by Liam Lawson
Fifi gave him a long look, lowering her chin as she peered into his eyes. If she’d worn glasses, she’d have been peering at him over their rims. Did she used to wear them? “It is not your ambition to be a war mage?”
His mouth went dry. There was technically no reason why he couldn’t actively pursue that kind of training and study here. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t be frowned upon. “No.” Better to quash that idea quickly. He did not need any extra scrutiny.
“Are you sure?” she asked.
“Certain.”
“Only, your academic plan has you studying in schools of evocation, abjuration, and divination. Evocation, or boom school as I like to call it, is all about directing energies and is usually put towards more, offensive purposes. In conjunction with schools that focus on wards and defensive magics and gathering intelligence…you might see how this looks when it all comes together?” She spread her hands as if physically laying it all out for him.
Put that way it did look bad. This had all been a trap. He’d been an idiot to get his hopes up. “I do not intend to be a war mage.”
“Then may I ask how you intend to be the equivalent of a royal vizier by studying these particular schools of magic?” she asked.
“It is not an equivalent,” he said. “That is the first misconception that must be rectified.”
She raised her green and pink eyebrows. “You want to argue the semantics?”
“No. I want to clarify that an Arcane Advisor to a Great Chief in the Glorious Horde has vastly different expectations than a royal vizier serving the ruling family of the United Confederation of Aflana,” he said.
She settled back in her chair, seeming to lose several inches of height. “I’m all ears.”
“Your royal viziers are essentially academics and political specialists. They study and they advise upon their subject. They are not really expected to defend themselves or their lieges or thwart magical assassination attempts. An Arcane Advisor is. I must not only be able to advise on the subject of magic, I must also defend my chief against it.”
“Divination and even abjuration make sense then,” Fifi said, nodding her head. “But why evocation? There are other schools that might make more sense. Transmutation or necromancy for example.”
He shook his head. “Necromancy is not a realistic option for me.” Not with the school and all of Aflana already suspicious of him. “And Transmutation would not earn me the respect of my peers. Magic is respected. Strength is respected. Strength provided by magic is not.”
“By whose definition of strength?” Fifi asked. “That’s a very subjective measurement.”
He grinned in the human fashion, baring his tusks. “By the standards of the Glorious Horde. We can debate the merits of such thinking as much as we like. It changes nothing. Energy manipulation is flashy enough to intimidate most away from attempting anything, dangerous enough to back up that threat more often than not, and I believe I possess the industry to put it to use beyond making things go boom.”
She giggled. Actually giggled.
“You’ve clearly given this a good deal of thought,” she said. “Very well. What about your equipment then? The academy will provide most of it aside from your casting implement and books. You already have those, I presume?”
He nodded. “Books and staff.”
She wrinkled her nose and eyed his staff, which he’d laid against the wall by the door. “A staff. That’s so archaic. You’d be much better served with a wand. Much more fine control. You’ll find divination difficult to work with something that unwieldy.”
He scowled. “It was my grandfather’s.”
“And that’s very sweet and sentimental,” she said. “A wand would still serve you better, I think. Or is this another show of strength thing?”
Trorm sighed and nodded. “It is. A wizard’s staff, though not really intended as such, can make an effective club if nothing else. A wand? A wand won’t earn true respect.” And his grandfather’s staff had a legacy that was known and feared by the shamans and sorcerers of the Glorious Horde.
“It seems wiser to me to get used to using what I’ll have to use rather than training with something else and then switching over,” he added.
She made a face. “We’ll see about that. There’s a wand in your future one way or another, Trorm. Some of the advanced work you’ll eventually be required to perform for your degree requires less power and more finesse.”
That was worrisome. Wands weren’t cheap. No magical implement was. A lot went into their crafting and there was no way to mass produce them. Each one had to be individually crafted.
“I’ll cross that gorge when I come to it,” he said with a sigh. This meeting was not going well. Had he really expected it to?
“I suppose we will,” Fifi said. “Your football scholarship covers your classes and requires the academy to provide much of your equipment, but casting implements are another matter. They’re too expensive and personalized. I suggest that you start saving up money now or your senior year is going to be difficult.”
“Thank you for the advice.”
“Literally in the job description,” she said, beaming at him, then pointed at herself. “Academic advisor.”
He chuckled.
“By the way, while we’re on the subject of equipment, I got you a gift.” She vanished behind her desk, a stack of documents nearly toppling over as the desk shuddered and the sound of a cabinet door opening sounded.
She strode around the desk, barely as tall as his ribcage, and held something up to him.
He accepted and looked at the item in puzzlement. They were a pair of sunglasses. Stylish but an odd gift. Odder still when he noticed the runic swirls around the hinges and temples. The lenses themselves had a slightly reddish tint to them.
He didn’t bother to hide his puzzlement. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” she said with a chuckle. “Don’t be so dismissive. Those sunglasses are an impressive piece of work. I’ve been working with a psychiatrist to create a tool to help people on the spectrum recognize emotions in others. I thought that it might be helpful for someone from such a different culture.”
