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  SWORD

  &

  SORCERY

  MILLER HALF-ORC SAGA

  By

  J. R. Marshall

  Copyright © J. R. Marshall 2019

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  The moral right of J. R. Marshall has been asserted.

  DEDICATION

  To my wife, Susan, whose patience, sometimes during antisocial hours, allowed the completion of this story, without hope of monetary gain.

  To Mark Young, sitting on a beach sipping beer, reading yet another so-called ‘final’ version. He must have read the book ten times.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CONTENTS

  PRELUDE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Anglophenia: “How to swear like the British.” (Youtube)

  Rollforfantasy.com/tools/map-creator.php

  (Map Creation).

  PRELUDE

  Orcs are repugnant, typically filthy, usually brutal and often violent. Perhaps it’s in their blood, a hereditary trait.

  Living on the margins of society, they’re generally less intelligent, shunned by those more capable and accordingly more affluent, but I’ve never met an orc who didn’t know there was a better life to be had.

  In the lands farthest from major towns, orcs will build houses, create communities, plant crops and keep animals, yet when that option is denied they live in forests or caves, securing any shelter they can find. It is these orcs that the townspeople see; orcs jealous of their neighbours’ prosperity, orcs that steal, beg and frequently intimidate, occasionally raping or committing murder.

  Most of the larger towns only suffer orcs to enter if they are slaves or specially approved, usually orcs are simply denied access. Yet despite their faults there are a few who are honest and hard-working and modestly clean, resenting the reputation that their larger majority have rightly engrained in the minds of other races.

  CHAPTER 1

  My mother was probably a whore, my father clearly an orc, and being abandoned quicker than a turd leaves the arse I was placed in an orphanage and later sold into indentured slavery. Certainly I was a disappointment as I clung to life with the stubborn tenacity of my bloodline.

  Growing up with the dregs of unwanted children, no one championed any hopes of adoption, and whilst I was larger than my youthful years would suggest, and cleverer than anyone thought possible, I simply fought boys older than myself, until one day, aged eight, an unfamiliar face looked down at me, a stranger with bad breath, scratching the back of his head.

  “I’ll not pay for that, the ugly bastard’s too much of a liability.”

  “The others are too young or already contracted,” said the matron.

  “But I’ll end up feeding and training him; he’ll be useless for a few years.”

  “Then come back in two years’ time. He’ll still be here, and besides, half a silver piece is naught.” She knew Joe the Miller would have me working within the day.

  I had a curious interest in this new development though the regimented life of the orphanage was all I’d known, now coming to an end as I became indentured, a standard contract of five years. A life of whips, chains, beatings and filth was about to begin.

  Joe’s farm milled grains for the production of beer, and was roughly three and a half miles south east of Gledrill, yet for all that it was a short distance, I had no perception of life outside the confines of the orphanage walls, itself situated in a poorer district of town.

  Stepping out onto the muddy street, the cleanest I’d be for some five years, Joe played his last pretence of decent behaviour, ushering me onto a small flatbed cart pulled by a pony. I disappeared, never to see the town again except from afar, not until I had just turned thirteen.

  Joe and his wife had a daughter, roughly a year older than me, and when we arrived I was paraded in front of them, told how to behave and obey, marched around the farm and locked in a cow shed for the first few days, that is until Joe managed to acquire some chains, manacles and padlocks to bind me.

  Sometimes the most pious people are the cruellest, and although I started off willing to please, it became apparent that Joe had no morals other than he hoped the prayers of itinerant clerics would absolve him from calamity with the gods.

  Yet there was one significant benefit. He always encouraged the clerics to spend time with me, an act of contrition, building goodwill with the gods by allowing me two hours a day studying, learning to read and write, languages, and anything the clerics wanted. Joe didn’t want to know what I learned, or if indeed I learnt anything, he was simply buying grace, as he saw it, yet the clerics were enthralled.

  It’s not a boast to say I was a flattering pupil; the priests would leave jubilant, rejoicing in their own perceived teaching skills, for I never needed to learn a lesson more than once. Even though large parts of what the clerics taught was bollocks, I learnt quickly that knowledge was power, knowledge everything!

  For years I worked on that farm, legs chained loosely, beaten and whipped into apparent subjection, yet never averting my gaze quite as fast as my master would have liked.

  Now all vestiges of that miserable existence are behind, only friendship with Tam and Grimnir bind my heart, yet they are far away, west of the Grey Mountains. In the true sense of the word I am finally free, free to act without constraint, without bringing shame upon my two allies; these, the only two creatures I might under duress admit to caring for, who essentially rescued me from ruination and despair.

  They were, are, good! Not obnoxiously, not like clerics spouting their religious drivel, but in some ways they were the best of priests, not trying too hard… just giving me a blessing!

  Now in my old age as I sit upon my wooden throne, inlaid with silver and hewn from a mighty tree trunk, scribes sit on the floor writing my story, looking up at me as I scowl. Who will read it? My sons? They’re as likely to burn the scrolls as appreciate the effort in creating a Kingdom.

