by Aaron Crash
Scholars drifted over to watch.
Ymir didn’t much like the audience. “I’m sure your rules mean something to some. But not me. Here I am, out of my robes and barefoot. You have boots for me, Slurp?”
Gharam chuckled, and he did indeed slurp. “Ah, that name, as if that would mean a thing to me. You are right. Words are words, but in a place like this, words can kill. Ignis ignarum.”
Fire burst around the orc, wreathing him in flames. He too had a red-and-yellow ring on one meaty green hand.
The heat washed over Ymir, and he was forced to retreat several steps. His nose caught the dry smell of the fire. His skin crawled. This sorcery was unnatural.
Gharam lunged forward, and Ymir danced farther back across the field. “If words can kill, Slurp, then I should hit any fucker who uses the wrong ones with me. With that logic, I did the right thing.” The clansman couldn’t keep retreating, but that fire would ignite his hair if he wasn’t careful. However unnatural, the spellwork was powerful, without a doubt.
Ymir circled the flaming orc. His sword wasn’t burning; neither was the professor’s white hair.
“Smart and strong.” Gharam slurped spit from his tusks. “You are a greasy one, aren’t you? Be that as it may, if another scholar is tormenting you, the right course of action is to report them to your college’s Studia Dux.”
The orc had taken a defensive position, waiting for Ymir to attack.
The clansman continued to circle Gharam, forcing the Gruul to follow his movements. “Professor Leel doesn’t care much for me. And I won’t tattle like a child.”
“This isn’t the Frozen Land. You cannot beat scholars you don’t like. There are rules. You will follow them, or we will expel you.” More slurping. Ymir was getting used to it, and he couldn’t help but admire this beast man.
The orc seemed to be ambidextrous, but he favored his right side. The clansman could use that. “How is it on the Blood Steppes? Do you whine to your king if someone is being mean?”
“We have chieftains, boy. But, no, we have the arena to settle our grudges. Even then, there are rules. We are not animals, not there, not on the tundra, and not at the Majestrial. We are all a thinking people.”
“You and I both know I won’t get along very well at this fucking school unless I show these children I’m not to be trifled with.” Ymir drew close, feinted, and stepped back to avoid a sweep of the Gruul’s stick. “Word has already spread that I am dangerous. I doubt there will be any more trouble.”
Diving forward, Ymir rolled across the grass, came up, and struck.
The orc beat away Ymir’s sword and then threw a punch, knuckles on fire.
Ymir dodged the green fist. His clothes were drenched in sweat. Even then, he was surprised they didn’t burst into flames. The heat was intense. “I don’t need a lesson on compliance. I need boots. Can you help me with that?”
The fire blazed in a final inferno and then turned to wisps of smoke. Gharam dropped his guard and grinned. “I have an old pair I might be able to lend you.”
Ymir leapt forward and touched the point of his sword to the Gruul’s sweating chest. He tapped Professor Slurp’s breastbone three times, each one harder than the last. “That is good news.”
The orc snatched Ymir’s stick from him. Gharam threw a punch at Ymir’s face. Ymir lowered his head to take it on his skull. It hurt but didn’t do any damage. The clansman leapt back, fists raised.
Gharam laughed, shaking his head. “You, my friend, you are something special. By the bloody pits of Goyyoat, it’s a good thing they put you in the Flow. In Sunfire, you might have killed someone. Gather up those sticks and come with me. I’d be proud for you to wear my boots.”
The other scholars looked on, wonder in their eyes. Ymir had the idea each had gotten a beating from the orc teacher that day.
The clansman and the Gruul professor carried the training weapons into the armory at the bottom of the Sunfire Tower. Ymir noticed another locked gate blocking entry to steps leading down into a dungeon.
Ymir followed Gharam into the Imperial Palace. The faculty apartments were in the north section of the citadel, three floors of rooms. The orc professor lived on the bottom floor, farthest away from the Librarium. The place had many rooms, its own bathroom, and a kitchen. The entry room had both armor and weapons cast about.
On a hook by the door hung a big circle of bronze with keys hanging down. Ymir made a mental note of that key ring. He didn’t much like locks.
