Chapter Six

C hapter Six

T he leash is re-clipped to my collar as soon as we step outside. I sigh but don’t argue—just follow. Even in nicer clothes, there are still enough people around that I’d rather not cause a scene. At least now I can look around with fewer people star ing at me.

“Khazak!” Dammit, it’s the orc from before. Now that I’m not embarrassed about meeting his eye, I get a better look at him. He’s got the same height and build as Ironstorm, but his longer brown hair is pulled into a small bun. They greet each other again, much less boisterously this time. After exchanging a few words, the other orc looks me over again before turning to Ironstorm and saying...something. What was that? I roll my eyes, but keep to myself since it’s apparent that they have no intention of including me. Instead, I’ll do what I usually do when there’s time to kill in a town: peo ple-watch.

The market is still busy with orcs of all shades and sizes roaming between the different stalls. Thankfully none of them seem to be looking at me. I actually see a few non-orcs too. There are more than a few humans, a handful of elves, and even a green-haired gnome manning a wheeled cart full of mechanical knick-knacks. Almost all of them have skin tanner and darker than mine. I keep turning my head to look around and do a double-take when I spot someone else in a collar. An orc. No leash though, so maybe it’s just a fashion statement?

But then I see another orc in a collar, this one with a leash that is being held by a different orc. They both seem to be happily looking over a display of...rugs. They’re all smiles while they talk to each other, at least. I continue scanning the crowd and spot another collar and leash, this time on an elf. An elf who is making eye contact with me. He turns his head to the side, giving me a questioning look which I return until I am distracted by the sound of the two orcs next to me hugging, seemingly done with their conversation. The other orc says something to me I obviously don’t catch before waving and turning into the crowd. After waving in return, Ironstorm turns to me and then leads us down the street and out of t he market.

“That was an old friend of mine. We were schoolmates.” Ironstorm slows to walk next to me as he explains. “His mother has been sick, but he wanted me to know that she is feeling muc h better.”

“Oh. That’s good.” Again, I know that orc moms exist, but I’ve never really thought about o ne before.

“He also found you attractive, ” he adds.

I do another double-ta ke. “Huh?”

“He thought you were cute. He liked the new clothing.” He speaks like it’ s nothing.

“Should I have said thank you?” What is the etiquette her e exactly?

“I told him for you. He would not have understood you.” G ood point.

We continue walking together in a comfortable silence, with him next to me instead of in front. He said we were doing paperwork next, something I have very little interest in learning about. Now that we’re out of the market and I’m not tripping over myself, I’m able to take in more of my surroundings. There are fewer orcs here, all just going about their daily lives. I am happy that no one seems to be paying me any attention despite the leash. Looks like we’re in a residential area, though I have no real way of telling a home from a busi ness here.

The buildings are still made of wood and stone. I’m noticing now that a lot of them, especially the frames, are made of that same type of wood as Ironstorm’s furniture. It looks like it’s been bent into shape perfectly, bark and all. The walls are made of more traditional lumber on top of a stone base, but even the stones seem to be melded together with the surrounding materials just a little too well. Seems like the people here have found a lot of different uses for magic.

Ahead of us, just around the corner, I can see an open grassy field, and as we get closer and more of it peeks out from behind the buildings, I notice all of the people in it. Children run around, some older orcs wrestle and spar while others just sit and eat. There are trees and a small pond—it’s a park. When we finally reach the corner and it comes into full view, I also see the large stone building on the other s ide of it.

It’s not as big as the arena, but it’s larger than any of the other structures I’ve seen. It’s also made entirely of stone; if there’s any wood, I’m not seeing it. There’s a series of large statues out front, six that I can see. Each features a different orc, men and women, most holding some sort of weapon aloft. If I had to guess, I’d say that’s where we’ re headed.

“The Tribal Hall,” Ironstorm informs me when he sees me taking the bu ilding in.

We cut across the road and enter the park, walking a well-worn trail through the grass. A gaggle of orc children suddenly cut through our path, seemingly playing a game that I assume exists everywhere: tag. A few more meters and we pass a pond on our right and a man with a cart on the left. Whatever he’s selling—some kind of meat on a stick—it smells re ally good.

