by Edward Brody
I groaned at my scheme, knowing it was far too risky. Even if I succeeded, the town wasn’t big, so once the orc noticed his dagger stolen, a vendor might be able to easily identify me as the one who sold him stolen goods.
I needed a better idea. I needed to figure out a way to at least get a drink as innkeepers and bartenders were never keen to give information out for free.
I leaned forward on the stump I was sitting on and eyed the dagger for a few minutes, still considering thievery, but quickly switched gears when a couple of orcs at the table in front of me suddenly got up, leaving their mugs on the table.
With the bartender not looking, I hopped up and snatched both of the patrons’ mugs off the table and brought them each back to where I was sitting. At least one orc noticed me do it, but he just snickered in my direction—perhaps because he thought I was too poor to buy my own, which technically was true.
I poured the liquid from one cup into the other and was surprised to see that whatever was in it was red, rather than an orange or yellow beer that I would’ve expected. Both drinks were only about a fourth of the way full, so after combing both, I had a mug that was nearly halfway filled. It was an embarrassing, hobo-like tactic, but at least I had a mug in front of me. At least I resembled a paying customer.
I pushed the empty mug aside and took a sip of the red liquid, which tasted like beer mixed with something salty. It was thicker than I expected, but it didn’t taste particularly bad—just odd.
“One more!” one of the orcs in the room yelled, raising his mug.
“Argh!” the bartender grunted back.
“For Ergoth!” the customer continued, raising his mug again. “The greatest orc who ever lived!”
“For Ergoth!” the bartender and several patrons all said in unison.
The bartender grabbed an empty mug, brought it to one of the barrels and filled it from the tap. After getting beer, he navigated to the carcass hanging over the bar and gave it a squeeze near its base, causing blood to pour out of the neck hole and into the mug he held below.
I sat my cup down in front of me and slid it away, suddenly not feeling very thirsty.
After taking a moment to get over the disgust of what I had just drunk, I picked up the mug again and headed for the bartender, hoping just having a mug would be enough to get him talking.
When I sat down at the bar, he looked at my mug and eyed me suspiciously. “Where’d you get that?” he asked.
I wasn’t expecting to get called out so quickly, but I showed my teeth to remain in character and nodded to the newly emptied table. “My friends had a little too much, and I didn’t want to let your sweet nectar go to waste.” I lifted the cup and took a small swig.
He frowned angrily. “That’s not how it works here. No freeloading!” He turned his attention from me and slammed the mug he had just filled on the counter. “Beer-grog up!”
Another scrawny orc with an apron rushed out from behind the barrels somewhere and grabbed the mug before shuffling over to the customer who had ordered another round.
The bartender crossed his arms and suddenly looked tired of my presence.
“What the news?” I asked, trying to strike up a conversation rather than going straight for information.
“Hmph,” the orc snorted. “Nothing you haven’t heard, I’m sure. We have Newich now, and soon we’ll have all of the Freelands.”
“Aside from the war,” I said.
The bartender licked his fang. “The rumbles from the Cataclysm grow stronger—not much else.”
I nodded, pretending I understood what he was talking about, then leaned in and placed my arms on the counter. “Has Rithnar been around here recently?”
The bartender creased his brow. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”
Fuck, I thought. I was wasting my time.
I gave the orc a subtle nod and quietly said, “For Ergoth,” before standing from my seat to try elsewhere. He could’ve been lying because I hadn’t paid for anything, or he could’ve just not known the orc—either way it seemed like my chat with him was a failure.
“For Ergoth,” he replied low. As soon as I was fully out of my seat and turned around, the bartender snapped his fingers several times. “Wait a minute… wait a minute… You said Rithnar, right?”
“Yes,” I said with a grunt.
“Actually, I think someone with a name like that may have been here last night and the night before. He’s not a regular, but he was asking around for someone both nights.”
“Do you know where I can find him?”
