across from me, and she had a strip of violet about three inches wide painted across her face from one eye to the other. It was striking, turning her already fiery eyes even wilder.
And I wasn't the only one to notice.
"Why is your face painted?" demanded Borgol the Elder.
She didn't answer, focusing on a spot on the wall behind him instead.
"Answer me! Why is your face painted?" Borgol the Elder left his seat to stand beside his daughter, looming over her in a way that made me wonder if he intended to do her harm. "Is it for him?" he asked, pointing at me.
When she didn't answer, he grabbed her by the arm and forced her to her feet so that they were standing eye to eye.
It was an intense standoff, and I looked to the mother orc in the hope she would say something to calm things down. But she merely sat there, stonily watching while her daughter and husband stared holes through each other's pupils.
"You will tell me why you painted your face," growled Borgol the Elder.
And just like that he threw her headlong into the wall, where she fell into a heap on the floor. I thought she was dead, and I moved to check on her when the younger Borgol signaled that I should stay where I was.
Fortunately she began to stir, slowly forcing herself to her hands and knees before struggling to her feet. The impact must have really scrambled her brains, because she wobbled around like a drunkard, crashing into a set of armor before stumbling up the stairs. It would have been funny were it not so serious.
"I will not be disrespected!" bellowed Borgol.
He returned to his seat where he proceeded to glare at the younger Borgol and I in a way that made us lower our gazes to the table.
"What does it mean when the only one who listens to me is the human? Tell me, Golo: would you disrespect your father like that?"
"No, sir," I said, still looking at the table.
I could hear the rush of air as it passed in and out his nostrils.
"I am a warrior!" he shouted. "I've never been bested on the battlefield! Ever! When others run, I remain! And it will never, ever change!"
The elder Borgol sat there, allowing his breathing to settle into something calmer.
"I want to show you something," he said, rising to his feet.
He left the room and returned carrying a golden gauntlet that seemed to shimmer and glow from an energy all of its own.
"Do you recognize this?" he asked, placing it on the table.
I did. You see, the Good Kingdom had as part of its vast arsenal a legion of knights—battle-tested men and women, usually but not exclusively of noble birth—whose acts of valor were rewarded with long titles and vast tracts of land. They were given armor and servants, and it was largely thanks to their selfless attitudes and unbending allegiance to the King that our country wasn't overrun by orcish hordes.
But separate from these warriors was another group of knights. These were the Champions of the Sun. Not much was known about them, other than they received their authority from Sol Himself, and it was because of this divine connection that they were capable of feats far beyond the normal realms of human ability. I didn't believe it, of course, although that still didn't mean there wasn't something special about them. You'd hear stories about a single knight wiping out over one hundred enemies all on his own.
And then there was their armor; they said you could recognize a Champion of Sol by the way it reflected the sun, even on a cloudy day, and it was precisely that luminous quality that told me exactly where that gauntlet had come from.
"I took this on the battlefield," explained Borgol the Elder.
I looked at the old warrior in awe. "You fought a Champion?" I asked.
"I did. Unfortunately a change in tide forced us in opposite directions, but not before I managed to pry this from his hand."
I picked up the gauntlet, watching as the metal reflected light from a sun that wasn't there. There was definitely something strange about it. Something—dare I say?—magical. And it made me think—any orc who could stand with a Champion of Sol must have been a terrible sight indeed.
"Have you ever seen a Sun Warrior?" the elder Borgol asked.
"Only once," I answered. "I was young and we were at a parade. I don't really remember much, other than the glare from his armor hurt my eyes."
Borgol leaned back in his chair looking uncharacteristically subdued.
"It was always my hope that I would fight one again. But that is looking less and less likely. And that is a shame, because I always thought one of their helmets would look nice displayed in my living room."
I couldn't help but think something important had transpired. Until then, communication with me was limited to terse commands. It was as though a window had been opened, and for a moment at least, I was given a glimpse of the inner workings of an orc who had seen and done things no human could imagine. But it was only a glimpse, because he was soon back to his regular bad-tempered self, glowering at his food as though he meant to punch it through the table.
