A One-shot story By C. Wain

Chordectomy by C. Wain

“Lus, I fear this is the last time I shall hear your kind voice. It is not right, you know…”

“I know, Bethany. But, it is the way of the world.”

“Then, the world is cruel and it sure does not deserve someone like you. To think you shall become a servant to those… to those cruel humans. I can’t bear it,” slowly stuttered the teen she-orc, bursting into tears as she leapt into the warm arms of her loving companion.

“Don’t’ worry. You se-”

“They will cut your vocal cords! How can I not worry!” The despair-filled cry of the loving she-orc sent a fit of pain right through Lus’ heart.

“Mph, you have always been such a kind being. So unfit to live in this terribly insane world. You must not worry. I am ready for this. For all its worth, I have prepared my whole life for this moment. So, wipe that sad look off your beautiful face and show me your smile one last time”, warmly spoke the young orc as he cleaned the smooth skin of Bethany from the overflowing tears and watched as her terrorized face slowly morphed into a weird-looking smile.

Lus was a young orc – green, smooth skin, tall with strong and muscular limbs – who, like all his kin before him, lived the entire span of his eighteen years within the cold and dreary walls of Martyr Town. This ancient city lay at the center of the Eias desert, secluded from the rest of the world, as its two founders intended. Rudulus and Rius, the two mighty human warlocks who bound and sealed the fiery orcish blood within Martyr Town.  It is said that they summoned the accursed town from the depths of Hell itself. Why did they cast such a terrible curse? Well, according to the ancient and proud human legends, “to save humanity from the wrath of the fiendish orcs. To bind their tongue, forever to be mute and thus spare the voluble minds of the pure and rightful human race from the cursed words of the orcish language.” But, history is written by the winning party after all.

The ancient orcish tongue, or “the cursed tongue” as it was known in the human settlements, was an archaic speech, rooting back when the great world made its way out of the original slime and mud, covering the incandescent nucleus of a dying star. The first human king, High King Brenin, spent his entire life in the fight against the orcs, to defend his race against their unstoppable incursions, which left behind nothing but death and blood. The sound of their mystical guttural tongue was unknown to all, as no soul who heard their voice survived to tell the tale. The only tales prooving the orcs existence, were the trail of blood left behind them. No one knew at the time which was the reason for their god-like powers, except that no average human nor mage could prevent their ghastly magic to butcher humans by the thousands. That is until two brothers dared to infiltrate the orcish encampment south of the human realm, in the dreary Minier region. They enchanted concealment spells and covered themselves with elvish blood, in order to hide their smell and soothe the orc guards. They hid for two weeks inside a giant, rotten oak, until they witnessed what they had hoped for. An orc fight took place before them. Why the orcs were fighting, the two brothers did not know, as all they thought of, was keeping silent and staying as still as humanly possible, while their spirits trembled in their cold bodies. Immobile they watched in horror at the orcs before them. The two creatures stared at each other and when the great horn blew, signaling the start of the fight, something unexpected took place before the mesmerized mages. No lances were thrown. No steel sword clashed against each other. No, what the two mages witnessed was no ordinary fight. As they peeked from the small holes formed in the rotten bark, they glared at the two orcs standing still, waiting for something mystical to happen. Something which would determine the victorious creature.  Suddenly, the air around them cooled as time itself slowed down. That was when the great orc at the left opened its ponderous mouth, which revealed a pair of razor-sharp fangs. Then came the voice. They heard it loud and clear. The soothing sound of death. The smooth and ondous sound wave twirled and rolled as it reached the outer ear lobe of the terror-striken mages. Hitting the tympanic membrane, the sound made its way through the auditory nerve and into the staggered brains of the two mortals. No word could describe what they felt. A perilous mixture of ecstatic joy and paralyzing fear. As their sense numbened, they looked at each other in dismay. They understood the true origin of the orcs power. It was the orcs’ voice. Their brute appearance – which the ages would turn into a more human-like one – hid their magical gifts. Their voice, sweet and pure, entered the human’s very own soul, forcing its target into an unrefutable submission. Under their spell a human could dance like a monkey. Or, perhaps drink until vomiting. Why not, take their kitchen knifes and start butchering each other, like defenseless pigs in a slaughterhouse. Were those words targeted towards them, the mages knew in their hearts that no matter their strong wills, they would have crumbled into ashes against the sheer ethereal pressure those words exerted on them. Trying to recreate those sounds would have never worked for they themselves were not sure of what they’d heard. For the two brothers, only one thing remained. Follow those orcs into their next raiding mission, and impassibly watch their hellish deeds unfolding before them. Only then they could properly affirm that this actually was their “modus operandi”. And so, came the night of the raid. They hid in a nearby forest as the horde reached a small village. The bonfire warmed the happy inhabitants when the land beneath their feet trembled.

