Roderic and Gorlana

Author's note:

If this seems out of the blue, that's because it kind of is. I needed a break/palate-cleanser from re-editing the novel, and I've had this idea brewing for a while. It's definitely different, but it does have the familiar themes of Fdom, and reluctance -- though both are very light in this case, despite the setting. There's an aspect that might approach mind-control but not really. There is battlefield violence and a short scene of an unsuccessful attempt/threat of male-on-female rape near the end, otherwise hopefully it's trigger-free.

Just so it's clear, I'm writing this entirely in my own realm. I don't intend to adhere to any other universe's pre-established rules of what an orc is or does. If you need a comparison, these orcs are probably closer in appearance to those from Skyrim/Elderscrolls or maybe WoW, than say, Tolkien, but again, I'm building this world from scratch so just try to play along.

This can stand alone as it's own story, but I already have an idea to continue it (set years down the road), so let me know if you think I should.

Thanks as always for reading. I hope you enjoy.

***

Roderick and Gorlana.

...

I'm going to die.

Roderick tightened his grip on the spear and let out a shaky breath, trying not to visibly tremble as that thought repeated in his head. The orcish war horn sounded again and seemed to echo through the hill beneath them. He glanced at the other men in the army around him but they all simply stared ahead.

He was too young. 18 years was too young to die, he thought. He had too much left to do. He had never seen the ocean. Never slept with a girl. Never seen fireworks.

Why the fuck didn't old men fight on the front line? They had already lived their lives.

...and had more of an excuse for shitting their pants

, he thought, taking another deep slow breath as his stomach rumbled in a type of nervousness he had never felt before.

He was strong for his age, and for his outwardly lanky build. He knew why, and the secret that had given him such shame throughout his life had almost given him an extra bit of confidence in joining the army. Almost. That was, until he had faced an actual orc in combat up close.

How could I be related to that?

He kept thinking, despite rubbing his tongue over the filed nubs of his lower canines habitually, clenching his thicker-than-normal fingernails, and pinning his slightly-pointed ears back.

He watched the mass of tall burly green orcs as they continued to spill out of the trees at the bottom of the hill, marching forward with shouts and clanging of swords. They said orcs could literally smell fear. He wondered if they could detect him even at this distance. He looked at the men around him, their faces were flat but he could tell there was a fear there as well. Roderick always had a sharp nose, and knew partly why, but he didn't think he could smell fear. He was always very good at reading people's emotions, even when they were trying to hide it. He was pretty sure he wasn't literally smelling them though.

"Steady men! Shields close and spears ready!" his lieutenant called.

Roderick held the large rectangular shield in front of him and dug in his heels, placing the hilt of the spear against his foot like they had practiced. He wished he hadn't tried so hard in the training camps, impressing the commanders with his ability to brace and hold. He was a more natural archer, but hadn't practiced it as much on the grounds, already confident in that ability. Maybe he just told himself that, wishing he was in a safer place, back with the archers. At least they had put him towards the flank of the front line. He knew the orcs would likely attack with a spear-point approach with their strongest berserkers at the tip.

The orcs had stopped marching forward though. He heard the lieutenant talking a few lines behind him.

"Why the fuck aren't they attacking? I thought the brutes would be more proud than that."

"They're waiting to see if we make the mistake to charge first," one of his commanders replied.

"Steady men! Hold fast. Make them meet us up the slope!"

The orcs looked to be vastly outnumbered by their human army, but Roderick had seen enough small skirmishes to know their prowess in one-on-one combat. This would be his first full-out battle. Even with superior numbers he thought their only hope was strategy and organization, but he had seen too many of this lieutenant's blunders to fully trust in that. The orcs had also strategically stopped coming out of the woods now, so it wasn't clear how many more stood waiting in the shadow of the forest.

They had intelligence, he knew. They weren't the pure animals that some of the more zealous war-supporters claimed. He had remembered seeing them as a child trading in his home village, back when there had almost been a tenuous peace. They traded and talked and even took part in the games and drinking at times when they were passing through. They were rough, but fair and had their own version of honour. They weren't that different from regular humans really, simply taller, bulkier, smellier, with two lower fangs, short claws pointed ears, and green skin.