That actually might be helpful. He slid the sunglasses on and looked down at Fifi. A little light ran around her face, then words appeared beside it. HAPPY.
Maybe a touch simplistic but still, he wasn’t about to look a gift warg in the mouth. “These are impressive. Why sunglasses though. I would think spectacles would be more academic.”
“Probably,” she said. “But I understand orc eyes are more sensitive than human eyes to daylight and most of your classes will take place during the day.”
“That was…very considerate. Thank you.” He’d been prepared to simply squint at everything and endure those few seconds of mild disorientation every time he stepped outside during the day. This was a much better alternative.
“Excellent,” she said, clapping her hands again. “Now, to the meat of things. You sure you don’t want another sandwich?”
She made to grab one of the grilled cheeses from her desk, only to realize that if it had been level on the desk it would have been in reach, but situated atop the towering stack of folders put it out of her reach. Trorm picked up the plate and lowered it to her so that she could take one. She gave him a frown. “Thank you.”
The glasses flashed. FRUSTRATED. EMBARASSED. GRATEFUL. The words came one right after the other. The glasses were definitely going to take some getting used to.
She devoured half of her sandwich before going on. “But really, we need to talk scholarship rules. You know them?”
“I cannot miss football practice or games.” Barring the coach’s discretion, he imagined, but that wasn’t something he intended to test. “I must maintain a 3.75 grade point average in my arcane classes.”
“And in your regular academic classes,” she interjected. CHEERFUL, the glasses informed him. That wasn’t helpful.<
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“That was not what the paperwork I received said.”
Fifi shrugged. “Is what it is. 3.75 across the board.”
“Very well.” It wasn’t as if there was much he could do about that. “Any academic probation is also cause for the scholarship to be withdrawn.”
She nodded again. “So, keep your nose clean.”
“I think that’s it.”
Her face fell. SAD. “There is one more thing.”
“And that is?” he asked, stomach sinking.
“If your host family files a complaint about your behavior. Your scholarship will be rejected and you will be kicked out of their household and expected to return to the Glorious Horde immediately.”
Chapter Three
The library was not proving as resourceful as Trorm had hoped it would be. While it boasted an impressive collection of literature, most of the subject matter he was interested in was forbidden to wizarding students until they had actually begun their first semester. That was reasonable and he did not hold the restriction against the library. What he did hold against it was the librarian who kept passing by where he was studying to make sure he wasn’t doing whatever it was she suspected an orc might get up to in a library.
The third time this happened he gave her an ugly look and she became more discrete about it. Following that, however, came a trio of students who had formed a “study group” and sat down at the table across from his. This would not have been a problem if they had actually focused on studying. But their talks of academia quickly devolved into who was sleeping with who, whose parents were the biggest pain, and how one of them hated having to get up early for her new job and her classes.
Every time he’d get to a particularly interesting formula or deep paragraph, there’d be a peal of laughter or a loud denial. He found himself gritting his teeth and clenching his jaw. Trorm wasted a good five minutes fantasizing about setting one of their backpacks on fire. He had his staff and it didn’t look like any of them were studying arcana. He could probably get away with it…no. No, he really could not. The looks on their faces though…. He sighed and tried to get back to his studies.
One of them burst into laughter.
He stood up and the group went silent, seeming to notice him for the first time. SURPRISE, the sunglasses provided helpfully, followed by, FEAR. He tried to smile but it came across more as a baring of teeth. The FEAR tag did not dissipate. “Could you please keep it down?” he said through clenched teeth so that it came out more as a snarl. “Thank you.”
He sat down and went back to his book. There was no more noise. He glanced up to find one of the so-called studiers missing and the other two shooting him covert glares. ANGRY.
That was acceptable so long as they were quiet. He barely noticed the sound of footsteps until they came to a stop right next to them. He looked up to find the librarian standing over him. ANGRY.
“Young man, I don’t know how things are done where you’re from, but here we do not threaten other students. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
He glanced at the study group, now with all three members back. SATISFIED.
Without a word, he gathered up his material, picked up his staff, which got several surprised looks, and set out for the door. He did not bother not to stomp and shoved his way out the door, self-control strained and ready to plow through anything that happened to get in his way.
Unfortunately, that something happened to be Abigail and as he stormed out of the library he ran headlong into her and knocked her to the ground. She let out a yelp and hit the pavement. Her bag flew from her hand, popped open, and several papers scattered across the ground.
“I am so sorry,” Trorm said, taking a knee and helping her upright. She’d skinned her palm but otherwise seemed okay as she adjusted her glasses.
“No harm done,” she said, then frowned as she took in his face. CONCERNED. “Are you okay?”
The librarian stepped out the door behind him. “Are you alright? I saw what happened.”
She seemed taken aback when Abigail laughed. “Yeah, all good here.” She turned that smile on Trorm. “I’m heading over to Mom’s tavern to study. Care to join me?”
