. “So that’s the only plan we have? We convince these ugly fat orcs that Duril needs to sniff his cabbage, and that’s all?”

Varg bit his lips not to laugh. It wasn’t unfathomable that Toru failed to see the subtleties of their plan. He had come up with the idea, but he was more than willing to have the others chip in if they had any helpful thoughts at all.

“The Grand Chief, as frightening as he appears, seems to be reasonable for an orc,” Claw commented. “Let me do the talking, and I will try to convince him that their Not-Orc is actually our Duril. I wonder how Duril was welcomed when he came here yesterday, and the Grand Chief saw him for the first time.”

“Yes, it is quite astonishing to find him by the Grand Chief’s side after he’s been gone only for one night and one day,” Varg agreed.

“Because Duril is amazing, that’s why,” Toru offered his opinion.

“I think the same,” Varg said, “but how could these orcs see the same thing as we do? In all truth, it appears that Duril showed them a different face of himself, don’t you think? According to Sog, he fought an incredible battle.”

“He’s a healer, not a fighter,” Toru said. “That foul creature is lying.”

“You saw Duril with that new blade in his hand. He moved it like he was born to wield it.”

Toru huffed, but Varg could tell that the tigershifter couldn’t contradict him and that was why he remained silent.

“The call of blood is powerful indeed,” Claw added. “Duril must have discovered the legacy his sire left for him down to the marrow of his bones.”

“Does it mean that Duril’s father used to be a great warrior?” Toru asked.

“Yes, that is exactly that. And his sire’s blood, coursing through his veins, has helped him discover this part of himself that he didn’t know existed.”

“But he’s so different now,” Toru complained. “It’s like he doesn’t even remember who he really is.”

Claw sighed. “We’ll see about that. As much as he’s an orc, he’s our friend and human, too. Surely, that part of him is still in there, and we’ll make sure to bring it out again.”

***

Yarag had them all sleep under the roof of the big tent, and he hadn’t dared to leave, as he had felt the Grand Chief’s eyes on him only until a little while ago. The strangers had left him with an unsettled feeling in the pit of his stomach. It appeared that Yarag, Winglog, and Sog had been fooled into believing that the strangers were orcs, but he had seen nothing of that disguise. The handsome young man with hair like gold who had hugged him and asked him if he didn’t remember him had appeared nothing like an orc in his eyes. Neither had the other two, the wolf and the bear.

They seemed like good people, too, and while Duril didn’t feel as bothered about not remembering the times before he had been born anew as a part of the horde, the simple fact that they were so keen on having him remember planted a seed in his heart.

It wasn’t doubt, he pondered, as he lay on his back listening to the desert wind far in the distance. He was sure in his heart that he belonged to the horde. But the despair in the beautiful golden eyes of the tigershifter made him feel like he should have, at least, listened to them. Yarag had been adamant, however, about their fate. They had to be in a pit much similar to the one he had been thrown in, but much bigger. Where that was, he had no idea, unfortunately.

“Where are the prisoners, Sog?” Duril asked quietly.

Winglog and Sog had arrived earlier, and Duril had waited patiently for Winglog to start snoring, accompanying the sounds coming from the Grand Chief in a slightly higher key. Sog had taken it upon himself to lay close to his side, which was a good thing because he wanted to be able to talk to him without attracting the others’ attention. Although he would have a chance to see the strangers tomorrow when Yarag intended to interrogate them, he would much like to have a chance to talk to them before as well.

“They’re stashed away,” Sog whispered back.

“But where? Can you point me to the pit where Winglog put them?”

“No,” Sog said petulantly. “They want Not-Orc. They can’t have Not-Orc. Not-Orc belongs to us.”

“I want to talk to them a little,” Duril insisted. “Only you can help me.”

To his surprise, Sog turned his back to him. “No. The Grand Chief will eat Sog tomorrow if I do that.”

“I doubt it. Aren’t you my friend?”

“Sog won’t let you talk to them.” There was a finality in the orc’s words that made Duril understand that he would struggle in vain to change his mind. “And don’t go wandering about, because Sog sleeps with one eye open.”

He would wait until Sog was truly asleep, then.

***

Duril woke up with a groan. He pushed the heel of his palm into one eye, then the other. A look toward the entrance of the tent showed him that it was already day and he had slept like a log for the entire night. He stood and walked outside, where Winglog was pushing the prisoners to kneel in front of the Grand Chief. Yarag sat directly on the ground, his legs crossed, and by the frown on his face, he appeared ready to interrogate the strangers.

“Who are you, spies, and who are you spying for?”

The tallest of the group, the one Duril had seen turning into a bear, began talking. “We are not spies. We are Duril’s friends. We were traveling together when he must have felt the call of the horde and came here.”

Yarag examined him with keen eyes. “You say you were passing through Zukh Kalegh? Without our knowledge?”

“I’m from a place called The Quiet Woods, north from here. Going through the desert is the only way to reach home,” the bearshifter said simply.

