The Cockatiel
12-04-2014, 05:42 PM
Background : A king named Kanor is going on a journey and bringing his son and heir, Forolay, because of course that isn’t a bad idea. Forolay was kidnapped by orcs who attempted to degrade him into one of their own. Despite their best efforts - one of which included Forolay being given an orcish name, Gûgshara – Forolay held on to the belief that his family would rescue him. In this passage, Gûgshara is reflecting upon an incident that happened several days ago. Kanor & Co. thought Forolay was dead (explained earlier in the book) and built a memorial/tomb. Gûgshara found it and didn’t cope well.
Characters : Fiaho is the orcs’ leader. Nazksha is an orc closely acquainted with Gûgshara. Daresk and Grake were members of Kanor’s company. Gîrakûn is Gûgshara’s direwolf. Direwolves are a warg-like species (yeah Middle Earth!) used by the orcs. Everyone else knows better than to mess with them.
Regardless of what could have been, the cold hard fact was that Gûgshara wasn’t anything like he had been before. He had learned the Black Speech and spoke it as well as any native to the tongue. What little of his ancestors’ languages he retained he used to irritate the orcs, flinging a few pieced-together words at them in a taunting voice. It infuriated them that they couldn’t understand, even remotely, what he was saying. Only a few of them understood Common Speech enough to speak it, but most of them could recognize the words, so he rarely pretended to insult them in it. He often conversed with Nazksha in it, as Fiaho had made it known that he wanted the man to know both tongues. The simple stories scratched in the dirt had helped him to learn the Black Speech, and he remembered them, too. The ones he knew before were starting to fade. Kanor, Daresk, Grake, all were jumbled memories in the hazy distance. That had been his past, before Fiaho and Nazksha and Gûgshara and Gîrakûn. A past that he had closed himself off from a few days ago.
For once, Fiaho hadn’t had anything to do with it. It had been a normal day, normal procedure. The tribe had found a spot they could all fit comfortably in and had started setting up a camp.
“Check the area,” Fiaho ordered. “Nazksha, you’re in charge once the scouts come back.” He called his officers aside and ignored the rest of the proceedings. They clustered close together, clearly not wanting the others to hear. Only one of the orcs actually followed Fiaho’s orders, an old hand called Norkriip.
“There’s not much here,” Norkriip reported several minutes later. “There’s only a piece of rock in the side of a hill.”
“Why is a rock so interesting?” Nazksha dismounted and took his saddlebags off his direwolf. “You can take your pick out of any rock in these mountains.”
“It was made by someone,” Norkriip answered. “There’s writing on it.”
“And that makes it special? There’s ruins all over this area.”
“It’s not old. There could be something inside it worth taking.”
At the prospect of loot, the rest of the orcs began to grow interested. Nazksha pushed a few of them aside and stepped closer to Norkriip. “What does the writing say?”
“It’s some form of mannish tongue. I can’t read it.”
“What kind?” Gûgshara rushed his mount across camp and jumped off Gîrakûn before the direwolf had stopped. “I might know it.” He and Nazksha followed Norkriip to the slab of stone. Several of the orcs cleared away the vines and clawed the dirt and moss from the deeper grooves. When they were done Gûgshara pushed them away with a grin. “Go on, get out of here. Can’t see anything with your ugly faces in the way.”
“Do you think you remember how to read it?” Nazksha asked.
“Of course,” Gûgshara told him. “I grew up near the biggest book collection in the realm. Now shut up and let me read.”
“Five coins say you forgot,” Nazksha said with a hoarse chuckle.
Gûgshara favored him with a glare before turning away. He read through the first couple words one at a time. “Here…. lies…the… heir…”
“Royalty!” Nazksha exclaimed. “All the way out here?”
“Shut up,” Gûgshara said in a complaining tone. “Here lies the heir… of… Sina’i.”
The last word buzzed through the tribe. All of them knew what it meant.
Nazksha in particular knew what it meant. “Gûgshara, maybe you shouldn’t-”
“Shut up, Nazksha,” Gûgshara snarled. “I want to read this.”
“It might be a bad-”
“Shut up.” His tone was quiet, controlled, but still deadly.