The librarian’s mouth fell open. That alone was worth taking her up on the offer. “Thank you.”
They gathered up her papers and set off. “I know it seems like a weird place to study but I promise, it’s the best. Mom makes sure I’m set with food and drink and I’ve got my own table reserved in a corner. It’s kind of the best.” EXCITED.
Maybe his sunglasses were malfunctioning. He’d nearly run her over and she was excited to go study with him? He gave her a smile, careful not to bare his teeth. Non-orcs seemed to be especially put off by the sight of his sharp teeth.
“I look forward to it.”
Abigail did indeed have a quiet corner table set aside at the Roaring Stag, which it turned out, was actually owned by Trisha Madden, who worked as her own bartender and manager. She gave the duo a skeptical look when Abigail walked in with Trorm but was quickly caught up in her own work to pay attention to them. Every now and then a waitress would come by with steamed vegetables or to bring a fresh pot of hot tea—a secret specialty of the tavern that only the regulars knew to ask for.
They all gave Trorm looks that ranged from appraising to hostile but nobody said he was unwelcome and they let him and Abigail study in peace. Abigail it turned out, was an excellent study partner. They quickly learned each other’s rhythms and when to break and ask each other questions. The waitstaff seemed to grow more relaxed about the two as textbooks, notebooks, and papers steadily spread across the table around their laptops.
At one point, Trorm looked up to find Lilian at the bar speaking to a human police officer in a uniform. She had her telescopic sword collapsed and hanging from one hip and a gun in a shoulder holster poking out from beneath her light jacket. The police officer didn’t seem at all perturbed by the young woman’s choice of weaponry and even signaled to one of the waitstaff to bring Lilian a drink.
That did not compute with Trorm’s understanding of law enforcement culture among humans. From what he’d come to understand, they did not trust others openly carrying weapons. Maybe this man was courting her? He seemed too old, grizzled, balding, and sporting a sizeable beer gut, and she too young. But what did he know about what human women found attractive?
He was about to ask Abigail about it but she asked him a question about sequential circles and astronomical alignment as it might pertain to her new project of melding the layers of coding and spellwork and by the time he remembered he’d had the question at all, both Lilian and the cop were gone.
Hours flew by and it grew darker and darker outside. The patronage at the bar dwindled. Trorm hardly noticed. He and Abigail had gone through the material for just about every one of their classes for the upcoming semester and were confident that they had a head start on their peers. Trorm couldn’t recall the last time studying had been so fun.
Back in the Glorious Horde, there were few who appreciated academia and fewer still who appreciated spellcraft. Studying had always been an isolated experience done wherever he could get away from disruption. In Abigail he’d found a partner who could match him intellectually and challenge him to improve, even as he challenged her. And all while being served hot tea, appetizers, and at one point a plate of food that had been sent back because the customer had ordered their onions on the side. All told, it was the best evening he’d had in a long time.
“Last call,” Trisha called from behind the bar. “Last call before closing time!”
Trorm blinked and took stock of everything. He’d been so enraptured in his conversation with Abigail about theoretical planes of power that could act as wellsprings of perpetual mana that he’d lost track of his surroundings. Foolish, he chided himself. Then again there were only two customers left in the bar and most of the waitstaff seemed to be milling about.
&nbs
p; “You girls can go home,” Trisha said to a pair of them. “Not much happening on a weeknight here.”
The offer was met with shaken heads. “No, we’ll wait for Lilian to get back.”
Trisha rolled her eyes. “I am capable of walking home without my daughter babysitting me.”
Another waitress shrugged. “It’s late. I always feel better leaving after she helps close up. Shame she’s, uh, working right now.”
“Because of the orc?” A different woman asked, glancing in their direction. “He seems like a sweetheart. Real teddy bear sort. He’s got it bad for Abigail, that’s for sure.”
“He better not,” groused Trisha and Trorm stopped listening.
“Hey, you okay?” Abigail asked, putting a hand on his arm. CONCERNED. “You got this funny look on your face.
“I’m fine,” he said. “Thank you for asking. You are the kindest person I have met since coming here.”
She blushed and looked away. EMBARASSED. HAPPY. “People don’t just say things like that.”
He shrugged. “I’m not a person?”
Her eyes went wide. “That wasn’t—that…you’re making fun of me?” She grinned.
He held up a hand, thumb and forefinger scarcely an inch apart.
She gave him a gentle punch in the arm. Or maybe it wasn’t gentle. She was human and small so it was hard to tell.
The window beside the door to the bar shattered and a dark object tumbled through the broken glass along the floor.
It unfurled, revealing a mass of writhing tentacles covered in eyes attached to a slimy, simian body. A kind of monkey-pus with too many wild blinking eyes. Its face unfolded like a flower, revealing the entire head to be nothing more than an enormous mouth full of hooked teeth. More eyes glared out from the back of its throat. A slimian, Trorm thought almost absently. A slimy simian.