Grak: Private Instigator (Orc PI Book 1)

by Joseph J. Bailey

  Since I am not very good at math, my calculations would probably have sent me crashing into a mountain somewhere else instead of into orbit.

  The irony was not lost on me.

  As it was, my mass coupled with my unyielding hide left me embedded in the cliff some thirty paces above the entry to the Undercity.

  Whether Cretus had been aiming to send me hurtling directly into the cave mouth with his insane maneuver, perhaps in an attempt to kill every pedestrian unfortunate enough to be in the passage, or some even more ill-advised plan, like picking up another passenger, I could not say.

  I could say that, once I managed to wake up, I was so thoroughly embedded in the raw rock that it took me some time to extract myself.

  Not because I could not get out, but because I hoped that if I stayed within the crevice left by my impact, no one would notice me.

  Or, even better, those who had noticed me might forget I was there.

  Such was not my luck.

  I emerged from the imprint of my impact gracefully, in a mysterious cloud of dust.

  I missed my step and lost my balance as I withdrew, and tumbled artfully to the ground.

  My speed was such that I did not leave another imprint in the rock below.

  Thankfully, all the gaping onlookers watching my botched extraction in hushed awe had time to move aside as I fell ungainly to the road leading into the Undercity.

  “Don’t offer to help all at once,” I groaned as I attempted to gather what few wits were left to me.

  “Citizen Grak, do you require assistance?”

  The voice was speaking to me directly in my mind.

  Which was a bit weird, because it seemed like I was talking to myself.

  In which case I would already know that assistance would be welcome.

  If not exactly required.

  Without understanding why, I knew the voice came from one of the Home Guard standing by the entrance to the Undercity.

  The Guard are the city’s true defenders and champions. They are made up of all the races and creeds that call Alyon home. They hold to their high ideals and honor like I hold on to a good drink. By which I mean tenaciously and with a will.

  Garbed in shimmering, glassine arcane exoarmor, armed with eldritch weaponry of the quality sung about in ballads, the Guard are well-nigh unstoppable. This is good for Alyon’s Citizens, but not so good for her enemies.

  If one of the Home Guard crashed into the mountain, the mountain would bounce off.

  I was obviously not one of their number.

  Had I been in true danger, I was mostly certain they would have rushed to my aid.

  Since they had seen me make a spectacle of myself, inadvertently or not, on several occasions, their aid was perhaps less swift than might have been offered otherwise.

  “No,” I muttered weakly to myself, or my not-self. “Assistance was required before, not now.”

  The voice in my head became the not-voice in my head, for it left me in silence.

  Which was exactly like the bystanders gathered around.

  In true metropolitan fashion, after my cataclysmic crash and epic emergence, the onlookers dispersed without a word now that the excitement was over.

  A few might have lingered to take projections.

  Or offer muted applause.

  Or ask for my autograph.

  I was really in no condition to tell.

  The irregular imprint of my body on the mountainside, however, would tell the tale of my impact long after I had left.

  After a brief period spent in introspective recovery, a deep voice spoke beside me. “Ya look like ya could use a hand.” A callused hand reached down toward where I was performing a lizard impersonation, soaking up the day’s warmth from the carven stone lane.

  The voice and hand belonged to a dwarf.

  That alone captured the wonder that was Alyon, a place where a dwarf would offer an orcanda his hand in friendship and solicitude.

  I took the hand and stood, though I could have done so without it.

  Eventually.

  The dwarf was, like most of his kind, as solid as the stone from which they were born.

  Unlike most of his kind, at least when I saw them, he was unarmored, leaving most of his hairy chest bare to the sun.

  Quite a bit was hidden by his giant beard.

