by Sean Gibson
“Oh, this?” Rummy surveyed his implements. “Just because one is traveling doesn’t mean that one can’t enjoy a good meal.” He picked up one of the spice bottles. “I realize that Sunderlen ginger root isn’t necessary for all meals—though a little pinch of it will do nicely in this one—but I’d hate to be without it when I need it, you know?”
“I was less questioning your particular spice selections than I was how much room you have in your trunk there.” I motioned toward his bag. “Especially for someone with such a small trunk.”
He shrugged as he considered his pack. “It was a gift from a former employer, now deceased, sadly.”
“Bequest or burglary?”
“Well, he didn’t pass until several years after the bag came into my possession.”
“Natural or suspicious causes?” I asked.
“He was affected by unfortunate circumstances.”
“Excellent use of the passive voice and vague details,” I remarked.
“Tools of the trade,” replied Rummy.
“Sunderlen ginger root…is very spicy,” interjected Borg.
“It does have a little kick,” said Rummy with a nod. He pointed toward his pack. “Anyway, I can fit pretty much anything I need to in that thing, and it’s as light as some leather.”
“Don’t you mean ‘light as a feather’?” I asked.
“Well, it has some weight to it, and it’s made of leather, so…”
I walked right into that one.
Rummy’s vegetable stew was excellent, and we all assumed comfortable positions as we waited for Nadi’s return. I confess that mine was somewhat less ladylike than maybe it should have been, but, come on…have you ever tried to relax in tight leggings after eating stew?
Nadi returned a short while later, nodding her thanks to Rummy as he handed her a bowl of stew. “How’s it look?” he asked.
Nadi chewed and swallowed a bite before she responded. “That’s good.” She wiped her lips and idly stirred her stew. “The main entrance is heavily guarded, but no surprise there—I wasn’t exactly planning on a full-frontal assault anyway.” She took another bite. “About four hundred yards from the main entrance, though, there’s a weak point in their perimeter that I think we can get in through. There are some sentries, but if we time it right, we should be able to avoid them.”
“And once you—well, we—get inside?” I said.
“The encampment’s too big for us to take out entirely, unfortunately. If we go in under cover of darkness, I think we can at least get the chief and the shaman—if I know anything about orcs, that should start some major infighting that, at the very least, should buy everyone in the region a few weeks of peace while they sort things out.”
“Don’t worry,” said Whiska, “we’ll kill as many of them as possible. And maybe grind some of them into sparkling wine.”
“I don’t think that’s a thing,” I replied.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” she said. “Why do you think people always talk about popping the orc before they open a bottle?”
I waited for Whiska to guffaw, or chuckle, or even just crack a tiny smile—something, anything to congratulate herself on her terrible pun. Her expression didn’t change in the slightest and, after an awkward moment of silence, I realized that she was completely serious. Deadly serious, even.
“I don’t think that’s exactly what…you know what? Never mind. It’s not important.” I looked at the sky and noted that the sun had just about dipped below the horizon. “I’d say we’ve got about four hours or so until midnight, so we might as well get some rest.” I laid out my bedroll next to the fire. “Think we’re safe here, Nadi?”
“I’ll make sure you’re safe, Heloise.” Nadi’s response was strangely intense, and she gave me a look that indicated either fierce conviction or long-term constipation (though I suppose those two things aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive).
“Ah…right. Thanks. Guess I’ll get some sleep, then.” I slid into my bedroll and closed my eyes.
“I will…keep watch,” said Borg.
“Aren’t you tired?” I murmured without opening my eyes. Around me, I could hear the others bedding down.
A moment passed and silence ensued, broken only by an occasional bird call or buzzing insect. Then, a gravelly voice spoke. “Rock giants…need very little…sleep.”
Entirely too short a time passed before Nadi was gently shaking my shoulder to wake me up. I blinked my eyes to find her crouching next to me and looking down at me with a small smile. “It’s time,” she said, letting her hand linger on my shoulder.
