An Orc at College: A Contemporary Sword and Sorcery Harem Fantasy

by Liam Lawson

  And that meant that Dr. Hunt had just cast a spell over him. Judging from the sudden scowl that followed it must not have worked. Either that or…he was trying to see if Trorm had his stupid paper weight on him. The spell hadn’t not worked, it simply hadn’t told the wizard what he wanted to know.

  “I apologize for interrupting your date,” Dr. Hunt said, scowl vanishing. “And look forward to having you in my class, Mr. Coldstorm.”

  Trorm nodded. “Dr. Hunt.”

  The wizard left and Trorm could breathe again. Doing so reminded him of the warm and curvy presence against his side.

  “Not that I’m ungrateful for your help,” Trorm said, looking down. “But…who are you?”

  Her ears fell. “I’m Winnie! We didn’t get to introduce ourselves when we met earlier because Clare was hogging your attention like the greedy bitch she is.” She said this last with a grin, like it wasn’t really an insult.

  “I didn’t know you and Clare knew each other,” he said. That put the teasing on the dancefloor into a new light. Were these two playing some kind of game with him as well?

  “Hard not to,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “We cheer together—oh! That’s why you don’t recognize me. I was totally wearing a giant horsehead before!” She laughed.

  Horse head? Then it dawned on him. “You’re the mascot from practice!”

  She grinned and nodded, making her ears bob. “Temporary mascot. The last one broke his leg, so I’m filling in until we get a replacement. It’s kind of fun because it’s different but I don’t think I want to do it long term because it’s so hot and half the fun is knowing that I’m actually a sexy cheerleader underneath and if I become the mascot fulltime, well, then I wouldn’t be a sexy cheerleader underneath anymore. I’d just be sexy underneath.”

  Trorm blinked. The girl could talk a mile a minute. Not that he minded. Unlike with Clare, every word coming from her seemed utterly genuine. It made her more real. He got the sense that her fast talking and enthusiasm had a lot of people thinking she was less intelligent than she was, just like they assumed about him because he was an orc.

  “Okay,” he said slowly. “But why did you help me out?”

  “Because that’s what Scrolwerd Stallions do,” she said as if it were obvious. “We help each other. Besides, Clare totally ditched you and I call finders keepers.”

  Finders keepers? Was she laying some sort of claim on him?

  “Also,” she said with a grin. “You looked like a really good dancer.”

  ~

  The alarm went off a second after Trorm’s head hit the pillow. He knew that couldn’t be right though because there was horrible stinging sunlight glaring in through his window, meaning that it wasn’t nighttime anymore. Dancing with Winnie had worked him out harder than football practice and he was glad that he didn’t have it that morning.

  He’d recovered the stolen paperweight from the barkeep and walked her to her dorm, earning a quick kiss and her phone number. She’d made him promise to call or text. Texting had always seemed like a waste of time to him. It also seemed like something human girls liked though, so perhaps lest wasteful than he’d initially deemed it. Trying not to overthink it, he grabbed his phone from the bedside table and sent Winnie a quick text that said “Good morning.”

  He got back a long chain of heart and happy face emojis. Apparently, she agreed with him. He set the phone down and discovered his sunglasses resting beside where he’d picked it up. A sticky note was attached to their arms.

  Fixed these and improved their enchantment. I based the upgrade on a videogame. Hope you like dating sims!

  –A

  PS: Thanks for saving us

  He wasn’t sure that he could honestly say that he’d saved them. He had his sunglasses back though and he hurried to put them on. The morning sunlight was starting to give him a headache. They fit the same, so there was that. Here was hoping Abigail hadn’t gotten too creative wither improvements.

  A knock sounded on the bedroom door.

  He answered it to find a resolute looking Lilian on the other side, already dressed in jeans and a lilac t-shirt.

  Lilian Madden

  Gender: Female.

  Emotion: RESOLVED.

  Interest Level: 3

  Interest level? What the hell was that about? That number jumped from 3 to 4 as he watched it and the emotion changed as well. IMPRESSED. AROUSED. EMBARASSED.

  Trorm quit focusing on the readout to discover Lilian’s face had turned deep red. She was staring at his chest. He glanced down.

  Trorm slept in his boxers and hadn’t bothered changing into anything before opening the door. He stood there, near nude, in all his green, muscled glory. Surely, she hadn’t expected him to dishonor her if whatever she required was so urgent it required knocking on his door this early by making her wait while he put on day clothes?

  “Um,” she said, opening and closing her mouth. Her eyes finally pulled away from his muscles and fixed on his face. AMUSED. She burst out laughing.

  “Did you wear your sunglasses to sleep?” she asked, glancing back and forth between them and his boxer shorts.

  “The light from the window hurt my eyes,” he said. Humans were weird about pain. He had the feeling though that admitting his weaknesses or discomforts in this house would go a long way toward making Lilian and Trisha more comfortable around him. So long as it didn’t turn into whining.

