Clinging to the rock, the stronghold extended its control over the nearby hills and forests. It was under the command of Urg’hur, a somewhat aging but still powerful warrior and the head of the clan. Because a spring flowed from the rock face, the orc fortification was surrounded by a moat, which was somewhat rare for strongholds in the region. Truth be told, Gra’sha had never seen another settlement of her people firsthand, but that’s what she’d been told.
Being relatively young herself, she hadn’t yet had the honor of joining a raiding party. Like everyone else, however, she worked diligently for the good of the clan: tending the herds, hunting in the surrounding woods, or apprenticing with the master blacksmith. In her opinion, however, these were mostly tasks fit for goblins, whose numerous families lived under the protection and in the service of the Wolf Rock clan.
For the past year or so, she had volunteered for an expedition at every opportunity, but old Dur’var, the one responsible for forming the volunteer unit, refused her with a stubbornness worthy of a better cause. In varying order and intensity, he would list the reasons: she was too small, too weak, too scrawny, her battle cry was pathetic, and generally, she was no warrior yet. He praised only her enthusiasm for training and her good technique with weapons and in hand-to-hand combat. Dur’var, like most of her people, never denied acknowledgment where it was due, but apparently, her physical shortcomings still tipped the scales. Still, he encouraged her to continue her training, as he did with most of the youth.
The girl suspected there were other reasons at play, but making such an accusation wouldn't help her case. Every young man and woman had the right to join a war party and prove their combat prowess. Afterward, they were either allowed to remain in the volunteer unit or sent back to training. In time, they hoped their skill would be recognized and they would be inducted into the ranks of regular warriors, the most privileged caste in the clan.
However, first, it was old Dur’var who decided who was ready for their first expedition, and in this, she was no exception; most young girls heard the same, unless nature had blessed them with an exceptionally strong build. Second, there were always more volunteers than spots, and therein lay the catch. The chieftain's warband was more or less constant in number, and the assisting volunteer unit rotated slowly. The stronghold, while not small, maintained one large company of about a hundred veterans, supported as needed by volunteers in whatever numbers the situation required. And for the past few years, there simply hadn't been any expeditions large enough for a greenhorn like her to take part.
It would be unthinkable to select new warriors from among the volunteers who hadn't distinguished themselves the most on a raid, but first, one had to get into their ranks. It was sometimes grumbled—and Gra’sha eagerly lent her pointed ears to such opinions—that the offspring of current warriors in the chieftain's band strangely always got into the volunteer unit first, but no one dared to protest openly.
Two dire wolves belonging to the camp commander interrupted her irritating thoughts on the matter. They found her at the woodpile where, as part of her work but also to build her strength, she had been splitting logs since morning, stacking the resulting firewood into neat piles. The massive wolves were a lot of trouble for the goblins assigned to their care and would sometimes escape to roam the camp or the lands beyond. Toward Gra’sha, however, they clearly had a soft spot. So much so that, if their master wasn’t looking, they would sometimes come to her for a bit of affection. The male had what looked like a white band of fur on his right paw, while his sister’s paws were both completely black. Thus, the male was called White, and she was called Black. She had barely sunk her axe into a stump when Black shoved her snout against her chest, demanding to be scratched.
“Making trouble again, are you?” she asked the animal, ruffling its huge head and trying unsuccessfully to dodge a lick to the face. After a long moment, an impatient White nudged his sister’s head away with his nose and took her place, letting out a low, satisfied huff as the girl scratched him in that specific spot behind the ear. Their heads were the size of her torso, and she could barely wrap her arms around them. They were the pride and symbol of Urg’hur’s strength, a sign that the spirits of the forest favored him. For that reason, they got away with a lot.
She didn't have to wait long before a clearly worried and irritated goblin ran up to them, completely out of breath. His long, pointed ears were drooping with anxiety, but they perked up a bit when he recognized Gra’sha with the wolves; they knew each other by sight. “I was worried they’d run for the cookhouse,” he called out, approaching her. “Good thing you stopped them.”
