Chapter 1
Adal Matar I
4E 181
“He's hungry,” announced Atub and Yamarz frowned. The child was constantly screaming as if they were killing it. Quite the opposite. He was kept in warm fur acting as a swaddling blanket and one of the stronghold's females were always waddling him. This day, the task had fallen upon the wise-woman and Grulmar seemed to not like her. Not at all.
“Why are you telling me this, Atub? Feed him,” said Yamarz still with a frown on his face. How can one sharpen his axe in quiet when someone always disturbs him? He was sitting on a chair before the Longhouse, using a whet-stone to sharp an orichalcum axe and enjoying the warmth of the sun. At least until Atub came.
“Do I look like a nanny?” she spat her venom again. “How am I supposed to feed him without milk? He needs his mother's teat.”
“Then give him yours.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I'm so glad I didn't have to feed you when you were born. Thank Malacath that I didn't have to give birth to you, you imbecile.”
Now Yamarz looked directly in her eyes with hard look. “Of all my father's wifes, you were the most annoying, Atub. And now I'm stuck with you, because you're the wise-woman. Sometimes I wish I could send you away just like father's other wives.”
Grulmar screamed with renewed strength and Yamarz growled. He turned his eyes to the palisade where two males and one female were keeping watch. His siblings. He eyed the nearest one and raise his voice a little: “Uramul! Go milk the goat. The runt is hungry and it is below the wise-woman to milk our animals.”
An Orc with a brown top knot on his head and yellow eyes muttered something into his beard and went behind the Longhouse to get some milk from a certain very stubborn goat. I just hope he won't kill that animal after he gets kicked in the face few times. I know I would kill it.
He noticed young Gularzob coming out of the forge-hut with a grin on his face. He ran to Yamarz and almost poked out his own eye with something that looked like a nail. “I have made my first nail, chieftain!” he yelled happily but than he noticed the screaming Grulmar. “What's with Grulmar? Why is he screaming like some weak human?”
“He's hungry, Gularzob,” explained Atub.
“I'm not screaming when I'm hungry,” said Gularzob proudly.
“It has not been long since the time you screamed when you were hungry,” muttered Yamarz. Uramul finally arrived with bucket half full with milk. He put it on the ground before Atub and turned to return back to the palisade.
“Wait,” Yamarz stopped him. “The boy needs blood. Add some of it to the milk.”
His brother scowled. “Why do I have to cut myself?”
“Because I no longer have a place on my skin to cut myself, fool,” growled Yamarz, holding out his slashed forearms. While there was strength in milk, there was much more in blood. Yamarz was a little worried that Grulmar might not be as strong as Gularzob, because he was getting only goat's milk, but they didn't have any other option.
Uramul drew an iron knife from his belt and cut himself on his forearm. He let a few drops of blood drip into the milk and pulled his arm away, but Atub stopped him. “More,” she said.
He reluctantly extended his arm over the bucket again and squezed his forearm. More blood dripped into the milk and Atub stirred it with her hand. She then sucked her figner to taste it. After that she dipped her finger into it again and put it to Grulmar's mouth. He immediately sucked on it.
“Hm. His teeth are starting to grow,” she murmured and pulled her finger out, flipping one of Grulmar's small tusks. “These are growing too. He might have them really big. Also it seems he might have bone protrusions above his eyebrows,” said Atub and pointed at small sharp bumps on Grulmar's forehead, the same ones that cut and killed Shadbo.
Yamarz gritted his teeth, but nodded. Large tusks and bone protrusions were something an Orc male should be proud of, so maybe it was a sign that it was Malacath’s will for Shadbo to die.
“Chief! There is an Orc coming to our gate!” yelled a female from the gate suddenly.
Yamarz and Uramul looked at each at other and then the chieftain yelled: “Weapons!”
The quiet and peaceful stronghold turned into a fortress of Orcs preparing for battle. Garakh ran out of the forge-hut with an orichalcum sword in one hand and a smithing hammer in the other. Her apron was black as well as her face from the smoke and Yamarz felt a heat in his groin. Later, he reminded himself.
He wished he had put on his armor that morning, but he had wanted to enjoy the sun. Well, there's a lesson in that. If you have to decide between pleasure and armor...always choose armor. Wearing only tunic, a fur kilt and boots to battle wasn’t very wise. He pulled on his orichalcum gauntlets and glanced at the edge of his axe. Looks sharp enough.
