Lost in the Mist

[Tusk]

Throm woke, as he often did, to the sound of scratching.

Ata made an annoyed noise and curled herself up tighter under the furs, and pressed her forehead into Throm’s ribs. He was not unsympathetic, but he knew better than to try and shut the noise out. She made more unhappy noises when he slid away from her, and tried to cling to him in defiance. She was strong, but he was stronger, and she was still mostly asleep.

He padded barefoot across the naked floor of the cave, savoring the cool smoothness of the rock. A pair of eyes glinted green in the predawn gloom, set inside a hulking silhouette, and then they disappeared again as Dog turned back to face the wall. The scratching resumed, and Throm hissed through his teeth until the beast whipped around to face him again, eyes gleaming.

Dog was not a dog, but rather a cat. Men call them big names like cougar and saber-tooth tiger and bear-cats, but to orcs they’re just cats. The fact that Dog was not a dog is sure sign that Throm was a paragon of wit amongst orcs.

The cat sat herself down and whipped her stubby tail across the cave floor and heaved a great, frustrated sigh, turning her eerie gaze back up to a natural shelf in the rock where Throm kept strips of jerky. He retrieved one, tore it in half, and tossed one side to her. She caught it in midair, and then turned and padded over to him in long, languid strides. He began chewing his own half as the beast pressed her head appreciatively against his chest. He patted her side heavily, and then went on his way to the mouth of the cave.

The early morning breeze dried the night’s sweat from his bare shoulders as he looked out over the island. He made his home high on the mountain face, overlooking the stronghold, which itself overlooked a long stretch of field that abutted the beach. The Steam Sea was beyond that, an endless wall of shifting mists and billowing, smoky grey pillars that rose up out of the ocean and dissipated in the sky. As the sun rose, it created vague, sparkling rainbows in the mist. Every sunrise was awe-striking but different, like masterpieces all by the same artist.

The sun only rises so high in Berevar, and at that time of the year it never rises very far above the horizon. When it was as high as it was going to get – a great, hazy yellow eye peering through the mists – Throm went back into his cave. Dog was curled up beside Ata now; fighting her for the warm spot he’d left behind. He huffed through his nose at the sight, amused, and fastened a hide kilt around his waist, and pulled boots on.

When he turned to leave, Dog bounded out of the bed and sprinted past him, and then disappeared down the path toward the stronghold. Ata stretched across the bed victoriously, and all was right.

As Throm left his home behind he sighed, and was content.

[Tusk]

The path down from Throm’s cave did not lead directly into the stronghold, but first weaved through a system of paths and caves full of steam vents and hot springs. In one he found an old orc, a war-leader named Kerr One-Leg. They greeted one another, and Throm crouched next to the pool to talk. Kerr’s peg leg rested on the edge of the pool, well away from the water but still within reach.

“Keeorah,” Kerr rumbled. “Was that Ata howling in your cave last night?”

Throm grunted.

“It was,” Kerr said, giving his best licentious smile-and-nod. “I’d stick it in her.”

“What? Your leg?” Throm nodded at the peg.

“Ha! If that’s what she’s into,” Kerr said, and then he grew thoughtful. “Not a big difference for her, anyway. Between that and the normal way, I mean.”

“Maybe when you were younger. Unless you replaced your cock with a peg, too.”

Kerr laughed full and deep, and slapped one hand on the surface of the water. Throm allowed himself the ghost of a smile, and patted the elder orc on the shoulder. “Be strong,” he said.

Kerr was still chuckling to himself and wiping a tear from his eye when he nodded and said “be strong,” and Throm continued out toward the stronghold. The mountain roads and cave passes were all enclosed behind the stronghold, and so there were no doors or walls before the mountain let out into the stronghold proper. Throm found Dog waiting for him the way cats wait for their people: she had her back to him, and she put on a good show of being aloof, but her ears were back and her shoulders were tense. When he stepped near, she bounded to her feet delightedly and then sprinted ahead again, stub tail straight up in the air.

Throm’s stronghold was called Skogyak, and it was named for his mother, who founded it. Wood was precious on their island and best used for boats, so they did not build their walls or their huts from it. Instead their walls were mastodon ribs lashed together with braided seaweed, and their tents had bone-and-horn frames and leather walls. The long-hall was where Skogul kept her seat, and it alone had wooden walls, and four great mastodon skulls were arrayed on its roof facing in the cardinal directions, with tattered black banners hanging from their yellowed tusks. Fire pits burned here and there, holding the frigid mists at bay, and crude ivory watchtowers stood like spindly-legged sentinels with their heads in the clouds. There was a single gate made of logs, stone, and carved bone, and the orcs left their enemies impaled on horns and spikes rising from it. In those times all the corpses were old, all bones and wind-dried jerky.

Orc children bounded between the huts cursing and hooting in small groups called packs, each led by the strongest and best-fed. A particularly large pack made a token effort to catch Dog, probably thinking they could eat her, but she chased them off by baring her massive teeth and batting at them with her paws in quick jabs that sent them scattering. Throm respected their gumption. Once a pack had tried throwing rocks at her from atop a tent, and Throm had grown so angry that he kicked the tent down and bit the leader on the face. It was well-known that Dog was gentler with her enemies than he was, so the smart ones steered clear of both of them.