  Broad-shouldered and strong of limb, this dwarf would make a formidable adversary. Strapped across his back was a wicked, glowing two-handed axe inscribed with more runes than branches it had probably cut in my family tree. Tattoos danced and rippled across his skin—some depicting scenes from his or others’ pasts; others showed fantastical creatures, places, and things, while still others were of shimmering runes like those inscribed in his fearsome axe. His beard was formed of two thick braids that had been interwoven to form a single thick cord that reached down to his belt. Knotted within the tangle of his beard were kazzak, various tokens, trophies and keepsakes denoting his deeds and accomplishments, affiliations and status. Blazing eyes gleamed from beneath a thick brow, eyes that were as recessed as the entrance to a cave lit with burning fires within. The spiked mohawk atop his shaven head appeared jagged enough to impale any adversary not crushed by a ferocious headbutt from his thick skull.

  Despite his fierce demeanor, the warm smile that greeted me was full of a happy benevolence that accepted nothing less than its mirror given in kind.

  I liked him immediately.

  Smiling in return, I said, “Name’s Grak.”

  “Oh, I know who ya are, Grak. Ya’re about as well-known as tha Construct itself around here.”

  I did not want to be well-known.

  Mostly, I wanted to be left alone.

  But sometimes Cretus, and my impromptu performance art sessions, left no alternative.

  “Name’s Kordeun.” He said his name like the beat of some bowel-reverberating bass drum.

  “Wanna drink?” I asked.

  “Love one,” he answered.

  “I know just the place,” I replied as we moseyed on into the Undercity, two newfound acquaintances glad to be somewhere where we did not have to kill each other on sight.

  15

  Kordeun and I walked together into Orthanq’s bar.

  Orthanq waved a tentacle or three at our arrival.

  We were, much to no one’s surprise, the only ones here, excluding Orthanq.

  Two paying customers was double the normal clientele since the outbreak.

  As we approached the bar, the echoes of our footsteps strangely out of place given the Crown’s past vibrancy, Orthanq called out, “Any news, Grak?”

  I looked around.

  There were a few extra smears and stains around the place.

  Business was bad, but the transformations were worse.

  “Nothing yet, Orthanq.” I sighed with the news. I had hoped to be able to offer him more. “The contamination is not occurring during shipment through the city’s transport system or coming in through the docks. Crazy as those gnomes are, they seem to have the challenges of multidimensional shipment under control.”

  I resisted the urge to say, “Mostly.”

  “But,” I added, “that does not rule out tampering elsewhere during product delivery or after the goods are delivered.”

  I was stating the obvious, but sometimes it’s all you have.

  “The Paratechnologists also claim to be actively administering antidotes. So, things could be much worse, especially since they say the mutagen keeps changing and new forms are being introduced.”

  Orthanq nodded, musing, “If the central transportation and docking systems were compromised, things would be far worse.”

  “And tha Home Guard would be turnin’ over every stone in tha city,” added Kordeun.

  Many of Orthanq’s eyestalks bobbed in agreement once more.

  Pulling a stool up to the bar and sitting down with a welcome sigh, I asked, “When do you get your shipments, Orthanq?”

  “No time i
n particular,” he gurgled. “Most port in soon after they’re ordered. A few are delivered by drones.”

  “Are any hand delivered?”

  “A few,” he replied.

  “Do those come from the same merchants?”

  “It all depends. We have a wide variety of goods for our clients here, so we need quite a few suppliers.”

  I could not argue with that. In an interspecies bar like Orthanq’s, one favored by many atypical nonhumanoids and less than typical humanoids, not only did he have to provide food for hundreds of potential species, he had to find suitable drinks as well.

  In both cases, these were often made from many components.

  Keeping all those supplies sorted and on hand was a tactical nightmare beyond my low work and organizational tolerances.

  “But,” he offered, “most supplies come in before the bar opens.”

  Before the bar opened?

  The King’s Crown had an opening time?

  I was here all the time.

  Sometimes, I did not leave.

  When did it open?

  Seeing my confusion, Orthanq clarified, “Before the bar opens for everyone else.”

  Ahhh…now I understood.