He ran to the palisade right next to the gate and looked to the forest. Almost the whole tribe was on the palisade - nearly a dozen of males and females - and were watching the lonely figure nearing the stronghold.
His sister said it was an Orc but he could barely recognize such details from this distance. She really has good eyes.
Orcs didn't like strangers, but other Orcs were often allowed into their stronghold, be them from other strongholds or - if they proved themselves - from cities. But some of the Orsimer lowered themselves to the level of bandits. The Pariah Folk often raided the land for treasures and other valuable things, but no stronghold would assault an innocent traveller on the road and kill him for a few coins.
One of Yamarz's brothers had become bandit and he still remembered the anger on his father's face when the truth was revealed. The shame. They tracked those bandits down and slaughtered them to the last man - his brother. He would never forget how his brother begged for his life. Such weakness…
He felt something at his side. He looked to his side to see Gularzob peering over the palisade to see what's going on. “Get out of here, runt!” he ordered him angrily.
“But-”
“Away with you!” Yamarz growled and hit him with a back of his hand. He didn't hold back, even with his gauntlets on. Gularzob fell of the palisade with blood on his face, but Yamarz no longer cared. He must learn to obey!
When he looked at the figure again, he noticed armor as black as night contrasting with the green head of an Orc. So his sister was right. But an Orc wearing ebony armor was a strange sight. Most bandits couldn't really afford that - their comrades would kill them for it.
“That's close enough!” he yelled and the Orc stopped. He pulled a grey sword with a curved blade from the scabbard on his back and heaved it above his head. Then he sank the blade into the ground. Yamarz snorted and jumped off the palisade. There was no sign of Gularzob - maybe Atub had taken him inside the Longhouse - but his mind didn't have the luxury of thinking about it. He opened the gate and crossed his arms across his chest.
The stranger came closer and barked: “You're the chief?”
Yamarz measured him with an inspecting look. His armor was in perfect condition and its style wasn't like anything he had seen before. In shape, it was similar to his orichalcum armor, with edges and spikes, yet more elegant. But not as elegant as ebony armor made by Dunmer.
“I am,” he said, without any trace of emotion in his voice.
“You don't look like one.”
“Yet I could stomp you to the earth. What do you want?”
“I was sent by chieftain Burggrol gro-Adal with a proposal to chieftain of Largashbur.”
Yamarz was silent for a second thinking about the name. He had never heard it before and even said it aloud.
“I'm not surprised. We're not exactly from Skyrim. Adal Matar is deep in the Velothi Mountains, closer to the land called Morrowind. We don’t usually come to this side of mountains.”
While he was talking, Yamarz checked his warriors on the palisade. They were still prepared to battle; their eyes were on the forest, expecting a raiding party to emerge from it with weapons drawn and screaming. That pleased him, but he didn't expect anything else. Each member of the tribe knew their place.
He was silent for few seconds, measuring the Orc standing before him. Adal Matar. He had never heard of this Stronghold, but he didn't know everything. Maybe Atub would know more. But this Orc seemed as though he could be trusted.
He waved his hand at his warriors and they lowered their weapons.
“What's your name, warrior of Adal Matar?” he asked the Orc.
“Snagam gro-Adal.”
Yamarz took a few steps closer to Snagam and extended his arm. He cut his forearm - directly upon the many slashes he had inflicted on himself before - and offered the Orc his arm. Snagam dipped two fingers in the blood and then touched his forehead, making two red dots above his eyes.
His forearm felt as if it was full of needles, but traditions had to be upheld even if it meant the endurance of both pain and displeasure.
“I welcome you to Largashbur, Snagam gro-Adal,” said Yamarz and with a gesture he invited him into his Stronghold.
Yamarz took his new guest to the Longhouse, where he introduced him to his forge-wife, the wise-woman and his older brother Dorung. Dorung was a huge orc, the right side of his face melted away by the magic of some Altmer. His tusks were enormous even for an Orc, more fitting to a saber cat maybe, and the massive bone protrusions on his forehead gave him a demonic visage.
He pointed at a chair near the fire and Snagam sat on it. “I haven't seen your hearth-wife, chieftain.”
