1
Garrett’s fingers ached as he plunged them into the snow, bruised knuckles scraping ice. The withered stem rocked as he found the base, gripping tight before he slid his dagger into the frozen earth. He dug around the stubbornly clinging root, small tusks sinking into his upper lip as he grit his teeth. In spite of the icy wind that crept through every gap in his cloak, sweat beaded on his gray-skinned brow.
As he struggled, he could almost hear his father’s good-natured laughter.It’s easier to shoot a deer than dig up a burdock root.At that moment, Lucas was being proven right.
Garrett’s stomach had passed the point of hunger. But even if his desperation had peaked, Garrett had never inherited his father’s skill with a bow. Not that he’d even thought to bring one in the midst of his frantic packing.
Finally, something in the earth gave with a crunch. The root pulled free, and he let out a shout of triumph before he scooped up a handful of snow. He scrubbed the dirt away, but even though he’d inherited his mother’s natural tolerance for the cold, his fingers were numb by the time it was clean.
The provisions Ursa had packed for him had run out three days ago. He’d expected to find a village, or at least a caravan to travel with, but in the dead of winter, the roads were all but impassable, snow drifts growing as tall as his waist in places. When the root disappeared in four overeager bites, his brief elation was snuffed out like a candle.
Exhaustion overtook him just as the wind kicked up, sending icy flurries to kiss the faded bruises on his face. For a moment, Garrett imagined what it would be like to just lie down. Go to sleep. Maybe when he woke up, his father would be waiting for him.
Yet if that were true, Rogan would be right behind him.
Your father would want to see you at peace, his mother had said.And if you think you can find that away from here, I want you to try.
Garrett forced himself to his feet, pulling his cloak tight around him. He didn’t deserve peace. Not after what he’d done. In a way, the two weeks he’d spent wandering through the ice and cold, the exhaustion and grief, felt like a fitting punishment.
The sun crept through the sky as he continued down the road. He had no map, no destination. Just a desire to get as far away from Clan Boric and the bloodstained square as he could.
Garrett scanned the woods, looking for a place to shelter, when something caught his attention. A trickle of smoke rose over the trees. He hurried down the frozen road and saw more strings of smoke rise up behind it before the trees parted to reveal a small human settlement.
There was a dozen or so cottages, and woolly horses watched him with alert ears from their shelter. As Garrett passed them, he saw that a person was braving the cold to repair a broken gate. It must have blown down during the recent snowstorm, and the man cursed his cold fingers as they fumbled with a length of rope.
“Can I offer some help?” Garrett called out only to realize how strange it felt. Until then, he’d only ever spoken the common language used by the humans of the Hobokins with his father. From a young age, Lucas had used it to joke with him when he didn’t want others to understand what he had said. Orcs in the village had assumed he switched tongues to insult them, and to be fair, most of the time they were right. The fond memory brought a fresh wave of pain that Garrett quickly forced aside.
“That’d be mighty good of y-” The man’s words abruptly cut off as he turned to look at Garrett. He staggered back in surprise, one foot slipping on a patch of ice. Garrett moved to help him, but the man regained his feet and quickly backed away from the broken gate that separated them. “Don’t need help from a boar.”
The words froze Garrett in his tracks. Rogan’s insult, the same one that had started all of this, echoed in his head like a mockery.Maybe the mongrel will find a better place among his father’s kind. You can find out when you return his ashes to Airedale.
Garrett licked his dry lips and tried to keep his voice even. “Please. I’m just a traveler. I’m out of food, but I have a strong back. I can help wherever you need.”
“I said I don’t need your help,” the man snapped, his voice hardening. “And unless you want to bring trouble, I suggest you leave.”
Behind the man, the door to his house opened. An older boy brandished an iron rake from the doorway, his eyes wide. Garrett took a stunned step back. A few other doors had opened, curious heads peeking out to see what the commotion was.
His mother had tried to warn him. Humans had the shorter lifespan, but their memories were long. The territory wars between orcs and the humans of the mountains had occurred ages ago but echoes of the hostility were reflected on their faces. These people would have him wander off to starve without a second thought. He swallowed his dismay even as he raised his hands. “Alright. I’m leaving.”
The boy lowered the rake a little. His father sneered, but Garrett met his eye as he reached down to grab the rope he’d been fumbling with. He tied it tightly around the broken gate before he turned to head back down the road, adjusting his too-light pack over his shoulders.
Night was encroaching fast, and even if he had another hungry evening ahead, he still needed to find a place to shelter. If push came to shove, he could even keep walking. Mongrel he might be, but he’d gained an orc’s ability to see in the dark.
“You looking for a place to stay for the night?”
Garrett lifted his aching head to see the bent old woman who watched him from the edge of the trees. Her wispy white hair was tied under a faded red headscarf, her ruddy skin wrinkled and weathered into a permanent scowl. Shrewd eyes looked him over, taking in his recently broken nose and bruised cheek.
“Or just a loaf of bread to get me to the next town,” Garrett said, his weariness leaking into his voice.
The old woman coughed, a dry, rattling sound. She seemed to come to some silent decision as she turned to head into the trees. “Well, come along, then.”
For a second, Garrett couldn’t believe his ears, but he was quick to follow. Her modest homestead wasn’t far, resting in a clearing just off the main road. Smoke trickled from the chimney of the small cabin while woolly goats kicked into the snow to reach the scrub underneath.
“My husband passed away about a month ago,” the woman said. “I could use all the help I can get.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Garrett said. He hesitated before adding, “I just recently lost my father.”
The woman coughed again. “Quietus takes us all, eventually, but it doesn’t make losing someone any easier.”