Through a doorway, Ymir saw a bedroom with one big pile of furs and blankets, neatly folded, on a mattress that could sleep four orcs easily. Other rooms were visible through doorways, decorated with curtains, candles, and other knickknacks. A window showed the Sunfire Tower rising into the blue sky.
The orc didn’t apologize for the mess in the entry room. “All sparring aside, Ymir, both with words and weapons, you will need to be careful during your time here.”
Ymir was bemused. “At times I can see myself mastering these arts and graduating with my class. Other times, I find this whole school silly and a waste of my time. I have nothing in common with any of these children.”
“No, you don’t,” Gharam agreed. “They have not known our battles or our worries. Bloodshed gives one a certain perspective. And yet, there is a reason you are here. Trouble is brewing in the world as the Age of Isolation gives way to something else.”
“I will learn the Sunfire magic, will I not?” Ymir asked. “If I decide that perhaps having a dusza isn’t such a terrible fate.”
“You will.” Gharam threw a round metal shield that clattered on the floor. “We believe in training everyone equally in the four magics. But your foundation will be in the Flow.”
“So you’ve seen battle?” Ymir asked.
Gharam found the boots and lifted them. They were brown, big, and worn. Several sets of bronze buckles jangled. “Even before the rise of Gulnash, there were rogue Gruul who had the desire for empire poisoning their hearts. We would ride across the steppes on our horses to hunt them down. The city-states of the steppes give many a home, and stability, for fighting in the arena and for fucking our harems. War is a terrible thing.”
“So you have your arenas.” Ymir knew the wages of war, and he’d paid them, with the blood of his battle brothers.
“Mostly they are for the women,” Gharam said. He threw the boots down at Ymir’s feet. “The women battle for their choice of mates, and the best marry chieftains. Gruul chieftains have many wives, and even a simple warrior like me doesn’t have to spend his nights alone.”
That explained why some of the rooms were decorated, as well as the size of the bed. “The security guards? You are married to them?”
“To some,” Gharam pointed. “Try those boots on. I have five wives, which is sometimes enough and sometimes too many. You know one of them. Gurla, the Janistra Dux.”
Ymir sat on the floor and slipped his foot into the boot. It was too big, and he could easily wiggle his toes. Still, it felt confining. It was just one more cage for him.
“They fit?” the orc asked.
“Well enough. Why did you leave the steppes?” Ymir asked.
“Couldn’t be chieftain,” Gharam grunted and slurped. “Here, I have power I wouldn’t have had on the steppes. And I was always one to appreciate magic. Some of the Gruul are like you, suspicious of anything other than their own muscle. I wasn’t so small in my thinking.”
“I’m not fucking small.” Ymir slipped on the other boot and buckled it on.
Gharam let it go. “You could get wool socks for them. They’ll fit better. You don’t want to shop on the Sea Stair Market. Those are for the rich scholars. In StormCry, you’ll only have to pay half.”
“If I had any money.” Ymir sighed.
“Your people trade with the Frozen Sea fishermen, I know,” Gharam said. “You didn’t bring any shecks with you?”
“Spent them all on beer coming down here. Beer and food, when the huntin
g wasn’t good.” Ymir stood and stomped his feet. “You would’ve beaten me if I’d been wearing these. They would’ve slowed me down.”
“Lucky for you that you were barefoot.” Gharam slurped and gurgled with laughter. “Though, I let you touch me with the sword. I should’ve mashed your face.”
“Should’ve?” Ymir grinned and shook his head. “You didn’t. The power of words is nothing when faced with the facts of the world.” He paused, thinking. “There is an orc in the library, a pretty white-haired thing, who seems to love books far more than she loves me. Is she one of your wives?”
Gharam boomed laughter. “No, friend, that is Gatha, an imprudens scholar working in the Librarium. Her story is as strange as your own. You will not win her heart.”
“I don’t need to own her heart. I would like to play with her body. She is interesting, savage, and strong.”
“Like we are.” Gharam nodded and stuck out a big hand. “The Homme of the Frozen Land are not so different from the Gruul of the Blood Steppes. We fight amongst each other, we value strength in arms above all, and we love our freedom.”