“You can wait here. He might be back tonight, or you could ask Northog over there.” The orc pointed his finger to an orc playing cards. “He knows everyone in town.”
I was surprised at how helpful the bartender was, considering I hadn’t bribed him or even paid for a drink. It was a stark contrast to all the human innkeepers I had experienced, who seemed to be obsessed with nothing but getting gold. Though aggressive, rude, and intimidating, the orcs didn’t seem as money motivated as the other races I had encountered.
“Thank you,” I said.
The bartender gave a subtle nod.
My disguise kit would only last for a day, so I didn’t have time to wait around for Rithnar to appear, nor would I know Rithnar if I saw him, so I left the bartender and headed for the Northog character that the bartender had hinted me to.
Northog slammed down his cards on the table as I was approaching, stood to his feet, and yelled, “Three-of-a-kind!”
The orc sitting in front of him grinned and laid his cards down slowly. “Full House!”
Northog squeezed his fist tightly, and I could see the veins around his bald head starting to pop out. After a moment of his opponent looking amused, he leaned over and used his arm to swipe all the cards and some bent black gambling chips off the table. “Stupid human games!”
His opponent stood to his feet, rushed right up to him, and they bumped chests as they stood face to face. “Accept your loss as always, Northog,” the orc said cockily.
Northog clenched his teeth, and he breathed so hard that saliva dripped down his chin. “Duel me, and I’ll show you what loss means.”
“Sit down, idiot, or I just might accept your challenge,” the other orc said, placing his hand on the axe draped at his side.
“Stop fighting like grunts!” one of the other orcs at the table yelled. “Save it for the battlefield.”
“Shut up!” Northog barked back, then turned back to his opponent in front of him. “Fine. I accept the loss, but if you don’t want to be a coward, play me in a real game… Rotten Goblin. If you win, I’ll buy you ten rounds of blood grog.”
The other orc clenched his teeth hard. “I’m full of blood grog already.”
“Coward!” Northog shouted. “We’ll play for nothing then, simply so I can make you a fool.”
“We’ll soon ride to take the Freelands,” his opponent said. “We shouldn’t waste our fists on Rotten Goblin. We shouldn’t waste a goblin either.”
“Coward!” Northog shouted again. “You only play human games. You cannot beat me in orc sport!”
“I have no time for this.” The orc snarled, turned and started walking for the door.
“Is there no orc here orc enough to play a game of Rotten Goblin?” Northog questioned as he spun and held his arms out to his side. “All grunts, I see?”
“I tire of your noise,” a huge, muscular orc said, jumping out of his chair. He stormed towards Northog, and before Northog could grab his sword, the orc had both hands around his throat. “Let’s play Rotten Northog…”
The drum beat in the room stopped, and everyone in the grog-post turned to the scene.
Northog’s face turned red as the orc lifted him off the ground, and Northog clawed at the other orc’s arms, trying to get away.
“You want a duel? Then let’s go outside and duel, you fool,” the larger orc said. “There’s no need for goblins…”
My eyes
widened as I saw Northog struggling, and I was pretty sure that if he wasn’t killed in the grog-post, he would be killed if he accepted the duel. If Northog died, my one and only lead to Rithnar would be lost.
“Rotten Goblin!” I said loudly.
The orc holding Northog turned his head and looked at me out of the corner of his eyes.
I cleared my throat. “I haven’t played in some time. I wouldn’t mind a round.”
Northog choked through the orc’s clenched hands, and after a moment of consideration, the larger orc let him go and gave him a hard shove. “There’s your challenger, fool!”
Northog gasped when his feet were fully on the ground, and as soon as he had his bearings, he grabbed his sword and roared loudly.
“Don’t do it,” the bartender warned. “You wanted Rotten Goblin, and now you have a challenger. Save your lives for the war.”
Northog breathed heavily and he scanned the room, looking at all the other orcs in the grog-post. He was angry, but he couldn’t hide the embarrassment on his face. “I’ll show you all! A real game! An orc game!”
