Hungry Heart - Book #2 - Ch. 8

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Chapter Eight – Not-Orc

The first and single thing he was suddenly aware of was darkness. Varg knew he couldn’t move his limbs, but with that knowledge, no stiffness of his legs and arms came. It felt more as if he were caught in a tangle of soft vines all wrapped around him, without hurting him but rather providing a comfortable, yet undesired, cocoon.

“Toru, Claw,” he called out tentatively. It was strange to hear his own voice, as he’d been half-expecting it to come out muffled or not at all.

“I’m here,” the bearshifter’s sonorous voice rumbled from somewhere near.

“I don’t want to sound like a scared pup, but where are we? The last thing I remember is how that giant snake wrapped his long tail around us.”

“Demophios,” Claw agreed. “Yes, it looks like he wanted to have a bit of private talk with Toru a lot. Hence our current predicament.”

Claw’s relaxed voice eased his own fear a bit, but at the same time annoyed him. “How come you appear to be not affected by how we’re drowned in a well of darkness that seems one step short of death?”

“If Demophios wanted us to meet our end, he would have sent us to it swiftly, with no need for artifice.”

“Or maybe he likes his prey scared properly before ingesting it and going to sleep,” Varg retorted.

Claw chuckled. “Always the one with his hopes high, aren’t you, puppy?”

“Hey, I’m just saying how things are.”

“Hmm, but we’re not at all uncomfortable, are we?” Claw voiced the question that kept on bothering him, as well.

What was the point of lulling them into a sense of security only so that they would be thrown into the snake’s belly later? “Snakes are sly and deceitful,” he replied. “Maybe he’s keeping us thinking that he would release us all alive and well only to have a laugh when he actually reveals his true nature.”

“Aren’t you contradicting yourself a little there, puppy?”

“You know that I could live without your teasing for once, don’t you? Since we’re in mortal danger and all that?” Varg pointed out.

To his annoyance, Claw laughed some more. “I doubt that. It is a trial, one meant for Toru, the way I see it. Demophios or whoever sent him to guard this part of the desert wants to test our little brave kitty on his own, without us to guide him.”

“But why would this master of giant snakes want such a thing? And is he a force for good or evil?”

“Snakes are, as you said, sly and deceitful. There is good, and there is evil in the world, yes, but someone must link the two parts, hold them together and provide pathways that allow us to understand.”

“To understand what?” Varg asked. He tried to move, but his entire body appeared to be like that of a giant baby swaddled properly by a careful wet nurse.

“Evil would have overcome this world a long time ago if such messengers hadn’t come and gone, puncturing their tiny holes into the fabric of what’s dark and restless. Because of the nature of their path, they get tainted, so we must be grateful for Demophios not swallowing us whole just as a down payment for the work he must be doing with Toru as we speak.”

“You appear so sure of yourself. Is this truly Demophios’s nature? I’d very much like to believe that, flea bag.”

Claw roared with laughter. “If you have a place on your tongue to call me endearing names like this, then you must be feeling good enough.”

“If all you say is true,” Varg said as he chose to ignore the bear’s teasing, “what is our role right now?”

“All we can do now is wait. And hope that Toru will find the answer the snake is seeking.”

“What answer can kitty have for an ancient creature like that?”

“Who knows? I bet Toru will tell us all about it, hell, even brag about it, the moment he saves us and the day.”

Varg wanted to share Claw’s surety about the outcome of the test Demophios must have created for Toru, but the soothing comfort surrounding him couldn’t allay all his doubts. He wished to say something, about how they should remain vigilant, but his eyelids grew so heavy while a faint voice began humming a sweet lullaby in his ear that he fell asleep on the spot.

***

“Tired yet of avoiding the truth?” Demophios hissed as he circled him lazily.

There were obvious advantages to being a slithering creature like that. Toru envied Demophios for his ability to move his head around while leaving his body behind, all for a deceit that led his prey on the path of no return.

But he was no prey, and Varg and Claw needed him, just as he had needed them so far. Seeing how he couldn’t make a dent in Demophios’s hard armor guarding his crawling body with fangs and claws, he decided to shift into his human form.

