High Orc (2)
There once lived a man who had spent his entire life among wolves. Like the wolves themselves, he was cunning—and a hunter of impeccable thoroughness.
The man's name was Narinhoon Ibatar.
So what manner of orc was he?
Before any other judgment could be made, one thing was certain: he was a superb hunter. Narinhoon knew how to seize an advantageous position first and watch the situation unfold with cold patience. Had Vesta not been there, that talent alone would have let him carve down Arin, the golden right hand of the Drah clan.
It was not a skill he had learned from anyone. It was a gift he had been born with.
If he had done it again this time. If that orc had moved in the shadows without ever showing his face.
Ainuwail would have burned. Countless centaurs would have been slaughtered where they stood, without hope of escape.
Yet Vesta could not understand Narinhoon's judgment. Here was a chance at an achievement no orc had ever accomplished—nothing less than immortality.
Narinhoon had, once again, succeeded in claiming the advantageous ground. He stood exactly where he could decide whether his prey lived or died.
And yet this time, he did not draw back the bowstring. He drew a sword instead—a weapon that could only be used when facing an enemy head-on.
Why?
A creature willing to accept disadvantage could not truly be called a hunter. It would be fair to say that Narinhoon chose to shoulder that disadvantage, and set down the hunter's mantle with his own hands.
What, then, could have transformed a hunter like Narinhoon?
The change could only be called an infection.
It was a sickness that had spread among gladiators, creatures of duel after duel—the disease of separating the fight from the contest.
Something that had never existed on the steppe before.
That was what had corrupted the hunter called Narinhoon. That was what had made him pursue a value beyond mere survival.
Had Vesta never existed, Narinhoon would still be a hunter.
And perhaps, by now, a king.
"We fight again. On top of a world reduced to ash."
It was the posture of a madman—staking the fate of his entire race on his own private duel.
"...There's something I want to ask."
"If it's within my knowledge, ask me anything."
"Who is the king of the orcs?"
Narinhoon kept his promise.
"I haven't heard that anyone has taken the throne. Though I gather a few are thinking about it."
"And you?"
"Hard to say. If I wanted it, I suppose I could have it."
Narinhoon admitted it as though it were nothing, then explained why.
"The orcs gathered here are looking at the future. Do you remember what I said? That eight in ten centaurs would die."
"I do."
"Do you understand why I said eight in ten? Even if every last centaur gathered at Ainuwail burned to nothing, the number wouldn't come close."
Then what had he been imagining when he made that claim?
"The rest will die in the war."
"War?"
"The war that will be fought on the ashes. Whatever centaurs remain will die in that war, and then the elves and the orcs will come to blows."
Those who wanted to win that war—and those who simply wanted to survive it—were the ones backing Narinhoon, he said.
"In the end, each side only sees the other as a means to an end."
"And so? Do you intend to wear that crown?"
"I have no great attachment to being king. But if I defeat you... perhaps."
That had been their contract. If Narinhoon reclaimed death on his own terms, then he would have to become king.
Wholly regardless of his own inclinations.
"I'll be waiting for you, after I've brought the steppe to ruin."
"That won't be necessary. The moment I wake from this dream, I'll expose your plan."
It must have sounded absurd, because Narinhoon sneered.
"I don't know how you intend to prove it, but you'd best hurry."
"Now what are you on about?"
"Can you shoot a bow?"
Narinhoon was speaking in riddles.
"A man who means to put an arrow into his mark must see the future. Granted, only a very near future."
Living things move. And an arrow exists to kill living, moving things—not to strike targets standing perfectly still. To bring down an enemy, one had to know the point the enemy would reach and trace the arrow's path with precision. And that could only be done by prediction.
"Ever since I took the wolf into my body, I've been able to see a little farther."
-Blood will flow. Bestiarii.
Vesta denied it, and Narinhoon laughed.
"You've herded every manner of creature on the steppe into one place. Did you truly believe you could pass through without incident?"
If so, then Vesta had grossly underestimated the fury of orc blood—and grossly overestimated the character of the steppe's peoples. Warrior, indeed.
The Khan's envoy had met with the King of the Orcs, so surely no strife would break out. Nearly everyone believed that—Vesta included. The centaurs were the strongest and most belligerent of the steppe's races; barring them, no one would dare pick a fight with the orc legions. Surely no one wanted to bleed.
It was deep into the night. Orcs and the various races of the steppe had gathered, tipping back cups of liquor together.
