This one wasn’t an expert, but he wasn’t entirely green either. He started slowing down at a particular grouping of signs and instantly became more cautious. However it was already too late and Nameless had left them precisely there for that moment. This time he decided to give the man a chance. He rose from his position and threw his dagger at the foot of the halforc. When the man jumped to face him and prepared to charge Nameless simply aimed a hand crossbow at his face. “Hold,” he said in orcish. “You do not have to die.”
Minutes passed as the halforc apparently went through three or four scenarios before relaxing a single step back. “Tell them I want this over. Tell them it is done. No more have to die.” Nameless slowly laid down his crossbow and took a step back with his hands empty. The halforc waited a half second before he charged with a roar. Nameless had already switched stances and buried a war dart into his neck before he took three steps. The halforc blinked twice dumbly at the six-inch piece of metal stuck in his neck before Nameless’ battleaxe caved in his head. “You should learn not to hold your breath before you attack,” Nameless said uselessly. One more young halforc who will never learn that lesson.
How many had died by his hand? How many are alive now that would be dead soon? He knew the count better than anyone. Seventeen. Seventeen halforcs, barbarian humans, and orcs from the same tribe were dead by his hand. It had gone beyond honor into the deep realms of stupidity. Soon the losses would make the Bonecrusher clan too weak to fend off the raids of the other tribes. It was the law of the land. A tribe was only strong as long as they could survive the constant testing and raiding of the other clans. If a clan lost too many able bodied people to sickness, war, or infighting they would be raided and eventually absorbed by another clan. If a clan got too big, sooner or later, a strong leader would lead half of the tribe away to start a new clan. Sometimes they actually succeeded. Most times the resulting civil war made the entire clan prey for the rest. In his lifetime only four clans had successfully broken apart yet five others had been absorbed. It was the way of things out here. Nameless shook his head. Some day a strong lord of a tribe would save a few more points of intelligence in his head and realize that, united, the barbarian clans could have overrun the few villages in the area in a few years. But for now each raid into a town brought crafted goods and materials, but cost a few more losses every year. The towns were learning. They were already immune to direct assaults. Another ten years and their numbers will allow raiding into barbarian territory. That will be the beginning of the end for the way of life out here. Another hundred years give or take and the barbarians will have to move further north. It was a generational dance that had lasted over seven hundred years.
What hardly anyone besides a few explorers new, however, was that the land didn’t go on forever. Eventually they would hit the Ice Sea to the north, two thousand leagues away. Nameless gave the barbarians less than ten more generations before they had their back to the sea. Then they would either wipe themselves out in futile resistance, or be “absorbed” into the bigger “clan” of the city dwellers. A thousand years from now children will hear stories of barbarian boogiemen to scare them to sleep never knowing the truth. But Nameless would know. Not by his choice of course, but by his curse.