That appeared to please the giant snake. “Just as I was about to lose all faith that you would even try to give me an answer.”

Ah, so being human was supposed to help. If asked, Toru would have said that in his tiger body he had always felt the strongest and the quickest in both wits and brawn. But it appeared that Demophios was much more interested in the human part of him, and that meant that he was on the right path.

Could he use his human fists to pummel that giant head in and be done with the threat?

Demophios surprised him by breaking into laughter. “You will have to use your head, young tiger.” He bumped playfully against Toru’s forehead, making him stumble backward a step or two.

“Stop playing,” Toru growled and wiped the skin where the snake had touched him with his moist and disgusting nose.

“Oh, do you truly believe I’m playing?” Demophios taunted him, moving around in lazy circles. “I could end your friends’ lives at any moment. Will you continue to think the same thing if I do that?”

“Don’t you dare, disgusting worm! I’ll kill you if you harm them in any way!”

“How, exactly? Your power means nothing here. You cannot harm me, and that’s because you need me.”

“I don’t need you,” Toru said through his teeth. “The only thing I need from you is to return my friends safe and sound.”

“Very well, then. Answer my question. What do I have to do to become immortal?”

“How should I know that?”

“Think, young tiger, think. I have all the time in the world, but your friends don’t.”

Toru began thinking indeed, while his hands curled into fists. He needed to clear his head of the growing anger rising inside; but he wouldn’t think of such an impossible thing as making Demophios immortal. Even if he did know the answer, he wouldn’t give it to the giant snake. Creatures like him were an abomination, and no one was supposed to live forever.

***

Duril walked behind Sog, who was still prey to the same excitement as before when Yarag had decided that he should be in charge of their unexpected guest. The orc was quick on his feet and stopped only now and then to gesture at Duril with impatient hands. “Come, come, slave, don’t dally! We need to fetch the water. Hard work, hard work.”

It was a bit unsettling to find himself moving farther and farther from Yarag’s tent through the sinuous invisible pathways of the horde camp. Curious looks followed him, not any less hostile than before, and Duril noticed with unease how the orcs huddled together in groups, each with his own band and clan. The divisiveness gripping the large horde was growing stronger, he realized. The clan leaders might not make another move against Yarag anytime soon, but the rumors about the state the Grand Chief was in must have spread like wildfire.

“Sog,” he called his handler while struggling to keep up with him. As much as he had felt the call of his kin, his feet were not yet as fast, nor his blood as quick to spill another’s as he could easily read in the others’ eyes.

“Quiet, slave. Slaves don’t talk,” Sog said, but his voice lacked the authority that was supposed to go with such words. It came out whiny and fearful, and Duril had known people like that, afraid of their own shadow. For that reason, he couldn’t hold it against Sog that he was treating him unfairly at the moment. Duril decided to indulge the orc until they reached the well or wherever it was that they had to draw water. After that, he needed to talk to him again about the Grand Chief and what they could do to keep him alive and even cure him of the poison that was now flowing freely through his veins.

As lost in thought as he was, he stumbled upon something and plunged forward, ending up sprawled on his belly. Dust got in his mouth and he coughed, only to have more of it thrown in his face. Only then did he notice the presence of two large feet that were doing that to him.

“That’s Sog’s slave. Leave him alone!” He heard Sog complaining.

Mingled laughter, harsh and unforgiving, followed. “Where did you find him, Sog? He’s not your slave.”

Duril tried to shake off the large paw that grabbed him by his hair and pulled him upward. Soon, he was staring into a pair of mean eyes, sunken inside a large skull. This orc had large teeth protruding and yellow, and the skin stretched on his face as if a capricious hand had decided to pull it over a head too big.

Sog grabbed Duril by his good arm and began yanking hard. The mean looking orc slapped Sog away, sending him sprawling on his behind without seemingly any effort. “Chum like you don’t have slaves.”

“Urk, he’s mine,” Sog whined. “The Grand Chief gave him to me.”