  Still, it’s a vanity, my vanity; the story flatters me, of course it does, no one writes of their own incompetence… Scribes, ink upon their hands, carry on…

  I am Miller, a half-orc bastard, a servant of none yet indebted to two individuals – a halfling and a dwarf – and as I sit under an elm tree the stars high above the tops of the forest start to appear, a gentle wind blows and I huddle around my fire, hoping it won’t rain.

  The darkness of my heart corrupts my mind. It’s so easy to forget civilised behaviour, yet I’m not wholly ruined nor without redemption, nonetheless most of society treats me with contempt, accepting my silver yet seldom with cheer.

  To humans I’m half an orc and to orcs I’m half human, that is to say not one or the other, blessed by neither, typically cursed by both.

  Conflicted in thought, I watch my hound rummage through the und
ergrowth, and enquire of my spirit creature, ‘Wisp’, a dream companion who can sense the presence of creatures both under the ground and adjacent. Accordingly he knew we were some five miles from the group of humans we were tracking.

  Wallowing in emotion, brooding introspectively, as the warmth of this late spring day fails I watch the mist begin to gather across the forest floor, clinging to the ground slowly, rolling gently into the shallow folds of the land. A frost is forming and already the ground is hardening; a white sheen can be seen enveloping the tips of ferns and fallen leaves.

  Berrek, an orc, the first of my servants, loyal out of fear, finished cleaning my armour and making the fire some hours before, and being an accomplished huntsman, his skill with the bow meant we ate well – the small doe shot earlier and roasted on our open fire is now half consumed. I’m tired, the weariness of the day catching up, yet as ‘Git’ my hound gnaws on a bone, I watch the twilight fail, waiting for the cold shadow of light to extinguish, for I revel in darkness and we will be breaking camp within the hour.

  No sound out of place, the birds in the forest rest silent and nocturnal creatures replace those more accustomed to daytime activities. Looking at Berrek I ask Wisp to read his mind, for I need to know whether he will slit my throat. Having just killed his companions it is doubtful he is enamoured of me but I need loyalty and whilst fear is a start, trust will take longer.

  “I need to meditate, Berrek.” And I study his face, illuminated in the firelight, though both he and I can see in the darkness. Watching, I look for signs of deceit or treachery, and Wisp, my invisible companion, incorporeal, a spirit entity, reads his thoughts.

  “You must guard me, for I’ll be sat here for twenty minutes or so, unable to move.” I speak softly for he is being tested.

  ‘He doesn’t understand.’ Wisp spoke silently in my head. Across my consciousness I can hear Wisp’s words as though listening to my own thoughts. ‘But there’s little malice towards you, he’s uncertain what you mean.’

  Leaning back against the tree my hand pushes aside the fallen leaves and decaying vegetation, scratching the surface of the soil. Clearing away the undergrowth and closing my eyes, I lie still for fifteen minutes waiting, pensive, for Berrek to attack, but he doesn’t.

  Now with the first of my retainers sat opposite I take a chance, letting my mind drift, touching the earth imperceptibly with my left hand, meditating, falling into the earth song, the rhapsody of the earth’s music, few can hear.

  Down I’m drawn, oblivious to space and time, speeding across an ocean of altered perceptions, listening to beautiful sounds, my mind capable of the most magnificent imaginations, music playing in visual symphonies of colour, sound becoming combined with my senses so that I can hear colours as words, taste the music. The power of craft, the energy contained in the earth speaks to me, gently imploring to be gathered. I can sense how to fashion spells, joining parts that form an array, the intricate connective energies that when combined create the power needed to action my craft upon awakening.

  Wisp reinforces my mental acuity, pointing out the snippets of power I need to gather, these strands of energy floating around me, and I can hear the deep voices in the bowels of the earth, the realm of spirit creatures and elementals.

  Yet I do not venture too deep, for I am worried about my unprotected body, vulnerable to any treachery that Berrek might unleash.

  Gathering with haste my powers of craft, the energy to fashion my spells, I draw my mind back, passing once more across the ocean of altered perceptions, the colours scintillating as they speed below, and coming to wakefulness and opening my eyes I observe Berrek, watching me as he lies on the ground casually poking the fire with a stick. He hasn’t moved or threatened.

  The energy gathered within, my powers as a sorcerer recharged, studying Berrek in his flea-ridden rags I know what Tam, my friend and mentor in spell-craft would have said had she known of the risk I had just taken. ‘Never, ever leave yourself exposed to the elements, or in mortal danger.’ She, my halfling friend, the greatest sorcerer I could ever imagine, she would have been wrathful.

  *

  “What is the most wealth you have ever possessed, Berrek?” I asked, for tonight I needed to encourage him and wanted to better understand his hopes and aspirations. I beckoned Git to my side, a click of my fingers, Git instantly obeying, curling up next to my knee.

