Chapter 22 #2
Alwyn considered that for a moment, wondering how much of this rebellion was really about Zesh at all.
Was he just the rallying point for orcs who opposed the alliance with the elves, or was this a cult of personality that he’d built up around himself?
Alwyn would have expected the first, but if there were rebels here excited at the mere prospect of being near Zesh, maybe it was more of the second.
“And our contact? Any information on that?” he asked. From Krujha’s dismayed expression, he could already guess the answer.
“I haven’t been able to track him down yet,” Krujha sighed. “Not that I’ve had much chance to go looking. I had to report for my cooking duty all afternoon, and as soon as I was done, I went looking for you. I’m hoping tomorrow I can make some headway on that.”
“Good,” Alwyn said, nodding. Krujha looked at him for a few moments longer, as if there was more he wanted to say—but then he only sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he stood up.
“I shouldn’t stay long,” he said, and Alwyn felt his heart sink, but tried not to show it on his face. “And I can’t promise I’ll be able to come each evening, but I’ll try to make contact with you as often as I can. I’ll bring you soap next time, like you asked.”
“One more thing,” Alwyn blurted out before he could think better of it. “In my bag—there were two books. Can you bring me the smaller one?”
Krujha blinked, surprised, then a chuckle split his features again. “Sure. I suppose you’re probably bored out of your mind here.”
Alwyn nodded, glancing away. He hated anyone knowing about his adventure novels—his guilty pleasure—but somehow he knew Krujha would understand, or at least wouldn’t judge him. And he very well might lose his mind without something other than his thoughts to occupy him.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. Krujha’s gaze softened.
The orc’s fingers gently brushed against his cheek.
This time, Alwyn allowed himself to lean into the contact, despite his racing heart.
He couldn’t explain to himself why the affection felt so right, but neither would he deny himself whatever scant comfort he could find while he was trapped here.
“I’ll bring you what I can, as soon as I can,” Krujha said softly. “So stay strong until I see you again, okay?”
“I will,” Alwyn whispered, nodding. Krujha shot him one small, final smile, then slipped back out the way he’d come.
Another three meals passed with nothing to show for it.
Krujha’s visit had quieted his nerves for a bit, at least until he woke up to a bowl of porridge the next morning.
After that, though, the same anxious restlessness consumed him all over again.
He tried to sleep to pass the time, but mostly just stared up at the ceiling of the tent, worrying about everything that might be happening outside his four canvas walls.
When the sounds of the camp outside grew quiet again, and the air grew especially cold, he finally managed a decent night’s sleep.
Yet all too soon, the sound of someone entering his tent woke him.
He sat up to see a different orc guard step through the opening of the tent, the dim light of the early morning behind him.
“Eat quickly,” the orc said, placing the bowl on his small wooden table. “And try to look presentable. You’re to see the warlord in half an hour.”
Before Alwyn could ask anything—though he doubted the orc would have given him an answer—he was gone, the tent closing tightly behind him.
Alwyn sighed as he got to his feet, shoveled the porridge into his mouth, and freshened up the best that he could with just the water in his basin.
Part of him wanted to use his magic to clean off the worst of the sweat and oil on his skin and hair; but a bigger part of him wanted to look at least a little worse for wear, fearing Zesh might decide that his accommodations were too nice.
Mostly, he hoped Krujha would visit him again soon, mainly for the company and to share any new information, but also for the promised bar of soap and his book.
When the orc came for him thirty minutes later, his wrists were bound in chains again—which he’d expected, but still inwardly grumbled over. But the guard didn’t lead him toward the tent where he’d been brought before; instead, they headed for the northernmost perimeter of the camp.
The guard brought him past the gate, where three horses were waiting. Alwyn recognized the smaller horse that he’d been riding—even more confusing was the realization that the other two horses carried Zesh and Krujha.
Fear seized him so wholly that he froze, stumbling as the orc guard continued to push him forward. Why was Krujha here? Why had Zesh summoned them both together? Had someone seen Krujha going into his tent—or had the guard heard them after all?