“The Grand Chief? He’s dead,” Urk said and shook Duril while still holding him by the hair. That was truly starting to hurt. Next thing, the orc grabbed his stump and looked at it. “Is he any good to eat? Did you cook his arm already?”

“That’s an old wound,” Duril said. “I belong to Sog, and the Grand Chief is alive and well. Now put me down before Yarag hears about it and strikes you where you stand.”

“He talks!” Urk exclaimed and turned toward his bandmates who were keeping a bit of distance. It could be only his imagination, but it appeared that his words about the Grand Chief hadn’t been missed. They stared down, and their laughter came out as gurgles, rather than snickers.

But why were they always so surprised that he could talk? Could it be that they had never met other half-orcs? In all truth, Duril didn’t remember if he had seen others like him, but orcs must have mated often with others outside their horde, given their nature and taste for plunder.

“Such an ugly orc,” Urk concluded. “Or maybe he’s a not-orc. I will make him my pet. What tricks can you do?”

Duril stilled his body, as something new and foreign began growing inside him once more. As he searched the other’s face and saw not even the slightest sign of kindness, he balanced himself and then suddenly kicked Urk in the chest with both his feet. The attack took the orc by surprise, and he doubled over, dropping Duril in the process.

Sog was quick to seize his arm and pull him hard and fast after him. “We must run, we must run! Urk is going to eat us!”

Duril doubted they could outrun Urk and his clan fellows, as their angry yells followed them right away. But the newness of what he was feeling inside began to grow all-overpowering, so he stopped brusquely and turned on his feet. He growled loudly, taking Urk and his companions by surprise.

“I’m going to dine from your skull tonight, not-orc,” Urk hissed and pulled his curved blade from his back.

Sog took Duril by surprise by jumping in front of him. “You’re not taking him from Sog,” he shouted. “Yarag gave him to Sog!”

“And I’m taking him from you. I don’t mind a bit of chum in my soup.”

Duril had no time to react as Urk raised his blade, bent on driving it through Sog. But just as his eyes grew wide, focused on the glint of the steel and the promise of death in it, Urk stopped, arms above his head, his grotesque face twisted in a snarl. It all lasted a second, and the head slid off the body, falling with a thud. The rest of Urk followed, but not before his head rolled down to Sog’s feet.

The orc grabbed it and raised it over his head. “Sog’s enemy is dead, is dead!” he shouted victoriously. “Death Hand himself killed him where he stood for daring to touch what’s Sog’s!”

Urk’s companions were all silent. They turned away without a word, as Winglog sheathed his sword in the scabbard on his back, without even bothering to wipe off the new blood.

Duril watched Winglog push away Urk’s body with a well-aimed kick. Then, the orc warrior grabbed him by the shoulder and switched him around. “Death Hand doesn’t care for chum.” He prodded Sog to walk so quickly that the smaller orc dropped Urk’s head. Sog hurried to grab it again, but Winglog kicked him in his behind, making him stumble and roll down. “You two are lucky I do.”

Duril couldn’t contradict him even if he wanted. Without a doubt, Urk would have killed Sog without thinking twice, and by nightfall, he would have become that mean orc’s pet or worse, his dinner. Even as Sog held his behind with one hand and walked limping ahead, the other clutched tightly around unfortunate Urk’s head, he couldn’t help thinking that Winglog had just saved them both from a far more horrific fate.

“Are you coming with us?” he asked tentatively, as Winglog continued to push him to walk in front.

A grunt was the immediate reply. “Yarag needs water. Lots of it.”

A worrisome development, Duril thought but didn’t dare to share it just yet. Sog might be easy to convince, but what about Winglog? The orc warrior was hard to fool and had a distrusting nature, for which he couldn’t blame him seeing what kind of species orcs were.

***

There was no well but a pit in the ground, and they had to descend inside, finding small protrusions in the calcareous walls to use as rungs for their feet so that they could go deeper and deeper. Even the merciless sun began losing its power as they moved closer and closer to the surface of the water. It wasn’t the cleanest, for sure, but it didn’t look like orcs worried about hygiene too much. Winglog sent them inside and stood by the edge. Up there, dozens of empty buckets were stored inside a small shed, and only then it dawned on Duril that he hadn’t even realized that Sog had left with him earlier empty-handed. His mind had been elsewhere.