Another orc in the far corner smiled and lifted his mug high in the air. “Rotten Goblin!”
“Argh!” another said, raising his mug.
“Rotten Goblin!” I said as I grabbed my mug, raised it and turned my head from side to side, looking for a reaction.
“Someone fetch a goblin,” the bartender ordered. “It’s a waste of time, but at least we’ll have a show.”
“I’ll do it,” Northog said to himself and stormed out the door.
I swallowed hard, having no idea what Rotten Goblin was and hoping I hadn’t made a mistake. My hope was that since Northog was doing it simply to prove a point, there was little I had to lose. Whether I beat him or not, perhaps I could get some information from him during or after whatever game he wanted to play. Still, what kind of game required the actual fetching of a goblin?
Within a minute, Northog returned, dragging a low-level goblin by the wrist. The goblin whined and struggled to get away, but Northog was far stronger. When he was back inside the grog-post, the orcs cleared a table, and the bartender threw a long rope over a wooden post in the ceiling and tied the dangling end into a noose.
“Nooooo!” the goblin cried as the orcs worked together to stand the goblin on the table and wrap the noose tightly around its wrists. The goblin was terrified, and the whole scene was rather disturbing.
I leaned in close to the bartender. “Remind me of the rules of Rotten Goblin again, will you? It’s ugh… been a while.”
“How can you forget the rules?” the bartender asked, creasing his brow. “The game is simple. If the goblin cries out for help, you get another turn. Whimpers don’t count. If it pisses or shits, you get another turn. The orc that lands the finishing blow wins the game.”
I coughed and tried to hide my surprise. “We’re going to beat the goblin to death?”
“What are you asking me?” the bartender questioned. “That’s why it’s called Rotten Goblin.”
I swallowed hard. I had killed plenty of goblins, but to see the orcs brutalizing one of their allies for sport was totally twisted. I wasn’t looking forward to my participation.
“Weapons?” I asked.
“You act like you’ve never even seen, much less played Rotten Goblin before,” the bartender said. “You only get one shot each round with your bare hands.”
“Oh yeah, of course,” I said. “It’s all coming back to me.”
The bartender’s eyes narrowed as if he doubted me.
When the orcs had secured the goblin’s wrists to rope, they pulled out the table, and the goblin was dangling aimlessly above the ground. “Noooo! Pleeeeease!” it cried, kicking its legs out as if trying to find footing that wasn’t there.
Northog rubbed his hands and approached me and the bartender. “Let’s see who goes first.”
“Flip a coin?” I asked.
Northog looked confused. “The first who finishes a mug of blood grog!”
I heard a loud thump beside me as the bartender slammed two full mugs of the red liquid beside us.
Fuck, I thought. I knew I wasn’t going to be going first after seeing how it was decided, but I needed to at least try to make it look like I was an orc.
Northog picked up his mug and raised his chin to me. “Let’s go.”
“Chug, chug, chug, chug!” the orcs inside the grog-post started chanting.
I picked up my mug as the orcs continued their chants.
Northog raised the mug close to his lips.
“Alright, chug!” the bartender suddenly said, signaling the start of the competition.
Northog immediately started drinking, and I quickly raised the blood grog to my lips and tried my best to chug some of it down.
It wasn’t terrible tasting, but just knowing what it was grossed me out. And the mugs were huge—enough blood and alcohol in one to bloat a human belly. I closed my eyes as it went down and tried to pretend I was drinking something else.
“Chug, chug, chug!” the orcs continued chanting.
Within a few seconds, Northog slammed his mug down and burped loudly. “Me first!”
I was about halfway through by that time, and just slammed my mug down as well, splashing quite a bit of liquid on the table. “Good grog!” I lied.
The bartender and Northog looked curiously at my half full mug, but thankfully neither questioned my blowout loss.
Northog strolled over to the dangling goblin and rubbed one of his fists with the palm of his other hand, and the goblin’s eyes went wide as if it knew its fate was sealed. As Northog prepared to strike, urine started trickling down the side of its leg.
