The Eagle, the Bear, the Abomination

[Glories of Myrmidion]

At winter’s thaw, Jehan Leitdorf found himself far from home.

His father Gunther, Grandmaster of the Knights of the Golden Eagle and one of the Twelve High Templars of Olbina, had tasked him to scout beyond the western borders of the Five Dukedoms. Whispers on the wind, told in hushed whispers by merchants and pilgrims at the tavern tables, spoke of strife in the distant Salvic and Coronian kingdoms. But only when the border lords had reported rumours of the orc tribes gathering for war, and of the wyrmkin mustering in the deeps, had they taken on an altogether more urgent complexion. He had to assess the rumoured threat, to resolve it if within his power, to send for reinforcement if necessary.

His mounted company of seven had travelled along the ancient dwarf roads for a fortnight, making steady progress despite the deep drifts lying upon the winterbound fields. They had then stopped for three days at the outlying township of Turicum to gather information, and to recruit a local guide to their cause; Jehan knew better than to tempt the wilderness without knowing the lay of the land.

Now they pushed on again, into an icy land barely waking from its slumber, all dreary angular rock and rushing rivulets of cold.

Tiana, their guide, led the way. Alone of their number she did not wear armour of steel plate, and her horse – in reality little more than a shaggy pony – tossed its head skittishly at the touch of her heels. Her round, youthful face peered out from beneath a fur-lined hood; one outstretched arm indicated a larger stream amongst the many rivulets flowing from the heights to the sea.

“We should break here,” she called over her shoulder, her voice gruff and muffled. The faintest of cold breezes carried her words back to him beneath a sky of heavy, slow-moving grey. “Rest and water up before moving on.”

He nodded, and signalled to his men. They dispersed professionally, but beneath their practised movements he could sense their relief at the opportunity to stretch their legs, having travelled the bleak featureless expanse of the rolling tundra for long hours since dawn. Metal jingled as they dismounted, the bemused snorts of their steeds white and steamy in the chilly air.

Hectorus, his squire and his younger brother, gathered the reins one by one before leading the horses downstream to drink. Lionel, dark-skinned and handsome, signalled back to Jehan that he would join Tiana on watch. He drained his flask before tossing it to grizzled Seth, who caught it neatly mid-air with a resigned grunt. Allister, Garrick, and Wolfe followed Hectorus to relieve themselves, their muted muttering lost in the unfamiliarly empty vastness that surrounded them. Good men all, men that he had known for many years now.

Men that he was proud to command.

For he was First Knight, champion of the Golden Eagle, duty-bound to lead the knights of his order in peace and in war, in dark and in light, in life and in death.

He removed his barbute helm, allowing the chill to touch sweaty short-cropped hair the colour of sun-bleached straw. Sea-green eyes nestled in the crags of a face chiselled from steel but honest. Powerfully built even for his twenty and five years, cold earth cracked beneath the weight of his boots as he joined his men out of the saddle. He breathed deeply of heady peat and running water, tasting the changing of the seasons upon the back of his tongue, before stooping to refill his own flask.

The unease of a horseman dismounted in the open prickled on the back of his neck. Abruptly, like the changing of the wind, he knew that something had gone wrong. He looked up to find Tiana running towards him and Lionel gesturing frantically at Hectorus.

“Orcs,” she gasped, pointing at the next low rise.

His hand went to his saddle, and to the longsword bundled there.

[Tusk]

“They say the bears here will attack and eat an orc on sight,” Baar said, “and the humans here are feral. Worse than direlings.”

The veterans in their party went on chewing jerky, but the pups – Homm and Krikol – tweaked their ears and tried not to look up from their rations. Homm was tall and narrow, and had been well liked by the huntresses. Throm thought him friendly, but dim. Krikol was small and inexperienced despite his age. He would probably die soon.

“Who says that?” Homm said at last, taking the bait.

“The scouts,” Baar said with a shrug. “You know, only two made it back last time, and there were seven of them.”

“Bullshit,” Homm said with a defiant smile.

“It’s true,” Eppe cut in, “why do you think Skogul would send so many heavy-hitters out here? Yonmar led an army, and I know everything there is to know about these lands. Throm over there broke a troll’s spine, and Baar has been killing things out here since before you were born, Homm.”

“How did wild humans kill orcs?” Homm said, still smiling. It was strained now, the hollowness of his bravado showing through.

“They’re just that crazy. Sneaky too, the scouts were saying they’d come at night and just start cutting pieces off while they slept.”

“You lie.”

“It’s a fact,” Baar said. “One of them, they cut off his body.”

“What? His entire body?”

“His whole body. They only left his cock behind.”

Baar stared at Homm, who stared back, and to their credit the veterans kept straight faces for a full three seconds before the cave erupted in laughter. Homm laughed good-naturedly, and smiled a thin smile while he stared at the fire and bit off a chunk of jerky. Throm gave him a slap on the back, and edged toward the mouth of the cave.