  The laughter died out and Lilian’s face became solemn. EMBARASSED. ASHAMED. “I apologize. I didn’t think of that.”

  He shrugged. “No problem.”

  She bit her lip, suddenly looking years younger. The emotional readout on the sunglasses didn’t change. “I owe you another apology as well.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes,” she said, standing straight and meeting his eyes. DETERMINED. “I judged you without knowing you and condemned you based on stereotype. I am very protective of my family. That is not an excuse but I offer it as explanation. Thank you for keeping them safe when I could not. I am sorry for how I treated you. Please accept my apology.”

  She spoke with the formality of someone who had rehearsed their words very carefully. Either she did not trust herself to speak honestly or she very much wanted her specific message to be conveyed.

  “You are welcome,” he said. “Apology accepted.”

  RELEIF.

  Interest Level: 5.

  Suddenly her face fell. CONFUSED. ANGRY. BETRAYED.

  Interest Level: 4.

  “What is that I sense coming from your room?” she demanded. “It’s foul.”

  “Sense?” He sniffed the air. He hadn’t been there long enough to build up a collection of dirty laundry and he was careful about his own hygiene. That would definitely not be a stereotype he played into.

  “I’m a paladin,” she said, glaring at him. “Chosen by Thodos. I can detect the presence of evil and there is something in your room that reeks of it.”

  Trorm shook his head. “No idea what that is.”

  A paladin? That would explain the weaponry and her relationship with the local authorities. They were probably grateful to have such a powerful warrior assisting them.

  STRUGGLING. Her face contorted and she chewed her lip. The expression was actually kind of cute. It probably would have been cuter if he wasn’t a little worried that she might proclaim him dangerous to the nation and its people. Her words would carry a lot of weight.

  “I misjudged you before,” she said. “So, I will reserve judgement now. Whatever it is that you are into or doing, be very careful. I’ll be keeping an eye out, both for you and on you.”

  She left him standing there shaking his head. A paladin? Impressive. Strange too. He closed the door and nearly did a doubletake when he checked his phone again.

  He was late!

  Chapter Seven

  Trorm barely made it to class before attendance was finished being taken. The ol
d man at the front of the classroom practically screamed wizard professor with his cloud of white hair, tweed jacket, spectacles, and wand. He eyed Trorm as he entered and checked a document on the desk before him. “You must be Mr. Coldstorm.”

  Professor Darryl Lancaster

  Sex: Male

  Emotion: IRRITATED.

  Interest Level: 0

  “Yes, sir,” Trorm said. “That’s me.”

  “From now on you will be five minutes early to each of my classes,” the old wizard said. “Or it will be reflected in your grade. Near tardiness on your first day of class.” He shook his head. “I expect better from all of you.”

  Trorm felt something inside himself wilt and die. He’d very much wanted to make a strong first impression on his new mentors.

  The wizard gestured toward an empty seat at the back and Trorm made his way through the desks to his new position. He was easily the tallest person in the classroom and the only orc present. Not that he’d expected otherwise. He had expected to find a slightly more diverse class, however. He counted two elves and a half-elf in the class of easily thirty students. No therianthropes or gnomes. He hadn’t expected any goblins.

  He wasn’t sure how to feel about this. The only nonhumans in the class were of a race with a terrible history with his own people. Elves and orcs had a long and complicated history. Had this been an elven nation, he would have never been allowed past the border, let alone into one of their schools. Of course, the same applied to the Glorious Horde.

  The Glorious Horde and the Alliance of Free and Independent Groves were technically at peace and had been for the last ten years. The truth of the matter was that they were locked in a cold war and that it was primarily because Aflana had put severe trade limitations on both. The Confederation had done well for itself during the war and grown strong selling to both sides.

  Eventually someone had protested that the war was wrong, which made no sense to Trorm, and Aflana had put all of its newly grown and considerable might into ending the conflict. Setting itself up nicely as a world power and center for trade in the process. Trorm suspected that was the real reason behind the humans interceding in a war that didn’t involve them.

  The presence of the elves didn’t exactly make Trorm uncomfortable, but he would have liked it better if there’d been a wider range of diversity among the classroom instead of just him and his people’s traditional enemies.

  The professor reviewed the syllabus. This was Spell Theory 1301. It was required for every student of the arcane academy in their first semester and was largely a project-based class. There would be four projects throughout the semester, each done with the same group. Groups would be determined that day. Each project was worth one fifth of their grade and a report from their groupmates would comprise the remaining one fifth.

  “Unless,” said Professor Lancaster. “You are like Mr. Coldstorm and are late. If you are consistently late or miss my class, your grade will reflect my displeasure. I assure you, I do not enjoy being here this early any more than you do. If I must suffer, you will suffer with me.”

  He held up the document he’d been referencing earlier, which Trorm now realized was a class roster, and proceeded to cut it up and drop the names into a hat. Trorm scowled. Where had the hat come from? One moment the desk before the professor was empty and the next a hat was simply there, waiting to accept the scraps of paper.