“ORCSSS!” cried the elder as he maniacally ran towards the village entrance, pushing the young ones and the other elders out of his way.

“ORCSSS! ORC-” the trembling yelling of the elderman dissipated in his airways as he bumped into the giant creature before him.

“Lord… ahah… ahah… orcs, I welco… I welcome you into my village. I am the elderman. There is no need for me to die here, look, there is fresher blood here! Tastier blood! Look… Look… ahah… ahah” the elderman psychotically laughed as he grabbed a young woman and threw her against the great orc before him. The orc stared down at the scene as the other villagers ran in their houses to bid farewell to family and friends.

“Perhaps we should do something,” whispered one of the two mages as he bent closer to his brother.

“Shh! We are not getting involved in this! The key to save our kinsman may very well be at our fingertips. These sacrifices shall forever be hailed as martyrs for the future generations,” firmly replied the second brother as he squinted his eyes to focus on the orc.

“Other orcs are coming right? They can feast here! Please… I beg you! Spare me!” cried the elder as he kneeled before the towering orc and kissing the malformed feet of the creature, begged for his life.

“Shhh I hear something!” muttered the two mages in unison as they stepped closer to the macabre scene.

“M-A-D-N-E-S-S”

As the orc slowly enunciated the word, the two mages opened their eyes in disbelief, as it was indeed uttered in the common tongue. The human tongue.

“What?” whispered one of the two mages as he stared at his brother, pinching his face as to wake him up.

“Nothing… I do not feel the effects I felt last time, when the great orc uttered that incromprehensible word. Damn it! I fear we were mistaken! I thought we could have finally have found the way to turn the tides in our favour! Damn it! We should go back to court. At least-”

“Wait! Look at that man!” suddenly whispered his brother.

The elderman stood still. Deranged, with his mandible hanging loose, as volumes of saliva dripped onto his hands, he emptily stared at the orc before him.

Then the mountainous creature spoke again.

“F-O-O-D. F-O-O-D.”

As the orc finished his short phrase, silence reigned in the small village. Then abruptly the bonfire’s light dimmed down, as the elderman face calmed down. He stood up and emptily stared at the young woman next to him.

“Food!” mumbled the elder as his calmed features tensed up and turned into the most abominable grimace. The villagers who eavesdroped from inside their humble huts turned against each other. Madly. Hungrily. Wives against husbands. Friend against friend. Father against daughter. As madness took hold of the cursed village, and the cries of the butchered villagers resonated amidst the muddied village square, the elderman slowly unsceathed a curved kitchen knife and voraciously threw himself against the screaming woman besides him. His hands gripped the splurting, receased abdominal vessels, ripping them out of the abdomen of the innocent bystander. He then turned towards the orc, who stood impassible before him.

“Food! Food!” smilingly shouted the elderman as he grabbed pieces of flesh and lay it before the great orc.

Blood rivulets flew copious in the death-filled village as the two mages saddled their horses, sure of the true powers of the accursed orcs.

“It must be it. That was mind control! The beast clearly commanded the villagers to butcher each other and prepare a banquet for their unrelentless hunger. We know their weak spot! Rius, do you understand what it implies? We will no longer suffer and they will be forced to kneel before us! The sacrifice of this villagers will not be forgotten! True martyrs!” smilingly uttered the tired mage as he jumped on his black stallion.

“Yes, martyrs. Listen, Rumulus,” slowly spoke Rius.
“Yes?”

“Well, when we turned and came back from the village, I glanced one last time at that orc,”
“Yes, what of it?”

“Well… The orc was crying.”