Umberto Eco's Orcs

Continuing with a mini series of posts, I guess (first one here) rethinking classic baddies in a way that makes them more interesting than might be assumed. Title is a reference to this essay.

[Edit: I actually wrote this post before seeing this related video, but a friend since recommended it to me, and I pass that recommendation on here.]

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Orcs, now... everybody knows about orcs. They're the bogies used to scare children, they're the ones as get blamed or cursed when a sheep goes missing. They're the evil race, as everyone knows, eh?

Well, you think you know about orcs. But let me tell you, child, what you think you know isn't half the truth. The evil race... hah! Orcs aren't a race, and they aren't a kindred either - don't you get smart with me, kid! It's understandable folks would make the mistake - reasonable folks don't have a word for what they are. But pull up a seat and I'll tell you.

The secret is, orcs aren't born evil, and they aren't evil because they're orcs - they're orcs because they're evil. Being an orc's a curse, and the worst part is, they don't know it.

Not many people have ever met an orc, unless you're an old-timer, been on campaign like me. But you see them, marching alongside the armies when kingdoms go to war. Fight for any cause, your band of orcs. They're not in it for the pay, nor the loot, not even the thrill of battle. They're compelled. It's in their nature.

See, a really long time ago, there was this kingdom. Brutal to its enemies, unfriendly to its allies, but successful in war - at least, that's the story their own poets liked to tell. But they got it into their heads that they were waging an eternal war against everyone. Any respite was only temporary, any alliance was only opportunistic, because it was all against all. You had to be able to fight anyone, conquer anywhere, take anything - that was what being a great kingdom meant.

Nowadays, of course, no-one speaks that kingdom's name - it's cursed and forgotten. This was in the days of sorcerer-kings, and they had a king who was one of the worst, vilest sorcerers around. He got to thinking that he could make his armies better if he pruned his people of their weaknesses. Now, these people were already brutal. You've heard the legends - leaving sick children out in the cold to die, shedding the blood of an innocent as a right of passage, things like that. But their king thought he could make them even meaner, turn them into something that only thought of war and killing.

So he turned to a Chaos god - a death god by the name of Malus Marr. And he made a bargain: The king would get his super-soldiers, and Malus Marr would get the souls of every on of his warriors. So he started a cult, just a little one, at first, in the ranks of the soldiery. Of course, it grew parasitically, as religions are wont to do once they get a hold on a legion of soldiers. And, pretty soon, damn near all of the kingdom's citizen-warriors were inductees.

Now, the sorcerer-king's plan was to take from them all the things he thought of as weaknesses, all the concerns that weren't for fighting their enemies, and winning in battle. All the little cares and wonders that make you an individual - that was what he wanted to weed out. And, as the people fell deeper into the grip of Malus Marr, they drew closer to his ideal. Finally, he declared a new ritual: All the warriors had to forego their true names, writing them down on pieces of parchment and casting them into gigantic braziers, to be burned up and delivered to Malus Marr.

To deliver your true name to a Chaos god is a terrible thing. It's to give up your soul, to be hollowed out, to lose your inner self. But the soldiers weren't coerced; they did it voluntarily. They valued their status as warriors so much, and believed so much in the superiority of their armies and the right of conquerors that they willingly gave themselves wholly to the embodiment of death. They offered up their own humanity as a sacrifice in pursuit of the only sort of greatness they could fathom - belonging, and conquering, and strength.

Those few who withheld from the ritual witnessed a terrible transformation. Their compatriots were still recognisable, but they were twisted. The transformed ones no longer saw the world as it truly was - they could not recall their old companions, seeing them only as others, outsiders. They fell upon them in a savage frenzy, tearing them apart, consuming the remains.

Chris Achilleos

These were the first orcs. But the sorcerer-king overstretched his hand, invading his neighbours and enslaving their people. The orcs fought as if there was no world beyond that of war, grim in adversity, savage and brutal in the press of battle, taking no captives except to push their war machines and carry their chattels. An alliance was formed to defeat the orc legions, although almost too late. The nameless kingdom fell, though only barely, and at great cost. In time, it was all but forgotten.

What of the orcs? How came they to survive even to the present day? Well, as I say, soldiers will have their soldiers' religions. And the cult of Malus Marr, somehow, persisted on, whether in some band of orcs that escaped their kingdom's downfall, or by taking root in the armies of the alliance, though none can say for sure. The bands of orcs that rove the world now work as mercenaries and bandits, all "descendants" of those original legions - not by breeding, as orcs don't breed, but by lineage of indoctrination. There'll always be those ready to sign a pact in blood to live for death.

And why not? The siren song of the orcish way is more seductive than you think. It's subtle at first, but it inveigles itself in your mind, warps the things you value. It's not the powerful that fall to it, but the weak - those frustrated at their own powerlessness, those who feel they deserve more. Mercenaries, young tearaways, old unfortunate veterans, anyone who feels their path to betterment is through strength is susceptible. Orcs are not born, they're made, out of bitterness and spite, and the shame that does not allow you to see your actions with clarity. Malus Marr whispers in your ear about the glory to be found in conflict, and promises companionship with warriors and domination of those who would slight or rob you. Before you know it, you forget what it is to be an orc, what tragic, misbegotten creatures they are. You no longer recognise them around you - you see only your companions, your brethren, united with you in bitterness against the whole world. And it becomes a trivial thing to write your name on a piece of paper to be burned on the pyre.

To do so is to consign ourself to the cursed half-life of the orc. To live as an orc is to live in a pale world, full of shadows. They can't look at a person anymore and see the person - they only see a potential danger, a potential foe. They look at a tree, they see firewood; they look at a beautiful landscape, they see places to cut trenches and erect fortifications. Their whole world is taken away from them and twisted so they can only see it as one big war waiting to happen. And the only thing of value in it, the only thing worth doing, is to die the most glorious death you can; for the orc, there is nothing to fight for beyond the war, nothing at the end of conflict for conflict to be in aid of. They're drenched in death, not because they kill, but because to their twisted psyche, the purpose of life is death.

Chris Achilleos

Aye, child, you guess right, I see it in your face. I speak from experience. I once was one of those loathsome creatures. My company, turned loose and cheated of our pay, turned to banditry to keep alive. We took on a group of orcs as good fighters, un-burdened by scruples. The taint of their hatred spread, and bit by bit their view of the world poisoned our own, and one by one we each signed away our fate.

I can tell you, it is no trick on their part - they do not lie, not intentionally, when they tell you what Malus Marr promises. It's how they see the world: Everyone else arrayed against them, and all ready to pounce. And they welcome new inductees with a fierce thirst, not just for more bodies for the endless war, but because every soul they sway, every like mind, confirms them in their view. They need that, for if they were to go back to seeing people as people, not as mere shadows of ill intent, they would have to face the reality of their barbarous actions.

To step out of from under that dark shadow is the hardest thing possible. It is no small thing to rebuild a soul once it has been sent to oblivion. An orc will pass a lifetime of hardship and hate rather than face up to the reality of that task. Mere magic alone is not sufficient. One has to come to terms with the thing one has become and denounce it, and that is something many are not capable of. I speak not to boast, for I feel no pride, only wretchedness at my ever having fallen so far - were it otherwise, I would still be marching in their ranks now. Many of my companions were not as fortunate as me to feel the sorrow and shame that I now feel.

So you see, orcs are not born - they are a product of man's bitterness and self-obsession. Pity the orc, child, for they each have cursed themselves to a half-life of cruelty and torment, and yet they do not know it.