An Orc on the Wild Side

by Tom Holt

  “Yuck.”

  “Well, it works for fish,” John said vaguely. “No, maybe you’re right. We’re coming at this from the wrong angle. I mean, what’s the actual purpose of a model?”

  “To show the clothes off, I guess.”

  “Exactly. You can do that, better than anybody. No distractions. All the emphasis will be on the garments, not the person inside them.”

  “I think the distraction is the whole point, actually. But it’s sweet of you to suggest it.”

  “How about paint?”

  “I’m allergic to linseed oil.”

  They crossed another brook and started the long uphill climb to the eaves of the forest. “So,” said the voice, “what about you? There aren’t many human lawyers.”

  “Only because the Elves won’t give us a break. There’s no reason why a human shouldn’t be just as devious and sly and money-grubbing if he gets the chance.”

  “Hm.” The gradient didn’t seem to bother the contents of the Black Cloak. John found himself having to trot to keep up, which wasn’t easy. “Personally, I’d say an invisible model stood a better chance than a human lawyer.”

  “There you are, then. My point exactly.”

  “You’re doing well, then. Soaring ahead in your chosen profession.”

  “Well, no,” John confessed. “Actually, I’m that close to getting fired. But I’ll bounce back, you’ll see.”

  “When they throw you out, you’ll bounce. Quite possibly. Depends on whether you land on a hard surface.”

  “I’ll get another job. Or, better still—” Suddenly the thought welled up inside him, like violet-flavoured acid reflux. “I’ll set up on my own. Start my own firm. Rent a little hut somewhere, second-hand desk, couple of chairs, that’s all you need.”

  “And customers.”

  “Not a problem,” he said cheerfully, though he had no idea where they might possibly come from. It didn’t seem to matter. Of course there’d be clients, queues of them halfway down the street. All he had to do was want it, and it’d happen. “Tell all your friends. Special discount for members of the transparent community.”

  The voice laughed. “All right then, it’s a deal. You can come and watch me on the catwalk, I’m come and listen to you in court.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Of course you are.”

  Ahead of them loomed the tall, high pines that grew on the fringes of the forest, the border of Elvenhome. Here the road forked; to the left, it plunged into the deep valley where grew the towering oak trees in whose upper branches the lawyers built their offices, while the right path skirted the edge of the forest and came out at the entrance to the Mall-Orn shopping centre. At the last possible point before the division they stopped, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke.

  “Well,” said the voice, “be seeing you.”

  “You t—” John stopped. An indescribable and unfamiliar melancholy swept over him, as though he’d just realised he was out of time for serving a request for further and better particulars. With the sorrow, however, came a sort of reckless daring. “Now listen to me,” he said. “I meant it. If you want something badly enough, you’ll find a way, I promise you.”

  “But not paint. Or batter.”

  “You’ll think of something.”

  The voice laughed. “I can’t kiss you,” it said, “because if I do your lips will fall off and shatter like crockery. But you’re very sweet.”

  He watched the Black Cloak until it merged with the shadows under the trees, which didn’t take very long. Then he shook himself like a wet dog and turned left.

  Updating the blog had become the purpose of Terry Barrington’s life. It was the mast he clung to when the storm winds blew, the pillar that supported him as he struggled to bear the weight of his new world on his shoulders, the cross of obligation and duty to which he was nailed. Especially the latter; because this experience had to mean something, or why the hell carry on with it? And the meaning must be, to endure and communicate, to suffer so that something valuable should be created. People used to put caged birds in the sunlight to make them sing; overheated and wretched, they warbled their complaint, and the room was filled with sweet music. It had to be that. There was no other logical explanation.

  So he sat in the room at the top of the tower, looking down on impenetrable fog for the seventh day in a row, and spread his fingers over the keyboard like a concert pianist. Day 12, he typed, and paused.