Yamarz scowled and pointed at Grulmar. “She died giving birth to that runt.”
The foreign orc looked at the child and seemed surprised. “Then why is the child still alive?”
“My wise-woman says he is favoured by Malacath himself.”
Snagam grumbled. “Fair enough.”
Yamarz was avoiding looking at Gularzob, but now he did. The left side of his face was swollen, his eye was closed and there was a long laceration at the side of his forehead. Maybe I shouldn't have hit him with gauntlets on. Only a second after that thought appeared in his head, he shook it off. The runt had disobeyed him, he had forgotten his place.
“Come here, Gularzob,” he said to the young Orc. Gularzob reluctantly obeyed and came right before his chieftain who inspected his wound and looked into his eyes full of pain. Yet there were no tears. There was strength in that boy.
“I see in your eyes that you hate me,” he growled. “Drop it. Hatred is not the Orc's way, we don't hate each other. You have to understand why I punished you. I am your chieftain and in war, my word is as sacred as Malacath's. You forgot your place and ran to the palisade. I could let it go, but you wanted to retort. I don't mind it in times of peace, but in wartime, you,” he tilted toward Gularzob and sticked his finger into his chest, “will follow your chieftain's orders. Once the battle is over, you can challenge your chieftain to settle your dispute, but not during it. That is not the Orcs’ way.”
“But there was no battle,” protested Gularzob.
“But there could have been,” he dismissed his protest. “Now sit in the corner and listen.” He was watching as Gularzob went into the corner and sat on a chair. Yamarz turned his attention back to Snagam who seemed amused by it.
“Something funny?” growled Yamarz.
Foreign Orc slowly shook his head. “I just remembered how my father told me something very similar when he was preparing to set out on a hunt and I decided I must follow him. I was a little bit older than your son.”
Yamarz nodded. “And you're the son of your chieftain? Or brother?”
“Son.”
There was a pleasant silent for a moment. Until Atub broke it. “Are you going to ask him about that proposal or not, you stupid cave bear?!” she snapped at Yamarz.
He shot a cautionary look at her. “I warn you, female. One more word from you and you'll be eating dirt in front of our stronghold.” She took a step back with a disdainful expression on her face.
“My chieftain has proposal for the chieftain of Largashbur,” started Snagam, once it was clear that Atub would not speak again. “He offers his daughter as a wife.”
“What does he want in exchange? As you can see, our stronghold doesn't have much to trade with. Maybe some of my younger sisters-” started Yamarz, but Snagam stopped him with a raised hand.
“In exchange he wants an alliance. And a promise that if your wives ever give you daughters in the future, you will trade them to Adal Matar. We are in desperate need of new blood, same as you. Also, we are willing to trade your orichalcum for our ebony and quicksilver.”
Ebony and quicksilver! An orc stronghold sitting on two very precious veins. Quicksilver wasn't an ore that Orcs usually worked with, but the sword Snagam had rested against the wall clearly showed that the Orcs of Adal Matar were capable smiths.
“This proposal is an interesting one,” he muttered deep in though.
“But there are two conditions. You must fight with the chieftain's daughter and defeat her, if you want to marry her. And you must come alone with me.”
“Nonsense!” yelled Garakh, who stood silently by the door until now. “The chieftain can't leave the Stronghold alone. If something happens to him, we won't even know if we have a chieftain or not!”
“Be silent, forge-wife!” Yamarz shouted at her. “Just think about it. New blood. This could gain us prestige amongst other Strongholds. All would present gifts to us once the word spreads. All would want our daughters,” he said calmly and then looked on Snagam. “Unless Adal Matar wants all our future daughters.”
“My chieftain said that the promise of two daughters from one of your wives will be sufficient, in exchange for his favourite daughter.”
That wasn't really a bad deal. Truth was that almost all the Orcs in Skyrim were related to each other by some degree, the blood was too thick. But now he was given a chance to dilute it with fresh and foreign blood. Every stronghold would certainly want a few drops of it.
“When do we leave?”
Comments
That blood in the milk? Well, because I took the liberty with little babies coming out of their mothers already with tusks, I was thinking that those tusks could hurt mother´s tits a little, so the bloo... more
Where did you get that blood-in-milk idea from? It's inspired!
Thanks, Exuro.