I was still worried for Dinah. I had neither seen nor heard her since she staggered from the dining room, and so I made a point once dinner was finished of following Borgol the Younger upstairs to see if he could shed some light on what happened.
"Do you think she's alright?" I asked. I kept looking to where I assumed her room was, but the door was closed.
"She will recover," answered Borgol. "She's stubborn enough."
"Why did your father do that?"
"To keep her in line, of course."
"I know that. But did he have to be so rough? I honestly thought he’d killed her."
My failure to appreciate the more subtle aspects of orcish family dynamics proved puzzling for the young orc.
"He had no choice," he said, shaking his head. "She disobeyed him. If he didn't, it would be a sign of weakness. Don't tell me your father hasn't tried to kill you."
"No. No, he hasn't. He has disciplined me with a belt a few times, but it was nothing like that."
"A belt?" said Borgol dismissively. "That would not work on Dinah. She's approaching the same age my father was when he killed his father. He knows this. It's the same thing with my other brother. They're threats. That's why my father sent him away. In truth, he wanted to send them both away, but the rules of the Exchange wouldn't allow it."
"He killed his own father?" I gasped.
"Beheaded him. Just as they were sitting down for dinner.”
I was shocked.
"I don't think he has to worry about that just yet, though," continued Borgol the Younger. "My father's still very strong. Stronger than any orc I've seen. Surely stronger than any human."
"My brother David is stronger."
I wasn't trying to be argumentative, or even boastful. Borgol's father was built like a house, and could have taken on five men without breaking a sweat. My older brother David, though—he could perform feats of strength worthy of a fairy tale.
"He lifted a draft horse onto his shoulders once. With its rider. My father says if David ever needs money he can always run off and join the circus."
Borgol's jaw fell. "He must be a great warrior!"
"He's too gentle," I explained. "He’s huge. In fact he’d have trouble fitting through one of these doors, but inside he's still a little child."
The younger Borgol nodded. "Ah, I see. We have those: idiots," he said, tapping his temple. "We make them work in the mines."
I hated hearing people refer to my brother like that.
"Now if you want to hear about the makings of a great warrior,” I said, “you should let me tell you about my brother Seth. He's three years younger than I am, and he's already one of the most dangerous fighters in the province. Just the weekend before I came here, he dislocated his grappling instructor’s shoulder. She’s a seasoned veteran, and knew exactly what he was trying to do, but she couldn't stop it. And that's just one example. Seth’s been hurting grown-ups since he was eight years old!"
"He does sou
nd impressive," said Borgol. "So tell me: why did they send you?"
I don't think it was meant as an insult. I'd certainly asked myself that very question many, many times, but it still made me bristle.
"Are you certain someone shouldn't check on Dinah?" I asked, glancing toward her room.
Borgol the Younger frowned.
"Why are you so interested in my sister? I told you: she's stubborn. Instead of worrying about her, you should be spending your time giving thanks to Morroth for protecting you in your time of need."
I returned to my room, mind swirling. I'd purposely avoided thinking about their Devil God, and whether he had a role in delivering me from the Nannak. Logically I knew the idea of an invisible being somehow influencing what happened in the physical world was absurd. But I'll be honest: Borgol the Elder's claim that Morroth spoke to him in a dream was filling me with doubt. And it wasn't just his dream; there was also my nightmare about the rabbit preaching to me about the glory of Morroth. One didn't have to search too hard to find the symbolism there.
I felt like my Granddad Jacob. He suffered great mental anguish during his march to atheism, spending literally weeks in bed as the reality of a world without a god slowly took hold. Only my journey was in reverse, and at the end of it there was an Eye drawn in blood.
The following morning found me back at the wooden enclosure. I felt strong. I didn’t know if it was because of the grub, but I was truly superior to the majority of the other students that day. I even broke one fellow's rib, smashing him with my knee after staggering him with a well-placed punch to the jaw. And