She just grunted in acknowledgment as he dutifully but firmly coaxed the animals to follow him. He belonged to the group that tended to their well-being; the wolves tolerated it, but they also had their own ideas about what they wanted to do at any given moment. They only obeyed their master without question. It was, therefore, a thankless but rather prestigious job for a goblin. Gra’sha bid the animals farewell with a few final pats on their hindquarters, and they left with their now calmer caretaker, their tails wagging slightly.
She followed them with her eyes. As always, when she looked in the right way, she saw a nearly transparent, swirling smoke-like flame rising from their bodies. Everything alive, to a greater or lesser extent, emanated this kind of spiritual energy. Orcs, goblins, other creatures, old trees, and sometimes she even saw it in objects. Usually, it was faint, but White and Black emanated it with exceptional strength, as did the clan chief and several of his best warriors. Over the years, she had come to suspect that the more powerful the creature or person, the stronger their emanation.
When she was a child and had first casually mentioned it to her mother, she had forbidden her from sharing the observation with others, especially the shamans. She claimed it was a rare gift, but one that was unwelcome in their clan. Gra’sha had followed that advice, even though her mother and her teachings had been gone for over a decade, taken by a sudden illness. She knew well that this kind of otherness could be met with misunderstanding. She couldn't remember her mother's face clearly anymore, but the memory of her warmed her heart for a moment. She had no other family and was thus a ward of the clan. From what others had told her, her mother had joined Wolf Rock already pregnant, which wasn't particularly unusual. On the Great Marches, clans rose and fell constantly, almost always seeking fresh blood, centered around a charismatic and effective chieftain who could ensure their prosperity.
She never found out who her father was. She guessed her mother had wanted to explain it to her when she was older, but fate had other plans. Her own skin had a rather greyish hue with only a hint of green, while her mother's had been olive-green, but that wasn't a clue. She regularly saw kin of all different colors and shades. Besides, as she’d noticed, sometimes one inherited the colors of their grandparents more than their parents. She was practically resigned to the fact that she would probably never know, but she still thought about it sometimes, usually when a memory of her mother surfaced, just like now. She sighed lightly, brushed the wolf fur from her clothes, tidied up her work area, and headed to the common hall for a meal. On the way, she reported to the supervisor how many stacks of firewood she had chopped, collecting her payment in iron tokens, the local currency paid out for work done for the clan.
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The goblins working the cookhouse today gave her a solid portion for one token. She sat down in the common hall on a long bench at a table where a few other youths were already seated. She recognized Mal’gor, who nodded at her from over his bowl of stew. He was shoveling hefty chunks of it into his mouth with a large spoon. He had impressive lower tusks, which she envied a little. Hers barely protruded past her lip, like some weakling's. She realized she’d been staring at his face for too long and, to justify it, shifted to sit more directly across from him and struck up a conversation.
“Ready for the next expedition?”
The boy swallowed loudly and smacked his lips before answering. “Always. This time I’m hoping for more enemies, so every volunteer gets a chance to prove themselves.”
She nodded in agreement.
“The scouts say gnolls are getting too close to our hills,” he lowered his voice so only she could hear. “Enough of them that the Old Man might even let you on the raid.”
From the tone in which he said it, she knew his words weren’t laced with malice; on the contrary, he was sharing a good, unofficial piece of news with her. Still, it stung a little.
“Let’s give it our all at the evening drills, then,” she replied, trying to keep her tone cheerful. Apparently, she succeeded, because he nodded back with a satisfied look, tipped the rest of the stew straight from the bowl into his mouth, then got up from the table and left.
The warriors were on the chieftain’s payroll and didn't have to work in addition to their service, but everyone else was always busy; there was no room for idlers in the clan. Furthermore, all orcs were encouraged—and for the youth, it was mandatory—to participate in the evening military drills. All of them were expected to master the basics of melee and ranged combat, as well as maneuvers for defending the stronghold and during expeditions. Passing was rewarded with a bronze cube. For those willing, there were also advanced classes, much harder to complete, which were crowned with a silver one. Gra’sha wore a bracelet with four silver cubes, the last of which she had earned a year ago. It was a common sight among the volunteers, but not so much outside of that crowd.