Ymir took the big paw in his own, then dropped it. “And yet, your people gave up war for arenas, and the freedom of the sky for the stone ceilings of your city-states. You and I should have a beer sometime, so you can tell me why.”
“That’s for history class.” Gharam slurped.
“I plan on sleeping through that nonsense. I didn’t come here to become a soft-assed scholar.” Ymir laughed at his own joke. “Besides, I doubt they would like me swilling beer there, and you would make it far more interesting. There are inns on the Sea Stair Market. Do you frequent them?”
The orc shook his head. “The rich fishermen like it there, and the scholars drink there, and some faculty. It’s like going to fucking work. No, when I feel like getting good and drunk, I go to StormCry, to a harbor hole called the Angel’s Kiss. You get local fishermen and some of the more adventurous scholars, but mostly it’s merchants from all over this world of Raxid. It’s a rough place, the beer is piss, but it’s cheap, as is the whisky. And it’s a good place to fight.”
“I’ll need money then.” Ymir wondered how he could make that happen. He stomped the boots, trying to get used to them. “Are you attending this First Day Festival tonight?”
“I have to be there.” Gharam made a face, and spit dripped off his tusks. “You weren’t wrong about losing freedom. But sometimes, to become stronger, we have to bear the burden of certain chains. We are all enslaved to something. Take care you choose the right kind of master to serve.”
Grandfather Bear had said something similar to him. But the answer, the only correct answer, ever, had been to serve the Black Wolf Clan, to help his battle brothers, to be kind to his sisters, to honor the elders, and to watch after the strong children. The weak were given to the storms. It seemed, in Thera, this wasn’t the case.
“I only serve myself,” Ymir said firmly, showing only his confidence and not his doubts.
“Then you will be a lonely man,” Gharam said.
The clansman flinched inwardly at the image of him turned into some mad, inhuman thing by the magic within him.
The orc continued. “We believe you’ll find your path, Ymir, son of Ymok. You have strode out of the North into a changing world. Many of us believe you have come here for a reason. And we are curious to see what that reason is.”
Another mysterious “we” from these damn professors. They must all be allied.
Ymir had grown tired of the conversation. “Words are mere words, and you are drowning me in them. Thanks for the boots. I’ll see you around.”
“Stay out of trouble,” Gharam said seriously.
“Stop your fucking slurping.” Ymir tromped out of the apartment, shaking his boots, first left and then right. He’d never get used to the fucking things.
“I’ll stop slurping if you keep your eyes the same fucking color, clansman! From brown to blue to brown! Pick one and stay with it!” Gharam Ssornap’s loud laughter echoed through the stone hallway. “That boy has promise, by the pits he does.”
Ymir liked the sound of that. Now, to get money, and to find a way out of his cleaning work. He needed to focus on the first thing, not get tangled in words or waste his time carrying a mop bucket. He hadn’t come south to sweep hallways.
There were others far more suited to the task.
Chapter Sixteen
THAT NIGHT AT THE FIRST Day Festival, Ymir stood on the side of the feasting hall. The bird meat, sitting on a layer of mashed root vegetable, was tolerable. The best part of the meal was the creamy gravy.
Toriah had been too busy to help him, and so he’d waited in line with the rest of the scholars, and then he took his usual place. He leaned against the wall, looking for Lillee. He’d not seen her since she’d stormed out of the Flow Tower after that bitch professor, Issa Leel, had made her stay after class.
Ymir did notice Gatha, the orc librarian, who ate quickly and left. She seemed annoyed at the crowds. She didn’t give him a smile like she had the day before. Pity, that. At least he had a name.
When Jennybelle Josen strode by him, her eyes dropped to his boots, and she nodded agreeably at him. He nodded back. He liked their new friendship.
While Ymir ate, he thought of the musicians setting up their instruments in the Throne Auditorium. He’d done some checking. The Painted Pen Guild was a network of artists from all over Thera who specialized in stories, painting, music, and the other arts. There were other guilds—the Undergem for merchants, the Knowing for engineers, and the Bloody Dawn for mercenaries. So many people on Thera doing so many things, and all organized into groups. Most everyone served masters. Maybe, chained together, the people were stronger, like the tundra clans, where no one could survive alone. Possibly, but Ymir didn’t like the idea of being chained to anyone not family.