I sat up, stretched, and yawned. Nadi’s hand was still on my shoulder. I looked at her quizzically, and she stood up quickly. I couldn’t tell for sure, given her tan complexion, but I think she blushed. I decided not to say anything, which is pretty much like a skrindip refusing a latcha leaf (and I’ve seen skrindips kill badgers to get a latcha leaf). But, every once in a while I like to display some self-control.
We packed up our stuff (with much of it disappearing into Rummy’s bag—I really needed to get one of those) and headed down the road toward the encampment. As we walked, Nadi quietly detailed her plan.
“We’ll veer off the road in a bit and travel through the woods the rest of the way. Whiska and I will breach the perimeter first and take out any sentries that are nearby. Once we give the all-clear, the rest of you will follow us in. From there, we’ll skirt the main thoroughfares within the encampment to get to the shaman’s tent and take him down first. If we do that quietly enough, we go for the chief. If we raise any kind of alarm, we get out as quickly as possible. Understood?” Nadi looked at Whiska. “No going off script.”
Whiska made a gesture that was simultaneously dismissive and rude. I made a mental note to remember it. It seemed like something I could use frequently.
“All right,” whispered Nadi, “let’s do it.”
Nadi led us off the path and into the deep gloom of the woods. Shimmery stars gave us just enough light that we didn’t stumble into every single object that could have bruised sensitive shins—just most of them. After several minutes of Borg loudly crunching through the underbrush and Nadi wincing with each snapped stick, she called a halt. “You three,” she said, pointing to Rummy, Borg, and me, “wait here. With any luck, we’ll be back within the hour.”
“Wait a minute,” I replied, holding up my hand very authoritatively. Most things I do are very authoritative, in fact, except dancing the Flamnllewllyn, a traditional elvish dance, which I did very tentatively (but only because “Flamnllewllyn” translates as “Dance of the Tentative Feet”). “You hired me to tell your story, right?” I tilted my head from side to side as I considered my phrasing. “Well, more accurately, you promised me a share of theoretical treasure to tell your story. Right?”
Nadi nodded slowly. “Yes…”
“So, it stands to reason that I need to know what your story is so I can tell it properly. Right?”
“I suppose,” said Nadi. “But, I don’t want you to—”
“Nadi,” I interrupted (authoritatively), “I’m a bard. I eat danger for breakfast. And scones. I really like scones. Ideally with chocolate chips. Or cinnamon. But not both at the same time.”
“Well,” she said, fidgeting…not quite nervously, but maybe uncomfortably. “I wasn’t so much worried about the danger as, well…Whiska and I need to move quickly and efficiently, and having an extra person with us might…might…” She trailed off.
“Oh…oh, I see. Yeah. I see how it is. Heloise can’t take care of herself. Right. She’s certainly never been in a fight before. Not once. She never took down a troll with a knife and a torch. She never disarmed a dark elf with a spoon. She never killed a goblin with a song.” (Two out of three of those things are true…I’ll let you figure out which two.)
“Please, Heloise,” said Nadi, “it’s not that I don’t have confidence in your ability to handle yourself—I do. And I very much want to
see how you handle yourself.” She paused, seemed to consider her words, and then blushed, and a light very belatedly went on in my head. “Just…can you just wait here? Please?”
“No,” I replied, though I kept my tone soft. “I can’t. Not if I’m going to do this group any justice.” I smiled. “Don’t worry—I’ll be fine. Really.”
“Wait a second,” interjected Whiska, looking from Nadi, still blushing, to me. “You—you like her!” she said to Nadi (somewhat accusingly, I thought).
“No! I’m just…just worried about her. And…and we haven’t seen her fight…”
“You like her!” shouted Whiska again.
“Quiet!” said Rummy, somehow using a loud whisper. “You’ll give us away, you walking drain clog!”
Everyone braced themselves for Whiska’s response. Whiska blinked and looked at Rummy for a full moment before she nodded. “That wasn’t bad.”
“Thank you. Now, Nadi, whatever your feelings on the subject, I think Heloise is right—she needs to go with you. She needs to be part of the action for our plan to work. Besides, I’m pretty sure she can, um, handle herself. Boy, does that sound awkward now.”