Winglog was the orc to talk to, but how could he convince him that he only meant the Grand Chief well? He had to earn their trust, but as a not-orc as Urk had called him, he couldn’t inspire much of it, for sure.

“Sog,” he called quietly, “you haven’t told me everything about how Yarag got his wound.”

“Don’t talk, slave,” Sog croaked as he descended nimbly along the walls. Duril noticed how dexterous the orc was. A heavily armored orc like Winglog wouldn’t have been able to get in there and draw water for sure. Sog was much more important than he thought.

“Don’t you want your own curved blade anymore?” Duril did his best to entice him.

“Yarag gave Sog a slave. It’s much better than a curved blade.”

“But if Yarag dies, the other clans will kill us, won’t they?”

“Maybe you, ‘cause you’re not-orc.” The only legacy Urk had been able to transmit, it seemed, was that moniker. Duril didn’t think much of it and no longer believed it a good fit. He felt as orc as Sog, Winglog, and even Yarag.

“What about you?”

“I’m chum. They all want more chum.”

“So you’ll just change masters, you think? You told me otherwise.”

Sog sank his bucket into the muddy water and gestured impatiently for Duril to follow his example. It was difficult to keep his balance as he had no hand to grasp the small indentations in the wall, but he managed to fill his bucket, too.

“Yarag will die if we don’t help him,” Duril insisted.

“Hey, you two,” Winglog shouted from above. “If you lazy around more, I’ll whip you until you bleed.”

“He does that,” Sog confirmed as he hurried up the wall. “Winglog has a mean whip. It cracks your skin like that.” He snapped his fingers.

Duril followed Sog up, without another word.

***

They executed the same grueling task about half a dozen times. Once above the pit, Duril noticed that they had managed to fill almost all of the empty buckets available. Winglog used a long thin log, balanced it on his shoulders and gestured for Duril to pick a similar one from the shed. Sog hurried to hang the buckets from the ends, one at a time until Duril felt that it would be a feat of strength to take even a step encumbered as he was. Winglog grunted and gestured to Sog, and the smaller orc loaded all the remaining buckets on a yoke of his own under which he slid with dexterity and then pushed himself up. They were ready to return now.

“Since when do warriors carry water?” Duril asked.

“Since they must help the Grand Chief,” Winglog replied without threatening him for talking, much to his surprise.

That was the occasion he had been waiting for. “If you want that, I can help.”

“Hold your tongue, spy, or I’ll cut it out,” Winglog spat.

“I’m not a spy. Yarag himself said it,” Duril reminded him.

Winglog harrumphed as he moved steadily. “He spared you for reasons only he knows. To me, you’re still a spy.”

That wasn’t too encouraging, but Duril knew he wouldn’t give up so easily. The only enemy he had right now was time, as even a large orc like Yarag wouldn’t be able to fight poison for long.

***

No one dared to bother them on their way back. Winglog’s impressive presence, as well as the blade on his back with still fresh stains of blood, was enough to convince the other clans to leave them alone.

When they reached the Grand Chief’s tent, Duril noticed the stench right away. Soon enough, Yarag would begin to fail in his fight against the poison, and then his time would be up. They hurried to place the buckets filled with water on the ground, and the large orc grabbed one after the other, gulping them down like they were merely drops of rain.

They were all silent, and Duril recognized the tension in the air for what it was. He was about to step outside for a bit of fresh air when a hissing sound drew his attention. Only then he became aware of the wooden basket stashed in a corner. “Sog,” he whispered, “are these the snakes that bit the Grand Chief?”

He approached the basket carefully and peered inside. Indeed, a few reptiles raised their heads and fixed him with their cold eyes the moment he came near. Why was the Grand Chief still keeping them there? Wasn’t he afraid that they could slither their way to him and bite him again?

No, afraid was the wrong word. No orc would ever be afraid, at least not one as big and fearsome as Yarag.

