Grak: Orc on Vacation (Orc PI Book 2)

by Joseph J. Bailey

  Avoiding unnecessary flash and pomp is often a good survival strategy.

  As monsters, we are all about survival.

  And full bellies.

  I scrambled down the mountain’s rough slope, using exposed rocks and tree trunks to wend my way toward the trail leading to the nearest cave mouth.

  Cretus’s drop had left me high on the mountain, above where most pedestrian Undercity entrances are located. A few openings higher up the slope show the constant movement of airfoils and other flying objects.

  Having had enough of flying, and falling, I chose to use one of the lower byways intended for foot traffic.

  The trip to the nearest lane carved into the mountainside was not long. I made the most of my trip by making sure Cretus would not be back for a second round of frivolities.

  Note to self: get a knife.

  At least then I could exit Cretus’s nets on my own terms.

  Mostly.

  The foot traffic on the nearest byway was relatively thin. Most visitors and denizens of the depths have the good sense to enter the Undercity through one of many access points much farther down the mountain, toward the valley bottom.

  Generally, I would be one of those denizens.

  Today, I was thankful I was not.

  Being below would have meant that my fall had been that much farther.

  Seeing a dirty, roadworn orc scramble out from the undergrowth did little to raise the hackles of the group of ogres and trolls going by as I emerged from the vegetation near the trail.

  I raised a hand in salutation and was lucky to receive a single grunt in reply from the towering ogre in the lead.

  My fame had preceded me.

  I waited for the ogres, boulder-like in their ponderous bulk, to pass before falling in a few dozen paces behind the tall, swaying trolls bringing up the rear of the group.

  Although I was dirty and my clothes were torn from the fall, my hygiene had never been an issue around ogres and trolls. This group commanded a healthy space as they trudged toward the cave mouth a few hundred paces ahead.

  The combined odor of their pack was enough to drop birds from nearby trees.

  I respected their aura of pungent putrescence and maintained distance as dictated by the prevailing breeze.

  The mouth of the cave leading to the Undercity was guarded by two commanding Home Guard. One was a nebulous extradimensional spheroid that floated in the air wreathed in liquid waves of indurate power. The other was a goliath humanoid that looked to be part ape, part reptile, and all intimidation. He, she, or it was garbed in the traditional crystalline armor of the Guard, though the armor was large enough that I could fit within it several times over.

  It would take a small army to breach the entry if the Guard decided to hold it.

  Luckily for me, I was just an orc ready to go home.

  And then go get a drink.

  “Afternoon, Grak,” said the gigantic scaled gorilla as I passed between him, or her, and the floating alien orb. The Guard tilted its giant halberd toward me respectfully.

  I smiled warily and nodded in turn.

  The blade of the Guard’s radiant enchanted halberd was almost as long as I was tall. If he let the halberd fall, I would not be surprised if it could slice through boulders.

  I made sure to show him plenty of respect.

  My home was a long way down and into the mountain from here, and I didn’t need any more excitement.

  Not deterred, looking forward to the not-so-joyful reunion with Draypheus to come, I walked into the shadows of the Undercity, glad to be home and alive.

  8

  The cavern ahead was filled with a soft azure luminescence emanating from phosphorescent slime coating the walls and ceiling in a thick carpet. Iridescent tendrils of goop hung suspended from the roof like great strands of glowing blue mucus, while cascades of ooze congealed and shifted along the walls in irregular rivulets of living goo. The surface wobbled and shifted in odd patterns as though numerous stones were being dropped into a still pond, causing ripples across its surface.

  Except there were no stones or pond here.

  Lights flickered and dimmed with the internal movements of the glop, but there was always enough glow to fully illuminate the passage.

  Not only did this ciliated ooze light the passage for visitors to this section of the city, it also served as a primary defense.

  Any attackers who somehow managed to breach Alyon’s defenses and were foolish enough to attempt entry at this cave would be devoured by a tidal wave of insatiable ooze.

  Unlike some others, I hurried through as quickly as possible.

  Although I pretended that my rush was not because I could be engulfed by a giant protoplasmic monstrosity, the thought of walking through a monster’s gullet was a bit disconcerting.

  Even to me.

  This gaping maw could be another reason that this entrance to the Undercity was not so commonly used.

  Despite the ominous entry, the cityscape beyond—known by its residents as the Mires—is fully robust and alive. A vast cavern opens up past the outer cave. Hundreds of paces tall and far wider, homes and businesses hang from the walls and ceilings of this yawning inner cave, suspended and interconnected by intricate networks. Here, too, the walls are lined with the glowing slime.

  The locals feed the ooze their leftovers and scraps, keeping it healthy while it helps keep the residents safe from outside threats.

  At the bottom of the chamber, a great pool drinks in the walls’ iridescence, helping to keep the district humid and moist for its denizens. Most of the populace here are a bit like the walls—mucilaginous and native to some cave, crack, or cranny.

  Despite the district’s dank, effusive charm, this is one area of the Undercity I rarely frequent.

  On a positive note, with the high humidity and the ready supply of rejuvenating slime, residents of the Mires are known to have some of the best skin in all of Alyon.