  Something vast with leathery wings flapped past. Because the walls were transparent, it felt like the horrible thing was in the room with him. He had no idea what it was, but there seemed to be an awful lot of them around here; like pigeons in London. He shuddered. The thing receded and was folded into the mist. He stretched his fingers again and rested them lightly on the keys.

  Day 12.

  How can I begin to describe the unutterable beauty of the Realms in autumn? From my vantage point on the top of our ancient, historic watch-tower—

  A fat droplet of water fell on the back of his hand. He looked down at it and sighed. Soon the tympani section would start up; the tinkle of raindrops on the bottoms of every saucepan and casserole they owned, tink tink tink. He’d been on to the agent about it five times in the last three days and all he’d got was a load of muttered promises about renewing the damp-proof incantations. It had been mildly amusing the first time, but he’d got sick of wizard’s-tower jokes. What he wanted was a builder, with a long ladder and dustsheets and a toolbelt and a wireless belting out Radio 2. He wiped his hand on his trousers, deleted what he’d written and started again.

  Day 12.

  Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness was how Keats described autumn, and how better to describe the Realms at this uniquely lovely time of year? From where I sit on the top floor of our historic ancient watch-

  The screen went black. It did that. He’d asked the agent about it, and apparently it was something to do with high altitude electromagnetic discharges—the agent had called it something else, more magic-and-wizardry humour, but it was obvious what he meant—and they could try installing a full-length copper strip down the side of the building, but it would cost a lot of money and there was no guarantee it’d work, so probably the best thing would be to get used to it.

  Terry Barrington had his faults; giving up easily wasn’t one of them. He closed the lid of his laptop, covered it with a plastic carrier bag, opened his desk drawer and took out a pad of paper and a pencil. If he had to write it in longhand and type it out later, so be it. Come the three corners of the world in arms, and we will shock them.

  Day 12.

  If I was ever tempted to regret my decision to buy this ancient historic watch-tower in the heart of the Realms, all I would have to do is look out over this amazing panorama of rolling hills and lush green forests. Words cannot begin to express the beauty of the late morning sun breaking through the clouds as I write these words, while sixteen storeys below, Pat is starting work on a delicious lunch, using fresh organic ingredients sourced from our local—

  “Terry. Terry! There’s someone at the door.”

  Remarkable how well sound carried in this place. “Can’t you answer it?”

  “Not bloody likely.”

  She had a point. Actually, everyone who’d turned up on their doorstep so far had been perfectly nice, which went to show the danger of going by appearances. Even so. “Coming,” he said, and put his pad away in the desk. The first ting told him he wouldn’t have got much work done anyway, so that was all right.

  Forty-seven flights of stairs in this place. Well, it’s a tower, what do you expect? The agent had promised to get back to him right away about finding someone to install a lift, so any day now—

  He muttered the security code and the door did that weird thing it did, and he found himself facing a tall young woman with pointed ears. “Hello,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  The Elf looked at him. “Probably very little,” she sa
id. “Are you the new owner?”

  Terry sighed and moved sideways to let her in. Elves, he knew by now, were generally local government, of which there seemed to be rather a lot in an area that offered no public services whatsoever. “If it’s about the barbecue, I asked our agent and he says he’s never heard of any smoke abatement order in this area, and even if there is one—”

  “The what?”

  Terry explained what a barbecue was. The Elf sat down and looked at him. “You cook outside over an open fire. I see.”

  “Only in summer. Look, I explained all this to the other Elf, and she said we had to apply to the district planning office for a hazardous processes permit, and I’ve done that, so I don’t see what the problem is.” He paused. He was forgetting his manners. “Sorry. Can I get you a drink?”

  She didn’t appear to have heard him. Her attention was fixed on Pat’s computer, on the table in the middle of the room. “What’s that?”

  “What? Oh, that. That’s just Pat’s old desktop. I’m always on at her to upgrade to a notebook, but she likes it, bless her.”

  “A notebook.” The Elf got up, walked to the computer and gently tapped the screen with a shapely fingernail. “Glass.”

  “Yes. That’s the VDU. The screen,” he explained.

