~

Chapter Four

~

Hroli, our orc pilot, really likes to talk. In two hours she’d asked us passengers generically a hundred questions. Only waited a bit to discover no one else felt like chattin’. Still didn’t stop her from voicin’ her own thoughts. Askin’ more questions. Sharin’ more.

She has two sisters who stay home and care for a passel of orclings, a brother that creates sculptures the family sells in the Black Lake tourist shops. Sisters’ mates run a restaurant. She liked to sketch, but opted for pilotin’ to pay the rent. We learned a lot more than that.

Despite the wicked lookin’ teeth on orcs, they’re my favorite little people. Sweet, unassumin’ folk. The elven kind have pretty much disappeared. No one knows where. Gnomes returned to the other side with the dragons and fairies when the Witch Council opened the gateway for ’em, before lockin’ it closed behind ’em.

Maybe the elves went with ’em.

So all else I have to compare orcs with is dwarfs, and not much of anyone cares for dwarfs. Cantankerous sort. More apt to cleave a head in two than share a hello. Stay to ’emselves these days, up in the highlands. The cold don’t much bother ’em. It’s said they don’t care for humans at all. Ogres not so much either.

I had tried to keep myself busy with work. My connection remained good the entire trip, but the roar of the blades and the dual jet engines practically strapped to our backs made concentratin’ arduous, so I didn’t accomplish much, but I kept my face peerin’ at my screen so neither Jam nor Nuel would entertain conversation.

So why’s Nuel on her way to Black Lake? Unexpected. Especially since it’s the middle of the week and her buddy Ike is elbowin’ with Northerners in the opposite direction. Never got much of an explanation. Not that I asked for one. Didn’t care one way or the other.

They probably figured I muted the speakers in my headset. But to be honest, kind of enjoyed the orc’s rattlin’ on. Has a pleasant voice. But I’d violently deny that if anyone suggested it.

Much better than listenin’ to the news.

Ya flip on the news to hear all the propaganda worth stretchin’. The absurdity of the world’s politics. And to be sold a bottle of beer or an OM—Ogre Motors—truck.

One thin’ about the ogre world. Very calm. Little drama. We don’t like change. If humans practiced governin’ like ogres, their parliament would only meet a couple days, maybe quarterly. Be a lot less stress and argument, social discontent.

Maybe the old Ogre Industries, now UI, manages most everythin’ that goes on a lot better because ogres are all about doin’ what’s good for all—at least their entire clan. Not a lot of clan-clan backstabbin’ to get ahead.

Now to reach a social hierarchy—no one is better than dancin’ to look better and brighter—a better way to say, stabbin’ a soul in the back. Golly we like our complicated social structure.

I’d probably hate it, if I wasn’t born in my patriarchy. Bein’ a direct relative of the Ike son of Birs, is very special. First cousin to Ike son of Bliar isn’t quite the same but close.

The shimmer of the ice already coverin’ the Lake came in view as Hroli banked port for the airport. Never get tired of that view. Left and right the peaks screamed, “Look at us”. The forests tinged gray with the saltin’ of snow. More snow snaked here and there for no particular reason, like a drunken painter was unsure what kind of settin’ she was goin’ for. Or had never seen real snow in her lifetime.

Snow god is odd.

~

Nuel

~

Bliar, Ike´s pa, met us on the helipad. Wore a worried expression. My gut immediately tightened. What’s he doin’ here? He claims to be retired and spends most of his time on the North Slope.

The bull pulled me into a tight hug, clippin’ my cheekbone hard with his enormous tusk, but turned immediately and grabbed Kriz by the shoulder, propelled him toward the parkin’ lot, left me and Jam to stumble after ’em, Hroli shoutin’ a, “Good day to yall,” at our back.

“Who’s that?” Jam asked.

Oh. Suppose there was no reason he should know the bull, though a long time leader of the Range. This is Jam’s first trip to Black Lake, and Frip and Ponwr had protected Bliar when he last visited Ike on the Plain. I explained, and his narrow troll eyes broadened. A little like all folk who meet Ike for the first time. Somethin’ I hate. As though he’s someone special, the jerk. At least Bliar is all butterflies and honey. Good reason to love him.

When the four of us climbed into the OM three-row SUV and the doors were closed pressin’ back the windin’ down roar of the helo’s jet engines, Kriz made an awkward skyward motion.

Startin’ the SUV, Bliar mumbled. “Yeah, I’ll start over. We have a situation here.”

My stomach double clenched. In my experience, Bliar’s famous for understatement. When Northern cities were ablaze in riots, he called ’em a small ruckus not to worry about.

“A human visitor of the Lake got buggered up three days ago by one of us.”

“Buggered up?” I asked. Had I seen anything in the news? Couldn’t remember.

Bliar tilted his head sideways. “Beat to a bloody pulp.”

Okay, we’re easily riled, but more prone to blustery speech than fisticuffs, at least with non-giants. We know how fragile humans are. And ugly. No need to make ’em uglier.

“What kind of situation?” Jam asked.

Bliar thrust a finger at his side window. I jerked.

I hadn’t noticed before, but there were several other helicopters lined along the helipad, each of ’em sportin’ various stylish blue emblems. In my mind’s eye, I remembered the state trooper that chased us months ago on the Plain. The car had a similar markin’ on its door panels. That officer had been way outside of his jurisdiction.

“Those are from the Northern Justice Department,” Jam said.

I mumbled my doubts that they’d have any legal power here.

“Don’t, of course.” Bliar said. “But ’em humans don’t rightly care for our kind of justice.”

He explained the ogre had already been judged and sentenced, which startled me. That’s fast. But I was born up North, raised with the prejudice that the South is quite backward. And slow.

“Kind of fast even for Council doin’, ain’t it?” Jam asked.

Bliar remained quiet too long. I had started to prompt him when he continued.

“Delayin’, considerin’ the ill feelin’s already about these days, was in nobody’s best interest. And the bull was judged harshly by our standards.”

“Bloody pulp?” Jam hedged.

“It’s what he said to rile the bull, face-to-face as it was.”

I held my breath.

“He called the bull the B-word. To his face.”

Beast.