The Part About the Dragon was (Mostly) True

by Sean Gibson

  “What’s the charge, Klung?”

  “Trespassing, High Chieftain. With intent to commit malice.”

  “Do you base the second charge on evidence or simply the fact that they are armed and garbed as...adventurers?” He wrinkled his nose in disgust before he said “adventurers.”

  “We overheard the greasy one say ‘I can’t wait to melt those possum-screwing orcs into goo and pick my teeth with their bones,’ High Chieftain.”

  “I’m not greasy!” screeched Whiska. “I just have a naturally shiny coat!”

  “We’ll add slander to the list of charges, then—possums are not native to this area, and so we couldn’t possibly have relations with them,” said the High Chief. “If the rat creature had suggested that some of our people lie with, say, beavers, the slander charge would not apply.”

  I started to laugh, but then realized that the old orc wasn’t joking. I cleared my throat instead.

  “The rat creature does not deny the claim, then?” he asked.

  Whiska chortled. “Hardly.”

  Adept as a wizard, maybe, but not the sharpest cheese in the cold case, and apparently less pragmatic than I’d hoped. “Whiska, it might be best if you let Nadi do the talking,” I suggested. Then, I looked at Nadi, whose jaw remained clenched as she stared with naked hatred at our captors. “Or, maybe me.”

  I fixed my gaze on the old orc. “High Chieftain Yerk…”

  “Gnurk. Not ‘Yerk.’” The High Chief shook his head. “Humans and elves always make such poor attempts to pronounce Orcish words. Dwarves are better, given the guttural similarities of our languages, but rarely do they care to try.”

  “High Chieftain Gnurk,” I said, rolling the strange word around on my tongue. “My companion, Whiska, has a tendency toward hyperbole. Our intent is not to cause harm to your people, but rather simply to pass through on our way to Skendrick.”

  “You think me naïve, she-elf?”

  “Half-elf, actually.”

  “Irrelevant.”

  “I’d say it’s been pretty relevant all the times in my life I’ve been spit on and called ‘half-breed’ by ignorant morons.”

  Nadi’s look softened for the first time in hours. “Heloise…”

  “Irrelevant for this purpose,” interrupted Gnurk. “I do not believe for a moment that you intended no harm to the orcs of Bblargnorg.”

  “Gesundheit,” I replied.

  “You’re not half as funny as you think you are, as I suspect you have a very high opinion of yourself.”

  “My opinion of myself is in direct proportion to my amazingness,” I said sweetly.

  “Regardless, there is no way that a half-elf, elf, and whatever that destructive creature there is”—he gestured dismissively toward Whiska—“planned to pass through orcish territory without trying to rack up as high a body count as possible. The enmity between our races is far too great.”

  “Yes,” I replied with a nod, “that may be true. As far as I can tell, though, you only have circumstantial evidence—hardly enough to convict us. So, if there’s nothing further, we’ll just be on our way, then…”

  The old orc laughed, a dry, dusty chuckle that sounded like what I imagine it would sound like if a cactus lizard burped (though as far as I’m aware, cactus lizards, which only live in the Kordise Desert, don’t burp—they expel all excess gas through bags on their knee pits, which makes them sound a little bit like a creaky bellows when they walk; it also makes them look ridiculous). “You foolishly presume that an orcish court functions the same as a human court.” His expression grew stern. “I am High Chieftain Gnurk! My word is law.”

  I got the distinct impression that we were in trouble.

  “I cannot release from custody those who I know would plot to murder my people.”

  “Your notion of ‘justice’ is exactly what I’d expect from an orc,” spat Nadi.

  The High Chieftain smirked. “And the elves would respond differently if they captured a group of orcs planning to slaughter them in their sleep? They would frolic with them and fete them and release them without punishment? Braid their hair with flowers, perhaps?”

  Nadi glowered, but lowered her eyes to the floor.

  “So, what happens now?” I asked.

  “Now? Now we feed you.”

  “It’s about time, you ham-fingered puke stains!” said Whiska.

  “And then we execute you,” said Gnurk, smiling.