“You don’t need to-”
“Shut up!” Gûgshara screamed, violence whirling through his voice. “I do need to. So back off and let me.” He drew his knife and Nazksha retreated to a safe distance. Keeping his bared weapon in his hand, Gûgshara turned to the stone and continued reading, each word coming slowly. “Here lies the heir of Sina’i. Beloved son and prince. Survived by his parents and brother. Disappeared the fourth day of Midfast in the Second Star. This stone erected ninth day of Midfast in the Second Star. Rest in peace, Prince Gûgshara.”
“Gûgshara,” Nazksha repeated. “So it isn’t for your brother.” The realization dawned on him. “But that means…”
Gûgshara said nothing, his eyes widening as they filled with tears. His lips parted in shock but he closed them, clenching his jaw. Each of Nazksha’s words echoed four times over but they sounded too far away for him to know what they meant. His body felt stiff and heavy, like someone had pushed him under a stream of hot liquid metal. If he moved, even breathed, he was sure his thin veneer of control would crack and he’d fall on his face. A light breeze danced through the grove, rustling the branches together in gentle laughter and brushing his hair across the back of his neck with soft fingers. Suddenly, Gûgshara hated the spot, and violent anger surged through his body. The veneer fell away, already replaced with spiked plates of armor.
“There’s nothing left here,” he said in a rough voice that sounded as if he was choking. If the orcs stayed another few seconds Gûgshara was sure he’d tear them apart with his bare hands. “Get lost.”
The orcs scattered. Even Nazksha didn’t dare to linger. As night started to fall, the orcs lit their huge pile of wood and gathered around it, drinking and talking as the food cooked. The sounds and smells of their fellowship reached Gûgshara where he stood alone. He reached into the pouch hanging at his side and withdrew a braided silver chain. For several long moments, he held it in his hands, turning it over and over again while lost in thought. It had been a gift from Kanor on the occasion of Tyan’s birth. He wrapped the ends around his hands and pulled, listening to the clasp snap with a satisfying noise. Inch by inch, he cracked and twisted the soft metal at every weak spot he could find. Gûgshara dropped the broken links at the base of the stone and turned away.
Nazksha made an excuse to leave the orcs he was talking with. He handed Gûgshara a flask and stood silently next to him for several moments. “Well?” he finally asked.
Gûgshara took a long drink. “There’s nothing left here.” He repeated his words as a dull mantra, but his next words added a bitter bite. “Not for me.” For a long time, he stood in silence. “Where’s Fiaho?”
“Across the camp. He’s talking with his officers, so he won’t want to be interrupted.”
Gûgshara gave a short, angry laugh. “Well, that’s his problem.” Clutching the flask even more tightly, he crossed the camp until he came to the knot of talking orcs. He pushed them aside irregardless of their rank until he stood before Fiaho. “We need to talk,” he said, glaring challengingly at him.
One of the officers swore a few low, angry words and reached for his weapon. Fiaho raised his hand and the officer backed away. “I’ll speak with Gûgshara alone for a while,” Fiaho told them. They left, several with dark glares. “Well?” he asked Gûgshara.
“You made me an offer. I’m going to take it.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“I know now that there is nothing for me in the world of men.”
“Then where do you belong?”
Gûgshara made a broad sweep of his hand that included half the realms. “Wherever the orcs are.”
Fiaho allowed himself a brief, tight smile. “I’m glad you came to see it that way, Gûgshara.”
“Cut the nice words,” Gûgshara growled.
“As you wish,” Fiaho agreed. Gûgshara turned to leave but Fiaho said, “We’ll tell the others tomorrow night and have the tribe swear allegiance to you. Once we return to the forest we can have a proper ceremony.”
Gûgshara’s teeth flashed in the brief, feral smile of a direwolf. “I look forward to it.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Gûgshara bent his head in the briefest inclination and turned away.
A direwolf yelped in pain, and Gûgshara stumbled back from the past into the present. Pushing himself to his feet and almost propelling himself into the fire, he laid a hand on his dagger and glared at the pen that had been constructed when they stopped. A orc stood poking a torch at the direwolves, sneering at the bared teeth and laid-back ears. Gûgshara drew his dagger and approached him with an angry face. “Get away from there,” he ordered, slipping into a slight crouch as he circled the orc. The orc snarled at him, drawing his own knife and holding the torch in his other hand.
