Don Bassingthwaite - The Killing Song

They were already among the temporary shelters of the camp. Every orc they saw wore the same red stripes as Krepis. Geth could guess at the reasoning behind the face paint; by adopting it, the orcs left behind any symbols of their individual tribes and took on a new, temporary identity as part of the horde. He knew members of Blademarks companies who did much the same thing. Robrand d’Deneith, his and Singe’s commander in the Frostbrand company, had insisted that once someone joined the Frostbrand, old loyalties to nation be left behind.

Any resemblance between the orc horde and a Blademarks company ended there however. The mood in the camp was festive. Around great fires, orcs and a small number of half-orcs ate and drank, sang and danced, and played wild music on crude instruments-a broken rhythm of drums played out of sequence, accompanied by reed flutes and bone rattles. The sound was infectious, and Geth found himself nodding along with it as they walked. A fight broke out ahead of them, turned into a brawl, then settled down before they had passed as the participants clapped each other on the back and went in search of something to eat. The smells of gaeth’ad drifted from more than one kettle, each producing a slightly different aroma as individual gaeth’ad masters brewed up their own version of the potent tea.

Krepis said something to Orshok in Orc, and Geth was too pre-occupied in staring around to put his hand to Wrath in time to listen in. Krepis left them and went striding off toward the center of the camp where a larger structure rose high. Orshok turned to Geth and Ekhaas. “The Gatekeepers are holding council in the sweat lodge,” he said. “Krepis will fetch Batul.” His eyes were shining and his face was flushed. Any worry he’d shown on learning of the horde was gone, washed away by a rising excitement. “Kuv! This is incredible.”

“Who do you think they’ve gathered to fight?” Geth asked.

“I don’t know, but if the Gatekeepers are in charge, it’s got to be serious. A horde hasn’t gathered under the Gatekeepers for three generations. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“What about the raid on the Bonetree mound? We had three dozen orc warriors with us, and they came from different tribes.”

“That was only a raid. Look how many warriors are here!”

Geth had to agree-there were easily a few hundred warriors milling around the camp. It was an impressive sight, and he could feel the fever of it exciting him as well. Ekhaas, on the other hand, was looking at the activities in the camp with some interest, but also disdain.

“Where are the ranks?” she demanded. “How can you tell who’s in charge? Who’s looking after supply chains and rationing?”

“An orc horde wages war differently than a goblinoid army,” Orshok told her, but Ekhaas barely seemed to hear him. Her face had flushed dark as she realized that there were both male and female orcs laughing and fighting around the fires.

“Khaavolaar! Your units aren’t segregated? How does that affect discipline?”

Geth snorted. “I don’t know about discipline, Ekhaas, but I’d say it’s doing great things for morale.” He watched as a tent that a man and woman had just ducked into began to shake vigorously.

Ekhaas’s face turned a shade darker and her ears lay flat.

Word must have spread of their arrival in the camp, because people began to drift past them, then to stop openly and stare. Soon they were murmuring to one another and pointing. At first Geth thought it was because he and Ekhaas were the only non-orcs in the camp. He’d gotten used to being the only shifter present in almost any situation long ago. He squatted down to wait for Batul and would have ignored the crowd if Orshok hadn’t leaned close and whispered, “They’re talking about you.”

“I know,” he said.

“Orshok is right,” said Ekhaas. “Listen to them.”

Geth looked up. The crowds had gotten larger and closer, and there was no denying that he was the one everyone was looking at. His eyebrows rose and he put a hand on Wrath. Murmurs rushed at him.

“-led the raid that wiped out the Bonetree clan.”

“They say he killed two mind flayers and five chuul in the battle.”

“I heard he killed a dragon!”

“Is that the sword he carried out of Jhegesh Dol? By Garu’s eye, I’ll fight at his side!”

He jerked his hand away from the sword in surprise. “Grandfather Rat, what is this?” he muttered to Orshok and Ekhaas.

“I think you’ve acquired a reputation in the Shadow Marches,” said Ekhaas.

“I’m no hero.” He started to turn away.

Ekhaas slapped him across the back of his head, a swift action that brought shocked silence down on the orcs who saw. Geth whirled on her, but she bent down and thrust her face at his. “You live in Narath,” she said, “when Narath is nothing to these people. They know Jhegesh Dol. They know the raid on the Bonetree clan. You carry a sword of heroes-act like a hero!” She straightened up. “Hoor gat wee’taat kaz leshitaa sa’feh . There’s none so cowardly as a hero who will not accept glory.”

Geth blinked, then glanced at Orshok. The young druid thrust his tusks forward. “I’m proud to stand with you.”

The shifter looked out at the staring crowd and gave a slow nod to the orc who had said he’d fight beside him. The warrior looked surprised for a moment, then smiled broadly. He grabbed a wooden cup from a companion, brought it forward and thrust it at Geth. “Tag domad’ad chuf!”

“You’re invited to drink with him and his friends any time,” Orshok translated.

A warm feeling, a sensation of acceptance he hadn’t really felt since Bull Hollow, spread through Geth’s belly. He rose, took the cup, and raised it to the orc, then to all of the orcs who had gathered. “Hit them hard!” he shouted and swallowed the contents of the cup in a gulp. The liquid within was some kind of ale, bitter and warm, but far from the worst he’d ever had. A cheer went up. A cheer for him.

And what, Geth thought happily, do you think about that, Ado?

He was just handing the cup back when there was a commotion in the crowd. A band of orcs pushed through, led by one who had to be the biggest orc Geth had ever seen. He stood a head taller than any other orc present, with shoulders wider than an ox yoke. The tusks that jutted from his jaw were bigger than Geth’s thumbs. He wore no shirt and the muscles on his torso and arms were thick and heavy, sliding and bunching under gray-green skin.

His eyes were bloodshot. He’d clearly been drinking, though only enough to make him nasty and not, Geth saw with an unpleasant feeling, enough to make fall down. As soon as the orc’s gaze fell on him, he knew what he was going to say. He didn’t even bother to put his hand on Wrath.

The big orc’s voice was a rumble. The orc with the cup fell back. Ekhaas looked intrigued. Orshok’s face paled. Geth waited until the big orc had fallen silent, then asked the druid, “He’s heard I’m tough and wants to fight me, doesn’t he?”

Orshok looked startled. “How did you know?”

“I know a challenge when I see one. What’s his name?”

“Kobus. He says fists and feet only.”

“Fine with me.” A fierce excitement was starting to burn in him. Geth unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to Orshok. Excitement rippled through the crowd and they pulled back, leaving a large clear space around Kobus and Geth. Kobus thrust his jaw forward, baring his tusks in anticipation.

“Geth,” the young orc said, “you should probably know that Kobus has had a reputation in the Shadow Marches a lot longer than you have.”