  After tasting the food the orcs served, I kind of wished they had executed us first. Nadi didn’t even try it, though Whiska seemed to enjoy it, noisily slurping down every bite of what our captors called “graulich,” but which might better be described as “stewed entrails slathered in cow urine.” (They didn’t actually disclose the recipe—old family secret, they told us—so I’m just guessing about the ingredients based on the one bite I managed to choke down.)

  “I should get executed by orcs more often,” said Whiska as she finished licking not just her own bowl, but mine and Nadi’s as well. She took her time grooming her whiskers and hands (paws?) afterward before letting out a massive, floor-vibrating belch.

  “Feel better?” I said.

  “Ratarians don’t burp to relieve ourselves, straw hair,” she replied. “Just to gauge the quality of the food. And that food was exceptional.”

  I spent a moment debating whether I should take “straw hair” as an insult or just a description of my hair—which, to be fair, was at least the color of straw, if not the consistency (and thank goodness for that, because braiding it would be a nightmare)—but decided to let it go.

  “Now then,” said Whiska as she stood up, “are we ready to get out of here?”

  “Yes,” said Nadi as she, too, stood and began to stretch. “I see only one weak point.” She gestured broadly to the windowless room in which we found ourselves, which was nicer than some inns I’d stayed in (which, admittedly, wasn’t saying much, because I’ve stayed in some real holes). And it had doilies.

  “I see two,” replied Whiska.

  “Where’s the second?”

  “There.” Whiska pointed at the door.

  “How is the door a weak point?” I asked. “It’s a foot thick, made of iron, and loves being locked up—it’s the portal equivalent of one of my former lovers.” I cocked my head. “Okay, maybe two of my former lovers. Fine. More than two. It’s like multiple of my former lovers. Point being, that thing is impenetrable.” I pointed to the series of seven locks that ran up the right-hand side of the door. “Unlike most of those former lovers,” I added quietly.

  Whiska scoffed. “You’re as bad at sizing up doors as you are picking lovers.” She uttered an incantation and pointed at the locks. Each, in turn, unlocked itself, the final bolt sliding open with a resounding click.

  “Well then,” I said, “that’s a trick I need to learn.” I turned to Nadi. “Just out of curiosity, where’s the other weak point?”

  She pointed toward the back right side of the cell. “See that stone? The one right there in the corner? That’s not mortar in between it and the other stones.”

  I looked at the dark gray substance that filled in the gaps between the stone Nadi pointed at and its neighbors and shrugged. “I’m no mason, but that looks like mortar to me.”

  “Right—that’s the point. Smell it, though.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  I raised an eyebrow, but got down on my hands and knees and leaned my nose close to the floor, taking a deep breath. “Smells like…it smells a little like cinnamon,” I said, surprised.

  Nadi nodded. “It’s chirrup.”

  “What the hell is chirrup?”

  “You ever seen a gigaloo?” asked Whiska.

  “They look like cats, right? But a little smaller. And pointier,” I said.

  “Right. When they puke, they make something that looks and functions like mortar, but is easier to remove.”

  “And it smells like cinnamon?”

 
Now Whiska nodded. “You’re not quite as dumb as you look.”

  I chose to let that pass. “Why’s it called chirrup?”

  “Because that’s the sound gigaloos make when they puke.”

  “Naturally,” I said. “So, what, someone dug a tunnel underneath the floor and used gigaloo puke to conceal their escape route?”

  “Like I said,” replied Whiska, “not quite as dumb as you look.”

  “If you two are done discussing theoretical exits,” broke in Nadi, “I’d suggest we use the one we know is open, find some weapons, and go get Rummy and Borg.”

  “Excuse me for trying to learn something about exotic animal vomit,” I said, probably more defensively than was necessary. Bards have a tendency to display a natural curiosity that can get in the way of things like trying to survive imminent death.

  “Whiska—do you have any spells left?” Nadi asked as she pressed her ear against the door.

  “One, but it’s only a minor cantrip—if you had been paying attention and knew how to count, you’d have been able to figure that out on your own.”

