Broken Hate, Broken Heart - 3. Chapter 3

The women had all become archmothers by now, the men dispersed somewhere as servants or craftsmen.

The prospect of having to do this every few years was a horror to him, and as much as he enjoyed learning from Gash, as much as he respected his master, after all those hardships and rituals and debriefings, he was certain he wasn’t suited for this kind of shamanic role.

He had also tried to read everything he could find about this prophecy Khartikk had mentioned, but it didn’t really say much. He knew a few other shaman apprentices to whom the texts would have fit just as well.

The text he was currently reading was the account of a shaman who had been considered the Chosen One of this prophecy until he realized he would never find the perfect woman. Thokk was working his way through the rambling explanations of why when footsteps approached.
“Master Gash.”

“Still reading, I see.” Gash smiled faintly. “I’m glad to see your newly awakened zeal, but you can’t sit here all the time staring at old texts.”

I’m not staring, I’m reading, Thokk thought morosely, but said, “Am I supposed to go to the training halls?”

“No.” Gash’s smile faded and he shook his head, then sighed. “We’ve talked about how it is perhaps, probably, not your destiny to select tithe brides, but…” he ran a finger over the label of a scroll, “but interpretations of prophecies?”

“Many answers lie in the Origin.” Thokk was pretty sure that many prophecies were merely an attempt to manipulate the listener or reader, for why else would one give prophecies the title of an Origin if it didn’t mean the origin of an action, either to fulfill the words or to avoid them?

The corners of Gash’s mouth twitched. “That’s probably true, but if prophecies truly intrigue you, you’d be better off going to the bathhouses and reading the steam, or stopping by Khartikk’s and learning to read the smoke.”

“That’s probably true.” Thokk echoed, nodding in agreement.

Gash’s mouth twitched again, and once more Thokk wasn’t sure whether it was up or down. “I can speak to Khartikk if you’d like.”

The offer was well-intentioned, especially since many considered priests unapproachable, but Khartikk was Gash’s friend and often stopped by; Thokk knew him better than his own father. “It would be an honor to receive lessons in smoke reading from Khartikk,” Thokk said, bowing his head modestly.

“Then it’s settled,” Gash replied almost solemnly, nodding as well before turning away.

Thokk watched him until he disappeared around a corner, then listened to the fading footsteps. The scroll seemed to stare at him almost accusingly from the table as he turned back to it, but he simply skimmed the last, unread section before rolling it up.

The Old Mother has made us strong, but we are diluting our blood. The few daughters born to us may be human like their mothers, but instead of pampering them and sending them away, they should stay and strengthen our blood. There can be no perfect tithe bride for us among humans.

Of this he was convinced by now. It had nothing to do with the fact that this young blacksmith wouldn’t get out of his head. He refused to even think his name, for a human blacksmith simply didn’t deserve that much respect.

Even if his eyes were beautiful.

Thokk was handed a set of towels, nodded in thanks, and then walked through the Z-shaped corridor into the changing room.

The smell of stale sweat, stinky feet, and leather had seeped into the stone benches, and even though Thokk came here almost every day, he still wrinkled his nose. Only a handful of spots were occupied, and he chose one far enough away from the group. Bathhouses were a place of tranquility, but with groups of younger warriors, you never knew. So he took off his clothes, grabbed his towels, and stepped through the heavy curtain into the bathing area.

Immediately, the warm humidity enveloped him, settling gently on his skin. The warm stone beneath his bare feet felt almost soft, and the blend of herbal scents and delicate soap soothed his mind. Beneath that, notes of sweat and exhaustion emerged, and as he looked down the long pool, he saw the expected group of warriors sitting at the far end. Judging by their faces, they’d just gone through a grueling drill.

Thokk suppressed a smile. He had certainly enjoyed the mandatory combat training, but he had no desire to move into a fort as a combat-support shaman or travel constantly with caravans. He preferred to fight with the mind.

He placed his towels on one of the rest benches at the edge of the pool and then stepped into the water via one of the stair sets. It only came up to his ribs, but when he sat on his favorite bench, it covered his shoulders perfectly without rising uncomfortably close to his chin.