  I slipped and slid my way downward along the glowing byways heading out of the Mires and deeper down into the mountain toward home.

  There are, of course, quicker ways to get around the city, both the Undercity and Alyon itself.

  Many of these options, however, involve teleportation of individuals.

  With my magic resistance, teleportation does not work on me.

  At least, not directly.

  If a region that I am in is teleported, like the area under the mountain when I was rescued from ANGST’s collapsed lair, I can teleport just fine.

  If, however, I am the direct target of teleportation, as is generally the case with most teleportation systems in the city, then I am out of luck.

  This means I have the pleasure of walking fair Alyon and her many districts far more than most. Since I am a detective, this helps me learn my way around the city far more intimately as well.

  So, while I might complain, I was not complaining.

  At least not too much.

  So, though it took time, eventually the sight of home arrived.

  Which was not necessarily a bad thing.

  Although it may be true that absence makes the heart grow fonder, I can say fondness was all but absent as I looked upon the entrance to my cave.

  I think the door is the most handsome part of my apartment. However, like any good adventure, the journey has to begin somewhere, and mine usually begin when I open the door to my place.

  This is not to say that some grand adventure awaited within my flat. Far from it. In fact, my home is the opposite of adventure. How something so small, drab, and uninteresting can constantly fill me with unexpected surprises is something of an adventure, because I never know exactly how the depressing wonderment will begin.

  So, with only minor trepidation—two of the last doors I had opened had ported me to ANGST lairs, one a dungeon and the other the headquarters of the gnomes’ mad attempt to turn Alyon’s Citizens into monsters—I unlocked my door and went inside.

  As I looked around, m
y heart sank.

  Mostly because nothing had changed.

  My home was still the size of a modest closet, with my unmade bed that doubles as a couch on one wall and the counter which serves as my kitchen and dining room on the opposite. Directly ahead of me, the door to my glorious ‘standing room only’ bathroom-shower combo mocked me with its inadequacy.

  The big surprise was that my roommate was still here. Draypheus, Alyon’s most unfae faerie dragon, was slumbering on the countertop exactly where I had last seen him. I supposed I shouldn’t be surprised. If ever I moved out, I decided, I would just tell the next owners he came with the apartment.

  I knew Draypheus was still on the counter not because his scintillating scales lit up the room like a faerie party raging at the peak of summer solstice—they did not—but because the silhouette of his head did not quite match up with the cover of the one book I owned where it rested on the bound surface.

  That book is his favorite pillow, and my countertop is his favorite bed.

  Otherwise, Draypheus was almost invisible. He nearly always is, because he blends in so well that almost no one ever knows he is there.

  At least, until they go to find leftovers. Then his presence becomes all too clear.

  The absolute lack of welcome from my lazy, deadbeat faerie dragon roommate came as no surprise.

  What came next, however, did.

  “Welcome home, sir! Is there any way that I may be of assistance?

  “Would you perhaps like a nice cup of warm tea, a particular meal, or a soothing shower?

  “Would you like your sheets turned down?

  “Do you have any errands that need completing?”

  My jaw nearly dropped to the floor. An Abstract had taken up residence at my house!

  Abstracts, or Aspects, are independent intelligences that are part of the larger superintelligence, the Construct, that helps govern and manage the city.

  Far brighter and more capable than the average Citizen, especially me, Abstracts play essential roles in the lives of many of Alyon’s residents.

  Aspects had not, however, played much of a role in mine.

  Mostly because I could not afford one.

  Instead, I had relied on the public Abstract system when needed, which, while adequate, was nowhere near as capable as a dedicated Abstract devoted only to its owner’s needs.

  An Abstract is a bit like a superintelligent djinn, able to provide many of its owner’s basic requirements. These capabilities range from offering information beyond the scope of almost any expert in specialized branches of knowledge to summoning food and creating garments.

  My brother Gruke— the diminutive agent of destruction who lives in the pouch at my waist—has his own Abstract, but I had never personally owned one.

  “Call me Grak,” I said before the questions could begin again.

  “Yes sir, Grak,” came the cheery reply. “Do you have any needs that are presently unmet?”

  I was getting depressed already, listening to the thing’s positivity.

  I could see it had been life-changing for Draypheus as well. I wonder if Draypheus even knew the Abstract had taken up residence in our home. He was probably about as aware of the Aspect as he was of me.

  Which was to say, not at all.

  “I just got out of the hospital after a mountain was dropped on my head. Some quiet would be nice.”

  “Yes, sir! Sir!”

  I sighed.

  “Feel free to do whatever it is you do for enjoyment while I take a shower and rest.”

  “Gladly, Grak, sir!”

  “You can tone your eagerness down a bit as well.”

  “You’ve got it, Grak!”

  I could already see that we were a match made in Heaven.

  As I walked toward my spacious shower, sized generously for an orc a quarter of my size, I asked, “Did Yocto send you as some kind of joke? Are you here to torment me?”

  “No, sir! I am here to help! The Construct sent me in appreciation of your efforts on the city’s behalf, sir!”