Sog hadn’t noticed him, nor heard him, as he was busy pushing a fresh bucket toward the Grand Chief. Winglog supervised his every move with keen eyes. Then, in a moment, Duril realized that the tent of someone as important as Yarag should have swarmed by now with those loyal to him. Yet, no one except these two orcs stood by his side.

Duril had so many questions on his mind, but no time or person to ask them. He moved cautiously toward the basket with snakes and hovered for a couple of excruciating moments. When one of the snakes struck, he grabbed it by the neck and ran with it outside, hoping no one had noticed him.

He stopped after several steps and waited. Maybe he was reckless, but he remembered well what kind of anti-poison he needed to concoct. The next thing he needed would be harder to procure, and seeing how the others saw him as a stranger he couldn’t move around freely without being asked questions.

The snake wrapped its slithering body around his arm, and Duril could sense its strength. The way he held the creature forced the snake’s mouth open, so its bifurcated tongue dashed out at intervals, but it couldn’t make a sound.

“What are you doing?”

Duril almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of Sog’s voice. The orc was staring over his shoulder at the snake with fascinated eyes.

“I’m making a cure. Don’t stop me,” he said curtly.

Sog licked his lips and stole a furtive look toward the tent. “You caught the snake. I saw you.”

It appeared that the orc exhibited signs of shrewdness once in a while. Duril could tell that his actions must have impressed him.

“I need a rat,” Duril said. “Where can I find one?”

Sog licked his lips again, but this time, his eyes shone in a different way. “Rats make good stew.”

“You’re the cook. You must know where to find one,” Duril insisted.

“Sog is the best cook.”

“Good. So get me a rat.”

Sog straightened up and stared at him suspiciously. “Do you want to cook? You cannot cook.”

“I’m making a cure. But you can help me with the cooking part,” Duril suggested.

“Hmm. Come with me.”

Duril wasn’t keen on walking around with the snake wrapped around his arm like that, but he had no choice. He followed Sog behind the tent where a small cage stood. The orc put one hand inside and caught something by its tail.

“Hold it,” Duril said and moved the snake close.

Sog took a step back. “Do you want the snake to bite Sog? Lie like Yarag and hope to die?”

“Just stay still,” Duril demanded. “I only need to have the snake bite the rat a bit.”

“I thought it was your pet and you wanted to give him a fresh meal,” Sog said.

Duril gave up on explaining to Sog that he was working on a cure for the Grand Chief. He didn’t wish to deceive the other, but there was no other way, and he was running out of time. “Just bring the rat closer.”

Sog extended his arm as far from his body as he could, and Duril finally managed to bring the snake close enough. He watched as the fangs sank into the furry body, making the rat squirm and squeak. Swiftly, he withdrew the reptile and watched the poison pour down the long fangs. If the cure described in Elidias’s books was any good, he would find out soon. For the good of the entire horde, he hoped that it was.

“Hold the rat, Sog,” he said.

“Your snake didn’t eat it. Isn’t the rat good? But it makes good stew,” Sog insisted and shook the rat while staring at it dubiously.

“I surely hope so,” Duril said. “Now put the rat back.”

“Put it back? It’s going to die and stench the place. Sog has rats there for three stews.”

Duril pondered for a bit. “All right. Just hold it but help me kill the snake.”

“Why?” Sog threw him another suspicious look.

“We’re going to make a stew with both rat and snake in it.”

“Rat and snake?” Sog shouted in disbelief.

“Yes. And just be quiet. Winglog might hear you.”

“What are you two doing here?” Winglog walked toward them right then. For good measure, he swatted both Duril and Sog over their heads.

“We’re making stew,” Sog said in a whiny voice.

“With snake?” Winglog asked.

“Not-orc stole one because he’s hungry for snake stew.”

That appeared to make the orc warrior stop scolding them. “I don’t remember ever having snake stew.”

His plan wasn’t the cleverest, after all, Duril thought. If orcs didn’t eat snakes, he was in deep trouble and needed to come up with something else to make Yarag eat the cure he intended to prepare.

“I always eat the snakes raw,” Winglog said in a thoughtful voice.

“Not-orc says is better than rat stew.”