If you read this far, you are really, really awesome. Thank you for taking the time! Like it? Dislike it? Let me know! Constructive criticism only please.
Characters : Fiaho is the orcs’ leader. Nazksha is an orc closely acquainted with Gûgshara. Daresk and Grake were members of Kanor’s company. Gîrakûn is Gûgshara’s direwolf. Direwolves are a warg-like species (yeah Middle Earth!) used by the orcs. Everyone else knows better than to mess with them.
Regardless of what could have been, the cold hard fact was that Gûgshara wasn’t anything like he had been before. He had learned the Black Speech and spoke it as well as any native to the tongue. What little of his ancestors’ languages he retained he used to irritate the orcs, flinging a few pieced-together words at them in a taunting voice. It infuriated them that they couldn’t understand, even remotely, what he was saying. Only a few of them understood Common Speech enough to speak it, but most of them could recognize the words, so he rarely pretended to insult them in it. He often conversed with Nazksha in it, as Fiaho had made it known that he wanted the man to know both tongues. The simple stories scratched in the dirt had helped him to learn the Black Speech, and he remembered them, too. The ones he knew before were starting to fade. Kanor, Daresk, Grake, all were jumbled memories in the hazy distance. That had been his past, before Fiaho and Nazksha and Gûgshara and Gîrakûn. A past that he had closed himself off from a few days ago.
For once, Fiaho hadn’t had anything to do with it. It had been a normal day, normal procedure. The tribe had found a spot they could all fit comfortably in and had started setting up a camp.
“Check the area,” Fiaho ordered. “Nazksha, you’re in charge once the scouts come back.” He called his officers aside and ignored the rest of the proceedings. They clustered close together, clearly not wanting the others to hear. Only one of the orcs actually followed Fiaho’s orders, an old hand called Norkriip.
“There’s not much here,” Norkriip reported several minutes later. “There’s only a piece of rock in the side of a hill.”
“Why is a rock so interesting?” Nazksha dismounted and took his saddlebags off his direwolf. “You can take your pick out of any rock in these mountains.”
“It was made by someone,” Norkriip answered. “There’s writing on it.”
“And that makes it special? There’s ruins all over this area.”
“It’s not old. There could be something inside it worth taking.”
At the prospect of loot, the rest of the orcs began to grow interested. Nazksha pushed a few of them aside and stepped closer to Norkriip. “What does the writing say?”
“It’s some form of mannish tongue. I can’t read it.”
“What kind?” Gûgshara rushed his mount across camp and jumped off Gîrakûn before the direwolf had stopped. “I might know it.” He and Nazksha followed Norkriip to the slab of stone. Several of the orcs cleared away the vines and clawed the dirt and moss from the deeper grooves. When they were done Gûgshara pushed them away with a grin. “Go on, get out of here. Can’t see anything with your ugly faces in the way.”
“Do you think you remember how to read it?” Nazksha asked.
“Of course,” Gûgshara told him. “I grew up near the biggest book collection in the realm. Now shut up and let me read.”
“Five coins say you forgot,” Nazksha said with a hoarse chuckle.
Gûgshara favored him with a glare before turning away. He read through the first couple words one at a time. “Here…. lies…the… heir…”
“Royalty!” Nazksha exclaimed. “All the way out here?”
“Shut up,” Gûgshara said in a complaining tone. “Here lies the heir… of… Sina’i.”
The last word buzzed through the tribe. All of them knew what it meant.
Nazksha in particular knew what it meant. “Gûgshara, maybe you shouldn’t-”
“Shut up, Nazksha,” Gûgshara snarled. “I want to read this.”
“It might be a bad-”
“Shut up.” His tone was quiet, controlled, but still deadly.
“You don’t need to-”
“Shut up!” Gûgshara screamed, violence whirling through his voice. “I do need to. So back off and let me.” He drew his knife and Nazksha retreated to a safe distance. Keeping his bared weapon in his hand, Gûgshara turned to the stone and continued reading, each word coming slowly. “Here lies the heir of Sina’i. Beloved son and prince. Survived by his parents and brother. Disappeared the fourth day of Midfast in the Second Star. This stone erected ninth day of Midfast in the Second Star. Rest in peace, Prince Gûgshara.”