“It’s funny…that she likes…women because…her name is…” began Borg thoughtfully before Nadi cut him off.
“Enough! Whiska, come on.” She motioned to the wizard before turning to look at me. “If you slow us down, you turn back. Understood?”
I nodded. “Let’s go.”
Rummy and Borg (belatedly) waved as we parted company, and Nadi, Whiska, and I plunged into the underbrush. Frankly, I’m not sure what Nadi was worried about; I can say for a fact that half-elves are much stealthier than Ratarians, and that’s just in the general case—in the specific case of me versus Whiska, it was an even more lopsided contest. I glided through the underbrush, skimming across the tops of leaves and twigs without making a sound or leaving a trace of my passage, though I wasn’t quite as stealthy as Nadi, who might as well have been a ghost.
Whiska, on the other hand…I think she went out of her way to crunch every stick, acorn, and crackbug she could find (crackbugs are small, but when you step on one, it sounds like thunder splitting a thick log; they also glow pink in the dark, so they’re not particularly hard to avoid stepping on).
Nadi shushed her several times before giving up and settling for shooting her looks that would have turned a raw chunk of lamb into a fully cooked shish roundabob. Whiska either didn’t notice or didn’t care (my money was on the latter), though I think she might have regretted her nonchalance at least a little when, a moment later, an orc arrow thunked into a tree trunk two inches away from her snout.
“‘Ware the archers!” shouted Nadi.
“‘Ware the archers?’” I echoed, incredulous. “Seriously? That’s how you talk in the middle of a fight? You revert to high-middle Folarian? Why not, oh I don’t know, ‘look out!’ or something, you know, less ridiculous?”
“Just fight!” said Nadi.
“See? Was that so hard?”
We scattered, and Whiska immediately began chanting. A few seconds later, she flung a barrage of green energy toward our attackers. Someone yelped, and more arrows whizzed past us (one distressingly close to my nose; thank goodness it’s already small (and so cute and button-like), or it would have become (painfully) smaller.)
Nadi had her sword out and was spinning wildly, looking for someone to strike. I took my long knife from its sheathe and did the same, but looked considerably more graceful while doing so.
A moment passed in silence. We looked around; Nadi and I closed in and stood back to back. Whiska moved toward us. “Orcs!” she snarled. “Not only do they smell disgusting and taste terrible, but they’re cowards! If I could see one of them right now, I swear I’d rip its intestines out and—”
Whatever creative (and, knowing her, ultimately culinary) fate Whiska had in mind for our opponents was forever lost in a scream of “Aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh!” as she was flung up into the air, trapped in a net that had been cleverly concealed along the forest floor.
“That’s not good,” I observed sagely.
Nadi lowered her sword. “Point your knife down,” she whispered. “If they wanted us dead, they’d have taken us with arrows. They’ve got us covered from an elevated position, and we can’t see them. Our only hope is to let them get up close. Draw them in.” She dropped her sword on the ground and raised her hands. “Be ready.”
I raised an eyebrow, but did as she asked.
“I hear something,” she whispered as she took a step forward, “get ready to—”
For the second time, one of my companion’s comments was cut short by a scream. That made two of us hanging helplessly in nets. And, as the famously rotund and campy bard Beef Roast once sang, two out of three ain’t great.
The moon, which had been hiding behind the clouds, suddenly broke through, shining through the forest canopy and enabling me to see a group of at least 10 orcs closing in. The first to arrive hefted a spear, pointed it up at Whiska, and said gleefully, “We have lattice roped ourselves some interlopers!” Then he made a choking, hacking sound that I eventually realized was laughter. It was the first time I’d heard an orc laugh. I didn’t enjoy the experience.
The other orcs approached. One, apparently the oldest of the group, shook his head. “No, you mean that we have ‘netted ourselves some interlopers.’ Not ‘lattice roped.’ That is not a thing people say.” He looked at me and shrugged apologetically. “We are very bad at jokes. Especially the kind with words.”
“But very good at making lattice ropes!” said the first orc, grinning.
