“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.”
“If I weren’t restrained right now, I’d shove that headdress so far up your toilet hole that you’d have to open your mouth to change the feathers,” interjected Whiska. “What are those from, anyway? A turdkey?”
(No, dear readers, “turdkey” is not a typographical error—they’re an offshoot of the turkey family that have their plumbing in a different spot—namely, right in the middle of their back, which means that, when they void waste, they end up covered with it. They’re disgusting. But, I should note, also delicious. Not the feathers—the bird itself, I mean. And their feces are sterile. Or so I’ve been told, though that may have just been to make me feel better about eating an animal that defecates on itself up to seven times each day.)
“Bold words for a captive rodent,” replied the High Chief. He nodded to our captors. “Ring the bells, and take them to the Ripper.”
“Practical with naming conventions, these orcs,” I said to Nadi as they dragged us away, Nadi and Whiska straining to break free as I walked calmly. It’s not that I wanted to die or was any less terrified than they were; I’m just a lot classier and generally more dignified.
A few moments later, we stood on a dais in the center of the settlement next to a very unpleasant rust-colored contraption that featured a flat surface about the size of a bed, chains and manacles, a giant spring mechanism, and a lever. A horizontal line in the middle of the flat section indicated that the device operated by binding the unfortunate victim by the hands and feet and pulling the lever to separate the two sections (and, presumably, the victim as well). That’s when I realized that it wasn’t rust that gave the device its color, but, rather, a whole lot of dried blood.
There were four poles with bells on top surrounding the square, and our captors pulled vigorously and enthusiastically on the ropes that hung from the bells, creating a deafening clang and clatter. “This might be worse than getting ripped in half!” I yelled, but I don’t think anyone could hear me very well, given that the only response I got was from one of my orc captors, who said something to the effect of, “I don’t believe in betting or math—they’re both sinful!”