“Are you hungry?” Ironstorm’s question has me turnin g my head.

“Maybe a little?” We ate only a couple of hours ago, but it wasn’t a lot. Not like dinner last night. Shit, am I getting spoiled after one meal? “ I’m fine.”

“No. Better to get something in your stomach now.” He changes course to move toward the cart. “I am sorry to say this may take longer than I wo uld like.”

If he insists. I don’t tend to argue when food is involved. He reaches into his bag again to pull out his coin pouch. He holds three fingers up to the orc working the cart, grabbing a few silver coins and exchanging them for three meat kabobs. As we continue walking, he separates one of the sticks from the others and takes a large bite out of it, sliding the top half of the meat off the stick and into his mouth. He hands me the remaining half along with one of the uneaten kabobs. I wanna complain, but it’s not like I haven’t had the man’s tongue in my mouth already, right? So I ta ke a bite.

Damn , that’s good. A little chewy, but very juicy and tender. I can’t help the small moan that e scapes me.

“Sounds like you approve.” I ignore the half-smirk on his face.

“What is it?” It’s familiar, but I can’t put my fin ger on it.

“Venison. Elk, I believe.” He tears into the remaining m eat-stick.

I follow suit, and the rest of our walk is quiet other than the sounds of our tearing and chewing. By the time we reach the statues, I’ve got one empty stick, and I’m polishing off the second. When I’m finished, both are taken from me and dropped into a waste bin, and I’m handed a handkerchief to wipe my mouth with. After stuffing it back in his pocket, Ironstorm walks us up the steps and into the building. The entryway is open, the large wooden double doors swung all the w ay inside.

There are more orcs in here than at the park. Some are lined up in front of a large table with more orcs behind it; others sit at desks looking over papers. A number of them look fairly well dressed, like that fancy orc lawyer from the jail. Whatever this place is, it feels very “ official.”

Ironstorm seems to know where he’s going, leading us straight to a hallway on our left. Makes sense. He’s basically this city’s version of a knight or guard so he’s probably been here a lot. I follow him down a few winding hallways, passing doors as we go, some closed, some open with people inside. Honestly, it’s all pretty boring. Eventually we come to a stop in front of an office, and Ironstorm raps his knuckles against the open door.

“Khazak!” The orc behind the desk looks up from his papers and smiles before saying something in Orcish and wav ing us in.

“Khazak” sits in one of the chairs on this side of the desk, and I take the other one. The two of them begin to speak about something that doesn’t seem terribly urgent. The new orc gives me an occasional glance, but the conversation stays between the two of them. Finally, after laughing at a joke I can’t understand, he turns his attention to me fully.

“So this is your new Avakesh ?” What did he jus t call me?

“This is him.” A hand squeezes my shoulder.

“You and your friends have been the talk of the town since you arrived.” The orc grabs a stack of papers and begins rifling through them. “And after your match yesterday, people have not stopped asking questions a bout you.”

Really? Am I that in teresting?

“Alright, here is the paperwork to finalize the outcome of the Nagul Uzu’gor , the official immigration papers, and the form to register him as your avakesh .” The orc hands the stack of papers to Ironstorm. “Is that ev erything?”

“I believe so.” Ironstorm flips through the papers. “We shall fill these out now, if that is alright?”

“Please, take your time,” he stands as he speaks. “I have a meeting I must attend. If you finish before I return, just leave everything on my desk, and I will make sure it is submitted c orrectly.”

“Thank you, Orduk.” Captain Ironstorm clears some desk space in front of him. “ Rum k’r Avon .”

“ Rumk’r Avon .” The other orc—Orduk—repeats the words back and nods his head before exiting the room.

“What was the last thing you both said?” I wait until we’re alone before asking. I’m pretty sure I heard him saying that yesterday before we …showered.

“I believe it translates to ‘many blessings’ in your language.” He reaches for a small inkpot and a pen and begins to write on the top sheet of paper. Writing with a pen somehow makes it seem even more official.

“Whose blessings?” Who do orcs pray to , exactly?

