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The Orcmar Shorts

"Loyalty"

Two orcs, Alkir and Alkar, squatted on the ground at the back of the low, dingy, smoky hall, cards clutched in their hands. Horse the bull leaned against the room’s back mud-brick wall. He held a splay of cards casually in one hand. In the middle of the trio lay the rest of cards, and a melon.

Alkir tossed a card onto the pile. “Seven,” he said.

Horse tossed a card onto the pile. “Four,” he said.

Alkar grunted. “Pass.”

Alkir grinned, and tossed down a pair of cards. “Zero!” he crowed.

“Aw,” groaned Horse, tossing his remaining cards onto the pile. Alkar growled and leapt at his brother, sending cards flying into the air. The two tussled, grunting and snarling. Horse laughed. Alkir reached out, grabbing the melon from the pile of cards, then rolled back and pinned his struggling brother to the ground. He held the melon aloft, crying, “I have beaten down the enemy and seized the spoils of war, for Thrall and for family!” The other orcs, Reltir, Kalga and Ulkat, cheered.

Alkir grunted and shoved his brother off. “I am family,” he grumbled.

“Good game,” said Horse.

“I think so too,” said the triumphant orc, pulling out a knife and slicing the melon in half. “Catch,” he said, tossing half to the grinning bull, who caught it in a big three-fingered hand and munched at it.

It had been a quiet summer. Tyranny and Anarchy, the slum canyons’ two acrimonious gangs, had grown quiet in the punishing summer heat. Now, though, as the chill of winter descended from the dark mountains to the north, hatreds sparked again.

Horse the bull had been an initiate in the Revenge for a full year now, longer than any of the others had been. It had been months since the end of his second-to-last task, and he had waited for whatever the final task would be, and the final initiation that would accompany its completion. He had waited long enough that he had picked up Kelkar’s name, of which he was supposed to remain ignorant until the final task began.

But the task had not come. He had settled in well enough, getting along and making friends – particularly with the brothers. A few of the others, the dour Balthos in particular, took care to remind him at every opportunity that he wasn’t yet a member.

Kelkar had watched Horse’s progression, his acceptance by the rest of the Revenge, with brooding interest, but he had only spoken to the bull once since he had spared his life and invited him to join the previous fall. The brooding had grown deeper of late. The others were sure that it was some secret pressure, some anonymous and necessary responsibility of leadership which was causing it, but Horse had caught half-glimpses, more often than made him comfortable, of the orc sitting in the hall’s darkest corner, staring intensely at him from beneath a furrowed, brooding brow. The orc would blink, and then it would seem that he had been looking elsewhere all along.

Kelkar sat in the darkest corner of the room, locked in quiet but intense conversation with Balthos. Horse glanced over at them, and then back to Alkar, who was dolefully collecting the cards together. He began shuffling them.

In the corner, Balthos stood up suddenly, a look of fury on his face. The room turned to look at him in surprise. “He won’t,” he gritted to the impassive Kelkar. “Mark my words. What will you do then? Where does your loyalty lie?”

Kelkar looked up at him, silent. Then he looked back down, head resting back on fist. Balthos turned around, shaking in silent rage, and walked heavily to the door. He pushed it open. A cold night wind blasted into the room, carrying a few lonely snowflakes with it.

The orc turned back to Kelkar, eyes narrowed. “My blood will be on your hands,” he spat.

“No it won’t,” said the other quietly.

Balthos’s eyes flickered to Horse for a fleeting moment, and then he turned, slammed the door behind him, and was gone.

The room sat in stunned silence. “What was that all about?” said Reltir into it.

Kelkar sat for a moment, staring intensely at the floor, and then glanced meaningfully up at Ulkat, the guild’s second in command. Ulkat raised his eyebrows, and Kelkar nodded.

Ulkat stood up. “Horse,” he said.

Horse the bull looked sharply at the orc, who held his gaze. The bull got slowly to his hooves. Nervous energy suddenly perfused the room.

“I am Ulkat,” said the orc formally. “I am Thrall’s executioner. This,” and he turned, nodding towards the guild’s leader, “is Kelkar.”

The strongest, broadest orc sat, staring at Horse in silent contemplation for a moment more. It was the same look Horse had caught in the corner of his eye many times before, but now it was unflinching.

“I am Kelkar,” growled the orc. “I am Thrall’s Revenge.” He stood. “Tonight you begin your final rite. You have been reborn into our midst, a soldier of Thrall: now you must prove your unflinching loyalty….” He trailed off, and the look of brooding flickered across his face for a moment. “Your loyalty,” he began again, “to Thrall’s order.” He stopped. Then he turned, walked to the door, and pushed it open. He stepped out into the night.

The others got uncertainly to their feet and followed Kelkar out the door. Alkar turned. “C’mon,” he hissed nervously to Horse. “This is it!” Horse nodded with suppressed, nervous excitement, and followed.

The snow had begun to pick up, and flurries of it whirled down into the dark canyon. It was nearly an hour past dusk. The sounds of intense fighting rang from a few canyons away, but here it was quiet.

A few short minutes of trekking through the falling snow, and Kelkar held up his wand hand. The other five orcs and the bull came to a stop.

Ahead, in the dark street, huddled a thin, deathly pale old human woman. A filthy shawl was pulled tightly about her, and her eyes were closed.

Kelkar elbowed Ulkat. “Hey,” shouted the latter. The old woman opened her eyes. They were red and nearly crusted over. Her pupils were dimmed with cataracts.

“Hey,” repeated Ulkat. “Does that look like an orc to you?” A look of dim fear flickered across the old woman’s face.

“No!” cried Reltir. The others stared, uncertain what was wrong but certain that something was out of the ordinary.

“Then what’s she doing in Orcmar?” growled Kelkar.

The old woman whimpered.

Kelkar turned to Horse. “Orcmar was built by our fathers, built for us,” he said dully, as though speaking rote. “She is an outsider: eating our food, taking our jobs, taking our livelihood and our pride.” He narrowed his eyes challengingly at Horse. “Show your loyalty to Thrall, to Thrall’s soldiers,” he said, “and kill her.”

Horse froze, staring at the old woman. “You can do it,” hissed Reltir encouragingly.

The bull inhaled and stepped forward. The old woman, terror on her face, pushed backwards with her frail legs.

He turned around. “What jobs is she taking?” he said, his face full of honest bemusement. “She can’t even stand.”

“It doesn’t matter!” hissed the orc Kalga.

“She’s human,” added Alkar. “She’s not an orc.”

Horse looked at his friend. “Neither am I,” he said.

“She’s not an orc!” growled Kelkar, and it grew from a low rasp into a howl of rage, and then he pointed his wand at the frail old woman.

Suddenly, a distant klaxon split the night, and the orcs and the bull tensed. It was the harsh curfew siren, echoing from the peak above Old Orcmar’s Cleft, home to the mysterious Shadow Council. A nearer siren echoed over the canyons.

“Curfew,” muttered Alkir fearfully. “We gotta get back.”

Kelkar’s arm shook intensely, and then he whirled at Horse. He glared at him, a muscle twitching at the edge of his eye, and then he turned to the others. “Back to the hall,” he gritted.

They hurried off down the canyon. Horse turned back towards the old woman. Her shawl was threadbare and moth-eaten. She wouldn’t last the night.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, and then turned, and followed the others off into the dark, blustery night.

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