It was well known in those Fringelander villages nearest to the Rampart Mountains' passes that they had far more mix-breeds than they would ever now admit. Though it was by no means common. His father had been able to hide it, teaching Roderick how to file his teeth and work down the subtle point of his ears, use the right soaps to hide the smell. However, his grandmother was a full half-breed and couldn't. When he was in his middle-years, they moved down to the foothills and the larger towns both for work and for safety, but she had stayed. Politics had changed and anti-orc propaganda and rhetoric had made it unsafe to be a half-breed there.

There was talk of a truce. More and more people were calling for it openly as the death toll rose, even though they were technically winning by a narrow margin. The way these orcs fought so harshly, he had a hard time seeing it. Some small orc-clans had agreed to switch sides though. The generals didn't trust them to mix with human armies yet but they were still put to good use. One had been supposed to try to stop this army...

As if to answer his thoughts the orc-chief stepped forward and threw the disembodied head of a particular orc towards their army.

He yelled out in a deep guttural yell, "Only the weak, treacherous clans will join you! And be trampled under our boots like the rest! Behold your ally! Kargol the traitor! Flee now and avoid his fate!"

The orcs behind him yelled and banged their swords together. Very few had shields. They were all offense, and melee attacks. If he survived today his biggest fear would be living to see the day the orcs learned better.

"Hold men!" the lieutenant called. "Archers ready!"

The spear-captain spoke up more softly behind Roderick's line "Ready men, they'll likely charge after the first volley."

Roderick's heart thumped through his chest and he looked around, telling himself he couldn't run. That he would likely be shot down if he ran. He was near the right edge of the front line of shields facing the gradual downward slope of the hill. To both sides of their army were much steeper rockier slopes that their shield line ran between. He could scramble up that slope if he broke away, but even if he made it there was their flanking company on the other side of the ridge, ready to take the orcish army from the side after they charged.

Get it together Rod. You're no deserter. This is what you signed up for,

he thought to himself. He gritted his teeth and planted his feet again, staring green burly death in the face.

"Fire!"

The Fringelander arrows fired and hummed overhead. Roderick watched their angled flight curve back towards the orcish army with the strong wind. The orcs roared as they rained down on to them. Some fell, but others puffed out their chests even as the arrows stuck out of them and Roderick was sure the charge was coming as every muscle in his body tensed.

They didn't charge though.

"STAY!" The Orc-Chief yelled as some lurched forward.

Suddenly a counter-volley shot out of the trees and Rod's eyes went wide seeing the orcish arrows fill the sky.

This was new. Orcs only used arrows for hunting. They apparently thought it was cowardly to use them in war. Evidently they had changed their minds after too many defeats to them.

As the arrows reached their zenith, the green war-painted chief cried out, "ATTACK!" and they charged forward.

Roderick and the rest had no choice but to lift their shields above them. The orcs hadn't accounted for the wind but most of the arrows still reached them. He felt and heard them striking the shields above their heads as he and the rest watched in terror as the orcs sprinted forward. They now had no choice but the lower their shields again and pray that no more arrows rained down on them.

He and the rest barely got into position again in time to meet their charge, and he suspected some didn't. That or the charge was simply too strong. He heard the loud clang of metal on metal, the grunts of bodies and wet slosh of tearing flesh, moving like a wave of sound from the central point of their attack, growing louder as it approached him and the other men on the flank.

Roderick's mind was panicking but his muscle-memory held out, and he waited until the last minute to raise his spear as he was taught. Somehow he kept his eyes open to see it align with the torso of a roaring orc-soldier running with wild abandon at their tight line of shields.

He felt the shaft bend in his hand and then straighten again as it broke through the hard leather orcish armour and impale the soldier. He had no time to feel pride though, as the impact of their throng hit his shield a half second later. He yelled out and flexed every muscle in his body, feeling his heel dig into the ground like a plow, but his body somehow stayed straight and kept his shield up. He saw the men around him manage to do the same. He let the spear off his heel and pulled, struggling to disimpact it from the body, and almost starting to panic again.

