Chapter 3: Dirt Food

Rian was awoken by the familiar sound of a cockerel crowing, a sudden surge of apprehension overcoming him for a moment. He had to get up and feed the pigs and chickens, he had to start breakfast cooking, and he’d better be in the fields before sunrise if he didn’t want the bailiff to pay him a visit. As his eyes adjusted to the morning sunlight that was starting to filter through the fabric ceiling, he felt the comfortable fur cloak and silk cushions, remembering where he was with a start. For the first time in his life, he smiled, letting his eyes close again and ignoring the next crow.

Only when he heard heavy footsteps approaching on the wooden floorboards did he deign to rise, throwing off the cloak to feel the morning’s chill. It was driven off somewhat by the firepit, which still played host to a few smoldering coals.

He looked over the tall backrest to see Ghorza approaching in her flowing nightgown, exposing her long tusks in a yawn as she reached up to rub the sleep from her eyes.

“Ah, turnip boy,” she muttered as though she had forgotten he was there.

“Good morning,” he replied.

“You can make fire instead of me,” she said, prompting him to slide off the couch. She quickly took his place, sitting down on the fur cloak. “You keep seat warm for me.”

He already knew where the pile of chopped wood was, and it was hard to lose anything in a round hut with no rooms or dividing walls. Trying to stay quiet lest he wake the other women, he carried an armful of wood back to the firepit and piled it inside, prodding at the glowing coals with an iron poker. The fire soon started up again, its glow joining the rising sun.

“You sleep well, turnip boy?” Ghorza asked jokingly.

“As well as can be expected in my circumstances,” he replied.

“You fetch breakfast for us now,” she added. “Sharog and Urami will be hungry. Have ready for them when they wake.”

“Your wish is my command, my lady,” he replied with an exaggerated bow.

Having received no further instructions, he headed outside, the cool valley air greeting him. He might have felt chilly if it wasn’t for his exquisite velvet jacket and its soft lining. He made his way down the dirt path and headed for the storehouse, glancing around to see if anyone else was awake yet. The little settlement was not yet stirring, and he could see no Orcs going about their business. He paused to admire his surroundings, taking in a breath of clean air free of the scents of manure and filth.

To his back, the massive cliff rose into the air like the wall of a giant castle keep, making up one side of the valley, the occasional plant clinging to life on its rocky face. He could see over the wooden fortifications from his vantage, the sight of pine trees and wildflowers greeting him, along with the sparkling river. The Orcs had certainly chosen a scenic location for their new home.

He soon reached the storehouse and began to peruse the shelves, not chaperoned by Ghorza this time. There were rabbits and birds hanging from the ceiling, along with more red meat on hooks, what looked like three or four deer still on offer. He knew that the girls liked their meat, but perhaps he could surprise them. The more useful he made himself, the more likely they were to keep him around, after all. He didn’t want to end up sold to some foreign merchant like a ream of silk.

He had recognized some goods from his fief during his last visit, and he soon found them again. The shelves here had been stacked high with all manner of things the Orcs must have stolen from shops and pantries in the village. He grabbed a loose burlap sack and began to fill it, finding wheat bread that was only a few days old, along with some of the herbs and spices whose absence he had noted during the roast. They were contained within little glass bottles and jars, making them easily portable. He found a wedge of cheese, along with some wooden tubs covered over with cloth that proved to contain salted butter.

A breakfast plan was forming. With his sack and a wicker basket in hand, he followed the sound of the cockerels, locating the chicken coop and hopping over the low fence. He found a dozen fresh eggs, much to the displeasure of one of the roosting hens, and brought his haul back to the hut.

Ghorza watched him curiously from the couch as he approached the firepit, setting down the items on the floor nearby.

“What you got there?” she asked, leaning closer.

“I don’t suppose you mind me raiding your pantry?” he said as he searched around for cooking utensils. He found a crude iron skillet nearby, along with a large knife and a wooden spoon, and got to work.

First, he opened up the tub of butter and scooped out a very generous dollop with the knife, shaking it into the skillet.

“Why you cooking butter for breakfast?” Ghorza muttered.