  Of course, I still didn’t see how I had missed that critical point, what with the time I spent here.

  Which made me question yet again my current career choice.

  If I had missed the fact that my favorite haunt had an opening time, what else had I missed?

  Who would hire a private investigator who did not realize businesses had opening times?

  “And when is that?” I kept my tone nonchalant, mostly to mask my embarrassment at my lack of observation.

  I was glad orcs do not blush.

  This information might be useful in the future. Say, for example, if I wanted to put in an order for one of the high-demand daily lunch specials before other customers arrived.

  Being a regular had its advantages.

  Especially when you were about the only one who still survived.

  “Late morning. An hour before lunch.”

  Good. That would give me plenty of time to sleep off prior evenings’ enjoyments while still getting the first crack at choice morsels from the bar.

  “Mind if I watch these goods come in?”

  “So long as you don’t eat or drink them, you’re welcome to do whatever you want.”

  “I’ll start first thing tomorrow.” I tried to control the excitement in my tone.

  “Ready fer a drink?” asked Kordeun, apparently sensing the end of that portion of the conversation.

  Before the dwarf could order any spirits, I asked, “Is it safe for you to drink? Most folks are staying home to avoid the risk of turning into monsters.”

  Kordeun snorted dismissively. “Tha runes tattooed on m’ arms protect me from most spells ’n enchantments.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Looking admiringly at the eldritch glyphs and images enlivening his arms, their motions livelier than our conversation, I said, “I could use a few of those.”

  “It’s what I do. I’d be glad ta talk with ya about karaduen. Might be o’ interest t’ya.”

  “Karaduen?”

  He gestured to the selection of tattoos on his arms. “Glyphs, runes, symbols o’ power. Inscribin’ ’em and makin’ ’em come alive is what Dur’kazak do. Usually they’re put on weapons and armor, but there’s not too much call fer that here. “

  It was obvious that those were no ordinary tattoos, especially if they offered protections as he had described.

  “Doesn’t sound cheap.”

  “They aren’t. But I’m sure we could work somethin’ out.”

  I sighed. The thought of a host of magical tattoos augmenting my limited sense of style, not to mention my magical arsenal, was enticing, to say the least. “The only problem is, I tend to reject tattoos.

  “I heal real fast. Plus, I resist most magics, which is why I can still drink here without worrying about the transformations.”

  Kordeun grinned wickedly.

  I did not like that grin.

  I had been on the receiving end of dangerous weapons far too many times.

  And the blows usually came with grins like those.

  “I’m sure I could figure somethin’ out.”

  I was sure he could.

  And he would take pleasure doing it.

  I gulped, keeping my composure, thinking of all the creative tortures I might one day be willingly paying to receive.

  “There’re a few ways I’d think it could be possible—usin’ stronger magics ’n normal, more durable enchanted inks, findin’ magics that complement yer own or regenerate in kind, or tha like.

  “Could be fun fer both o’ us!”

  I imagined him hammering into my skin with some dwarven alloy heated to the surface temperature of the sun, then pouring molten adamantium into my flesh.

  “Sounds like a blast,” I muttered.

  He barked a hearty laugh and smacked me on the back so hard, I nearly hit the bar.

  I made a mental note not to underestimate old Kordeun. Anyone who could so casually move me probably packed quite the punch.

  “When ya get some coin, or somethin’ else ya think I might find interestin’, swing by my shop and we’ll see what we can do.”

  This meant he was either listed openly for business by the Construct or he would make his information available to me through it. Either way, it was a show of trust I appreciated.

  “Will do!” I said, and meant it. Despite the potential pain and risks, the thought of my arms decorated and inked was far too alluring not to get excited about.

  The fact that those tatts might be enchanted was an unexpected bonus.

  Now I had a goal to work toward.

  Other than more alcohol.

  After we had put in our orders, Kordeun offered, “Ya know, most bars and restaurants don’t have tha problems ya have here anymore.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  Orthanq raised an eyestalk.

