Orcs who don't care, don't eat cake [Apocrypha]

Orcs who don't care don't get cake

"Batul! Mind the heat!" Cinders rose and sparks again flew from the pressure of the bellows.

Dura sighed and brought her hammer down again. The metal still sounded right but the shovel would be far from her best work. Breton or was shit, but for this shovel it would serve.

The girl at the bellows was just coming into her strength, taller than last springs crop, and would be taller again come the end of winter. But her mind was still that of a child. Distracted by the sun emerging from clouds, the sound of rain on the roof.

"Batul!" The Forge-Wife had half a mind to hurl the hammer but decided against it. After all how can you fill a leaky skull with wisdom. "Slow steady presses. You must keep the fire hot." Dura wiped sweat from her eyes and punded the metal again. In between strikes she spoke.

"Tell me Batul. Do you remember why we keep the fire as hot as we can?" The girl grinned, a gap in her smile showed the effects of yesterdays mistakes with the coals. "Because you told me to."

Dura snarled and held tight to her hammer. Mauloch frowned on the murder of children. No matter how dense. "And why do I tell you to?"

"Because you're Forge-Wife and you know what to do."

"And how do you think I became the Forge-Wife?" Batul frowned. This was a more difficult question.

"Because your mother was Forge-Wife?"

"Is that a question or a statement?"

"Uhh..."

Dura gave the shovel the last few hits it needed, and then a few more for the sake of her patience, and pulled it off the anvil.

She cracked the skin of ice on the quenching bucket and dumped the shovel blade inside. Steam hissed and the water burbled mixing with the patter of rain on the roof of the forge.

"Batul, come here."

The girl dropped the bellows to the ground and walked to Dura through the rain. Dura waited for Batul to stand in front of her before pointing back to the bellows.

"Are you just going to leave that in the mud?"

Batul ran back through the rain, ignoring the covered walkway, and picked up the bellows. She came back frowning and shivering.

"Do you have something to say?" Dura asked.

"I'm sorry?" She held out the bellows.

"You're not sorry, but you know you're wrong, close enough. I want to know if you have anything to say."

"No." Batul looked at her feet and squished something in the mud.

"Out with it." Dura felt mightily relaxed now that she'd beat the slag out of the shovel. She sat on a stool and stared at Batul.

"Why do you need me to help you? You're better at this stuff than I am and you like doing it." A little orcish defienace gleamed in her eyes. Dura grinned back. Batul might lose some more teeth but if she learned well enough young enough her battle-smile would be fearsome.

"It's true I enjoy it. But not always. I used to run from my chores and spent my days doing what I wanted to do."

"See you get it! Why do I have to pump the bellows and listen to you all day."

Dura spun the hammer lazily in her hands. Two-and-two-eighth stones exactly. Meteoric iron she found hunting the week before she became Forge-Wife.

"There are two good reasons why you do what I tell you. The first and the simplest is that I'm bigger and stronger than you. The second reason is more complicated."

Dura looked at the rain for a moment. Another day of this and the last crop before winter would be ruined. It wasn't needed but if they wanted vegetables all winter then a trading party would need to go to the city.

"This is something that can never be learned too soon. Life is about doing the things you don't want to do, so that you can do the things you want to."

"That's stupid!"

"Aye. And the world is stupid too. But doesn't make it any less true."

Dura spun the hammer in her hands again. When was the last time she went hunting? It would be nice to get out of the stronghold before winter. Extra meat wouldn't hurt. And more leather. Batul's feet were growing too fast for shoes but winter was no time for bare feet. She blinked and set the hammer down.

"What is it you want to do?"

"I want to go and get some of the cake Borba's making! If I run I can make it to the cliffs and watch the birds while I eat it."

"In the rain?"

"Then I'll dry."

"And what if you get sick?"

She shrugged. "Then I'll get better."

"Why would Borba give you some of her cake."

"Because we're clan. And she likes me."

"Where did the cake come from?"

"Borba made it. I can smell it right now!"

"Do you know what goes into a cake?"

"Eggs and wheat and honey!"

"That's right. And where do the eggs come from?"

"Chickens. Duh."

"Where does Borba get the wheat?"

"It grows from the ground." The girl hopped from one foot to the other. Mud squelched and rain pattered.

"Why does it grow from the ground?"

"Why all these questions? I don't care!"

Dura stood and turned to the kitchen where smoke and delicious scents wafted out of the window to be beaten into the mud by the rain.

"Borba! Lock the door! Batul needs to learn a lesson!"

Batul glared at Dura. "Why did you do that!?"

"Orcs who don't care don't get cake."

"Fine then! I care!"

Dura snorted. It was amusing being on this side of the conversation. "Pick up my hammer."

"What?"

"Pick up the hammer."

"Why?"

Dura just stared. Batul warily approached, mud squelching, and put her hands around the handle. The girl heaved, muscles went taught and she hefted it up to her chest. Dura nodded and then pointed to the rack where the hammer belonged. Batul grunted and heaved the hammer to its proper place.

"Strength is important. If you were stronger and faster than me you could run and grab some cake before I could stop you. But there is a greater strength than that of the body."

"You mean like magic?" Batul asked eagerly and she wiggled her fingers at the hammer.

"That's not strength, well it kind of is, but it's not what I'm talking about. The greatest strength we orcs have is Clan."

"Because there's more of us?"

Dura smiled. She was asking better questions now.

"Because we support each other. 'A Stronghold is not built from one stone and one tree'."

Batul nodded. Every orcs knew those words. If only every orc understood them.

"If everyone ran around leaving tasks for other people to do, nothing would get done. Borba can bake the clan a cake because Ushat and Yambul planted wheat. Ushat and Tambul can plant wheat because Orakh, Gronov, Bashag, and Mog raided a village and took grain. Orakh, Gronov, Bashag, and Mog can raid because I forge them weapons and armour. I can forge weapons and armour because you pump my bellows and carry my coal."

Batul frowned and her eyes flickered as she took in this information. "So by pumping the bellows I help Borba make cake for the clan?"

"Exactly."

"But you weren't making weapons or armour. Just a silly shovel."

Dura tapped the side of her nose. "Remember I asked you why wheat grows from the ground?"

"Uhm...because plants do that?"

"Yes. But we help it along by spreading the shit from the chickens onto it."

"Oh...and that's what the shovel's for?"

"Aye Batul. That's what the shovel's for. In the end, everything we do is to help the clan do the things we want to do, together." Batul smiled. "It all makes sense now. Thank you Dura."

Dura knelt down and hugged her daughter, for now just a little girl learning about life, but too soon, far too soon, she would be a Forge-Wife in another Stronghold. Teaching the same lessons she learned by the forge. How the simplest shovel can bring love and warmth to the clan.

"Can we go eat cake now?"

"Yes Batul. We can go eat cake now."