Yonmar had his back propped up against the cave wall, and was not eating. He stared intently into the white and the grey, his skin standing out stark. Throm tried to follow his gaze, but saw nothing.

“Do you smell that?” the older orc said.

Throm inhaled the breeze, and made a low sound. “Horses.”

“Quiet,” Yonmar growled back into the cave. “There are men coming.”

----

Moments later, Baar, Eppe, and Throm were ascending a hill, cutting through a layer of slush. Throm wore his chainmail and carried his shield at the ready, but he had not yet drawn his sword. He hoped to spot the humans from far enough off that the sword would be unneeded. If they were lucky, the crossbow strapped to his back would be more useful.

“I’ll never understand why they ride horses,” Eppe grumbled.

“Why not?” Baar said. “When else does your dinner carry you?”

Throm grunted. “They don’t eat horse.”

Eppe and Baar shook their heads and sighed, and it went without saying that they would never understand humans. They reached the top of the hill and stepped into sight cautiously, heads low. They’d heard shouting not long before, and figured they had been scouted out. That was acceptable, because they were meant to be seen. Yonmar and the others were moving around to the side so that if the humans started trouble, they could come in from the flanks and surprise them. Krikol was a little too excited at the prospect of horse meat.

There were humans out there, stopping for a moment to rest and water their mounts. Only one of them wasn’t gleaming in the sun, and that one was small. None of them had bows, or at the very least, the orcs didn’t see them preparing any. Throm tensed anyway, ready to retrieve his crossbow at the first sign of a bow being strung.

“Stay,” he told his companions, and they shifted uncomfortably to either side of him but obeyed.

“Keeorah!” he roared, an orcish word both greeting and challenge. He spoke in Trade next. “Come speak, skraelings!”

He felt his companions eyeing him, and that was understandable. They did not speak Trade, and it seemed like witch-work to hear men-words coming out of an orc mouth. One of the humans moved though, and that refocused their attention.

“That is a big skraeling,” Baar said.

“Compared to you,” Eppe said.

“Shut up,” Throm said. “Stay behind me, and don’t do anything unless I tell you to.”

“We can take them,” Eppe said.

“I would rather not try,” Throm said. After a moment he conceded. “I claim his armor, if it comes down to that.”

[Glories of Myrmidion]

The orc spoke the common tongue, roughly guttural but passably well. Jehan raised a bushy golden eyebrow in surprise, his estimation of the western tribes increasing a notch. No matter, it had plenty more room on the way up.

But language indicated intelligence, and intelligence indicated the possibility of useful information. The knight pursed his lips in troubled deliberation. Did the orcs know anything valuable? Dared he trust their parley? Or was it all but an elaborate ruse?

Not a trick, he decided after long moments of thought, all the while his broad fingers played about the pommel of his as-yet-sheathed blade. Though the orcs he knew from the fringes of the Five Dukedoms displayed many forms of bestial cunning, they rarely if ever planned that far ahead. If they thought to ambush him, they wouldn’t have drawn attention to themselves first.

By the time he’d figured that out, Lionel had ushered the younger knights onto their mounts and spurred them into a gallop to their champion’s side. Suddenly he found himself surrounded by whinnying horseflesh and harried expressions.

“What do we do?” Garrick asked nervously, his voice pitched high, the tick in his cheek twitching with every bated breath. His courser, a young skittish chestnut, shivered at every heavy-handed touch. Jehan frowned unhappily at the sight; he would have to take Garrick aside and remind him not to abuse his steed so.

“We remain calm,” he told the thin-faced man, widening his gaze to encompass freshly inducted Allister and sallow-skinned Wolfe. The latter spat his distaste at the obvious, squinting into the wind and fiddling with the leather that strapped a needle-like dagger to his saddle.

“Lionel, take Allister and Tiana and watch the flank. You’re our fall back option.”

The ebony-skinned Templar nodded reluctantly, his hand straying to the scimitar at his waist. Jehan knew that Lionel would much rather follow him into battle, but right now he needed a cool and dependable head to look after the inexperienced Neophyte and their mercenary guide.

“First Knight, I would rather…” Allister opened his mouth to protest, but Jehan waved him down firmly. He didn’t have the luxury of listening to virgin youths eager to blood themselves for the first time.

“Seth, Wolfe, Garrick, stay here but be ready. If they try anything, I’m counting on you to back me up.”

The veteran grunted assent, his reaction much the same as Lionel’s. Garrick sawed on his reins once more, eliciting a pained wicker from his mount. Wolfe simply spat again into the lee of the wind, strands of thin muddy hair sweeping about from beneath his helm. His voice rasped like a wood file across the ripple of the icy stream.

“They’re only orcs. I say we skewer them and leave their bodies in the dust.”

Jehan smiled fiercely but did not respond to the bitter comment. It was to the youngest of their company, the quiet Hectorus, that he spoke last.

“Walk with me, little brother. Let us see what these savages have to say.”


***

“What do you think, Hec?”