Throm ascended the stone steps to the long-hall and shoved the doors open dramatically, roaring at the top of his lungs. Before his eyes adjusted to the dark he bounded inside and kicked a pot into the fire pit, sending ashes and sparks spitting in the air, and he thumped his fist against his chest and shoulder. There was a commotion all around him as the sleepers inside the hall screamed and struggled out of their mats, desperately looking for tools of self-defense. Young orcs ran half-naked past him and out the door into the morning cold, stumbling and tripping over one another. Throm laughed at them. Dog batted at them playfully as they scrambled to escape the hall, which further terrified them.

“Get up!” he roared, but by then they were already up. “Up! Out! Up!”

The hall’s inhabitants hurried out into the clearing in front of the long-hall, bleary-eyed and panting. A few of them were clearly angry, which was good, but most were just bewildered. They were all of them young, each of them once leader of a pack. They were ready to join the tribe. These were the days that would decide how they would serve – soldier or hunter, maker or breaker, chief or bed-warmer. This was the first time Throm had the honor of ushering such a group into the fold, but he found that teaching came naturally to him.

He punched a young buck in the face and sent him sprawling, and howled deafeningly at the rest of them.

“Weapons!” he said. “Weapons!”

The trainees scattered for the weapon racks that littered the yard, except for the victim of Throm’s aggression, who lay groaning in the mud. He grabbed the buck by the scruff of the neck and dragged him off to the side, and then retrieved his own set of training weapons.

“Form a line, dogs!” Throm indicated where the line was to form with the tip of his club, and then he finished strapping the training shield to his forearm. “Today you join Skogul’s army!”

Realization dawned on the faces of those assembled, and a great whooping cry went up from them.

Now the stronghold was definitely awake. Throm nodded to himself as he looked his trainees over, pleased with himself.

He had it in him to form an army, and now the entire tribe knew it.

He was the greatest of his mother’s sons.

[Tusk]

The training went on for three hours, and by the end of it Throm was slick with sweat but exhilarated. He remembered his own first day as a man of the tribe, the fear and the confusion and then, finally, the fierce pride and sense of identity he gained as his strengths were uncovered. To see it happening in the eyes of others reaffirmed those discoveries of the self. When Baar arrived to take over, Throm found that he did not want to relinquish control of his charges. He did so eventually, but reluctantly.

“What a bunch of runts,” Baar said as Throm handed over his club and shield.

“Says you, to me,” Throm said, raising his brows. The two of them were of similar build: broad and heavily muscled, but short-legged as well. Even in a yard full of orcs years their junior, some half their age, Throm and Baar were tied for the shortest in attendance.

Baar did not smile, but the twinkle in his eye was unmistakable.

“You did well enough,” Throm announced to his trainees. “Some of you might be soldiers. Baar’s training will kill most of you, though.”

Throm stared at them, meeting the gaze of a few one by one to try and convince them that he was being honest, and then he turned and walked away without another word. Baar took over seamlessly, and the training continued.

Leaving the grunts and screams and shouts of active training behind, Throm returned to the steamy caves above the stronghold. They were empty, so Kerr must have moved on some time ago. He reveled in the ache in his neck, arms, and shoulders, the soreness one only gets from repeated blows to the shield, and from hammering on a shield in turn. Rather than soothe those aches, he stepped to the back of the cave where water rushed from the ceiling to fill a shallow pool, which itself emptied into a crevice in the wall. He stripped and stepped beneath the resulting waterfall and endured the weight of water crushing down on him for as long as his legs could hold him. The sweat washed away, and left only more of the sweet ache of exhaustion.

When he emerged, he found Ata and two other huntresses waiting for him. Before he could think of anything clever to say about the scenario, Ata spoke. “Skogul calls for you,” she said. “We saw something…strange.”

Throm cocked his head to one side, but Ata shook her head. “It’s best if we explain it all at once for everyone. Come.”

Throm shrugged, dressed, and followed them back to the long-hall.

[Tusk]

When the long-hall was empty of sleeping orcs, the chief called it home, and it was the seat of power – an orcish throne room. The throne here was made of wood and bone and stone and draped with furs – hare and stoat and polar bear and drave - and it was crowned with antlers, and framed by two mastodon tusks. A female orc sat upon it, dressed in fine plated armor pieced together from countless conquests. Her crown was a horned helmet topped with a horsehair tassel, which flowed down around her shoulders like a shining black river. She was Skogul: chief of the island people, founder of the stronghold, conqueror of the surrounding tribes. She was Throm’s mother.

“Keeorah, Rau,” she called when Throm entered the long-hall.

“Keeorah, Chief,” he called back, and pounded his fist once against his chest in salute.

“Sit,” she ordered. “Put today’s steaks on to cook. And listen.”