“Watch and learn,” he replied, placing the skillet on the hot stones until the butter began to bubble. He used the spoon to spread it around, coating the pan, the smell already alluring. Next, he fished inside the burlap sack and produced a large loaf of bread, which he cut into slices with the knife. It was fancy stuff, still fairly soft and fluffy. He placed them in the skillet, pressing them down with the spoon, repeating the process until he had a dozen toasted slices. Setting those aside, he started to crack the eggs, filling the sizzling skillet and scrambling them with his spoon. He pulled out the cheese wedge and began to shave some off, mixing it in with the eggs. Working quickly, he got them to the perfect consistency, moving them away from the fire before they firmed up too much.

“What’s all that?” Ghorza wondered as she watched him produce the seasonings. He sprinkled on a pinch of salt and black pepper, then added a helping of chives and basil, shaking the chopped herbs out of their jars to give the scrambled eggs a smattering of green. “This dirt tender food? Weeds?”

When all was done, he fetched the wooden cutting boards that the Orcs used in lieu of dishes, spreading a little more butter on each piece of toast and then plating them up with the steaming eggs. He passed one of the boards to Ghorza, who took it from him, giving it a suspicious sniff.

“What is it? We never eat this before.”

“Scrambled eggs on toast,” he explained. “Try it. You’ll like it. You eat it all at once, the egg and the ... wheat cake at the same time.”

He was about to offer her a fork, but she picked up a slice of toast with her green fingers instead, the yellow eggs balanced atop it. Before he could warn her that it was still hot, she took a large bite, chewing cautiously for a few moments before her face lit up.

“Good!” she exclaimed, taking another bite and downing the rest of the slice. She was quick to pick up another, Rian chuckling to himself as he began to cook up a portion for himself. “You good cook, turnip boy,” she added over a mouthful of eggs. “We take good captive.”

The smell of food seemed to have roused the other Orcs, Sharog and Urami emerging from behind their screens. They followed their noses over to the fireside, where Rian offered them their boards. Sharog took hers and began to eat, noting Ghorza’s enthusiasm and quickly sharing in it. Urami seemed far more skeptical, giving the eggs a sniff and extending her tongue to give them a tentative lick, but even her surly mood could not prevail over a helping of buttery eggs.

“What you call this?” Sharog demanded, taking another bite.

“It is sliced wheat cake with chicken eggs and weeds,” Ghorza replied confidently.

“It’s scrambled eggs on toast with some seasonings,” Rian explained. “You guys have a whole storehouse full of spices, herbs, and condiments. Have you never tried using them? Did you never wonder what they were for?”

“Such things are for trading,” Urami replied, a good breakfast seeming to loosen her tongue. “A warrior has no use for them.”

“What do you mean?” Rian pressed, pausing to take a bite of his own more conservative portion from the skillet. “You don’t wear expensive fabrics or use spices in cooking because it offends your sensibilities in some way?”

“A warrior makes do with leather and meat,” she snarled. “A warrior has no need for comfort or fine things. This why your people soft and weak. This why we defeat you so easily, because we are strong.”

“I don’t know if that’s... entirely true,” he replied hesitantly. “I can see you living rough when you’re out raiding, but this hut is rather nice. You sleep in soft beds with silk pillows, you have good ale on tap, and a whole lot of treasure. You have much nicer things than I did where I used to live, and that didn’t make me strong.”

Urami bared her teeth in a growl, which was enough for him to know that he should drop the subject.

“Maybe we let turnip boy cook more dirt food,” Ghorza suggested with a shrug. “After all, why take dirt tender captive if we not let him do dirt tender things?”

“I do like this egg toast,” Sharog conceded.

“If we eat his food, we grow weak like him,” Urami grumbled. Despite her complaints, her board was almost clean. He wondered whether she would raise more of a fuss about it, but she seemed to acquiesce to the wishes of the majority. She certainly seemed more militant about the concept than her counterparts.

“You keep talking about trading and selling,” Rian began. “Who do you trade with? Are there other Orc tribes like yours in the valley?”

“We come from beyond valley,” Sharog explained, using her fingers to pick up a stray morsel of scrambled egg. “Many more Orc tribes out that way. We take spoils from raid back and trade for things we need. Good weapons and armor. Tools, clothes, medicine.”