  “A glass screen.”

  That was the thing with Elves, he’d noticed. They were so assured and full of it that you found yourself assuming they were, well, like normal people, us; and then they said something and you realised how different they were, how many things they didn’t have and didn’t know about. “They usually are,” he said. “It can be a bit of a nuisance sometimes.”

  “What’s it for?”

  “Oh, Pat mostly uses it for going online.” The blank stare again. “Shopping—for stuff we can’t get locally—and keeping in touch with the family and friends back home, that sort of thing.”

  The Elf’s eyes widened for a moment. “And you believe your wife would be better off with a notebook.”

  “Well, they’re smaller.”

  “So?”

  He shrugged. “Better for when you’re on the move, that sort of thing.”

  He’d clearly said something she didn’t like the sound of, but he couldn’t think what it could be. “Do you eat meringues?”

  “What? Yes, occasionally. I can’t say they’re a favourite.”

  “How about your wife and family? Your friends—” She paused, and her nostrils flared. “Back home. Do they eat meringues?”

  “Occasionally. They’re all right. For a change. Now and then.”

  “Do you eat them every day? Once a week? Once a month?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t keep a food diary or anything. Why? What’s wrong with bloody meringues? And what’s that got to do with our barbecue permit?”

  “What is that?”

  She was pointing at his golf bag. “Oh, that’s just my clubs.”

  The Elf stood up quickly, with a vaguely intimidating grace. She drew out a three iron and peered at it, then ran her thumb along the edge of the blade. “Very fine steel,” she said quietly.

  He relaxed a little. “Actually,” he said, “that’s a chrome-molybdenum alloy. Lighter without compromising on strength. Forged, not cast. The cavity back makes for a lower centre of gravity, so it’s easier to feel the sweet spot. Titanium shaft, of course. Again, you’ve got the strength of steel, but it’s lighter and faster in the hand.”

  By this point most women’s eyes would have glazed over, but the Elf seemed genuinely interested. So he explained a bit more, about blade angles and edge geometry and the trade-off between impact velocity and mass transfer, and she was hanging on his every word; and then, quite suddenly, she dropped the club back into the bag, pointed at the wall and said, “What’s that?”

  “Oh, just a dartboard.”

  He’d done it again. This time, he’d earned himself a look of deep suspicion. “Here, look,” he said, and took his darts out of the sideboard drawer.

  “Arrows.”

  He laughed. “Sort of.” He turned sideways, got his feet right, and threw. As luck would have it, straight into the bull. Couldn’t do that again if he tried.

  The Elf had gone white. “I think I may have come to the wrong house,” she said. “Is this number seven, Old Smials Drive?”

  Well, that explained everything. “No, this is the Old Tower.” He grinned. “I know, pretty unimaginative name. I’d have quite liked Xanadu, but Pat can never remember if it’s spelt with an X or a Z.”

  “Xanadu.” She made it into two words, for some reason. “I apologise,” she said gravely. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you, or given offence in any way.”

  “No, not at all.”

  “We do not seek conflict. All we wish for is to live at peace with our neighbours.”

  “Jolly good,” Terry said. “Well, don’t let me keep you.”

  In order to open the door to let her out, of course, he had to do the security code. The agent had told him, don’t say it out loud where anybody can hear—well, just common sense, really—and so he’d got quite good at muttering it under his breath; but the Elf—well, with ears like that, it was only to be expected that her hearing was pretty good.

  “What did you just say?” she rasped at him.

  “Sorry? Oh, that’s just to open the door.”

  One seriously freaked-out Elf. She backed out, still staring at him, and nearly fell down the steps. The hell with it. Maybe word would get about, and they wouldn’t be getting quite so much hassle from the town hall. If so, wonderful.

  He trudged back up the stairs to his study, just in time to duck and cower instinctively as another of those ghastly flying lizards flapped by. In theory, the walls turned opaque whenever you wanted them to, but it didn’t work reliably. What we need, Terry decided, is proper net curtains.