  “Most folks have gone ta strictly summoned food and drink ta avoid tha risk.”

  I shook my head. “Most folks aren’t in the Undercity, then.

  “There are things that people around here drink and eat that cannot be summoned easily.”

  Orthanq gurgled an agreement in his native tongue, then added for clarity, “There are people who come here to get what they cannot easily get at home.”

  “Or anywhere else,” I added.

  Kordeun pursed his lips. “I hadn’t thought o’ that.”

  He dropped the subject lest the darker side of some of the Undercity’s denizens dampen the conversation.

  “But that doesn’t mean we can’t do a better job controlling what comes in,” added Orthanq as he set down our mugs, mine a steaming jug of fire water and Kordeun’s a rich honeyed ale.

  I nodded. “Hopefully, we can figure out who or what is causing the outbreaks and stop them from happening altogether.”

  “’Tis a noble sentiment, one I’ll gladly drink ta.” Kordeun raised his mug in the air in toast.

  I clanked my mug against his and knocked my drink back. Smoke curled out of my nostrils and between my lips as I exhaled appreciatively.

  Kordeun knocked his back just as ably.

  “Would ya like some company on yer surveillance?”

  Now, it was my turn to grin.

  Stakeouts are about as exciting as watching elves sing to trees.

  I’d love company!

  Trying not to let my excitement show—I mustn’t lose my aura of cool around my new friend so soon—I replied casually, “Could be fun.”

  Kordeun smirked wickedly. “Aye, it could be that.”

  Looking at the gleam in his eye, I began to wonder if this stakeout might hold more adventure than I had bargained for.

  16

  We moved from the bar to the supply room behind it.

  The room was deceptively large and irregular, with n
umerous nooks and crannies filled to meet the bar’s many assorted needs. One door led from the box-cluttered, shelf-filled room to the kitchen. Another led to the bar’s back exit. Other doors led to storage closets of various sorts, a basement, and Orthanq’s lodgings.

  Racks of dry goods were arrayed on densely packed shelves all around us. Beside boxes of Tentquick, the Finest Tentacles for Your Home, I spied a box of Mrs. Blooderworth’s Sanguine Syrup. Arm and Slammer Staking Soda was right next to the Mrs. Blooderworth’s.

  The imagery on these cartons did little to encourage my appetite.

  And I would eat almost anything.

  Above Kordeun’s head was a row of unholy demonic goods with names like Nostramus’s Soul of the Innocents Flavored Chips, which had the catchphrase, “Still fresh and unsullied!” on its terrifying label. A competing brand, Beezle’s Box of the Damned, “So Hot They’ll Drive You to Perdition!”, had a moving line of dancing humanoid bodies falling into a pit of flames that continually burst forth in an unending macabre dance of damnation.

  And these were just the unrestricted items.

  I had little desire to see what Orthanq had locked in the chests and coolers packed along the walls or in the walk-in refrigerators that held beverages and frozen items requiring permitting and inspection.

  Perusing all the food labels was like finding an inside window into the eating habits of every monster in the city.

  Mostly because it was.

  Kordeun, to his credit, was unperturbed by the grisly supplies. Orthanq’s steady stream of drinks might have played a small part in this, but I had my doubts. Kordeun seemed about as stout and unrufflable as they come.

  “’Bout time they started arrivin’,” Kordeun said as he kicked his booted feet up on a large wooden crate with the words “Hazard! Do not touch!” stenciled in bold red letters across the side.

  I nodded. I was tired.

  Getting older meant I wanted to sleep after I drank.

  And I was definitely getting older.

  Kordeun’s comment had pulled me out of a foggy haze of fatigue.

  “Aye,” I managed.

  Unable to resist the urge to rest much longer, I had to do something to stay awake, so I started talking.

  Looking around at the hospitable surroundings gave me the inspiration for my question.