by J. Langland
“It can be used for several things, but for bread, it makes it bubbly,” Fed Tal said.
“So you will not want to use it in Schwarzenfürze’s wargmeal!” Tal Gor joked, and they all laughed.
“In any event, there are a dozen other sacks of things: potatoes, turnips, ginger, beets. I won’t bore you with the entire list,” Vespa said.
Virok came back and nodded to Vespa. “We are set, commander. Whenever you and Tal Gor are ready, we are ready for Lord Tommus.” Vespa looked to Tal Gor.
“I am ready. My brother Bor Tal has a fire started over there.” He pointed to the far side of the staging area, away from the wargtown. Quite a number of orcs were watching them from the town, obviously curious as to what they were up to. Given that the wagons that had brought the barrels had left and the orc they had rented the other wagon from was returning with it to Murgatroy, there was no obvious way for them to transport their goods.
Tal Gor went over by the fire and stared into it while reaching for the summoning stone. As he had done yesterday, he cleared his head and began a ritual chant that calmed his mind and let him reach out to Lord Tommus over the link, using the fire as a bridge. It was surprisingly easy.
Lord Tommus, we are ready, Tal Gor thought through the link.
One moment, came the reply. A few silent moments passed and then suddenly the small campfire blazed up higher and higher. When the flames became larger than the amount of wood present would permit naturally—taller than Tal Gor—reality split itself down the middle of the flames.
Tal Gor was certain that no matter how many times he saw this, it would still disconcert him. It simply was not natural; one’s mind instinctively recoiled from the sight of the overlaid realities. Lord Tommus stepped through, and Tal Gor and the nearby orcs all stepped back, overcome by the awesome sight of their lord.
Tal Gor could hear a scream or two coming from the wargtown as people started fleeing in terror. He had thought the town to be far enough away, but he must have been wrong. The D’Orcs started chuckling as they looked back to the town to see the wide range of reactions.
Lord Tommus looked at their haul and smiled broadly. “Excellent! Much more than I had hoped for! Hezbarg is going to love you!”
~
“Aggghhhh!” Fer-Rog bellowed as he exhaled the breath he had been holding.
Rupert grinned. The funny part, aside from the fact that Fer-Rog did not actually need to breathe, was that when the D’Orc let the air out of his lungs, he expanded rather than contracted.
“That is really hard!” Fer-Rog exclaimed.
“You managed to stay orc sized for over a minute!” Rupert exclaimed, clapping. “That’s great progress, given that you did your first shape-change this morning!”
“Whooo, it is so hard to hold that smaller form. I have no idea how I am going to make my wings disappear or change my appearance and keep it all together.” He shook his head in frustration.
“Yeah, but the fact that you could make yourself shrink means you can do it. It will just take time and lots of practice,” Rupert told him.
“Well, watching you do it through that link thing was what did the trick. Once I could sort of ‘feel’ you do your own change, it gave me a place to start,” Fer-Rog said.
“It just feels weird though, like I’m going to explode at any moment when I’m in that smaller form,” Fer-Rog observed.
“Well, just think about my dad. He squeezes down from his normal size to a skinny human for days at a time!” Rupert said. “I myself only have to squeeze down about a foot or so. Can you imagine being in a body about one-third your normal size?”
“Not at all. But then your dad is Lord Tommus; I bet there is very little he can’t do,” Fer-Rog replied.
“Well, I…” Rupert trailed off as he felt the link from Tom. He mentally let Tom know they were out a little ways and needed to return to camp and that he would summon him as soon as they got back. It was rather weird how one communicated over the link like that. It was not so much thought as… he had no idea. “We need to head back to camp,” he said to Fer-Rog. “The orcs are ready to return.”
“That sucks! I’d like to stay here longer!” Fer-Rog complained.
“Yeah, I know. This has been fun!” Rupert said, motioning for them to head back towards the camp.
~
“I think we’ve got everything we need,” Tal Gor said to Vespa as the last of the supplies they had requested from Murgatroy were brought through the portal: specifically a barrel of glargh, one of beer and a sack of potatoes. “We haven’t unsaddled the D’Wargs yet; we should do that now, I am thinking,” he added.