He heard the familiar shout of his captain, "AND...BACK!"

Muscle-memory took hold again, and Roderick moved his feet. One, two, three steps back, all in unison with the men beside him. His spear blessedly coming loose as he did so. The orcish throng wildly flailed ahead with them, but trampled over their injured comrades as they did so and were met with another row of spears, impaling them again as they came up against the tight line of shields.

Roderick held fast like the others but already felt his muscles straining to maintain against the boulder-heavy assault of the orcs. He could tell the center of the line was faring much worse though, and their shield-line bowed inward, like a fist about to tear through fabric. The sickening wet wails of dying humans starting to fill the air through the clang of steel. Another volley of arrows flew over his head to hit the further-back parts of the orcish army. Thankfully no more orcish arrows had flown back at them.

Another three steps back, still in unison but beginning to falter. Roderick had to lurch to the side to avoid a longer sword thrust that made it past the edge of his shield and then stabbed with his spear, coming up against armour but not piercing through. The orcs had trampled over and finished off another line of their own injured soldiers but seemed not to care. Their numbers weren't as great as he had thought after they all had left the shelter of the forest, and were dwindling faster than the humans, despite their slow systematic retreat, but if the shield-line broke there was still enough to rout them.

Just when Roderick thought that might happen, a human yell came from the far side of the orcish army and he saw the cavalry riding out from the trees and down the ridge to hit the orcs from the side. The orcs had seen it in time to turn and meet them but it still gave their spearmen the relief they needed. Three mores steps back and the shield line was straight again, though narrower as they closed to fill the gaps from fallen spear-men. His relief was short-lived seeing the cavalry being taken down in the vicious counter-attack of the orcish army to the side. The men and horses both screamed as the green brutes surrounded and engulfed the ones that could not ride away again after the assault.

Roderick wished he hadn't been given the time and relief to stare at it and let it turn his stomach. He looked away to the side and realized their shield-line was now too narrow to reach the steeper ridge just off to his right. He was partly exposed. He thought he saw some movement up the ridge but looked up to see nothing and looked back to quickly raise his spear and impale another wildly charging orc, maintaining the line with the other tiring men.

A thought then suddenly struck him even harder. There had been no attack from the right. There was supposed to be a second cavalry attacking the orcs' flank from his side as well, from behind the ridge. He had heard the lieutenant give the order before the battle, to both attack at the same time, though he had disagreed with it silently.

He looked up in realization to see movement again from the top of the short ridge above him. His sharp eyes recognized a certain style of helm through the bushes. It was not human.

Roderick acted on pure instinct. "Orcs on the ridge! On the right flank!" he shouted. "Turn! Orcs on the right!"

He knew he might be whipped later for barking orders like a captain when he was the lowest rank soldier, but he had no time to consider it. The orcs had evidently heard him too and stepped over the ridge to expose themselves. One in the center of their line, taller and covered in more war-paint, let out a roar and held up a human head by the hair, that Roderick recognized as the captain of the right-flank cavalry.

Roderick again didn't seem capable of more than instinctual thought, and he did the craziest thing he had done yet in his service. He stepped forward, and as the orc-captain held his arms out gloating at his higher-ground with his gruesome trophy, Roderick stepped forward and threw his spear.

He had only gotten second place in the javelin competition back home last year. This shot would have placed him first. The spear impaled the celebrating orc through the throat. His victorious yell turned to a gurgling scream as he fell to his knees and bent forward to die, crumpled upside down on the rocky slope.

The other orcs' battle cry faltered and some stumbled forward in shock instead of charging, but after their momentary loss of confidence the rest still charged. It had given Roderick's companions time to join him though, and line up beside him before the green avalanche fell on them from the ridge.

Roderick's pride in killing the orc-captain was snuffed out by his helplessness in only having a shield now. He braced into it with both hands and wondered what he could do.

