AN: Very short. Apologies. Have just re-read story, which was v. big mistake. Am in despair at self's arrogance for ever imagining self could write. Have re-BETA'd previous chapters in futile effort to improve. Am not fishing for compliments. Am sounding like Bridget Jones, so will stop now. Thanks to all who reviewed: you are ducks.
"Oi said, it's nowt t'do wi'you."
"An' oi say 'tis!"
"'tisn't!"
"'tis!"
"'tisn't!"
"'tis!"
"'tisn't!"
Perched on the back rail of a transport cart, Grakka and Lardang glared at each other maliciously. In every species, in every world, in every plane of existence (fictional or otherwise), brothers will be brothers. Orcs were no exception. The argument these disreputable siblings were currently pursuing was an old favourite, one they resumed at every available opportunity and whose origins -and indeed, point- were long since forgotten. Behind them, a dozen woebegone figures packed tightly into a space meant for half that number sat, stood and lay in squalor. Listless and dull-eyed, they slumped raggedly across each other, limbs entangled in an unintentional parody of intimacy, too tired and broken to care.
Save for one.
Leaning back against the side of the cart, long legs stretched casually, almost lazily, before him, alone. He had barely moved from his place the entire journey. Not one of the other slaves dared attempt a conversation; they had suspected his scars marked him as some kind of mercenary. In a way, they were right- he had fought long and hard, but for something far more valuable than gold. He had not positioned himself apart from the rest of the Elves and half-Elven on purpose; they had instinctively given him as much space as possible, sensing perhaps that he was something Other to them. Which he was. Other, older and far more dangerous than any of them could have imagined. He smiled tiredly to himself in the rank, airless dark. And waited.
* * * * *
"...so, of course, I only have Grakka and Lardang and, um, and, oh-what's-his-height to help me. The others are low-level security, practically useless. I do believe Uncle might be trying to test me, or some such thing. It would be the sort of thing he would do. Anyway, it makes the transportation damned difficult, if you'll pardon my Orcish..." Fosco nattered happily. He had grown rather fond of the boy over the past few hours, mostly because he had sat quietly and listened without protestation to Fosco's life story from about age two-and-a-half onwards.
Randall sighed. The strange wine had not been kind to his recently emptied stomach, and he was still trying to figure out exactly what was going on. The prattling little thing really wasn't helping his aching head, nor was the early afternoon sun beating relentlessly down on them. He looked longingly towards the rich, green coolness lining the scorched path. The trees were unlike any he'd seen: massive, dark-wooded and heavy with foliage. As Randall gazed at them with the kind of lustful yearning usually reserved for Drew Barrymore circa "Poison Ivy", something caught his eye. The merest flicker of movement amongst the trees, nothing more. Probably just a, a...(Randall's knowledge of forestry began and ended with "Bambi") um, happy little woodland creature of some kind. Probably.
Two minutes later, a small article of vermin scurried across the road.
Five minutes later, Fosco finished telling Randall about his idea for a more efficient type of corkscrew.
Seven minutes later, Lurtz (now conscious -if a little sore- and walking at the very rear of the convoy) scratched vaguely at a phantom itch on his arm.
Fifteen minutes later, he was dead.
Thirty seconds after that, so was just about everyone else.
"Oi said, it's nowt t'do wi'you."
"An' oi say 'tis!"
"'tisn't!"
"'tis!"
"'tisn't!"
"'tis!"
"'tisn't!"
Perched on the back rail of a transport cart, Grakka and Lardang glared at each other maliciously. In every species, in every world, in every plane of existence (fictional or otherwise), brothers will be brothers. Orcs were no exception. The argument these disreputable siblings were currently pursuing was an old favourite, one they resumed at every available opportunity and whose origins -and indeed, point- were long since forgotten. Behind them, a dozen woebegone figures packed tightly into a space meant for half that number sat, stood and lay in squalor. Listless and dull-eyed, they slumped raggedly across each other, limbs entangled in an unintentional parody of intimacy, too tired and broken to care.
Save for one.
Leaning back against the side of the cart, long legs stretched casually, almost lazily, before him, alone. He had barely moved from his place the entire journey. Not one of the other slaves dared attempt a conversation; they had suspected his scars marked him as some kind of mercenary. In a way, they were right- he had fought long and hard, but for something far more valuable than gold. He had not positioned himself apart from the rest of the Elves and half-Elven on purpose; they had instinctively given him as much space as possible, sensing perhaps that he was something Other to them. Which he was. Other, older and far more dangerous than any of them could have imagined. He smiled tiredly to himself in the rank, airless dark. And waited.
* * * * *
"...so, of course, I only have Grakka and Lardang and, um, and, oh-what's-his-height to help me. The others are low-level security, practically useless. I do believe Uncle might be trying to test me, or some such thing. It would be the sort of thing he would do. Anyway, it makes the transportation damned difficult, if you'll pardon my Orcish..." Fosco nattered happily. He had grown rather fond of the boy over the past few hours, mostly because he had sat quietly and listened without protestation to Fosco's life story from about age two-and-a-half onwards.
Randall sighed. The strange wine had not been kind to his recently emptied stomach, and he was still trying to figure out exactly what was going on. The prattling little thing really wasn't helping his aching head, nor was the early afternoon sun beating relentlessly down on them. He looked longingly towards the rich, green coolness lining the scorched path. The trees were unlike any he'd seen: massive, dark-wooded and heavy with foliage. As Randall gazed at them with the kind of lustful yearning usually reserved for Drew Barrymore circa "Poison Ivy", something caught his eye. The merest flicker of movement amongst the trees, nothing more. Probably just a, a...(Randall's knowledge of forestry began and ended with "Bambi") um, happy little woodland creature of some kind. Probably.
Two minutes later, a small article of vermin scurried across the road.
Five minutes later, Fosco finished telling Randall about his idea for a more efficient type of corkscrew.
Seven minutes later, Lurtz (now conscious -if a little sore- and walking at the very rear of the convoy) scratched vaguely at a phantom itch on his arm.
Fifteen minutes later, he was dead.
Thirty seconds after that, so was just about everyone else.