“Hmm. Ancestors, nature, spirits.” He continues looking down and writing as he speaks. “It is not tied to one particul ar thing.”

“Do orcs follow a religion?” That’s my third question while he’s trying to fill out the stack of papers. “Sorry. Not trying to a nnoy you.”

“It is alright. Ask whatever you would like. This first batch will take the longest. Normally this would have already been filled out by someone else, but as I am both responsible for the arrest and one of the ritual’s participants, it falls to me.” He flips through the top half of the paper stack. “As it is, I am writing the details of our initial confrontation and your arrest. This will act as a resolution to your charges.”

“To answer your question,” he continues to talk as he returns to writing, “I can only speak for the orcs in this city. We do not have a formal name for our religion, but we do have our own pantheon: Nargol the Sky-Father, Vol’tha the Earth-Mother, and Sha-mir the River-Guardian. However, I would say that only a third of the city is particularly devout. The rest of us still observe certain festivals and try to keep the teachings in mind but generally go about our normal lives. There are a few locations in the city devoted to certain ceremonies and rituals, but we only have a single temple of worship. We also have followers of a few other faiths in the city and a number of small shrines dedicated to the Olympians, the Aesir, and the Kami. I believe we even have a growing number of citizens who follow your god.”

“My god?” That’s n ews to me.

“Yes. Yahweh.” He looks at me, tilting his head when I do not respond. “The god of Abram?”

“Oh, uh, count me among the un-devout.” I think I’ve heard Corrine say the name Abram before, so I figure that’s the god he’s talking about. “Where I’m from isn’t all that different from here, really. There are a few people who are in church almost daily, but most of us aren’t religious at all. Everyone still tries to be a good person though.” Or at least that’s what they claim. “I haven’t even been in a church since I was little and that was for my grandmother’s funeral. Also, I think most of his followers just call h im ‘God.’”

“Of course they do,” he sighs and grumbles. “I was under the impression that all humans from your part of the world were his followers.” He dips the pen back in the ink and continues writing. “I am glad neither of us will have to worry about waking up early for prayers.”

That makes two of us. Why would he care about his slave’s religion anyway? Actually, thinking about the word slave ... “What was the other thing he called me ? Vakish?”

“Avakesh ?” He moves the finished paper to the side and starts on the next. “Roughly translated it would be close to slave, servant, or pet. Though none of those words really capture the meaning.”

“Oh.” How handy, instead of humiliating me with three words, he can do it in one. “What about Nagleuzgore?” It sounded familiar.

“ Nagul Uzu’gor .” He finishes another sheet. “That is the name for what we did: th e ritual.”

That’s right. That’s what the red-haired lawyer called it. I don’t have another question right away, so I give him a moment while I think. “I’m impressed by how many of you speak Common. I really didn’t exp ect that.”

“It is not all that uncommon here.” I can hear how pleased he is at his terrible joke. “My father insisted that my siblings and I learn when we were young, but many people working in the government or as merchants usually take the time to learn additional languages. Those of us who would interact with others outside of the city.”

“Does that happen a lot?” I think I saw maybe four or five humans at the market earlier and that’s it. “My friends and I didn’t even know this place existed.”

“No, not very often. We prefer our privacy and do what we can to keep most outsiders unaware of our location. Though as time goes on and the city grows, that has become increasingly difficult.” More ink. “We have trade routes established with several cities in the west. Certain individuals in those cities have the knowledge and ability to travel here, but outside of that, most trades and deliveries are done outside the city. When new settlements began cropping up in the east, we attempted to establish the same trade relationships, and in return, those settlements sent missionaries in an attempt to ‘convert’ us. For the most part harmless, but there have been more than a few humans calling the lot of us heathens .”

“I’m sorry. That sucks.” Seems like a waste of time to me. “Why would they care about which gods yo u follow?”

“One of your friends in jail is a missionary, are they not?” He looks up to cock an eyeb row at me.

“Uh.” I don’t have an answer for that. I know that’s what Corrine calls herself, but I can’t imagine that girl being rude to a mouse, let alone an entire race of people because of a difference in religion. I can’t believe that those other people would either, especially since I think that’s at least part of why they left their homelands in the fi rst place.