  “Be sure to tell the Construct I said, ‘Thanks.’” My grumble was full of sarcasm that I was certain the Abstract would blithely ignore.

  This was a very nice gesture from the city, one I should be very thankful for, since the value of a dedicated Abstract was far beyond the value of my sad little home many times over.

  Even if I had to put up with the thing.

  Despite my petty annoyance, all in all, things had turned out pretty well. We had managed to save the city from gnome terrorists mutating Citizens into monsters, I had gotten a lifetime supply of free drinks, and the city had given me an Abstract that could help me in future cases.

  If I could survive all the help it was offering.

  As I stepped into the shower—read, ‘struggled to force my way through a scrawny doorway sized for a prepubescent gnome, not an oversized orc’—I decided to make use of the Abstract.

  “Scan all the public records relating to me and learn everything you can, if you have not done so already.

  “Then, make an outfit that you think is suitable for me to change into after I shower.”

  This would be fun.

  That was, until I reemerged from the shower feeling refreshed to find that my Abstract thought I was a clown.

  Or part Paratechnologist.

  Folded neatly on the floor outside the shower door was a garment of truly gnomish tastes. The pants shimmered in liquid waves of iridescent insanity. The shirt wavered between visible, invisible, and atrocious.

  I knew exactly what was happening here.

  The Construct thought I was out of my mind and was recording my reactions for posterity.

  And to laugh at later.

  Not having much in the way of clothing that had not been destroyed by past exploits, I took a deep breath, swallowed my pride, forgot my manhood, and put on the shimmering veil of madness that my Abstract had decided best suited my personality.

  “Do you like it?” came the eager disembodied voice as I finished putting on my new leisure suit.

  “It’s lovely,” I lied.

  If a demon and an angel had an argument about what to wear to a party, this outfit might be the resulting compromise.

  One where everyone lost.

  Especially in this compromise.

  I needed a drink.

  Good thing I had an unlimited tab at the King’s Crown.

  9

  There’s nothing like having it all—decent clothes excluded—to make you realize how little you really have.

  I had a roof over my head—nice sturdy stone, I might add—a steady stream of income coming from Alyon’s medical community after licensing my unique healing factor to them, and a lifetime supply of free spirits—alcohol being one of many.

  I had almost everything an orc could want.

  Except I didn’t have much of anything worth having.

  Sure, I had a few friends (mostly people like Kordeun, Orthanq, and Yocto, who generally tolerated me), a few prized possessions (not too many folks I knew had a well-nigh indestructible chain belt made by the height of Paratechnological Craft), a somewhat capable Abstract, and a newly upgraded, fully immersive projection system to enjoy the best Wizarding viewing experience in all of Alyon, but my life felt sadly shallow.

  Empty, even.

  Even more disconcerting, this emptiness could not be filled with beer.

  Or more beer.

  I was an orc adrift in the sea of otherworldly splendors that was Alyon.

  What was I to do?

  I ordered another drink.

  “Orthanq, could a get a mocha berry blast infusion with a sprinkle of charru root and a dash of oomba extract?”

  I felt like such an elf.

  But Doctor Ilnyea had said I needed to eat and drink healthier, so I was trying.

  The King’s Crown was filled with monsters and other denizens of Darkness enjoying their food and drinks of choice.

  Although it mi
ght not exactly be my first choice, I was enjoying the healthy drinks Orthanq was mixing up for me.

  The demonoid sitting at the bar next to me had a head slit vertically along three axes. Its head opened to form a vertical maw used to gulp down food like some underwater leviathan. Drinks were engulfed as quickly as heaping plates of horrifically noxious foods. Often, both food and drink were consumed simultaneously as it threw whatever was in front of it into its mouth with the help of numerous spider-leg-like appendages.

  The demon snorted disdainfully as it looked me up and down from several angles with the eye polyps spaced evenly around its misshapen head, the eyes located on the lobes that opened to reveal its cavernous mouth.

  “You don’t belong here, mortal.” The demon’s voice resonated from within his head like it was some kind of echo chamber.

  I waited for my drink.

  The bar was busy. I had not seen the King’s Crown like this in months.

  After the transmutagen had finally been cured by the Construct, Orthanq’s business at the King’s Crown had picked up nicely. The King’s Crown was now filled with monsters, demons, and other scum, the type of clientele most parts of the city would prefer to lock out instead of invite in. These were certainly not the types other establishments outside the Undercity would want to form the basis of their business.

  Offworlders might run away in fear.

  And take their currency with them.

  Orthanq was hovering behind the bar, his many slime-coated tentacles passing drinks out as quickly as they were ordered from one end of the counter to the other. His numerous bulbous eyes regarded each customer directly. Thanks to his independent arms, he could serve more patrons at once than the entire staff at most restaurants.

  “Be right there, Grak!”

  Unlike Gullet Head, Orthanq appreciated my new healthy choice in drinks, not because they were better for me—his number one customer—but because my choice saved him money.

  Lots of money.

  Since I had saved his bar, Orthanq had agreed to give me all the drinks I could order. Forever.