Speaking of unwanted servitude, Gharam Ssornap looked miserable at the faculty table, his meal finished and his strange white eyes glancing balefully at his cup. Even though they weren’t serving the watered-down beer, the liquor they were serving wasn’t nearly strong enough for either the orc or Ymir.
Now that he knew the truth, the clansman noticed how three of the security guards glanced at their husband, comfortable with him and somewhat adoring.
Gharam was a good kind of creature, and another friend to add to Ymir’s growing list. He counted Siteev Ckins, the Moons professor, among them. She sat between the Princept and Professor Leel.
His thoughts returned to Gharam’s harem. Having multiple wives was a strange thought for Ymir. The tundra clans were mostly monogamous; a husband and a wife with their children. Sex outside of marriage, however, was common because most men and some women had a straying eye. As long as the three questions were answered appropriately, a single night of passion with a stranger was only a single night. Get drunk, get sex, the sun would still rise in the morning.
It seemed the Ax Tundra had been spared the Withering. Ymir didn’t know the cause, but he’d done some reading. The Age of Withering had made it hard for women to get pregnant. When they did swell with new life, nine times out of ten it was a little girl. The Age of Discord had wiped out most of the men, and so it was mostly women left.
The Gruul, the Homme, and the Ohlyrra had all been affected. The Morbuskor seemed to have done better, which explained why there were far more male dwarves than females. Toriah Welldeep seemed like the only one, and he wasn’t sure why.
Surveying the tables, he noted the scholars were mostly women. Many of the boys sat together with Darisbeau Cujan, the viscount, and Odd the Smirk. Daris’s eyes were blackening nicely on his swollen red face. None of them even glanced at Ymir, which was just as well.
The clansman left the feasting hall, walked through the Librarium, and yes, there was Gatha, at a table lit by a Sunfire lantern, reading. He wouldn’t bother her. He’d done enough fighting that day.
As he approached the Throne Auditorium, he
heard the strains of music, a collection of instruments playing, and a drum thudding. He stepped inside the hall and stood behind the pew where he’d floated upward that morning. There were three long benches in the back for onlookers. Most of the furniture had been removed to open the floor, for dancing it seemed. What kind of dancing? He had no idea. The clans danced around the fire during different rituals, which included a great deal of seesee berry wine or tundra wheat beer aged in buried wooden vats.
Ymir knew this would be far less wild.
The four smaller chairs had been lifted off the dais. The grand throne remained, since it seemed to have been drawn up from the stones of the platform as one piece. Form magic would’ve done that—the spellwork of engineers. Fucking magic seemed to be everywhere at the Majestrial.
All the musicians were elves—one drumming, two playing long-stemmed instruments, and one tooting on a flute. They all wore Moons robes. Ymir wasn’t sure if they were scholars or not. None of them had the face tattoos, but they had the forearm cuffs: two with silver vines, one with gold, and the drummer wore platinum.
A few of the students swayed happily in the open space, eyes half closed.
The Black Wolf Clan had their songs, beaten on elk-skin drums with melodies piped on carved wooden fifes. Drinking songs, war songs, birth songs, funeral dirges, and even a few bawdy poems of wanton women and lusty men.
He felt the beat in him and enjoyed the overlapping melodies of the stringed instruments and that flute, tweeting a tune.
He felt icy fingers crawl up his spine and he gripped the back of the bench in case he left the floor again. Instead, he saw a cell, and there sat Lillee on her bed, her face tearstained. He wondered, briefly, what color his eyes were, and if he was glowing or not.
He shivered the feeling away and smoothed the hairs on his arms. At least he’d found his Ohlyrran friend.
In short order, he was descending through the Sea Stair Market, where the shops were mostly closed and the inns nearly empty. Sunfire torches flickered in the night. After the music ended in the Throne Auditorium, he imagined the staircase inns would fill.