Yarag rubbed his chin in thought. “The Quiet Woods are far. No one has traveled there in dozens of years.”

Duril was all eyes and ears. The world was so vast, and there were places beyond the desert. A small surge of longing seared through his chest, but it was gone as soon as it came.

“Why?” the bearshifter asked. “Caravans used to pass through --”

Yarag interrupted him with a bark of laughter. “Caravans? Through Zukh Kalegh? Here, we reign supreme. You’re the first travelers in many, many years. And I caught you.”

“You caught us only because we came to you,” the tigershifter intervened.

“Silence!” Yarag barked again.

“We mean no harm to the horde,” the bearshifter spoke after a while, using the same appeasing tone. Where the man with the golden hair was all fire, this one was calm and collected. “We’re only here for our friend Duril.” He pointed at him, and Duril shifted in his place. They knew his name, but it was like even that meant little to him. He was proud of being Not-Orc, the one who could fight side by side with the Grand Chief and win against their enemies.

“Not-Orc is not this Duril you’re talking about,” Sog yapped from his place.

The smaller orc was keeping a bit farther away. Duril only then noticed something glinting in his hand. From time to time, Sog brought the thing to his lips and tried to bite it with his tusk, only to discover that it wasn’t possible. Duril wondered what that was. Some piece of jewelry? But who wore jewelry out here, in the desert? The object appeared so out of place that Duril had a hard time tearing his eyes away.

“Chum isn’t wrong, but he shouldn’t be speaking out of turn,” Yarag said. “Winglog,” he said shortly.

The orc warrior walked over to Sog, grabbed him by one ear and pushed him away. Sog tumbled, but then he recovered and sat on his bottom, completely undisturbed. His fascination with the glinting object in his hand continued.

Duril waited with bated breath now for the Grand Chief to continue his interrogation.

“We have proof that he should be with us,” the bearshifter continued to plead. “We had a large bag with us, and it belongs to him. In there, you will find things from his life that he surely remembers.”

“What bag?” Yarag barked.

Duril didn’t remember seeing one, either. But he couldn’t help but notice how Sog stopped from trying to munch on the piece of jewelry in his hand and perked up his ears. He had an inkling about what had happened to that bag if it did exist. With a surreptitious look at the Grand Chief, he began walking slowly back to the tent. If Sog had pilfered the bag, it had to be in there, somewhere.

***

There could be many places where Sog could have hidden the bag, so Duril took on the arduous task of checking every crate and pot that lined the walls of the tent. It looked like Sog liked to collect all kinds of strange ingredients, or maybe some of those things were meant for different purposes. He didn’t have time to ponder what the bulbous eyes collected in a jar or what looked like flakes of skin kept at the bottom of a crate were there for. What was most important was to find that bag.

“What are looking for, Not-Orc?”

Duril turned to see Sog, who stood at the entrance of the tent, examining him with keen eyes, his head cocked to one side. “I’m sure they came in with a bag. Maybe they dropped it around here,” he said.

“They weren’t allowed in here,” Sog pointed out. “And there’s no bag. They’re spies, and they’re lying.”

Duril didn’t want to argue with Sog over some strangers, as their bond as orcs prevailed, but it nagged him too much that they could meet a foul end before having a chance to be believed. After all, Yarag had thought him to be a spy, too, and then things had worked out to prove he wasn’t. Could it be that they felt the same call of the desert as him? But no, they were just travelers, and they belonged to a life that had been Duril’s long before, as well. In a different life, they must have been friends.

The pull he felt was mostly toward the young man with golden hair and eyes. His handsomeness was so striking, like a small part of the sun had been snatched by his dear mother upon his birth and caught in his hair. Duril couldn’t tear his eyes away, and his heart beat a little faster when he remembered the way those golden eyes had looked at him with so much affection that it made him question whether it wasn’t a bad thing that he couldn’t remember anything.

“Sog, you took the bag,” he said without thinking.

Sog gathered his hands to his chest, turning them inward in a defensive gesture. He hunched his shoulders and his ears pulled back. “Sog didn’t. Not-Orc hates Sog for no reason.”

“That’s not true,” Duril protested. “I don’t hate you. I just want to see what’s in that bag. I promise that anything of value that’s in there belongs to you. I only wish to see it.”

For a moment, Sog seemed hesitant, but he recovered quickly. “There’s no bag. They’re just lying spies. You can look all you want, and you won’t find a thing.”

That meant that the bag wasn’t there, and Sog must have hidden it someplace else. At least, he wouldn’t waste any more time searching for it inside the tent. “If you say you didn’t take it, then I believe you,” he said and walked out.

“Sog says there’s no bag,” Sog insisted.

Duril ignored him. He was a bit upset that Sog was keeping something from him. Wasn’t he the one who said that secrets were bad? And now he held one of his own, and Duril felt a growing curiosity about the bag the strangers had brought with them and what it contained.