Until the evening drills, she helped out in the forge for a few more iron tokens. First, she hot-hammered a steel rod, giving it a preliminary rounded and elongated shape. Then, she cold-drew the wire through a suitable die to give it a uniform cross-section, finally winding it onto a spool. The goblins would later cut it into rings, from which the master would weave mail armor. Since riveting was easier with smaller hands, that part of the job was also left to their lesser kin.
Her hands were worn out for the day, so when she got to the training grounds, she chose to practice with a hammer and shield. She might not have been stout, but years of apprenticing in the smithy guaranteed a solid striking force and good control. Thus, her feigned blows effectively confused her opponents. She had good footwork, but if she let herself get pushed into a tight clinch, the older and more massive trainees could still sometimes overpower her. Though she knew how to fall safely and was nimble enough to roll away and get back on her feet, she wasn't always fast enough and sometimes ended up getting hit on an exposed side or back, losing the duel.
That’s exactly how she lost her last spar of the day. Mal’gor had charged her with great momentum, his mass effectively knocking her over. Before she could slip away, he caught her on her right side with the very tip of his wooden practice sword. She had won her other duels today, however, so she finished satisfied and gave him an appreciative nod. He helped her up, and together with the rest, they cleared the practice weapons and other gear from the grounds under the watchful eye of the volunteer overseer, Dur’var.
Before her evening meal, she joined the other girls at the bathhouse, where she washed away the day’s hardships. The goblins made sure there was never a shortage of hot water. Sickness and festering wounds could take down the best of warriors, so using the bathhouse was well-regarded, recommended, and extremely cheap.
Bathed and fed, she didn't go straight to bed in the small barracks she shared with other clan members who had no immediate family and their own place to stay. Instead, she went down to the grove, in the center of which stood a magnificent oak tree that towered over the rest. They hadn’t had any true shamans here in her lifetime, so she learned about the spirits of the ancestors, the guardians of the forest, and the spirits of the mountains and rivers from the more spiritually inclined members of the community. They usually gathered in the grove, and were more than happy to share the stories or two with eager listeners like her.
Besides, she liked coming here because nothing else emanated power like that oak tree. It was pleasant to sit near it, and if she was sore from training, sick, or simply tired, she would ask the guardian tree for help. Then, a part of the flame invisible to others would join her own. It always helped. She was also convinced that she had the strength for drills after working two shifts precisely because she regularly drew upon these spiritual forces present in nature. Besides, an evening prayer like this guaranteed her a good night’s sleep, after which she felt refreshed in the morning, no matter how hard the previous day had been.
This time was no different. At dawn, she was one of the first to rise, full of vigor and zeal. She threw off her nightshirt and changed into light clothes, staying quiet so as not to wake anyone. Since the cookhouse wasn't open yet and the goblins were just beginning their morning preparations, she used the training grounds to practice her sword thrusts and parries. The overseer found her there; she only noticed him when he spoke.
“Don’t lag with planting that left foot,” he said in a categorical tone. He walked over and had her repeat the sequence, tapping her arm lightly with a stick to let her know when to shift her weight. After a few tries, apparently pleased with the result, he nodded and grunted briefly in approval.
The girl took a break, wiped the sweat from her brow, and smiled broadly at the overseer, grateful for the good advice. He looked at her for a moment, as if weighing some matter, then addressed her.
“Gra’sha, Chieftain Urg’hur will today announce the order to drive the gnolls from the outskirts of our lands. The strike force will consist of forty warriors, and as many volunteers. I have a place for you among them,” he announced in an official tone, then added more confidentially, “if you still want to try…”
“Yes, Overseer!” she replied, perhaps a bit too loudly, her cheeks flushing with a mix of excitement and slight embarrassment at her own reaction.
“Excellent. Report back here to the grounds after breakfast. I will issue your equipment and orders. We march today. You are dismissed.” He waved a hand toward the common hall and took the practice sword from her.
“Yes, Overseer!” she replied, her voice filled with poorly suppressed enthusiasm, this time trying at least to keep a serious face. Then, as instructed, she ran to breakfast. Along the way, she considered that forty volunteers was, on one hand, a lot of people to stand out from, but on the other, this was the first time she’d been given an opportunity at all. Considering her position in the clan, she knew it wouldn't happen again soon. She intended to make the most of this chance.
