Raiders
of the Last Orgh
Haruchai
wrinkled his nose at the smell and snarled at the orgh in front
of him. He was angry, and yet had no outlet for his wrath.
The young gruntee swayed in front of him, barely able to stand. Its skin
was burned black, crisping away in obscene curls from the red gashes of
appalling wounds. The typical ringmail of its people hung like a ruined
fishing net about its brutalised body. Yet something, some courage beyond
death kept it upright and had brought it to the very steps of its enemy's
home.
Haruchai felt no pity. These foul-smelling raiders had cut down too many
of his ayimag. Killed too many women and children in the name of
their rapacious Blood-God. "Bluud fer da Bluud-gud" rang
in his ancestral memory like the clanging doors of Hell. He had comforted
too many new-freed tsereg as their last breath drifted away, watched
their tortured bodies finally find succour in death. He had no pity left
for orghs.
Yet the orgh had no weapon. It held out its hands, bloody with
its ancient guilt and bloody too, with its own gore. Monggols did
not, could not kill an unarmed enemy. Even an unarmed orgh.
The Agha-Khan watched the creature carefully. His stance allowed
it to make no mistake - it was not welcome. It made no move to approach
the ger. Long moments passed. The orgh hawked and spat a
bloody gob accurately between Haruchai's feet. Behind his mask of contempt,
the Monggol grinned. This one was brave.
"Me Bidagud." The orgh croaked its name in a guttural cough barely
understandable to the warrior standing before it. Haruchai suppressed
a laugh. Stupid by name as well as nature.
"Humies come." The effort of speech induced another coughing fit. When
he had regained control of his paroxysm, Bidagud continued. "Humies kill.
Take hedz."
Clearly the orgh's wounds had driven it to the edge of insanity. The Hans
had always attacked the orgh nations. Orghs had always attacked
Hans. Whereas the Monggol usually took the heads of their
enemies to dry and use in ritual, it was rare, but not unheard of in the
Han tribes. Why would this gruntee haul its dying body all the
way to the tosgon of its most implacable foe to speak of the way
of things?
Bidagud stared at him as if understanding his thoughts and his contempt.
Haruchai saw doubt grow in its eyes, followed by frustration. He knew
that look immediately, the look of someone unable to find the right words.
The frustration raged in the orgh's eyes for perhaps several heartbeats.
Then, decision cleared the black orbs. He thrust a hand into his torn
undershirt. Haruchai tensed his hand upon the haft of his spear. Bidagud
tore forth a thick pile of parchments, rolled into a tight package with
a leather thong. The parchment was bright with blood. The orgh
tossed the bundle at Haruchai, hitting his armoured chest with some force.
The Monggol grinned viciously.
"Dis on humie," spat the orgh. "Mojoka say give lat. Me give lat.
Gruk?" The orgh's language was incomprehensible, made worse by
the growling and persistent cough of his wounds. It was clear to Haruchai
however, that he was meant to read the parchment. He squatted down to
retrieve the bundle.
Bidagud looked satisfied. Though the effort brought a grimace to his face
as if he had chewed a wasp, he lifted his broken arm in a painful salute.
Haruchai's brow knitted in astonishment. Before he could react, the orgh
turned and loped away, back in the direction of his homeland.
The Agha-Khan ignored the fading wheezes of the dying orgh
and pulled off the leather thong that bound the parchment. As he suspected,
the pages were written with close Han penmanship. He snorted. This
was a puzzle to be understood by the bugus. He went inside the
ger and placed the parchments upon the ulu-bugu's seat.
What was required of the Tsereg was that they find out more of
what was happening in the orgh lands. Rumours had been flying all
week and now this strange approach by an enemy. It was time the Horde
understood more.
Haruchai went up to the roof of the ger and picked up his silver
edged horn. He scanned the surrounding forests which lay quiet and peaceful
below him. He knew that soon they would ring with battle, and that glory
waited with hushed anticipation in the leafy quiet. He put the horn to
his lips and blew.
The
Parchments of Bidagu
Each of the parchment pages is written in an elegant, close hand and many
apparently bear the seal of Lord British's Provisional Government. Many
seem to be dull reports of the Civil Service, but these three catch the
eye.
Your Grace,
Whereas we recognise your concerns, it must be clearly stated that the
future well-being of the realm is at stake. The trading economy has suffered
greatly recently and steps must be taken to rectify this. His Majesty's
Government has merely set out proposals for addressing this issue. Methinks
you are reading too much into these proposals or have been listening to
rumour-mongers. Perhaps as Bishop of Vesper, you have not seen the incursions
we speak of but the common people are worried. The Virtues are all well
and good, but surely your grace does not consider these beasts as having
rights?
Proctor Alberrin
My Lord,
Your forbearance is noted. Please rest assured that your careful accordance
with our strategies will bear dividends in the near future. His Majesty's
Government has projected a three-hundred-fold increase in revenues over
the next year and these actions will ensure that both birds, are so to
speak, dispatched with the same rock. The people have not the intelligence
to work out our plan, nor the moral fibre to object if they did. A few
churchmen and adherents of those irritating Virtues have raised objection,
but they will be dealt with. The signal will be given soon.
Proctor Alberrin
My dear Galliard
All non-Britannian races have been marked. The orcs are easy targets -
no-one cares about them. Once we have tested our methods on them, we shall
move on to the others. There may even be Britannians who reject the vision
of a populace held in thrall by gold. These throwbacks will be dealt with
in the same way, but quietly. It is imperative that you are not discovered
until the time is right. However, I do find it amusing that you have based
your organisation in the buildings dedicated to the exact reverse of that
which we plan.
Proctor Alberrin
© 2001 Pól-MichelSeachra
AnDaingean