  “There’s no way you’re going to hear anything through that,” I said to Nadi. “Foot thick, remember?”

  “You’ve got some idea because you’re a half-elf, but elven hearing is even more acute.”

  “So you can hear something?”

  “Enough to know that there’s at least one guard outside the door, and he’s hungry.”

  “How do you know he’s hungry?”

  “I can hear his stomach growling. Also, guards are almost always hungry.”

  “Fair point.”

  “Here’s the plan,” said Nadi. “The minute we open the door, Whiska will use her cantrip to distract the guard. I’ll hit him high. Then we’ll—”

  “Why are you assuming it’s a him? Could be a her,” I pointed out. “Seems like kind of a sexist assumption.”

  “No woman’s stomach growls like that.”

  “Clearly, you haven’t been around me that long,” I replied.

  Nadi looked annoyed. “As I was saying, I’ll take out the guard. Heloise, you go right—you’re looking for either an exit or our weapons. Whiska—you get my back.”

  “Be more fun if we do it the other way around, wouldn’t it?” I said teasingly.

  Nadi ignored me. “Let’s go!” she cried as she ripped open the door.

  Whiska began to activate her cantrip, which would create a distraction in the form of sensory overload for her target (strobe lights, explosive noises, terrible smells, and so on), but it fizzled as her voice faltered and trailed off.

  Two dozen crossbow-bearing orcs stood outside the door, beads drawn on our heads.

  “Huh,” I said, “didn’t see that coming.” I turned to Nadi. “That’s some keen hearing you’ve got—there’s an entire grope of orcs hanging around outside our door and all you can pick out is some guy’s rumbly tummy.”

  I could see Nadi struggling—on the one hand, we’d all die within seconds if we decided to fight; on the other, we’d be just as dead within a short time if we didn’t fight. It seemed like the only real question was whether we preferred a crossbow bolt through the eye or a rope around the neck. Neither seemed all that appealing to me. Why is a painless poison cupcake never an option?

  Before we could make a decision one way or the other, however, our old friend High Chieftain Gnurk took the decision out of our hands. “Boring and predictable,” he said, shaking his head. “Subdue them.”

  The orcs dropped their crossbows and surged forward to restrain us (and none too gently). Instinct took over and the three of us fought like Darkonian mini punching mollusks. We landed some hits, but the orcs wrestled us to the ground, more than earning the grope moniker in the process.

  “I was going to allow you to live until tomorrow, but this egregious breach of etiquette makes me think we’re better off just killing you now.” Gnurk gestured to the orcs to get us up on our feet.

  “Breach of etiquette?” said Nadi, angry and incredulous. “You don’t expect us to fight for our lives?”

  “Yes, of course I expect that—how could a desire to survive possibly be a breach of etiquette, fool?” Gnurk shook his head dismissively. “It seems elves possess far more whimsy than common sense.”

  “To be fair,” I said, “Nadi’s probably the least whimsical elf I know.” I pursed my lips as I had a thought. “Truth be told, Gnurky, the whimsical thing gets a little oversold. Most of the elves I know are pretty practical.”

  “Nmromath forbid that I perpetuate an incorrect stereotype about another race,” said the High Chieftain, entirely too dryly in my very well-informed opinion.

  “Here’s one stereotype that’s true, you withered husk of a booger,” said Whiska (entirely too smugly, also in my very well-informed opinion, given that four orcs held her captive). “Ratarian necks don’t break or strangle, so good luck hanging me!”

  Gnurk and the other orcs laughed. “Hanging? That’s something humans do. It’s a terrible means of execution. Often ineffectual and not very much fun.”

  “What do orcs do?” I asked, dreading the answer.

  “We rip you in half—but good!” said the orc holding my right arm.

  “Well, that sounds uncomfortable,” I replied.

  “If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe it hurts for very long,” said Gnurk, not so consolingly.

  “So, what exactly was our breach of etiquette?” I asked as we were led to what humans would call the gallows, but what orcs call the “krumfishnaw,” which translates loosely to “the rippin’ place.” (Gnurk later told me that “krumfishnaw” is more of a slang term, and that the formal name is “krumfishnel,” which translates to “the rippin’ location.” I suggested that this didn’t seem to constitute a significant difference in level of formality, but he got really huffy, so I dropped the subject.)