“Gûgshara,” Nazksha repeated. “So it isn’t for your brother.” The realization dawned on him. “But that means…”
Gûgshara said nothing, his eyes widening as they filled with tears. His lips parted in shock but he closed them, clenching his jaw. Each of Nazksha’s words echoed four times over but they sounded too far away for him to know what they meant. His body felt stiff and heavy, like someone had pushed him under a stream of hot liquid metal. If he moved, even breathed, he was sure his thin veneer of control would crack and he’d fall on his face. A light breeze danced through the grove, rustling the branches together in gentle laughter and brushing his hair across the back of his neck with soft fingers. Suddenly, Gûgshara hated the spot, and violent anger surged through his body. The veneer fell away, already replaced with spiked plates of armor.
“There’s nothing left here,” he said in a rough voice that sounded as if he was choking. If the orcs stayed another few seconds Gûgshara was sure he’d tear them apart with his bare hands. “Get lost.”
The orcs scattered. Even Nazksha didn’t dare to linger. As night started to fall, the orcs lit their huge pile of wood and gathered around it, drinking and talking as the food cooked. The sounds and smells of their fellowship reached Gûgshara where he stood alone. He reached into the pouch hanging at his side and withdrew a braided silver chain. For several long moments, he held it in his hands, turning it over and over again while lost in thought. It had been a gift from Kanor on the occasion of Tyan’s birth. He wrapped the ends around his hands and pulled, listening to the clasp snap with a satisfying noise. Inch by inch, he cracked and twisted the soft metal at every weak spot he could find. Gûgshara dropped the broken links at the base of the stone and turned away.
Nazksha made an excuse to leave the orcs he was talking with. He handed Gûgshara a flask and stood silently next to him for several moments. “Well?” he finally asked.
Gûgshara took a long drink. “There’s nothing left here.” He repeated his words as a dull mantra, but his next words added a bitter bite. “Not for me.” For a long time, he stood in silence. “Where’s Fiaho?”
“Across the camp. He’s talking with his officers, so he won’t want to be interrupted.”
Gûgshara gave a short, angry laugh. “Well, that’s his problem.” Clutching the flask even more tightly, he crossed the camp until he came to the knot of talking orcs. He pushed them aside irregardless of their rank until he stood before Fiaho. “We need to talk,” he said, glaring challengingly at him.
One of the officers swore a few low, angry words and reached for his weapon. Fiaho raised his hand and the officer backed away. “I’ll speak with Gûgshara alone for a while,” Fiaho told them. They left, several with dark glares. “Well?” he asked Gûgshara.
“You made me an offer. I’m going to take it.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“I know now that there is nothing for me in the world of men.”
“Then where do you belong?”
Gûgshara made a broad sweep of his hand that included half the realms. “Wherever the orcs are.”
Fiaho allowed himself a brief, tight smile. “I’m glad you came to see it that way, Gûgshara.”
“Cut the nice words,” Gûgshara growled.
“As you wish,” Fiaho agreed. Gûgshara turned to leave but Fiaho said, “We’ll tell the others tomorrow night and have the tribe swear allegiance to you. Once we return to the forest we can have a proper ceremony.”
Gûgshara’s teeth flashed in the brief, feral smile of a direwolf. “I look forward to it.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Gûgshara bent his head in the briefest inclination and turned away.
A direwolf yelped in pain, and Gûgshara stumbled back from the past into the present. Pushing himself to his feet and almost propelling himself into the fire, he laid a hand on his dagger and glared at the pen that had been constructed when they stopped. A orc stood poking a torch at the direwolves, sneering at the bared teeth and laid-back ears. Gûgshara drew his dagger and approached him with an angry face. “Get away from there,” he ordered, slipping into a slight crouch as he circled the orc. The orc snarled at him, drawing his own knife and holding the torch in his other hand.
If you read this far, you are really, really awesome. Thank you for taking the time! Like it? Dislike it? Let me know! Constructive criticism only please.