His heels held fast against the weight of the hurling bodies but the man beside him slid backwards. Roderick was suddenly exposed on his side to the orc that had pushed him back. He noticed before the orc though, and thinking quickly, grabbed the orc's dagger from it's sheath and plunged it into his neck.

He backed up with his shield to line up with his companions again as the orc screamed and fell. More strong heavy orc bodies charged down against their shields though. Their line was too short, and now the orcs had the higher ground on this side. The dagger was useless in his hand, unless he wanted it sliced off if he was stupid enough to thrust past the shields. Finally his leg couldn't take it and his knee buckled under the weight of orc bodies pushing against and on top of his shield. The soldier on his left screamed as a sword struck him from the side. The one on his right retreated quickly, and Roderick collapsed under his tall shield curling into a ball underneath it as it fell on to him like the wall of a house crushing him. He closed his eyes and absorbed the suffocating pain as orcs trampled over his shield, and waited to die.

The trampling stopped though. They had all moved forward he realized. He stiffly began to move. His arms and legs hurt but he didn't think they were broken. Maybe a few ribs, he thought, as he groaned and shifted to look out from under the shield. The battle was a full-out melee now. The orcs were still outnumbered but were driving the men in on themselves.

He needed a weapon....or he needed to run.

He compromised by scrambling up the ridge away from the battle and looked around at the bodies for something he could scavenge.

He saw an orc-body with a bow and quiver still trapped to its back. He picked it up and then kept crawling up the slope until he reached the top of the low ridge where the lance-impaled orc-captain still lay. He crouched behind the rock and tested the bowstring. He nocked an arrow and looked into the melee. He would need to get used to this bow. He aimed towards a throng of mostly-orcs and let loose, hitting slightly off from where he was aiming. He adjusted and fired again, this time hitting an orc in the back of the neck as he intended, nodding in satisfaction.

The melee was mixing too quickly though, and humans and orcs were milling about too confusingly to aim at anything. Finally he saw an orc roaring over top of a wounded soldier about to lower his axe with a death-blow. Roderick aimed as the orc paused above the helpless man in victory, and the arrow entered the orcs skull through his ear before he could lower the weapon.

Roderick saw the man crawl away as the orc fell, but was already scanning the field for more targets. He found another orc letting out a battle cry with arms raised high in gloating victory. The arms fell backwards with its body as another of Roderick's arrows sprouted from its neck with a geyser of blood.

The orcs were too cocky, he realized, with a bitter smirk. They couldn't help gloating in their glory, and after they had disarmed or knocked down their victims, that few seconds of standing victorious and yelling their battle-cry was enough for Roderick to hear them, see them, aim and fire to kill them before they finished the job.

One by one he took them down, until he realized he was starting to get low on arrows. His fellow soldiers had reorganized themselves into more cohesive battle-formations and were starting to hold their own now. He saw the remaining cavalry, re-grouped behind the remaining orcish army and closing in from that direction, potentially surrounding them. He smiled and nocked the arrow, starting to feel hope for the first time since the battle began.

Suddenly he saw movement out of the corner of his eye and turned to see an odd-looking orc in a crouching run moving toward him. He spun and loosed the arrow at it. The helmeted orc lurched to the side, avoiding the arrow but not being able to hit Roderick with its sword either as he continued to spin and tripped down the other side of the ridge away from the battle.

The bow flew from his hands as he reached out to brace his fall. The orc had got up quickly and was moving towards him. He backed up looking around at the ground. There were fewer bodies out here. He needed a weapon. He looked around helplessly as the strange-looking orc approached.

What was so strange...

? The thought faded from his mind quickly as survival instinct took over and in a panic he realized suddenly he still had the dagger. In a desperate move, he threw it at the orc, and it struck the breast, lodging in the armour and the orc stopped with a pained howl.

Roderick turned and ran. No more bodies were to be found and he told himself he had no choice but to run from him. Him?... the dagger had lodged in the top of the breast... That orc had breasts. Two unmistakable large bulges in the chest armour. He realized there had been long black hair behind the helmet. The orc was a she. He had been too panicked to put it together at first.