The Good Ork

Chapter 12: The Mysteries

Chapter 13: The Mysteries

I awoke to a groan in our tent. My mother was held over her bedding by two orks wearing orange hoods. She struggled and writhed and moaned for help. One of the orks held her head, the other her ankles as he bound them with cord, whispering, "I will twist this into your flesh for all the bother."

At that, a short scream escaped my mother. The ork at her head brought his fist down on her face, silencing her. But the scream woke Brekazog, who was not as cowed by the scene as I. She burst across the room into the ork that just punched our mother. She was small for her age, only about five and a half feet tall. Still, she managed to plow our mother's assailant into the floor where she wrapped her thighs around his neck and began choking him.

Her bravery was a goad to mine. I grabbed a pair of knives and threw one at the ork still struggling to bind my mother's feet. The knife just missed him, lodging in the skin of the tent, dangling by its blade from the hole it made.

The ork turned to look at me, the orange hood falling from his head. It was Tarbug. Shocked at the depth of his betrayal, I shouted, "Traitor!" and threw the other knife. This one flew true, and would have caught him in the neck had he been less dexterous.

Tarbug dropped my mother and rushed over to me, slapping a brace of teeth out of my mouth before shoving a hood over my head and tying it tight. I pulled at the cords, trying to free myself, but a punch to the gut snuffed out my wind. Doubled over, I felt my hands tied behind my back. A kick took my legs out from under me, and I fell. Gravel bit my shins. I heard traitorous Tarbug join his companion in subduing my sister.

With wrath, I dwelled on the betrayal of Tarbug. It was well known in the wastes that every living ork had a price on their head. The merchants on the far shore of the Broadmere River would pay good money for every and any ork brought to them. They would buy from ork or human. No matter how mean, every warm ork body could fetch a price.

And if the ork-body did not suit the task to which it was fitted, it could be shaped to do so. Most common and dreadful was the tale of the "boxed" ork. Orks unsuitable for any other task were said to have their arms and legs chopped off, and their wounds seared with hot irons. These unfortunates were subsequently boarded into a box, leaving only their head free. Such orks could then be moved hither and thither to guard important items and places with their eyes. If an intruder arrived, the boxed ork was to raise the alarm. The tale was especially popular among the Targalak, though many of us held that it could not possibly be true. It seemed too cruel, and could life be so cheap? To us, better to eat such a worthless ork for their meat than to reduce then to a living piece of furniture. You can imagine my horror at the discovery that the practice is true.

And as I lay in my mother's tent, bound and hooded, screaming my lungs out that help might come, thoughts of being boxed filled my head. Yet no help came. Father did not run into the tent to save us. Fighters did not gather shield and blade to slaughter our kidnappers. And as my sister fell beneath the traitor's blows, my fear grew. In my inward eye, the same scene played out again and again in every tent. Tarbug, and a few other especially low and cowardly Targalak, must at long last have grown weary of our fugitive existence. They had sold out the entire tribe, and would now retire to live richly off their filthy slave money.

Further proof of my thesis was gathered when Tarbug picked me up and carried me outside. The camp was rent by wailing. Girls promised death to their kidnappers, and boys thrashed and caterwauled as frenzy consumed them.

It was Tarbug's touch which brought on my berserker. I was over his shoulder, my face against his sweaty back. My weight shifted as he walked, and to grab a firmer hold, he took my bound wrists in his hand. This was the hand, I thought, which worked the doom of my father.