  “You’ve no respect for, nor understanding of, other cultures. You are a hypocrite of the highest order,” he replied coldly.

  “Fine, yes, I get it—I also stole chocolate once, occasionally have bad breath in the morning—though I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t mention that to anyone else—and sometimes wish bad things would happen to good people who I just don’t happen to like. I’m not perfect, even if I look like I am. And sing like I am. And, if we’re being honest, make love like I am.”

  “You unlocked the door.”

  “What?” I asked, confused.

  “Unlocking the door—that was your breach of etiquette.”

  “I thought you said that you expected us to fight for our lives,” Nadi said.

  “I do,” replied Gnurk. “But, locks are sacred in orc society. If you had, say, used a fireball to destroy the door, that would be one thing. But, undoing the locks…”

  “Isn’t that a little bit like condemning a person for killing someone with a sword, but shrugging if they do it by running someone down with a horse?” I tried to keep my tone respectful, given that we were being groped (by which I mean held by a lot of orcs), but I’m not sure I successfully kept all traces of incredulity from my voice.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Well, all right then.” I looked at Nadi and shrugged. She shook her head. Whiska just muttered something about orc cakes.

  “Do you know what ‘Nmromath’ means in your tongue?” The High Chieftain’s expression was stern.

  “Well, I know I don’t want him on my tongue, that’s for sure,” I said in an attempt to lighten the mood (a poor attempt, I admit, but you try coming up with a good joke when you’ve got an orc blade on the verge of severing your neck).

  I gained a whole new respect for the elasticity of orcish skin when Gnurk managed to extend his frown to the bottom of his chin. “It means ‘Lock Keeper.’”

  “I would have guessed ‘elf murderer,’” replied Nadi as she tried to shrug away from her captors, who gripped her tighter.

  Gnurk smirked. “Orcs
murder elves. Elves murder orcs. So it has been, and so it will always be. Do we kill elves because they are elves? Probably less than you slay orcs because they are orcs. But, to learn about orcs, particularly orcs as individuals, about what we believe and how we live and what we stand for, would shake the foundations of your beliefs and engender the crippling pain of guilt, and so you choose to place us in the box in which you believe we belong—a box of your own design. A self-fulfilling prophecy.” The High Chieftain shook his head. “Who did you lose, elf woman? A lover? A sibling? A parent.” He nodded as Nadi’s jaw tightened. “A parent, then. I am almost as sorry for your loss as I am mine, having lost a brother, a nephew, and, most recently, a daughter to elvish arrows.”

  “While raiding elven lands, no doubt,” said Nadi defiantly. I began to worry that she would strain her neck with all the jaw-jutting she was doing.

  “Defending this very settlement, actually,” replied Gnurk without even a hint of bitterness. He turned to look at me. “You say you are passing through to Skendrick…do you not wonder why the people of Skendrick and the other nearby human settlements have not banded together to oust us from our land? We are not so many in number, after all. We could be defeated with but a little coordinated effort.”

  “Have you met the people of Skendrick?” I said. “I’m not sure they could band together if you gave them all instruments.”

  Gnurk looked at me sternly before his lip twitched strangely, more of a spasm, really, and I worried—or maybe hoped—that he was in the throes of some sort of fit. Maybe a stroke. Turns out he was just smiling. Or, at least, trying to smile. “I will enjoy your death the least.”

  The High Chieftain turned his attention back to Nadi, who looked troubled. “The reason they do not attack us, and the reason we have lived here for years—long enough to have built this community, a rare occurrence for orcs indeed—is that the humans have learned that we present no threat. Yes, it took years—and, ironically, much bloodshed—for us all to come to common understanding about our lack of enmity for each other, but now we coexist more or less peacefully, save for when hot-headed ‘adventurers’ take it upon themselves to stir up trouble for the sole purpose of making a name for themselves.” He spat on the ground. “Fools.”