  “I never liked Grabbarzz’s company, he was a tight-fisted bastard. He and Arkkzer never shared any spoils,” Berrek spoke, as he squeezed a spot on his arm and sucked at a weeping sore that rightly needed tending with bandages and medicinal herbs, in jeopardy of festering badly. “Not that we ever got much coin. Occasionally I would have a few coppers, perhaps a half silver piece. But you killed them, and I’m alive.” He touched the pitted sword that had belonged to his former leader, for I had allowed him to keep the best of their scant equipment.

  Having a map of the small petty kingdoms that made up this land, I knew travelling into these local towns with a full orc would not be a problem. Towns in these parts were tiny in comparison to Gledrill, Cragtor or Hedgetown, places I was familiar with, being on the other side of the Grey Mountains that separated these two parts of a peninsula some two hundred and fifty miles wide. Tomorrow Berrek would be thinking his situation much improved, for tonight we were raiding a group of pilgrims, and they always had silver – always.

  “Berrek,” I growled, with projected brooding menace, “henceforth you will continue to call me ‘Lord’, as you do, but know that I have been called other names, ‘Miller’ by a few, but you will never address me other than ‘Lord’. Do you understand?”

  “Yes Lord.” And he wondered why ‘Miller’, for it was not a name given to a warrior, although as I was half human he didn’t really understand the logic humans used amongst themselves.

  “You will obey me, always! And I accordingly will look after you, rescue you, vouch for you, but… and I want you to understand very clearly… the penalty for disobeying my orders is death!” I waited before adding, “Do you understand me?”

  “I will not disobey you, Lord.”

  “You may defend yourself, but I forbid any killing for any reason without my authority.” I had probably laboured the point too much, but he needed to understand with certainty.

  Whilst an indentured slave at eight hence my name, Miller, I had been given a human name at the orphanage. I’d never used it. Most of the time I had simply been called ‘Turd’, or other less complimentary expletives.

  *

  We passed through the woods, running where the trees parted, yet at other times moving with caution, stopping every mile or so allowing Wisp to descend into the earth and search for life within our immediate proximity. Berrek didn’t know of Wisp’s existence, and there was absolutely no need to explain that which was secret, but he was amazed when I said the pilgrims were camped one mile due east, and that they had established a fire and four out of five slept whilst one kept watch.

  “How far is the nearest town?” I asked Berrek, as we progressed through the matted forest floor, “and tell me about it.” Berrek, with a bow strapped to his back, dressed in a worn out leather jerkin with stained britches and oversized boots, smelt of shit and stood about five feet tall although he tended to slouch as he walked. He glanced in my direction.

  “The town is about seven miles…” and he looked for the moon, judging the hour and pointing over my shoulder, “over there. It’s mostly men, but there are orcs and inns, and…” he hesitated, “a couple of markets each week… but no one like you, Lord.”

  “Like me?” I asked. “What do you mean?” And he stopped, staring at me and thinking carefully, choosing his words with slow deliberation, which I liked for it showed a degree of intelligence.

  “Farmers, not warriors, and…” he sucked on his sore, “no one with your skill in sorcery.” And looking at me, worried that he asked too much, he asked, “Can you heal me, Lord?” He crouched down in a submissive posture
, head lowered, his gaze averted so he couldn’t see my face, for he was subject and had never been shown any goodwill from his peers, expecting my wrath for his presumptuous request.

  “I can, but I’ll not waste magic on you.” And watching as he heard the snub, I added, “But tonight I’ll pay you such that you can secure the healing required. You’ll be rich, if you obey.”

  “Thank you, Lord.” But he had heard it all before and promises are easily broken, yet mine wouldn’t be.

  “How do you know they are pilgrims, Lord?” he asked. A good question, and I was hopeful for Berrek. By the gods I needed clever followers; Berrek might yet be useful.

  “They pray a lot.” And I said no more, but I wasn’t certain they were pilgrims, it was just that Wisp had conveyed their dreams to me, and they sounded like the clerics that had plagued my youth, trying to fill my head with mindless drivel. Espousing platitudes about their wonderful deities, such that I was sure these pilgrims ahead were just that, pilgrims, pious morons, possibly evil, though gut wrenchingly familiar to me.

  As we neared their camp, I enquired of Wisp to learn as much as he could. Wisp had during the earliest times of our bond been taught the concept of distance, and although distance was totally alien to a spirit entity, he had learned through associating with me to competently describe locations in a manner that I could comprehend. Now he imparted his knowledge that Berrek thought was magic.

  Moving with stealth, my hound being told to ‘stay’ slid away to sulk in a bush, eyes watching as Berrek and I looked upon our quarry with neither of us speaking. We studied our victims, looking for any unexpected obstacles or hidden traps.

  Before us lay a small encampment, a fire burning under an alder tree, two mules tethered some thirty feet away, visible under the firelight, whilst men slept sheltered against the rain by a small canopy similar to my tarpaulin that I had once possessed and lost during my passage through the mountains – a shelter against the elements, made of linen and wax.