He and almost half the orcs were on the Astlan side of the gate along with Fer-Rog, Rupert, Virok and Vespa. The rest were in the cooled staging area where the D’Wargs were.
Vespa smiled and shook her head. “That’s okay, we are going to take them back to their cave and unsaddle them there so we don’t have to lug all the tack back to the cave as well.”
“Okay, then.” Tal Gor gestured to the rest of his tribe, who were still in the Abyss. “Say the last of your goodbyes and come back through!”
“Vespa, Virok, it has been our honor to hunt with you!” Tal Gor told the D’Orcs.
“Tal Gor, it has been our honor to hunt with you. May we hunt again soon!” Virok said as Vespa grinned and nodded.
“Ouch!”
“What the…?”
“Move it or I’m going to get trampled!”
“Argh!!!”
There was a lot of yelling coming through the portal as orcs who had been trying to come through were suddenly shoved aside and started falling over. Vespa frowned. “What the Abyss is going on over there?” she yelled.
“It’s that—” someone yelled before being cut off.
There was a large, splattery, moist, sickening explosion on the other side of the gate. Suddenly the cursing doubled, along with the shouts and yells of orcs and D’Orcs. The immediate area of the gateway completely cleared and out came Schwarzenfürze! She burst through the gateway, still saddled, wings batting away anyone trying to stop her.
She plunged through the orcs on this side of the gate, even as they had begun to scatter as the hideous stench released by the D’Warg’s bowels floated through the gateway. Bor Tal had been next to the gate; he bent over retching, as did several others.
“Damn!” Vespa cursed as the smell finally reached her nose. “I knew we shouldn’t have fed the D’Wargs!”
Schwarzenfürze charged across the staging area and then circled around to the other side of the camp.
“Tar Roth Non!” Vespa yelled through the gateway. “Get your damn D’Warg!”
Tar Roth Non stumbled through the gateway, his eyes still watering from the deadly miasma released by the cranky old D’Warg. He launched into the air and flew over to where Schwarzenfürze was parked on the other side of camp. Tal Gor and several others, including Vespa, ran over there too.
When they arrived, they found a showdown in progress. Schwarzenfürze was standing stiff legged, claws dug into the ground and baring her truly ferocious teeth at Tar Roth Non, who was trying to convince her to come with him.
“What is wrong with that D’Warg?” Vespa demanded.
“She doesn’t want to go back to Mount Doom,” Tar Roth Non said.
“No warg dung!” Virok cursed.
“She was in Mount Doom and when we started coming back, she charged through with us!” Fel Nor noted.
“Apparently she wants to stay in Astlan?” Vespa said, shaking her head.
“Why?” Tal Gor asked.
Virok snorted. “She’s Schwarzenfürze—you do not ask why with her. Remember, we did not ask why she wanted to come to Astlan in the first place and then wanted you to ride her. You are the first person in well over four thousand years to ride her. In fact, I would argue only the second, maybe third person ever.”
Vespa sighed. “Fine. Be that way, you crazy bitch!” she snarled a
t Schwarzenfürze. “She’s been a huge pain for everyone at Mount Doom. If she wants to stay here, I will ask Lord Tommus to let her stay.” She glared at the D’Warg.
“You do understand, Schwarzenfürze, that if Lord Tommus orders you back, you will be going back?” Vespa asked the D’Warg, who simply narrowed her eyelids.
Vespa flew over the camp to the portal to seek out Lord Tommus. Tal Gor turned his attention back to Schwarzenfürze. Why would she want to stay here? This D’Warg was mighty strange. Although, of course, since this was all completely new, all the D’Orcs and D’Wargs were strange.
Vespa flew back over and hovered in the air nearby. “Okay, Lord Tommus has agreed to let Schwarzenfürze stay, but she will need to report to Tal Gor. Is that clear?” She stared at the D’Warg, who stared back silently.