***

Varg could tell that even Claw, despite his calm demeanor, was starting to lose some of his confidence. The Grand Chief let out only grumbles and snorts as they told him about Whitekeep and what happened there, as well as a short recounting of their adventures in Fairside and Shroudharbor. Without letting on too much about the importance of who Toru was and his role in a quest that was as large as life itself, Claw had his tacit agreement that he should let Yarag know about the evil gathering upon the world, a world that the horde belonged to, just as much as anyone else.

“Astonishing tales you have, strangers,” Yarag said, “but they are nothing but tales. The bag you’re speaking of doesn’t exist, and that means one thing only. You are liars. You’ll be trialed in the afternoon, and if found guilty, you’ll suffer the punishment.”

Varg wasn’t keen on learning what the punishment was about.

“The punishment is death,” Yarag added, dashing the faintest hope he had that they would have it easy.

“You’ve seen the shooting stars,” Claw said in a cutting voice.

“Kill us, and the whole world is dead,” Toru intervened.

Yarag laughed. “Then let it be dead. More of it for orcs.”

“Grand Chief,” Varg decided to intervene, “my friends are right, but I know that orcs don’t care about the rest of the world.”

Yarag turned his bloodshot eyes toward him.

Varg continued. “I fought in the big war against the Vrannes. The orcs came in packs, to kill and plunder. And I killed my fair share of your kind.”

He didn’t have to look to know that Claw was staring at him, most probably wishing him to shut up.

“If you find us guilty of spying, we only have one wish. We’re warriors. We want to go down fighting.”

Yarag gave him a long look, but one in which a certain respect could be read. Varg was well aware of the language of violence being the only one the orcs understood. He painted himself as an enemy of the orcs, thus pulling Claw and Toru along with him, but he knew that his friends would only agree with him.

“Your wish is granted,” Yarag said with a nod. “There’s nothing more fitting then to drink from your enemy’s skull at the end of the day. You’ll fight. But I’ll send warriors against you, as many as the grains in the sand. The only way to escape alive, if that’s what you’re thinking of doing, is to kill the entire horde.”

“Then we’ll do it,” Toru said proudly.

Yarag sneered, but then he broke into laughter. “If you hadn’t been spies, I’d have liked you.”

***

Toru felt his blood boiling. He would fight the entire horde if need be. Varg had been right to suggest it.

“We’ll kill these orcs,” he said, as soon as they were alone again. “We’ll kill them to the last one.”

Varg smiled at him, but his smile was strained. Claw was silent.

“What?” he asked aggressively. “You don’t believe we can defeat them?”

Claw shook his head. “You’re one hell of a kitty. And Varg is one hell of a puppy. But we’re going against the horde of Zukh Kalegh. On the upside, there’s no bigger glory for a warrior than to fight such a battle before being called by the god of war to rest at his bosom.”

“We’ll kill them all,” Toru said with conviction. “If you don’t want to fight, just say so.”

They had been thrown into the pit again, but they were no longer restrained. Yarag had said something about wanting them to have a fighting chance or else there would be no entertainment.

Claw chuckled. “There’s no better place in the world I’d rather be right now.”

“Not even The Quiet Woods?” Toru asked, challenging him.

“Not even,” Claw said. “Home is where your heart is, kitty. And now that I know I’ll never see The Quiet Woods again, my home is here with you, my friends.”

***

Duril had been busy searching for the bag for what felt like hours now. He had heard of the Grand Chief’s decision, and desperation had begun to form inside his heart. The strangers had used to be his friends, and he felt guilty for the fate they were about to meet.

As he looked around behind the tent for the tenth time, wondering where the bag could be, his eyes fell on a shiny object resting on top of a cage in which some small creatures were kept. Curious, he approached and picked it. The object appeared to be a silver pendant, carved so delicately that Duril immediately realized that it had to be the jewelry that Sog had been so enthralled with earlier.

He raised it and looked at it. It looked like a serpent devouring his own tale.

“Duril,” a voice called.

He looked around and saw no one.

“I’m in your hand.”

The pendant was talking? Duril brought it closer to his eyes. “What are you?” he asked cautiously.

“That would be a long story. Quick, I know where Sog hid your bag. Your friends are here for you, to save you and the horde.”

Duril opened his mouth to ask a thousand questions but decided against it. “Where is the bag?” he asked instead.

***

Duril spotted Sog from a distance. He had made a huge fire and was busy stoking it from time to time. By his side, a large leather bag lay. Sog picked objects from the bag, sniffed them, and then threw them into the fire as they didn’t appear to interest him.

He ran toward him. Suddenly, what Sog was doing felt like an intrusion of the worst kind. “Sog, stop!” he yelled.

The orc saw him and froze for a moment. Then, he suddenly grabbed the bag and threw it on the fire.

Duril couldn’t feel his feet touching the ground. From the fire, sparks flew, and with them, the sweetest smell.

The scent of memories.

TBC

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