  BOOK TWO

  Many Claws Make Light Orc

  “They grow up so quickly,” the Science Officer said wistfully.

  Mordak adjusted the box so it was stable, climbed onto it and peered through the grille at the top of the cell door. “She’s grown,” he said in a horrified voice. “I wouldn’t have thought it was possible.”

  “Seven feet four inches,” the Science officer said proudly. “That’s an extra nine inches since yesterday. Four hundred and sixteen pounds three ounces.” He smiled. “She ate her first guard this morning.”

  The she-goblin didn’t seem to know she was being watched, which was probably just as well. “What’s she doing?” Mordak whispered.

  The Science Officer joined him on the box. “Ah, that. We’re not quite sure.”

  From where Mordak was standing, it looked like she was anointing her claws with blood, using a little tapered brush. Fair enough. But apparently she’d figured it out all by herself, untaught.

  “She puts stuff on her face as well,” the Science Officer said, “round the jaws and the jowls and under the eyes.”

  “Is that right?”

  “To make them look bigger, we’re guessing. Impress the enemy with your superior eyesight. Pretty advanced stuff. We never thought of that.”

  “She’s not stupid, then.”

  “Far from it. Frighteningly smart, in some ways. See that thing she’s wearing? That was a blanket this time yesterday.”

  “Quick work.”

  “She’s raised the hemline twice since then.”

  Mordak frowned. Something that size, and with brains, too. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he might just be looking at the future of the goblin race. As that race’s leader, with its best interests at heart, he could see it might well be no bad thing. Even so. Nobody, no matter how altruistic, rejoices at the thought of being out-evolved.

  “I suppose we’d better let her out at some point,” he said.

  The monster raised its arm to tuck its hair behind its ear. The forearm was thicker than Mordak’s thigh. “No rush,” the Science Officer said.

  “What’s she doi
ng now?”

  She’d got hold of a scrap of metal from somewhere—a bit of the unfortunate guard’s armour, probably—and was rubbing it industriously against the sandstone blocks of the cell wall. Every now and again she would stop and peer at it, then back to work again. “I think she’s polishing it,” the Science Officer said.

  “What for?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe to make a mirror.”

  Mordak was impressed. With a mirror, you could keep watch on the cell door (the only point of entry for a potential enemy) even when you were lying down or facing the other way. Intuitive tactical thinking, something his soldiers conspicuously lacked. Size, muscle and brains; just think what could be achieved with an army of these creatures. King Drain wouldn’t stand a chance; nor would the Elves, let alone the humans. The thought should have elated him. He paused for a moment, wondering why it hadn’t.

  “Has anyone tried talking to her yet?”

  “No. Why?”

  Why indeed? His predecessor on the Iron Throne wouldn’t have bothered, that was for sure. In his view, the only vocabulary a servant of the Dark Cause needed was yes, boss and charge! Mordak, of course, saw thing differently. He’d spent a lifetime watching the armies of Evil getting beaten into a cocked hat by vastly inferior forces, snatching defeat out of the jaws of victory at the last possible moment; this is all wrong, he’d said to himself, and from that epiphany New Evil had been born. Learn from your enemies, adapt their winning ways, figure out the reasons for their success and see if you can’t use a few of them yourself. While staying 100 per cent committed to the values of the Dark Cause, needless to say. Oh yes. Absolutely.

  All well and good, so long as things stayed as they were, with the enemy still superior in intelligence and technology. But what if that no longer applied? What if he was looking at the ultimate game changer, a new weapon that would give Evil a sporting chance not just to live to fight another day but actually prevail? Of course, they’d said the same thing when Azog III issued his armies with scythe-wheeled chariots five centuries ago, and all that Goblinkind had gained from that was a series of giant hops forward in leg armour and artificial limb technology. If there was a way of wasting a shining new opportunity, trust the goblins to find it. But—he took another peek through the window—something like that; there was no way of knowing where it would lead to.