“I see that,” I said. “Am I going to get pulled up into one if I step in the wrong spot?”
“Yes,” said the old orc.
“Could you, I don’t know, tell me where to step so that doesn’t happen?”
“No.”
“Right, then.” I looked up at Nadi, who was furiously trying to saw through her ropes with a dagger (ineffectively, I might add). Whiska was neither moving nor hurling epithets, which worried me. The only thing I could think of that would silence her was unconsciousness, and she was so stubborn that I’m not even sure that would stop her from cursing someone.
“Get them down,” said the old orc. “Carefully.”
I decided to stay put, waiting for the orcs to come get me. I watched as they lowered Nadi and Whiska, moving quickly to bind their mouths and hands—not, however, before a possum-playing Whiska was able to utter a few syllables and twitch her fingers. Flames erupted from her hands, causing the closest orcs to fall back, shrieking, though others jumped in to gag and bind her before she could do anything else. The orcs she’d hit slapped frantically at themselves in an effort to put out the flames, looking more than a little pained. They growled and gave Whiska dirty looks, but, much to my surprise, didn’t move to strike her.
I was next in line for binding and gagging, and while there’s an easy joke to make here about them not being nearly as good at it as most dwarves I’ve known, I’m going to refrain from making it. It wasn’t the most comfortable arrangement I’d ever experienced, but neither was it unduly painful, which, again, surprised me. I could only assume that the orcs had plans to eat us or something equally horrible that required our flesh to remain tender and unbruised.
We were marched single file through the woods, stopping to rest after about an hour. Rather than removing our gags, the orcs wet them with water so we could suck the moisture from them—not exactly thirst-quenching, but better than nothing, and, I had to concede, a reasonable approach given what Whiska had attempted when they’d cut her down from the net.
We continued on, reaching the orc encampment just as dawn broke. Turns out that “encampment” didn’t do it justice—it warranted “settlement” at the very least. Maybe even “town.” I mean, there were fences—not barbed-wire, skewer-the-intruder fences…like, white picket fences. There were little old orc ladies sitting on porches crocheting doilies. I h
ad no idea little old orc ladies were a thing—I assumed that most of them either died in battle or were killed (and maybe eaten) by their mates long before reaching their dotage. I even saw an ice cream shop, though I naturally assumed that the flavor of the month would soon be Neapolitan (elf/half-elf/Ratarian). I shook my head. Something strange was going on.
Our escorts took us to a building that resembled a courthouse—primarily, it turns out, because it was a courthouse (I couldn’t decide which was more shocking—the doilies or the fact that the orcs had a courthouse). They hustled us inside and we came to a stop in front of a desk where sat a wizened, but still huge and scary-looking, orc wearing dark robes. White hair flowed down to his shoulders, and he grunted when he saw us. He picked up a knife and pointed it at Nadi. I feared he would throw it, and frantically (yet somehow still coolly and heroically, because “frantic” just isn’t a good look for me) looked around for a way to stop him, but instead of hurling it, he used it to pick his nails. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he growled to our captors. “Ungag them.”
“This one’s a wizard, High Chieftain Gnurk,” replied one of the orcs holding Whiska.
“Well, then, stick the point of a knife on the back of her neck and shove it through if she starts to say anything magical,” replied the orc at the desk, clearly irritated. “This is not math, Klung. You should be able to do it.” I was stunned to realize two things: first, that the orcs were speaking the common tongue, and not ineloquently, most likely for our benefit. Second, that I kind of liked the older guy—and not just because he was feisty. He had a kind of dwarvish handsomeness going on.
The orcs moved quickly to remove our gags. I opened my mouth to stretch my jaw and then glanced over at Nadi. She stared at the High Chieftain, her clenched jaw a pretty clear indicator of what she would do if she could get her sword back. Whiska seemed on the verge of speaking, but a pointed (so to speak) application of the knife on the back of her neck caused her to bite back whatever she had intended to say. I was relieved to see that Whiska did, somewhere in the deepest recesses of her brain, have a pragmatic survival instinct that at least occasionally prevented her from talking.