Hectorus Leitdorf had a reputation, as a man without a reputation. He quite literally lived in the shadow of his elder half-sibling, neither as tall nor as broad even in full battle dress. Content to keep to himself and his books instead of drinking with the men in the tavern, he wielded sword and shield as competently as any knight but took little delight in polishing his skills for the sake of war. Jehan nonetheless indulged him fondly behind his father’s back, realising that although an oddity amongst the knights of the Golden Eagle, Hectorus’s peculiarities had their uses.

The younger Leitdorf, armoured merely in cuirass, greaves, and vambraces as opposed to his brother’s full plate, nonetheless struggled to keep up with Jehan’s powerful strides. He took his time before answering, refined brow – such a contrast to Jehan’s coarse features – pursed in a thoughtful frown.

“If it is a ruse, then they’ve moved to flank us, which is why you’ve sent Lionel to head them off. If it isn’t, then there is a possibility we may learn something of value from the natives.”

Jehan paused momentarily to allow Hectorus to catch up. The clatter of horse-hooves at a canter echoed across the open tundra, cold and clear and calming.

“If you’re expecting Seth to come to our aid, we better not head into that slush,” Hectorus continued at last, hefting his shield defensively and bringing the heraldic eagle to bear. “Allister needs to calm down, Garrick needs to grow a pair, and Wolfe... Wolfe had better watch that he doesn't end up on the other end of that skewering."

He paused a moment, peering ahead.

"And that big orc, there, he’s got a crossbow.”

Jehan nodded happily at his younger brother’s powers of observation, before returning his attention to the problem at hand. The opposing parties now stood perhaps twenty strides apart, two armoured knights against three muscle-bound orcs, with a puddle of slushy half-melted snow separating them. The largest of the three beasts had reached for the crude ballista on its back, probably to indicate that they had come close enough. In turn, the First Knight rested his massive longsword upon his broad shoulders, still scabbarded in sturdy leather but ready to unsheathe at the first sign of hostility.

Mid-morn sunlight glinted off plate and mail alike. The wintry wind picked up for a moment, carrying the faintest scent of sweat and damp earth, before dying away like a wilting flower. Jehan could taste the heavy tension in the air, of muscles taut and ready to spring.

“Hail, greenskin,” he called genially, deliberately leaving out the and well met portion of the greeting. That had yet to be decided. “What brings you out of your cave this morn?”

[Tusk]

Throm hated talking to humans, and this was why. Among orcs he was a quick wit, quick enough that the dumbest of them revered him as a seer. There were dumb humans too, to be sure, but a stupid human is usually also an aggressive one, which precludes most conversation. Then there were annoying situations like this one, where Throm felt tested on an unfamiliar field. Was this big skraeling hinting that he knew about the cave they’d come from? Were there more of them out there, taking full advantage of the superior speed their mounts afforded them? Had they scouted out the cave already, and given themselves a superior position? It was impossible to guess at the minds of men, and they could be so clever, and talk a good orc into a corner.

Throm decided not to panic, for that would be telling if the man knew nothing and was simply fishing. After all, men tended to think of orcs like orcs thought of trolls, and of course all trolls live in caves. Every suckling pup knew that. “The smell of horseflesh,” he answered finally. “And fear.”

Throm relaxed and lowered his hand, but kept his fingers doing small dances – ready to spring for hilt or stock at the first sign of trouble. The body always announces intent before violence, his mother taught him. Men did not move so differently from orcs, and so Throm watched closely for signs of betrayal. There were none apparent, not yet.

“You and your boys are far from home, clunker,” the orc continued, “and you’re wandering in orc land. Are you riding those meals toward trouble, or away from it?”

This was, in fact, not any sort of orc territory, but Throm figured no human knew that.

[Glories of Myrmidion]

“Did he just refer to Abastor as food?” Jehan frowned in a whispered aside, the terrible expression lost behind the confines of his helm. Hectorus, without such protection, had to fight to keep his features neutral beneath the orc’s perceptive gaze.

“I don’t think he means any harm. They just don’t think of our companions as we do. And he’s nervous.”

Jehan’s displeasure dissolved slowly in comprehension, though his chin stayed taut. “Aren’t we all, little brother. Aren’t we all.”

He raised his rumbling bass again to bridge the chill.

“We’re here to banish the fear that drives you from your caves, short-tusks. Tell us what you know of it, and we’ll be on our way!!”

Oblivious to Hector’s startled glance – the younger Leitdorf didn’t believe the orc had quite intended that meaning – Jehan smiled broadly and tapped the eagle-winged hilt of his longsword against his shoulder, allowing the metallic clatter to break the tense silence. Cold air swirled about his armoured form, as if agitated by the barely perceptible shift towards bloodthirsty battle. Somewhere beyond the horizon the wind stirred once more.

His expression now betrayed fierce joy. If the orcs mustered because they feared something roaming their lands, he could prevent their threat to the western borders of the Five Dukedoms simply by eliminating it. A straightforward problem, and one solvable with the point of his blade rather than any protracted politicking or intellectual riddles.

One, thus, very much to his liking.