It was not as if the D’Warg could actually say yes, Tal Gor reflected. Wait a minute—that meant he, Tal Gor, was being entrusted with one of the nastiest death-dealing monsters from the depths of the Abyss that had ever walked the Planes of Orcs! Tal Gor reeled a bit at that thought. He almost felt giddy.
Vespa shrugged. “Back to the gate!”
They all headed back to the gate, the D’Orcs flying, the orcs walking.
The orcs had all come back through and Vespa was just following Virok through the gate by the time Tal Gor finally got back. He cursed his bum leg.
Lord Tommus was standing on this side of the gate. He grinned at Tal Gor. Of course, only the shaman link between them told Tal Gor that his lord’s hideously frightful expression was grin. Anyone else would think the demon was about to eat them.
Lord Tommus chuckled. “Good luck with your D’Warg, shaman. I expect you are going to need it.” He nodded to the orcs. “We appreciate your assistance and hope you have another good feast. We will hunt again!”
I shall contact you again in a day or so, Lord Tommus told Tal Gor in his head. With that, the demon lord stepped through the gateway, waving a final greeting to all, and the strange rip in reality suddenly vanished.
His tribe mates and hunting partners all started whooping and clapping their hands together to celebrate their adventure. Bor Tal came over and gave Tal Gor a very uncharacteristic hug. Tal Gor looked at him, shocked.
“I have never been more proud of you or any other family member in my life, brother!” Bor Tal told him. The other orcs all came and surrounded him, shouting “Tal Gor, Tal Gor” over and over again. Tal Gor’s chest was thudding so hard he was having trouble breathing. He had never felt so much a part of his tribe in all his life.
After several more minutes of shouting his name and joyfully punching him hard on the back, the side, the front and the head, they all started moving off to talk to the rest of the tribe.
“I better go check on Schwarzenfürze,” Tal Gor told his brother Bor Tal.
Bor Tal chuckled. “To repeat the words of our great Lord Tommus: good luck!”
Tal Gor chuckled and made his way back to where Schwarzenfürze was. She was still standing in the same place, looking wary. “It’s okay,” Tal Gor told the D’Warg. “The gateway is closed; no one is going to drag you back to Mount Doom against your will.”
The D’Warg looked at him for a few minutes, did some sniffing and then relaxed her legs and started walking over towards him. Tal Gor watched her, not sure what she wanted at this point. She got right up next to him and then began rubbing against him.
No, actually she was rubbing the harness and buckles against him. She wanted him to take them off. Tal Gor shrugged and began unsaddling the D’Warg. She stood relatively still and let him take of the saddle, the bags and holders and then the harness. He was sorting the pieces together, wondering where to store them—he guessed with the warg gear—when Schwarzenfürze just started wandering off toward the camp.
“Where are you going?” Tal Gor asked in vain, since there was no way she could answer him. He shook his head and gathered up the gear, or as much as he could easily carry, and lugged it off to where they stored the warg gear. He hoped the D’Warg would not eat any of his tribe while he was stowing the gear.
It took him two trips to lug all the gear and stow it with the warg tack. He had not heard any screaming, so he assumed she had not eaten anyone, or worse, farted. He looked around the camp but could not see her. He walked up to Soo An. “You didn’t see where Schwarzenfürze went, did you?”
His sister said nothing, but gave him a big smirk and then pointed behind him. He turned to see that she was pointing at his tent. He headed over there and raised the flap. It was especially dark inside for some reason; and then he saw why.
Schwarzenfürze had entered his small tent, knocking everything over. She was currently sprawled over his bedroll along with most of the rest of the interior, apparently sleeping! Tal Gor raised his hands helplessly. What was he going to do? There was barely room for him in the tent! Now that Schwarzenfürze had taken it, where was he going to sleep?
~
“My Lord?” Zelda asked, approaching Tom as he prepared to leave the staging area.
“Yes, Zelda?” Tom asked his steward with a smile.
“If you have a moment, this is Völund, the Smith of Doom,” Zelda said, introducing a short individual, meaning about six feet tall, who was somewhat hunched over, walked with a substantial limp, and did not have wings. Therefore, he was not a D’Orc, nor even an orc, although, he was almost ugly enough to be an orc.