The long-hall was dimly lit only by the long fire pit that ran through its center. The smoke billowed upward, gathering in the tall corners of the hall and rendering it dark and oppressive but warm before it squeezed out through the gaps in the ceiling and streamed into the sky through the skulls mounted on the roof. Skogul sat at the far end of the pit, opposite the door, and her lieutenants sat along the sides. Kerr was there, and Baar, and a handful of others that Throm knew to be great war-leaders and advisors. He tried not to puff up when he sat among them.

Ata and the other huntresses entered after him, carrying a yak carcass between them. They tossed it down and two of them sat to butchering it while Ata stepped forward, opposite the throne, and stood tall.

“Keeorah, Chief,” Ata boomed, and saluted with her chin raised.

“Keeorah, Ata the huntress,” Skogul said.

One of the huntresses finished slicing a choice piece from the dead beast, and with a few deft cuts she made a steak out of it and tossed it to Throm with an appreciative nod. Being uncommonly patient and thoughtful for an orc, he made a particularly good cook – at least in their estimation. He slapped the steak down sizzling on the metal grid suspended above the fire pit, and turned half his attention to the story to come while licking blood from his fingers.

“Tell us again what you saw while hunting this morning,” Skogul said.

Ata paused, glancing at the orcs assembled there, and seemed to hesitate. Throm let a little more of his attention slip from the steak, and sat up. After a moment she nodded, and told her story.

“We ranged west and went downhill a bit to find yak, since there’s a lot of melt coming off the mountain. We figured that would drive them down, and we were right. Finding the yak was easy, and we killed it with spears. We were preparing to carry it back when a man fell from the sky.”

There was a moment of silence that stretched, and then Kerr began to glance at the faces of his fellows. Throm narrowed his eyes. Yonmar, one of the greatest of Skogul’s war-leaders, was the first one to say what they were all thinking.

“You have to repeat that last thing.”

“A man fell from the sky, and landed near us,” Ata said. “He was dead.”

“What kind of man?” Yonmar said.

“Was it a winged man?” Eppe said, with the tiniest hint of a smile. Kerr snorted, but they both fell silent when Skogul shot a look at them.

“See for yourself,” Ata said. She nodded at one of her sisters, who dragged in a body. Sure enough, it was a human, bloodied and broken and most assuredly dead. Throm flipped the steak, and the butcher tossed him another one.

“I have heard that the skraelings in the south have flying things,” Skogul said after a time. “But they are elves. Perhaps he was their prisoner.”

Ata shook her head. “Perhaps. We saw no flying machine, but the sky was full of clouds.”

“Maybe he’s a magician,” Eppe offered, “like the Bluebird. The humans love their magic, even though it kills them all the time.”

“Blueraven,” Skogul said. “Maybe, but I doubt that. There usually isn’t much left when magic betrays.”

“Did he scream?” Throm said while flipping the second steak.

“What?”

“While he was falling. Did he scream?”

Ata looked back at the other huntresses, and one by one they shrugged and shook their heads. “We heard no scream.”

Throm shrugged. “Then he was dead before he fell.”

Those assembled hummed in their chests and nodded at the wisdom of that, but ultimately they fell silent again.

“That’s well and good to know,” Baar said at last, “but if the fall didn’t kill him, what did?”

There were a few suggestions at that, but nothing satisfied anyone, and by the time that discussion wound down there were seven steaks cooking, and the first was served to Skogul. She listened to each of her lieutenants intently while she tore meat from the steak with her teeth and chewed, and the pit hissed where the juices fell into the embers below her.

“It was a troll,” a strange voice announced from the shadows of the hall, speaking in halting orcish. Throm cringed.

The voice belonged to the only non-orc in attendance: a direling shaman-crone, one of Skogul’s honored guests. Lately Throm came to consider the old bat more of a thief than a guest: she was clearly senile, if not mad, and offered little in the way of useful council in return for the food and lodging Skogul gave her.

“Trolls don’t fly, you toothless hag,” Throm rumbled, tossing a steak to Yonmar.

“Quiet,” Skogul said. “Speak, old one.”

“No one falls from the sky,” the crone said haltingly, her melodic accent making the pauses all the more infuriating. “He is put there, and then falls. He fought a troll. Troll hits him so hard with its club, it puts him in the sky, and there he falls again. This is a big troll. The trolls have gone too long without being culled. They grow big.”

Throm and a few of the others made annoyed noises for awhile, but chewed their steaks without comment until Baar grew bold enough to speak. “What makes you think a troll did it?”

“Saw it in the bones,” the crone said. “I rolled them.”

“Oh, the bones told her,” Throm muttered.

“I’ve got a bone for her,” Kerr said, holding up the bone attached to his steak. “I’m not talking about this one.”

“Silence,” Yonmar said.

“I’m talking about my penis.”

“Silence.”

Oblivious to Yonmar’s threatening tone, Kerr smiled wide across the pit at Throm and Eppe, who were doing all they could not to snort and snicker. Skogul tossed the gnawed remains of her meal into the fire pit, wiped her mouth on the fur of her bracer, and sat back in her throne, peering into the coals thoughtfully while her lieutenants bickered.

“I will send my greatest warriors out to solve this mystery,” she said at last, and a great murmur of excitement went through those assembled.

“Hromagh’s guts,” Kerr cursed, “finally a chance to kill something.”