They had not come to share heartwarming conversation. Both groups had simply been seduced by the same thing—free booze—and found themselves seated in the same place.
"Free liquor? What's the occasion?"
"The arena we poured our hearts into went and collapsed on us. Can hardly haul all this down the mountain road with us, can we? It felt a shame just to throw it out, so I figured this was the better use."
The human, introducing himself as a man of the upper city, answered with a kindly smile.
"Well, suits me fine either way."
Everyone, orcs included, was happy not to refuse free drink.
Those who had eyed each other warily at first grew talkative as the liquor flowed.
"Which is exactly why the elves and the centaurs eat and live as well as they do—it's all thanks to us!"
A satyr—the goat-folk, as some called them—declared in a booming voice.
The human woman pouring his drink beside him asked, "Oh my, is that so?"
"It is! Anyone who matters knows it!"
The satyr slapped his own thigh with a thump, thump. Not a human's leg—a goat's, bent and crooked, with hooves where nails should have been.
"We climbed sheer cliffs on these legs and carved the mountain roads ourselves. Before we did that, those paths weren't fit for anything with two legs to walk."
Goats were virtuosos of cliff-climbing, and satyrs, with hooves nearly identical in shape, were no different. They strolled up vertical rock faces as if it were nothing at all.
"Oh my, I had no idea."
When the human woman nodded along so earnestly, the satyr snorted through his nose and launched into self-congratulation.
"The most important thing in raising livestock is salt—salt! Until Ainuwail was opened up, the elves and centaurs never flourished like this, let me tell you."
"I heard they held a monopoly on it for fifty years."
It was an orc who understood the steppe tongue. The words he let slip with a grunt drew every eye in the gathering.
"...What did you say?"
"They'd been keeping their monopoly quiet, and then the elves started seriously preparing to open up the territory themselves. Only then did the satyrs scramble to cut roads through, didn't they?"
"Where did you hear that nonsense...!"
It was a rumor that circulated among the people—or rather, it was less a rumor than an uncomfortable truth. There simply had never been clear proof, and even if there were, it was far too late to raise the matter now.
And why should it be otherwise? What lofty purpose could have possessed the satyrs to sacrifice so for the sake of their race?
"Watch your mouth, orc!"
"It was a wise decision, mind. Thanks to that judgment, we're receiving grain from the elves, aren't we?"
The satyrs bristled their beards and glared daggers at the orcs. Goats were a quarrelsome breed by nature, and satyrs were no exception.
Now the liquor had joined the mix, and they were worse than usual.
"Jealous of how well we eat and live, are you? Well, I suppose I understand—your own kind grubbing in gravel and dirt. It'd be enough to make anyone bitter."
Thud. Silence fell.
"KHAAAAAH-HAH-HAH-HAH!"
What sliced through that silence was the laughter of an orc.
"What would livestock know of the life of a wolf?"
"Livestock, you say?"
"If you live off the elves' grain and you're not livestock, then what are you?"
Steppe grain was expensive—even with the Southern Steppe farming in earnest. The reason was simple: most of the grain produced in the south went to feed the satyrs and the centaurs.
Those races paid a different price for their grain than the elves did. The elves paid gold; the rest paid next to nothing.
Everyone knew why. If it weren't so, the swollen populations could never be fed. The numbers would collapse outright.
And the orcs—they despised that fact.
"We take with our own strength, and we live by our own strength."
"BULL! SHIT!"
The satyr shot to his feet. One after another, the other satyrs rose with him.
The atmosphere turned on a knife's edge.
"How dare you call us livestock!"
"I expected to laugh it off as the rambling of a pauper. But judging by that reaction, I've struck a nerve."
The satyrs bared their horns and menace at the orc.
"You want to try us?!"
"Sit down."
The orcs laughed the threat away.
"We don't fight with livestock."
Livestock could never be an opponent in a fight. They were simply beings that surrendered their lives when the time came.
"Nothing but prey for the centaurs, the lot of you!"
"And yet you are not centaurs."
That was the orc's warning. In truth, the orcs had no intention of drawing blood—their chieftain had instructed them so. Wolves followed their head, and they would not act unless the satyrs lunged first.
And so, with no blades crossed, the two sides traded venom back and forth—
"Ah. So satyrs don't measure up to orcs either, huh?"
One voice cut through the murderous air with unusual clarity. It was in the steppe tongue.
-Who is that?
-Saying something like that, now of all times...
Lycaon's comrade—Orion—caught the ember. It was an ember worth fanning breath into.