“Völund, a pleasure to meet you.” Tom nodded at the smith.
“Likewise.” Völund shrugged and stood there.
Zelda stood for a moment waiting for the smith to say more, but apparently he had nothing more to say. Interestingly, he did not seem particularly awed or impressed by Lord Tommus. Tom was getting used to people being slack-jawed at the sight of him. In this case, however, Völund just stood there chewing tobacco or something similar. He appeared to be on the verge of spitting it out on the floor.
“Uhm,” said Zelda, shaking her head. “Völund here is in charge of making all our weapons and armor, but at the moment, more importantly, he is also in charge of the mint.”
“The mint?” Tom asked, puzzled.
“Yes, the mint,” Völund stated, and then said nothing more.
“You mean like a coin mint?” Tom asked.
“Yep,” the smith replied.
Zelda sighed and continued, “Naturally, once Mount Doom shut down, the metal founts solidified, and in fact without access to Midgard, the Planes of Orcs, we had no huge need of coins—”
“Now we do, so we do,” Völund interrupted, “and the founts are starting to run again.”
“Yes,” Zelda finished. “So Völund is seeking your permission to start minting new coins. He proposes to use the same denominations as before, but to replace the coin’s head with your portrait instead.”
“Uhm, okay.” Tom was not sure what to say.
“It will be much more efficient for trading with orcs and such,” Zelda said. “Right now, lumps of metal and gems are very imprecise payments, and we can’t be sure we are getting an accurate value for our treasure.”
Tom nodded. “That actually makes a lot of sense. They will take our coins in Midgard?” He was starting to like saying “Midgard” instead of “Planes of Orcs” or “Planes of Men.” It was much more efficient and he would not accidentally sound racist when talking to different groups.
He had never thought about it until he had heard the D’Orcs calling Astlan and the other planes “the Planes of Orcs,” but it did make sense that the term “Planes of Men,” as the wizards used, was hugely condescending and racist to all the other races and species living there. Not to mention the women. He wondered suddenly if there were tribes of Amazon women who referred to Midgard as the “Planes of Women.”
“Definitely. Foreign coins are never a problem. Every large merchant has an assayer, or has basic skills as one and can measure volume and weight to verify the density of a coin, and thus the value,” Zelda noted. “Ac
tually, it’s a skill most orcs learn early on. Since you can only carry so much loot from a city, you want to take the most valuable coins.”
“Back in the day, at the height of the Doompire,” Völund said, “our coins were more valuable than those stupid tokens the Courts issued.”
“The Doompire?” Tom asked.
Zelda shook her head, indicating it was not that important. “That was a slang term for the Empire of Mount Doom, as it was known for several thousand years. It was not an official title.”
“When was this?” Tom was curious.
“Shortly after the Courts realized we were here, so I’d guess between twenty thousand to five thousand years ago.” Zelda shrugged.
Tom gave a small shake of his head. The historical timeframes he was dealing with just kept getting longer and longer. It really took some getting used to.
“So,” Völund said, interrupting his thoughts. “Good?” The fellow was not a man of many words.
“Yes, I think it’s a great idea,” Tom said.
“Well enough.” Völund pulled some sort of contraption out of a bag that hung from his belt. He quickly brought it up to his eyes and pointed the other end at Tom. It appeared to be some sort of steampunk binoculars, with various odd protrusions and some extra crystals on little arms jutting out from the sides, top and bottom.
“Smile,” Völund said.
Puzzled, Tom smiled. Suddenly there was a huge flash of light and a crack of thunder. Tom blinked in surprise. As his eyesight cleared, Völund was lowering the device.
“Should have a proof of the casting by tomorrow. If approved, we can mint the inaugural coins right after we finish the ceremony, before I get too drunk,” Völund stated rather matter-of-factly. He then turned and walked away, muttering, “Looking forward to that drunk, so I am. Four millennia is too long to be sober.”
Tom gave a puzzled glance to Zelda as the smith walked away. “He’s not exactly social, but he is good at what he does. The only smith who can even compare is Hephaestus, and he’s a god,” Zelda told him.