“As I said, most of our interactions have been harmless.” He finishes another page and adds it to the pile, straightening and ordering what he’s completed so far. “There were a few violent clashes when they first landed. They tried to prevent us and others from using the coastline for fishing, something we have done for ages. We made sure to settle those issues some time ago.”

I don’t know all that much about the settlements he’s talking about, except for how they relate to where I came from, Lutheria. Something like 200 years ago, the founders of Lutheria left the nation of Albion after the Albionian Church, which basically runs the country, started cracking down on people they felt were not “true believers.” I’m not really sure what that means or how you enforce that, but they tried to and it got violent. After enough blood had been shed, the people had had enough and got on some boats and left. They only went one island over really, but it was enough of a distance to create their own home free of int erference.

The island—Inisfalia—wasn’t uninhabited, but the lives of the people there were chaotic. For centuries they had been on the receiving end of attacks from northern raiders who would regularly pillage their coastlines. Now, if there was one thing our people were good at, it was fighting tyrants—or at least that’s what my dad always said—so they offered their aid in exchange for the chance at starting a new home. The two groups worked together, and after more than a year of repelling the attacks, the raids finally ceased. In that year, as Albion spread its influence eastward, other countries had similar exoduses, displaced outcasts in search of a new home. As more people immigrated, old cities were rebuilt and new cities were established and soon Lutheria w as formed.

In the years that followed, many more people did the same, though they ended up traveling much farther—to the coasts here, across the ocean. I’m not sure what they call this continent here, but back home it was known as “Nova Mundus,” eventually shortened to just “Nova” by most of the Common speaking population. In the time since, the settlements and Lutheria banded together in the name of “mutual cooperation” (that’s a term I remember from class), which is how we were able to get from there to here so easily and without having to fill out any boring-ass paperwork like this.

When I come back from my personal history lesson, I see Ironstorm has finished another paper and is looking at me. “Next is your immigration paperwork, so now it is my turn to ask some q uestions.”

“Why do I need immigration paperwork?” It’s not like I’m movin g he— Shit.

“Because you are an immigrant?” He looks a little bewildered by my answer, which, yeah, was kinda dumb. “The city is not large and likes to know who is within its borders. Your friends will have to fill out the same forms at so me point.”

“Got it.” I just nod. Let’ s do this.

“Can you spell your name for me?” The pen is dipped in the ink again as he waits for my answer.

“D-A-V-I-D C-E -R-A-N-O.”

“Thank you.” He writes the name on the sheet of paper. “Date of birth?”

“The 13 th of Geminus, 4021.” I’ll be twenty-two in t wo months!

“And you are originally from...?”

“Northlake, Lutheria.” My good-old hometown.

“Hair: black. Eyes: green. How tall are you?”

“Five foot, ten inches,” I respond mec hanically.

“That is about 178 centimeters, correct ?” Uhhhhh.

“I think?” He’s better at math than I am if he pulled that number out o f nowhere.

He chuckles but says nothing, just writes in the number. “Weight?”

“I’m not sure. Used to be like 220 pounds? A lot less now.” I look down at my flat stomach and lack of muscles. Then I remember he asked me about centimeters, and I have no idea how that relates to pounds. “Honestly, I have no clue.”

“That is alright. I will make an estimate.” He looks me up and down for a moment before jotting something down. “Other than your clothes and weapons, were you carrying anything out of the ordinary? Any magical items or things l ike that?”

“Uh, no. Some granola bars and jerky? There was a bedroll too, I guess.” I don’t exactly have a ton to my name at t he moment.

“Hmmph,” he snorts a laugh. “Reason for visit. I suppose I could just write ‘ theft’...”

“We didn’t come here to steal anything!” The ft my ass.

“Right.” He looks thoroughly unmoved by my defense. “So we found the five of you in the ancient elven ruins on our lands...sig htseeing?”

Good point. “...Sorta? We didn’t know it was your land,” I explain. “People in Holbrooke told us about it. They mentioned some ‘orc camps’ but nothing about this city, or that the ruins were yours. Honestly.”

