Squib Ep.6 - The Speaker Of Tongues

Start at the beginning here.

The air whirred with the sound of its own slicing. A thick leather strap, hardened and studded with bits of jagged stone, smacked against bruised and battered scale. Herule arched and hissed in pain before shooting an acidic glare at the Master of The Whips.

The Gray skinned Goblins and their Orc taskmasters had foreign ways to the Tribal Lizardman, formerly of the western side of the Silkwood. Confusing as their ways could be, they were not so hard to understand when push came to shove. One had to learn quickly should they hope to survive under such brutal taskmasters, and Herule was a swift learner when it came to his own survival.

Of course those wits did not help to explain why he’d just been struck given he was going about his senseless task as quickly as was possible given his restraints. He was shackled by both ankle and foot, with chains of a length that gave him freedom freedom enough to work, but hinder any reliable attempts at escape. It was a frustrating circumstance to bare.

They had him hauling rock, much of which was being mined by human slaves, and the lesser amongst the orcish brutes, all of them sharing the same fate. At least in so far as the work was concerned.

Herule’s experience had taught him that not all slaves were created equal, and while he often received the leather strap with its wicked studs, his human counterparts only seemed to taste a strand of rope tied with knots at regular intervals. Not that Herule was one to complain. That would only serve to sate the cruel pallets of his captors and besides, prompt himself another serving of the strap. No, his take was that the orcs feared him for his size, his potential for brutality, and his marked difference in appearance. What it might mean if his kin summoned their strength, and forced a fight in retribution. That, Herule told himself, was the reason why.

The Master of the Whips grunted something which Herule did not understand and after a moment the Lizardman pushed on, deeper into the tunnel to collect another load of rock. He had not ascertained why they were digging, only that they were digging deeper underground.

There had been a particular interest in veins of ore that cropped up from time to time, but Herule’s people were not accustomed to the metals worth.

He was familiar with the workings of arms and armor, forged from steel by distant civilizations. Some of which frequented the Silkwood, particularly amongst those of the human settlement in the south. There was also the ancient runes his people dwelt in, containing both images and relics from a forgotten time. However any works had decayed with time, and the secret to their magic now laid beyond account.

Stone and branch were timeless, and the strength of a strong bloodline with which to bare them, or that of the ballad first, were all without end. Each was always on hand, and none required much, if any digging, let alone digging as deep as these Orc brutes were.

Herule passed a number of worn and weary humans on his way all of which had grown used to the Lizardmans presence. They gave him a wide berth regardless. While the Lizardfolk and the human settlement usually stayed far away from one another, Herule had shown them no ill will in his time here. If anything they might more readily be allies given their circumstance, which was something to keep in mind.

Strangely, many of the human slaves were women, and not like the fairer form that the lizard kin might produce. While a female of Herule’s kin might be smaller and hold less physical presence than their male counterparts, the human women were but a mere shadow of that in Herule’s eyes. He might very well presume them to be children, and throw them around with the same amount of effort should the need arise. For that alone he thought them to be a strange choice of slave for the chore of digging and hauling, which made every bit of sense why they’d gone to the trouble to capture and contain him. Of those that weren't female, many of the men were either frail or beyond their time, and of those still yet young- those not suffering from a battered or broken body had certainly had their spirits smashed to pieces. They might as well have all been women by Herule’s reckoning.

Having retrieved a load, Herule emerged, stooping from the shadowy torch lit tunnel of the mine, out into the camp and quarry of the Orc tribe. The camp laid somewhere in the rocky terrain east of the most northern reaches of the swamp, forming a natural land barrier between the watery mires and the distant planes that stretched far into the Distant East. Herule had never explored either, both being far from the territorial lands of his home, but he knew enough about them to know they were here. Why the orcs were here however, he had no idea. The surrounding area was largely barren. With the exception of the swamp, nothing grew here, and as far as raiding went there was nothing to steal except what they might hope to take from the Humans or his own tribal people. Which would not sustain itself to say the least. There were many questions, none of which Herule hoped to find an answer for.

“Water? Come, relieve yourself.”

Having just set his load to the ground, Herule turned to find the words source. Surprised to hear his tongue he looked this way and that, unaware there were any other lizardfolk in the camp. He found no one but a human woman standing and staring at him. Beside her sat a bucket filled with water, and in her hands was a shallow bowl.

“Does this human sspeak my tongue, or is this ssome form of ssorcery?” Herule stepped forward cautiously, yet curious.

“I speak many tongues.” The woman replied. “Here, have some water.”

Herule took the bowel and poured the contents down his long muzzle. He couldn't recall how long it had been since he’d last drunk but it was refreshing to say the least.

“I am Gizelle from the town of Silkwood. You are from the blue tribe?” Gizelle’s eyes shifted as her head arched to better see the flecks of blue scale that marked the Lizardmans back.

“What do you know about the blue tribe?” Herule asked, handing the bowel back.