“Pissing itself already!” Northog yelled and chuckled.
“Doesn’t count,” one of the orcs nearby said. “He’s just scared.”
“Yeah, well I’ll make him piss again,” Northog yelled, and took two hard steps forward, and slammed his fist hard into the goblins jaw.
The goblin’s head rocked back, and blood and saliva flew from its mouth. It shook rapidly, as if it were having a seizure for a couple seconds, but then yelled out. “Nooo! Please don’t!”
“That counts, right?” Northog questioned.
“It counts,” an orc said.
“I agree,” said the bartender. “You made it cry out.”
Northog glanced to me and smiled. “I just might run a flawless victory this time around.” He took two steps forward and slammed his hand into the goblins head again, and this time something made a cracking noise when its head jerked back. Its head slumped forward, and the goblin fell unconscious.
“Look at that!” Northog yelled loudly. “Rotten Goblin!”
“Nope, not yet,” one of the spectators said. “Check its pulse first.”
Another orc stood from his table, strode over to the goblin, and placed its fingers on its neck. After a second or two, he shook his head. “Still alive.”
“Damnit!” Northog said. “Check its pants.”
The same orc grabbed the goblin’s shabby leather shorts and yanked them down, exposing its tiny, wrinkled private parts. “Nothing!”
Northog snarled. “Fine. I’ll get him next round.”
“Your turn,” the bartender said.
Something about what we were doing felt totally wrong and made me uncomfortable, but I tried to stay in character by rubbing my fist and making a growling sound as I approached the goblin. I looked around and saw the eyes of all the orcs on me, and felt incredibly nervous as I yelled, “For Ergoth!”
“Argh!” many of the orcs said.
I took two heavy steps forward and, just like Northog had, slammed my thick, orcish fist as hard as I could into the goblin’s stomach.
You have gained 1 point of Strength!
Projectile vomit spewed from the goblin’s mouth, and it suddenly woke up from the blow. It gagged, coughed, and weakly tried to scream. “N… n… nooooo!”
“That’s a double!
” an orc said.
“Puking doesn’t count,” Northog said.
“Yes, it does,” another orc argued.
“Debatable,” another orc said.
Everyone turned to the bartender as he placed his fingers on his chin, thinking deeply. Finally, he said, “Vomit like that counts just the same. Only small bits of food or blood are ignored.”
“That’s bullshit,” Northog grunted. “He got lucky!”
“It’s a triple!” one of the other orcs yelled, pointing to a slimy brown log the goblin had laid on the floor.
“A triple!” another orc yelled. “Haven’t seen that in a while.”
A couple orcs laughed, and several of them clapped and threw each other high-fives.
“That’s three more blows!” the bartender said and lifted a mug of blood grog to his lips. “Hits like that is why Rotten Goblin used to be so popular.”
I was disgusted by the whole thing, and it brought me back to my days in the Sands with Dryden Bloodletter. It was different then, as Dryden was cutting out hearts for intimidation and beheading people who disobeyed him, while the orcs were basically just torturing a creature for fun. I wasn’t sure which was more demented, but maybe the orcs were just monsters after all. Maybe Jax and everyone else was right, and I should’ve just killed the baby orc rather than let it grow up to become a savage jackass.
“Hurry up!” Northog ordered.
I rubbed my fist and stepped forward, landing another hard fist to the goblins stomach.
The goblin flailed and started uncontrollably coughing, so much that it seemed it couldn’t speak.
“One!” a patron yelled.
I wound up my fist and rushed in slamming it against the goblin’s face.
The goblin’s head rattled back and forth, and blood started pouring from its mouth. It coughed weakly but didn’t make another sound.
“Two!” the bartender cried.
I growled, trying to stay in character. I took a few steps back and rushed forward, uppercutting the goblin as hard as I could to its malnourished gut.
You have reached level 2 in Unarmed!