As he approached, Krujha met his eyes. His expression remained entirely unreadable, so there was nothing to do but mount the horse and hope. When the guard finally stepped away, and Zesh had looked ahead, his brows furrowed—he was as unsure as Alwyn was.
They shared a silent, panicked look for only a second until Zesh spoke. Krujha’s expression became perfectly neutral again.
“Follow me,” the warlord said simply. He nudged his horse forward.
Krujha followed, then Alwyn. His heart was racing double-time in his chest, considering all the possibilities of why Zesh might bring them away from the camp, each worse than the last. If Zesh was bringing them out of the camp to execute them, Alwyn would have to act quickly to kill him first. Krujha would understand going against their mission if he acted in defense of both their lives.
But then what? They’d have to flee. They had horses, but no supplies.
He could try to teleport them somewhere further away; but with winter setting in, he didn’t know how they’d make it back to Drol Kuggradh—or if they could return after disobeying Gorza’s orders.
In his panicked thoughts, he barely noticed where they were going. When Zesh stopped, Alwyn guessed they had traveled about a mile or so, and they were now atop one of the hills surrounding the camp. The sun was just over the horizon in the east now, streaked with fluffy clouds.
For a long moment, they stood in silence at the top of the hill.
Zesh was staring out at the valley below with a pensive expression.
Alwyn glanced at Krujha again, wondering if his thoughts were as obvious on his face as it felt.
Krujha met his eyes, then gave the tiniest shake of his head.
Alwyn felt his shoulders slump, discouraged.
They were alone on the hilltop. This might be the only chance they would get, but if Krujha was telling him not to—
“I’m sure you’re both wondering why I’ve brought you here,” Zesh finally said, breaking the silence. Alwyn sat up quickly, now entirely at attention. “Look. From this peak, you can see for miles.”
He gestured out at the landscape below. Alwyn followed his gaze uncertainly.
The view was gorgeous, especially with the sun rising over the distant hills; the morning light bathed the rocky grasslands in a pale glow, highlighting the land’s rugged splendor.
But he didn’t know why Zesh was showing this to them.
He waited silently until Zesh finally turned to face them both, the sun coming up from behind him.
“This is a question for both of you,” Zesh said, eyeing first Krujha, then Alwyn. “Why do you think I’m mounting this rebellion against the new king?”
Alwyn frowned, more confused than ever. He glanced sidelong at Krujha, who was looking at the warlord, meeting his eye with a slightly raised eyebrow.
Alwyn turned back to Zesh and offered uncertainly, “To reclaim your lost birthright.”
A bitter chuckle split Zesh’s features as he turned his gaze away, looking pensively down at his right shoulder and the empty sleeve.
“That’s the answer I would have expected from you,” he said. “And perhaps you, too, Krujha. But it’s far more than that.”
He turned back to face the landscape again, gesturing broadly with his one arm. “Our people come from the land. We’re part of the land, completely inseparable from it. And the elves would take that away from us—because to have dominion over the land is to have dominion over us.”
When Alwyn looked back at Krujha, a fervent expression was now on his face, and he nodded eagerly as Zesh met his eyes.
“Already, they’ve changed the one city we have, molding it in their image.
They’ve dug into the soil, cut down trees, changed the very face of the earth just to suit their own tastes.
Their rotten influence has already taken root in only two years.
If they have their way, I can assure you there will be more cities marring the face of our wildlands before much longer.
But the land is ours. It is where our ancestors fight eternally—where every orc comes from, and where every orc will return to.
They would take that away from us. It’s not just my birthright, is it, Krujha of the Shifting Sands?
It’s the birthright of you, your father, your clan—every orc who ever lived, or who ever will live. ”
“Yes, it is,” Krujha answered breathlessly. If Alwyn had not known him better, he would have easily believed the passion in his voice was real. “This land is ours. It’s where we belong.”
“It is,” Zesh agreed. “And anyone trying to change that is buying into the elf supremacy that the Glynzeiros dynasty wants to establish. The elves are trying to put themselves in a position of power and dominion over us, even if they cloak it in more appealing language, like peace and unity and alliance.”