“Not much.” Gizelle admitted. She issued an ever so faint laugh that looked more tired and hagged than merry, “Very little actually. Only what I’ve been told.”

The conversation fell flat. Silence seemed the preferred mode of the slaves here, at least during the working hours when freedoms were all but non-existent. Even at night, the slaves were all but exhausted to talk, even if there was anything to talk about to begin with. For Herule, this was the first person he was even capable of speaking with, which only seemed to heighten the lack of anything meaningful to say.

Herule had no standard by which to judge a humans appearance. Gizelle was obviously outside of her ideal element. Nevertheless, Herule saw a woman with a full head of blonde hair, tied in a messy bun for practical purposes. She had fair skin, soft even by human standards, with a scattering of freckles even where her face wasn't dirty. Her eyes were colored green like that of the willow trees found throughout the swamp, and about as many parts strong and sorrowful in their standing. She wore a dress of common human design, torn, dirty, and in need of great care. Herule had little knowledge of clothing outside of what little amounts or equipment his people would wear, so had to part ways on opinion where the two races found cause for concern. Whatever the case she seemed young, fertile, and gainly in both hip and, as with all fertile mammals, breast. Like with all of them, he couldn't think of a worse place for a woman like her to be.

“I’ve been tasked with handing out rations to the slaves.” Gizelle offered.

Herule felt Gizelle wished to keep speaking, though he could not ascertain as to why. Only that she did so despite herself. “I am here for my sstrength,” He answered, appealing to their commonality.

Gizelle nodded. Herule sensed a weakness playing out, sitting subtly beneath their interaction, but he felt no resentment toward it even though he would normally. Distracted at the thought he didn't notice the Master of Whips exit the tunnel and walk up behind him.

The Orc grunted and barked something in his harsh tongue. Herule flinched at the surprise, turning to find himself under a scrutinizing gaze. The Orc reacted on a whim, striking Herule with the strap. He caught the blow on his flank and prepared himself for the next. Only the Orc raised the knotted rope, and drew back his arm to strike Gizelle.

She cried out in pain as the rope caught her across the face, leaving a red line and drawing blood where a knot struck the bone of her cheek.

The orc raised the rope again, and on an instinct, Herule caught it in his hand. He dashed into the brute, wrapping his chain around the Whip Masters neck and dragging him off his feet. There came a grunt, then a gurgle, snot and flem both bursting from the Whip Masters face. From the surrounding quarry another orc yelled an alarm.

Herule looked about, considering his options, and restrained himself from outright killing the Whip Master. Still he held tight for fear of the Whip Masters retribution.

A huge orc, the largest Herule had ever seen, lumbered forward with a handful of fighters. For all their enthusiasm to join the fray, none dared press beyond the footfalls of the one who led them. Even to Herule’s great size, this orc seemed a monster to behold. Yet the Lizardman stood his ground, holding his half-strangled Whip Master, as the huge orc came to stand before him.

The orc ground out a small number of very clear, very concise syllables in his orcish tongue. His voice sounded like a mix of gravel and iron. Herule didn't understand their meaning, but the orcs cloudy, red veined eyes spoke of murder and brutality.

To Herule’s surprise, Gizelle stepped forward, and in the softest form of orc-speech he’d ever heard, interceded in the affair.

The huge orc saw her as if for the first time, and after pondering her for a few short moments took her face in his massive hand. He turned it, to better see the welt and blood running in a thin line down her face. They had a brief exchange of words, none of which Herule could understand. Herule merely adjusted his grip as the Whip Master struggled fruitlessly to fight his way free.

The huge orc waved his hand for Gizelle, motioning toward Herule, then stood frowning with his menacing presence.

“He says his name is Lur, and here Lur’s word is law. Nobody dies unless Lur decides, so put Lur’s orc down.”

Herule looked from Gizelle to Lur, who looked on with daggers in his eyes, balling then squeezing his firsts. Herule relented, releasing the Whip Master, and letting him fall free. The Whip Master stumbled forward, gasping for the free air and scrambling toward Lur for safety. Only safety was the last thing he’d find as Lur grabbed the Whip Master by the neck, lifting him so his feet were dangling in the air, and set to crushing his throat with nothing but the power of his hand. He issued a single command to Gizelle before speaking for all in the surrounding quarry to hear.

Gizelle translated as he spoke. “This woman is now Lurs. Whatever is done to her, Lur will do to you. She is special to Lur.”

Lur looked at Herule and issued one final, personal decree. Once done, he threw the dying Whip Master at the Lizardmans feet, half dead but still choking on his crushed throat.

Raptured by the shocking display, Gizelle hesitated, causing Herule to prompt her for an explanation.

“What did he ssay?”

She swallowed. “He said, the blue scales job is to keep her safe from man, orc, and beast alike. Tell him he shares her fate.”

(Continue to Ep.7)

(Episode Directory)

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