Realms of War

leaping in a twisting somersault right over the corpse and the living orc. As he came around, rolling over his opponent's shoulder, the battlerager slapped his forearm hard under the orc's chin while slapping his other hand across its face the other way, catching a grip on hair and leather helm. When he landed on his feet, behind the orc, Pwent had the battle won. With the orc's head twisted out far to the left and the warrior off-balance-surely to fall, except that Pwent held him aloft-and unable to do anything about it.

A simple jerk with one hand, while driving his forearm back the other way, would snap the orc's neck, while Pwent's ridged bracer, already drawing blood on the orc's throat, would tear out the creature's windpipe.

Pwent set himself to do just that, but something about the orc's expression, a detachment, a profound wound, gave him pause.

'Why'd ye stop?' the battlerager demanded, loosening his grip just enough to allow a reply, and certain that he could execute the orc at any time.

The orc didn't answer, and Pwent jostled its head painfully.

'Ye said 'for' something,' Pwent pressed. 'For what?'

When the orc didn't immediately respond, he gave a painful tug.

'You do not deserve to know her name,' the orc grunted with what little breath he could find.

'Her?' Pwent asked. 'Ye got a lover out here, do ye? Ye ready to join her, are ye?'

The orc growled and tried futilely to struggle, as if Pwent had hit a nerve.

'Well?' he whispered.

'My daughter,' the orc said, and to Pwent's surprise, he seemed to just give up, then. Pwent felt him go limp below his grasp.

'Yer girl? What do ye mean? What're ye doing out here?'

Again, the orc paused, and Pwent jostled him viciously. 'Tell, me!'

'My daughter,' the orc said, or started to say, for his voice cracked and he couldn't get through the word.

'Yer daughter died out here?' Pwent asked. 'In the fight? Ye lost yer girl?'

The orc didn't answer, but Pwent saw the truth of his every question right there on the broken warrior's face.

Pwent followed the orc's hollow gaze to the side, to where several more corpses lay. 'That's her, ain't it?' he asked.

'Tinguinguay,' the orc mouthed, almost silently, and Pwent could hardly believe it when he noted a tear running from the orc's eye.

Pwent swallowed hard. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

He tightened his grip, telling himself to just be done with it.

To his own surprise, he hoisted the orc up to its feet and threw it forward.

'Just get her and get out o' here,' the battlerager said past the lump in his throat.

Who will remember those who died here, and what have they gained to compensate for all that they, on both sides, lost?

Whenever we lose a loved one, we resolve, inevitably, to never forget, to remember that dear person for all our living days. But we the living contend with the present, and the present often commands all of our attention. And so as the years pass, we do not remember those who have gone before us every day, or even every week. Then comes the guilt, for if I am not remembering Zaknafein-my father, my mentor who sacrificed himself for me-then who is? And if no one is, then perhaps he really is gone. As the years pass, the guilt will lessen, because we forget more consistently and the pendulum turns in our self-serving thoughts to applaud ourselves on those increasingly rare occasions when we do remember! There is always the guilt, perhaps, because we are self centered creatures to the last. It is the truth of indi shy;viduality that cannot be denied.

In the end, we, all of us, see the world through our own, personal eyes.

G'nurk broke his momentum and swung around to face the surprising dwarf. 'You would let me leave?' he asked in Dwarvish.

'Take yer girl and get out o' here.'

'Why would you…?'

'Just get!' Pwent growled. 'I got no time for ye, ye dog. Ye came here for yer girl, and good enough for her and for yerself! So take her and get out o' here!'

G'nurk understood almost every word, certainly enough to comprehend what had just happened.

He looked over at his girl-his dear, dead girl-then glanced back at the dwarf and asked, 'Who did you lose?'

'Shut yer mouth, dog,' Pwent barked at him. 'And get ye gone afore I change me mind.'

The tone spoke volumes to G'nurk. The pain behind the growl rang out clearly to the orc, who carried so similar a combination of hate and grief.

He looked back to Tinguinguay. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dwarf lower his head and turn to go.

G'nurk was no average orc warrior. He had served in Obould's elite guard for years, and as a trainer for those who had followed him into that coveted position. The dwarf had beaten him-through a trick, to be sure-and to G'nurk that was no small thing; never had he expected to be defeated in such a manner.

But now he knew better.

He covered the ground between himself and the dwarf with two leaps, and as the dwarf spun to meet the charge, G'nurk hit him with a series of quick slaps and shortened stabs to keep him, most of all, from gaining any balance.

He kept pressing, pushing, and prodding, never allowing a counter, never allowing the dwarf to set any defense.

He pushed the dwarf back, almost over, but the stubborn bearded creature came forward.

G'nurk sidestepped and crashed the pommel of his sword against the back of the dwarf's shoulder, forcing the dwarf to overbalance forward even more. When he reached up to grab at G'nurk, to use the orc as leverage, G'nurk ducked under that arm, catching it as he went so that when he came up fast behind the arm, he had it twisted such that the dwarf had no choice but to fall headlong.

The dwarf wound up flat on his back, G'nurk standing over him, the sword in tight against his throat.

I have heard parents express their fears of their own mortal shy;ity soon after the birth of a child. It is a fear that stays with a parent, to a great extent, through the first dozen years of a child's life. It is not for the child that they fear, should they die-though surely there is that worry, as well-but rather for themselves. What father would accept his death before his child was truly old enough to remember him? For who better to put a face to the bones among the stones? Who better to remember the sparkle in an eye before the crow comes a'calling?

'Bah, ye murderin' treacherous dog!' Thibbledorf Pwent yelled. 'Ye got no honor, nor did yer daugh-' He bit the word off as G'nurk pressed the blade in tighter.

'Never speak of her,' the orc warned, and he backed off the sword just a bit.

'Ye're thinking this honorable, are ye?'

G'nurk nodded.

Pwent nearly spat with disbelief. 'Ye dog! How can ye?'

G'nurk stepped back, taking the sword with him. 'Because now you know that I hold gratitude for your mercy, dwarf,' he explained. 'Now you know in your heart that you made the right choice. You carry with you from this field no burden of guilt for your mercy. Do not think this anything more than it is: a good deed repaid. If we meet in the lines, Obould against Bruenor, then know I will serve my king.'

'And meself, me own!' Pwent proclaimed as he pulled himself to his feet.

'But you are not my enemy, dwarf,' the orc added, and he stepped back, bowed and walked away.

'I ain't yer durned friend, neither!'