Alwyn gave a start as Zesh finally turned his attention back to him, straightening his back nervously.
“Wouldn’t you agree with that, elf?” he asked, his tone nearly accusatory.
Everything about this mission had gone so completely differently than Alwyn had expected.
He had imagined Zesh being bloodthirsty, the way his father had been.
The way the stories made him sound when word spread of his failed attempt at ousting King Zorvut mere days into his new rule.
He hadn’t expected an ideologue, but the conviction was obvious in his voice.
He had to believe Zesh was telling the truth—that this wasn’t just about whatever claim he might have on the throne King Zorvut had made for himself, but a genuine belief that the unification between their nations was oppression in disguise.
He didn’t know how much truth there was to that.
Elves and orcs had been at war over the land for centuries.
The alliance was still so new, so tenuous, that he didn’t think anyone could say with any certainty who might benefit the most from it.
Instead, he focused on what he needed Zesh to believe, putting as much conviction in his voice as he could muster before speaking.
“Orcs belong in the wildlands,” Alwyn finally said. “And Aefraya is for elves. I can agree with that, if nothing else.”
Zesh snorted at that, the chuckle completely mirthless. Everything about his tone had either been fervent, like his speech just now, or devoid of almost all emotion entirely, least of all joy or laughter.
“Listen to that. I think his heart might just be swayed,” Zesh said, smirking at Krujha.
“If they had hearts,” Krujha muttered, and he shot Alwyn a look so utterly disdainful that he may as well have been looking at a cockroach.
Alwyn’s breath caught with genuine offense, a scowl crossing his face involuntarily.
Krujha was an actor, he had to remind himself; and if his acting was believable to him, then surely Zesh would be doubly convinced.
“It sounds like we’re all on the same page, then,” Zesh finally said, turning away. Though his tired expression remained, Alwyn had the sense that he was pleased with their answers—or, at least, they were what he had expected. “Krujha, stay with me a moment longer. Elf, I’ll deal with you later.”
Alwyn hesitated. He was obviously being dismissed, but there was no one to accompany him back to the camp. At least, there hadn’t been, until he turned and realized that another horse had come up the path behind them.
“Yarug,” Zesh called to the druid. “He’s all yours.”
Yarug’s dull eyes landed on Alwyn, and the old man raised a hand to beckon him back.
Alwyn hesitated, glancing first at Zesh, who was already turning away, then at Krujha.
The orc’s expression was neutral, but he held Alwyn’s gaze for a brief moment—longer than he needed to—before he, too, turned away and stepped closer to the warlord.
“Come, sorcerer,” the druid barked out, his voice rasping.
Alwyn’s eyes lingered on Krujha, who had come up beside Zesh on his horse and now stood beside him, looking out at the valley below in silence. Then he nudged his horse back toward the path, following the druid back down into the camp.
Luckily, the druid did not speak with him as they made their way back down, which allowed Alwyn to reflect on the strange conversation.
Zesh had taken them away from the rest of the camp.
He hadn’t noticed the druid following them, but he must have been nearby.
Had he been intentionally testing them? If they had failed this test, what would have happened to them?
Alwyn suspected they might have been thrown into the prison tent, or even killed outright.
Zesh might have been paranoid, but it wasn’t without cause.
He needed to be cautious, Alwyn reminded himself.
The evidence of Zesh’s multi-faceted belief had taken him by surprise; but he should have expected there would be more to this rebellion than a spurned would-be warlord trying to take back what he thought belonged to him.
It was proof he couldn’t underestimate any of this rebel force: if the orcs Zesh had gathered to him truly believed in the same things, then just killing their leader might not be enough to disband his rebellion entirely.
But he had more than enough on his plate already, and the aftermath of his success was a distant concern.
Once he killed Zesh, the next priority would be the druid—kill him, and he would surpass even the expectations Tessarion had put before him.
After that, he could worry about staying alive…
then Krujha. If Alwyn survived, he could make sure Krujha would too.
It was all easier said than done, but he had no other choice.