“Trade caravan will be heading out soon,” Ghorza added. “We would take you so you can see, but others might try to buy you.”

Interesting. The Orcs in the settlement were not wholly self-sufficient, then. They were part of a broader trade network that extended beyond the plateau and into foreign lands, where they peddled the spoils of their raids on the more Northern kingdoms. It was no wonder they had dressed him as a prince if they deemed luxurious clothes to be a sign of weakness and frailty, and it wasn’t hard to imagine how they had made the association, having seen their conduct in the fief.

“If you want more dirt food, you’ll have to keep some of the spoils so that I can use them for cooking,” he suggested.

“Our spoils are ours to keep or sell,” Sharog replied. “The food cannot be traded anyway. Most of it would fester. We will keep some of the weeds for you.”

“I can make more,” he suggested.

“Of course,” Ghorza said, gently slapping her own head. “He knows how to tend dirt.”

“It’s called farming, actually.”

If the Orcs were nomadic and spent much of their time on the march, perhaps they had never mastered agriculture.

“More nonsense,” Urami muttered. “We do not tend the land. We are Orcs. We take from those who do.”

“Then you can take from me,” he replied, recoiling again as she gave him a scowl.

“Good breakfast,” Sharog declared, handing her board back to him. “We go hunting today. Bring back more deer for tribe.”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to come.”

“Of course not,” she scoffed. “You could not keep up, and you not know how to use bow. You stay here and keep hut. Wash linens and clean floor.”

The concept seemed to amuse Urami, who began to laugh at him.

“What now?” he sighed. “Do warriors not clean, either?”

“You stay behind while warriors hunt,” Urami chuckled. “Like child or pregnant woman.”

“Very amusing,” he grumbled. “I suppose I’ll start by cleaning the dishes, since you seem to have enjoyed the eggs on toast so much.”

“Clean dishes, then help us dress,” Sharog confirmed.

“Help you dress?” he repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Your people have boy who helps steel men dress,” she explained. “We have seen this.”

“What, a knight’s squire? You want me to squire for you?”

“We will do as they do,” she insisted. “I wish to try it.”

“If you say so,” he conceded, collecting the rest of the wooden boards and balancing the skillet atop them. He filled a pail with water from the barrel and began to scrub them with a rag, the three women retreating behind their privacy screens to change out of their nightgowns. Why did they want him to squire for them, of all things? They seemed to have some measure of respect for knights, so maybe it was more about emulation than simple convenience? For all he knew, they might believe it was part of some magic ritual.

When the dishes – if they could be referred to as such – were clean, he was summoned by Sharog. She emerged into view wearing only her linen undergarments, the same that she had worn to bathe the evening prior, gesturing for him to approach. He followed her back behind the screen and into a small area that could best be described as her bedroom.

She had her bed on its wooden frame, piled high with soft pillows and furs, along with racks mounted on the wall panels upon which she stored her clothes and a few choice weapons. There were more linen nightgowns and undergarments, but the bulk of it was leather and armor, plates of hammered iron hanging from their straps. She had a chest, along with a shelf filled with odd tools and strange Orcish items that he had a hard time identifying at a glance.

“Today we hunt,” she stated as she walked over to the rack. It was a challenge to keep his gaze off her toned, green rear with the way her loincloth put it on display. “We do not need armor to shoot deer. You will learn to adorn me in my armor another time.”

“It’s true that they tend not to be very heavily armed,” he said as she selected some leather garments. She tossed them onto the bed, stopping to pull on the tight leather pants that he had seen her wearing before, their stitching stretching as she struggled to drag them past her titanic thighs. “You could maybe make them a little larger next time,” he suggested as she wriggled to get them up to her waist.

“Belt,” she ordered.

“You’ll have to be more specific,” he replied, glancing at the bed. “All I see are belts.”

She picked up a large belt with a heavy iron buckle and handed it to him, prompting him to step closer. Her chest was at eye level, her ample, green bosom barely contained within her linen sling. He turned his gaze lower, lingering on her powerful core. Six prominent muscles were clearly defined against her olive skin, bulging out far enough to cast shadows, shifting softly in time with her breathing. They looked like stones that had been smoothed and rounded by the flow of a stream, her skin stretched over them like taut silk. There was that strange warmth again...