Duril didn’t remember saying anything like that, but he was willing to play along with Sog just so that Winglog didn’t end up ruining his plan. “It’s good for those with an illness,” he offered right away. “The Grand Chief will like it.”

“He eats his snakes raw,” Winglog insisted. “He grabs them and eats the head first, and then swallows the rest.”

It could be that it was for that purpose that the basket of snakes had been left inside.

“But it would be better if he ate them with a bit of rat on the side.” He couldn’t believe he said such things. The most surprising part was that he didn’t find himself disgusted by the thought. As Sog continued to present the rat and snake stew in the most delicious light to Winglog, he felt that he was getting hungry, too.

“Then just make the stew,” Winglog ordered. “Be ready with it before nightfall, or I’ll serve your heads to the Grand Chief.”

“We’ll get to work right away,” he promised, while Sog took his dagger out and began tickling the rat’s belly.

“Cut off the snake’s head first,” Duril suggested. “And let’s cook some stew.”

***

The Grand Chief still lay on one side when they entered with the steaming pot. Duril had to stop Sog from trying to put aside a plate for himself since he wanted Yarag to eat everything. Seeing how huge he was, he needed a treatment that was sufficient to cure his body. On the other hand, it was for the best that someone who hadn’t been poisoned in the first place didn’t eat it at all.

Winglog shook the sleeping giant. “Grand Chief, your meal is here.”

Yarag opened his eyes with difficulty and sniffed the pot. Sog lifted it above his head, and Yarag grumbled, his words not making any sense. For a moment, Duril feared that Sog might tip the pot over, or that the Grand Chief would refuse to eat, but that ended when a large paw curled around the pot and its contents poured down the orc leader’s throat.

Yarag threw the pot away and turned over on his other side. Duril let out a breath. Now, the only thing left to do was wait for the cure to take effect. He still didn’t have a clue if it would be enough to put the Grand Chief back on his feet.

Sog was trying to scoop up what was left on the bottom of the pot. Duril hurried and grabbed it from him. “No, don’t eat it.” Sog tried to reach it and began to fight him for the pot.

Winglog suddenly turned his attention to him. “Why shouldn’t he?”

Duril felt dwarfed by the orc warrior who loomed above him. “Because I want to eat it,” he replied.

Winglog examined him with shrewd eyes. “Then eat.” He pushed Sog away and gave Duril the pot.

He stared at its bottom. There was still something left, by some miracle. Duril steadied his breathing. Cures were meant to treat those who were ill but, in his experience, they could be just as bad as poison for those who didn’t suffer from the affliction they treated.

***

“Surprise me, young tiger,” Demophios hissed while moving around him.

“Why don’t you stay still?” Toru asked in an irritated voice. “You’re making me dizzy with all your moving around. And how come, after you’ve lived for so long, you don’t know how to become immortal?”

“Maybe I know, and all I have to do is eat a young tiger.”

“Ha, if that had been it, you would’ve eaten me by now,” Toru replied.

Demophios laughed, if the strange hissing sounds he was making could be considered that. “I still might.”

“You won’t.” Toru wasn’t keen on thinking so much, so he was struggling to find a way to fool Demophios into releasing Varg and Claw. “But what makes you think that I’m the one to give you the answer? Varg and Claw are much smarter than me, and they lived longer.”

“You see, young tiger, I was told that I would meet you, and you’d be the key to my immortality. So it has to be you.”

Hmph, that hadn’t worked. “Your key how?”

“I wasn’t told that. So, think, young tiger, think. Unless you want to say goodbye forever to your friends and walk the path of your destiny alone from now on, you’ll find my answer.”

Toru rubbed his forehead and struggled to think of another way to trick the giant snake. “Maybe you just need to eat a lot of cabbage,” he said.

Demophios bumped against his forehead again. “I’ve eaten everything there is to eat on the face of the earth and underneath it.”

“Everything? Like really, really everything?” Toru asked, as an idea began to form inside his mind.

“Everything,” Demophios said with conviction.

Toru grinned. “You’re wrong. There’s something you surely haven’t eaten ever before.”

TBC

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