The Nannak

The Nannak

  By Benedict J. Martin

  Copyright 2014 Benedict J. Martin

  All rights reserved

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  The Nannak

  I’ll never forget that morning. The sun was big and bright, the sky an incredible blue. It was beautiful. And hot. Boy, was it hot. I kept having to wipe the sweat from my forehead before it trickled into my eyes. That’s what I remember the most about that particular morning. That and the horrible feeling of dread.

  "You can run, Arlo. Back up the road. Nobody will stop you."

  "Joey's right,” said Ken. “You could make it to town by evening. No one in their right mind would blame you."

  I'll admit, it was tempting. There were occasions during the last couple hours where I very nearly jumped out of the wagon. Unfortunately, my sense of honor was keeping me nailed to the bench.

  "How long have we been here?" I asked.

  "Ten minutes," answered Joey. "They'll be here soon. If you want to run, you better run now."

  I shaded my eyes with my hand and watched the other side of the river, where the road disappeared over the grassy hill, and sure enough the distant speck of a wagon rolled into view.

  We sat there, watching as it drew steadily closer. I don't know what I expected—maybe a rolling cage decorated with skulls and rusty spikes. That they were using a regular wagon surprised me.

  On it moved, growing ever larger, until it reached their side of the bridge.

  "It's time," said Joey.

  Without another word our wagon rolled forward. We readied our swords. We hoped there would be no need for them; this was to be a peaceful meeting after all. Or at least, that was the plan. You never could be too careful, though. Not with orcs.

  For all three of us, this was the first time we’d actually seen our enemies in the flesh, and the sight of their jade-colored skin was enough to make the hair on my arms stand to attention.

  There were four of them, one more than the number agreed upon.

  "Animals," whispered Ken. "Should have known they wouldn't abide by the rules."

  They certainly were fearsome. As they brought their wagon alongside ours, they stared at us with piercing gray eyes. Before leaving, my father had instructed me that no matter what happened, I was not to show any fear. I don't think I succeeded. Joey and Ken, though, were doing a marvelous job, returning the fiends' glares with fierce stares of their own while the river flowed noisily beneath us.

  "Are you ready?" asked Joey, looking over his shoulder at me.

  I picked up my bag and placed it on my lap.

  "What do I do?" I whispered. "Do I just get out?"

  I'd barely finished speaking when one of the orcs stood up and jumped from the wagon. He was young, like me, although with a shaved head and a leather vest. And also like me, he was carrying a bag.

  "It looks like it's time," answered Joey.

  If I was a religious person I would have said a prayer. Instead I took a deep breath, slinging the bag around my shoulder before slowly climbing out of the wagon. I wanted so badly to appear calm, but my body was not cooperating. I was sweating, my knees were shaking, and my stomach was so choked with butterflies I was worried any lapse in concentration would have led to them escaping from my mouth.

  Meanwhile my orcish counterpart appeared completely in control, calmly watching Joey and Ken before turning his wolfish gaze on me. I felt as though I should give him a sign: a nod or a smile—we were both brothers in a sense—but in the end I forced myself to simply walk to the enemy wagon.

  I might have been shaking like a dog left out in the cold, but I was determined to make my people proud, and doing my best to avoid the glares of my new orcish hosts, I climbed into their wagon, sitting down a good five seconds before my counterpart could join Joey and Ken.

  And so the transfer was complete. All that was left was the journey back to their camp. I was part of a peace initiative, you see. A symbolic exchanging of sons between two warring nations that would—hopefully, maybe—lead to a more peaceful future.

  I remember the moment I discovered I was to be our State's representative. I thought it was a mistake. I was certain it would be my younger brother, Seth. My older brother, David, was too sweet, too innocent. And me, well I just wasn’t very impressive. Seth, on the other hand, was a man in a child's body, able at only thirteen years old to outwrestle most adults. And he was smart too, placing top of his class in every subject. Heck, he was already shaving. So why would they pick someone like me? Well, the only thing I could think of was that it was meant as an insult, a sort of middle finger to those beasts on the other side of the river. The intention was for each side to send the best and the brightest. And that clearly was not me.

  There was no fighting it, though. My father was the Governor, and what he wanted, he got.

  Watching Joey and Ken ride slowly back up the road was the most depressing thing I'd ever experienced. I knew I'd never see them again. In fact, they were probably the last human faces I would ever see, other than my own. I was under no illusions. Despite the proclamations of peace from our two capitals, these were still monsters, and I had no doubt that I would die before this exchange was over. I just hoped they would return my body for a proper funeral.

  And so I sat in the back of the wagon, cradling my bag on my lap while the orcish landscape rolled steadily by. I'd seen this side of the river countless times. From a distance, though. Being there felt surreal. Taken individually, the various elements were all familiar. The grass was the same grass that grew in the field behind my home, the sky the very same blue I'd seen countless times before. But somehow, the taint of those who lived there rendered it all quite alien.

  My hosts never spoke during our journey, neither to me nor to each other. They didn't need to: their expressions gave voice to the tension looming over us. They hated me—that much was clear—and given a reason would no doubt have murdered me on the spot. That I still had my sword offered little comfort during what promised to be a long journey.

  Grassy hills gave way to farmers’ fields. Much to my surprise I found myself recognizing what grew there: carrots, turnips, and potatoes, all planted neatly in rows. There were some plants I'd never seen before, but if I ignored the green-skinned fiends tending their crops, these could have been Good Kingdom fields.

  Farmers stopped their weeding to watch as our wagon rolled by, their wide-brimmed hats looking like dinner plates, shielding them from the sun.

  It was not much later that the goat hounds appeared. Emerging from driveways and side roads, these enormous dogs ran onto the road beside us, their throaty barks serving as an obnoxious welcome to their orcish masters. I'd heard plenty about these beasts back home: about how a single pack could change the tide of battle; about how they ate the flesh of dead soldiers. Legend said they were bred from demons. I looked over the side of the wagon at a shaggy animal loping beside us, and sure enough I could see the tips of two knobby horns protruding from its fur at the top of its head.

  They certainly were a chaotic bunch, running round the wagon while the driver yelled at them to get out of the way. How the horses managed to remain calm was a mystery.

  I was surprised to see houses. I knew orcs lived in tents, yet farm after farm contained structures that I immediately recognized as permanent dwellings. They were of a different style than I was used to: round, with enormous windows and huge overhangs, but they were definitely houses.

  Eventually the farms were replaced by row upon row of homes, their occupants
peering at us from windows or their front steps. There was no warmth there; even the children regarded me with contempt. Frightened, I kept telling myself that I was a representative of the Good Kingdom, and that I must appear strong, no matter the urge to flee.

  Finally the wagon rounded a corner to follow a stone tile driveway to what could only be described as an orcish manor, a great stone building that rose into the sky, the peak of which flew a scarlet red banner. There were orcs there, dozens of them, all dressed in military uniform, and they followed my approach with unblinking interest. Pulling to a stop, the driver pointed to the stony ground.

  "Out," he said.

  So I did, leaping from the wagon with my bag clutched in front of me. I could only imagine what those watching were thinking. The agreement had been to exchange worthy citizens, strong in both body and mind, yet there I was, thin and trembling.

  A particularly fearsome orc stepped from the crowd. He was older, heavily muscled, with a milky eye and a massive scar traveling the width of his forehead. I knew he was important, and he walked right up to me, looking me up and down.

  I could hear the others snickering. Meanwhile the orc kept studying me, eventually bringing his one good eye to peer into my own.

  "I am your Master, do you understand?" he said.

  "Yes, sir," I said, dropping my gaze.

  He stepped backward and motioned