“Ah, Holbrooke.” He starts writing something else down. “That town has sent more than one group of adventurers on a fruitless venture out here. Though most of them did not attack us without pro vocation.”

“...Okay, the guy who attacked you with that fireball is a dick and not my friend.” Seriously fuck Nate for getting us into this. “The rest of us aren’t like that. I’m not l ike that.”

He pauses his writing for my answer.

“Hmmm.” He doesn’t seem impressed with my explanation. I probably wouldn’t be either, but I still had to try. “So then why did you all tra vel here?”

“Um, to see the world and explore?” Definitely not to run away from or avoid anything back home. Though I’m sure they’d all get a real kick seeing me on this side o f the law.

He looks even less impressed with that explanation. “We will just leave the expected date of your departure blank for now.” He scribbles something at the bottom—a signature?—and adds the paper to the pile of others that he’s finished. “Only one f orm left.”

I guess this is the form that officially marks me as his slave. It’s surreal to watch this giant mountain of a man calmly filling out paperwork to turn me into his house pet.

“What does this do exactly?” I ask like I don’t know, which I ki nda don’t.

“It is a declaration of ownership. Of you,” he adds the unnecessary clarification. “It states that you are my property, that you are expected to obey my rules as if they were the laws of the city, and that you are to be returned to me in the event that we are s eparated.”

“Great. Like a dog.” I slump back in my chair.

“It is not entirely one-sided.” He puts the paper down to look at me. “It also says that I am now responsible for you. That I will keep you fed and sheltered. Ensure you remain healthy. That I will not be cruel or inhumane.”

“Wait, it actually uses the word inhumane ?” Because there’s no wa y it does.

“I am paraphrasing,” he tells me flatly.

“...Still your slave.” I sigh and he shrugs his shoulders in response.

“One final thing to do.” He reaches down into his pocket and pulls out the knife he used yesterday during our match and in the shower afterward.

He brings the knife to his other hand and uses it to prick the very tip of his ring finger. I see a small droplet of blood well up immediately. He then brings his finger to the paper, tapping it against the lower-left corner. Suddenly and with a hiss, words in red burn their way onto the paper.

“What was that?” Blood and magic together frea ks me out.

“The paper is enchanted.” Well duh . “The blood acts as a signature. It is much harder to forge your blood than it is your name.” He nods in my direction and holds up the knife, handle first. “Y our turn.”

“I have to sign that paper with my blood, too?” Uh-u h, no way.

“I am afraid so, pup.” Same nickname from yesterday.

“What happens when my blood touches the paper?” I really wish I had Mikey here to ask about blood magic. “Does it, like, bind m e to you?”

“What? No.” He drops the knife, head tilted in confusion. “I told you. It is just a s ignature.”

“Why does this paper need blood but not the other two? ” I argue.

“This paper is more important,” he counters.

“What happens if I don’t sign it?” Because I’m really not sure I want to.

There’s a beat of silence before he answers. “Nothing. I would still own you, you would still go home with me, and your friends would still be in jail. It would simply be an unfinished piece of paper.”

I eye the form warily, his red signature flashing like a war ning sign.

He sighs and fiddles with the knife in his hand. “I am not going to force you to do this, but it is something that will have to be done eventually, and I honestly would prefer to finish it now so we can get on with the rest of our day.”

“So sorry that my aversion to being enslaved is inconveniencing you.” He gives me a really unimpressed look at that. “...Fine.” I sigh and hold ou t my hand.

He takes my hand, holding my finger steady between his thumb and forefinger as he brings the knife closer. There is just the slightest pinch of pain when the blade touches my skin. The pink is replaced by red, and my hand is released. The paper is pushed toward me and a blank spot on the bottom right pointed out. He’s going to make me do this on my own. My hand hovers over that paper, my finger up, for one, two, three seconds. I know this form means nothing. I know he says it’s just a signature. But it feels like I’m about to sign away my life t o a demon.

I tip my hand and watch the drop of blood fall. It hits the paper below, and with a sizzle, my signature—my actual signature—is etched onto the page.

I hope my demon is a mer ciful one.