With the quiet murmur of the warriors behind him and accompanied by the gentle lapping of the water, he moved toward the bench in question, submerging himself several times along the way. Underwater, he massaged his scalp and the thick part of his fur strip at the nape of his neck. After returning from beneath the mountain, it had taken him a week of daily baths and intensive grooming before the fur there was presentable again. Yet another reason why he didn’t want to be a traveling shaman.

With a sigh, he sank onto the bench and tilted his head back. He felt pleasantly light and carefree…

And all without the regular prick-polishing that so many orcs seemed to practice and that Gash had suggested to him years ago as a form of relaxation. He had tried it, of course, but the act itself seemed unnecessarily long and boring to him, and the result was decidedly short-lived.

Two orcs, engrossed in a respectfully quiet discussion, entered the poolroom. One of them scratched himself unabashedly at his stones, and as they walked past Thokk and then turned into the adjoining room with the artificial waterfall, the smell of sweaty genitals wafted toward him. Yet another reason why he wasn’t interested in pricks.

His thoughts wandered to the conversation between Gash and Khartikk, which had touched on precisely this point. If he didn’t find human women appealing, was interest in men the logical counterpart? In his twenty sheltered years, this damned human smith was the only one who had ever piqued his interest in any way, but a pleasant physique and pretty eyes still didn’t mean that his prick or hole were of any interest to Thokk.

Thokk was annoyed.

The two older warriors with the smelly genitals—now no longer smelly—climbed into the pool, and one growled a warning at the younger ones. It seemed to work.

Thokk rinsed the lather from his hair one last time before sitting back down on his bench. His thoughts flitted here and there, from the texts he’d read to snippets of conversation and memories of talks. Meanwhile, his gaze lingered on the two warriors.

With a sigh, he opened his eyes. And flinched when he saw Ekktan walking along the edge of the pool. The longing faded, replaced by shame and subtle confusion.

Ekktan was greeted mockingly by his companions and slipped into the water, keeping a visible distance from them. Whether the mockery and distance stemmed from the fact that he was one of the few orcish archers, or whether it was due to his appearance, Thokk could not say. He was, like the other young warriors, a few years older than Thokk, but looked significantly younger because his physique lacked the rough edges. His father’s seed was weak, as evidenced by his nearly blond hair and strange gray eyes.

The extremely unpleasant mix of emotions in Thokk’s chest flared up when Ekktan turned his head and their gazes met. Ekktan’s cheeks flushed, and Thokk would have loved to disappear, but his pride held him back. A soon-to-be shaman did not hide from a misunderstanding.

For a misunderstanding it had been. He could not reconstruct how it had come about; they had been talking, about something, had moved to the waterfall basin because of their noisy comrades, and then… Thokk could not say. It had just happened somehow. He had done or said something, unwittingly triggered a codex, because in the end he had been sitting on one of the warm benches and Ekktan had taken Thokk’s prick into his mouth.

Nevertheless, Thokk caught himself looking at Ekktan, scrutinizing him, watching him as he washed. Something about the sight of him…

The blacksmith.

Thokk blinked. The human blacksmith had reminded him of an orcling, and now Ekktan seemed to him like a human in pale green. If that was due to the weak orc seed in Ekktan, where did it come from in the young blacksmith and his father? Did they carry orc blood within them? If so, where did it come from? And could it be put to use? Just as weak orc blood like Ekktan’s was cut from the family tree, couldn’t certain blood also be added?

What if Thokk found the young blacksmith so interesting because he had strong blood? A resonance that appealed to Thokk, just as the resonance of tithe brides was supposed to be and do?

He believed anyway that it was wrong to send the delicate orc daughters, the noble roses, away and leave it up to them to choose whom they united with, but what if weak orc blood like Ekktan’s or strong blood like the smith’s was exactly what strengthened the offspring of a rose?

Despite the warm water, Thokk shivered. He slid off his bench and hoisted himself out of the pool right where he was. He needed to think in peace, take notes, search for theoretical papers.