  “I will be drawing your names from here to assign you to your groups,” Professor Lancaster said, turning around to his whiteboard. “Before I do that, however, I want you to have a simple understanding of the project that I am requiring you to undertake.”

  His handwriting was long and loopy as he wrote out three words on the white board: Original Spell Template.

  That earned several sharp intakes of breath, including one from Trorm. Wizards learned to cast spells quickly by learning pre-created spell templates, from which all manner of modifications could be added. They were the core of advanced spellcraft, elevating wizards from warlocks and hedge witches.

  “Your team will have four weeks to create an original spell template. Nothing copied. Purely original. I will not expect it to lay the foundation for anything complex. But your fellow students and I must be able to craft at least three different spells using it.”

  That got another series of excited mutters.

  “I see that you understand the gravity of your task,” Professor Lancaster continued. “That’s why after assigning you your groups I will be dismissing class. You are to coordinate with your group members the best times to meet up and work over the allotted period of time. You will want to meet as often as possible. This is not an easy task.”

  No kidding, Trorm thought. The man must be trying to sift the strong from the weak with this project. He doubted that half the class would make it through.

  “Without further ado,” Professor Lancaster said, and began drawing names from the hat and putting them in groups of three.

  The names were always drawn in groups of three and read off quickly. Group One. Group Two. Group Three.

  Trorm’s name was called out at the start of Group Six, followed quickly by Tibroth Jones and Nymal Torquinal. Trorm blinked. Tibroth and Nymal? Those were elvish names. He glanced at the two elves in the class. One of them had crossed her arms and was looking decidedly put out.

  But Jones was a human name. His eyes found the half-elf, who looked like he was about to double over laughing, though he kept a fist to his mouth to keep from making a sound. Trorm didn’t understand what was so funny. As soon as the groups finished being formed, the elf, who Trorm figured to be Nymal, stood up from her chair and marched over to the professor. Her voice was a whisper but her tone was unmistakably angry.

  Trorm rolled his eyes. He wasn’t thrilled about working with an elf anymore than she was about working with him. And a half-elf as well, for that matter. He wasn’t going to make a scene over it though.

  The half-elf, Tibroth, stood, but instead of going to the professor, he made his way over to Trorm and extended a hand. “Tibroth Jones,” he said. “But everyone calls me Tibs.”

  Tibs was, Trorm found himself reluctantly admitting, cool. He kept his bronze hair stylishly spiked and wore a leather jacket, but it was the way he carried himself, his casual ease and confidence, that worked for him. Tibs would have been tall by elf standards and very nearly short for a human. Trorm nearly a foot taller than him. But the half-elf stood like he was ten feet tall with all the swagger of an all-star athlete.

  Trorm found himself grinning, baring his tusks as he took his classmate’s hand. “Trorm.”

  “Trorm,” said Tibs, as if trying it out. “Trorm. Like storm but with a T-R sound. Dig it. You here for the wizarding program?”

  Trorm nodded. “You?”

  “Oh, hell no,” Tibs said waving his hand. “I’m a bard. This is all supplementary for me.” He grinned. “My band’s called Bananas Eating Monkeys. We’re playing at a frat party tonight for the Sigma something or others. I’ll shoot you the info. Bring a date and tell them Tibs asked you to come.”

  Trorm felt his grin widen. “I’ll do that.”

  “Parties?” said a voice. “Really? We have a project like this dropped in our laps on the first day of school and you two are talking about parties?” Trorm glanced over to find Nymal had approached them. Her head was tossed back, her long blonde hair hanging like a curtain behind her as she appeared to give into despair. “I’ve been paired with a couple of slackers and morons. I’m going to fail this class.”

  Nymal Torquinal

  Gender: Female

  Emotion: FRUSTRATED.

  Interest Level: 1

  “I assure you, I am not a slacker,” said Trorm, standing up. He towered over the diminutive elf. His next words came out almost a growl. “And I am not a moron.”

  She pursed her lips. Then nodded. “I apologize. That was uncalled for. But we have so much to do! Come on, it�
��s early enough we can get a carrel at the library. We can layout our schedule there and layout our strategy.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Trorm said, making his way to the door, then stopping. Tibs was clearly alright, but Nymal was his teammate too. He should make an effort to be polite and work with her. He stepped back from the door and gestured for her to go through. “Ladies first.”

  Nymal and Tibs stopped dead.

  Nymal’s face turned scarlet. Tibs brought his fist up to cover his mouth. Out of the corner of his eye, Trorm noticed the other elf looking scandalized.

  Making a little sound that very well might have been a growl, Nymal stormed past and out into the hall. HURT. AFRAID. ANGRY.

  Trorm looked to Tibs. “What did I do?”

  The laughter died from Tibs’ face. “You mean that wasn’t on purpose?”

  “What?”

  Tibs shook his head. “Okay, listen. You know how orcs have certain stereotypes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So do elves. And one of the most insulting things you can do is call a male elf a woman,” Tibs said.

  Trorm vaguely recalled hearing something like that once. “Okay, I’ll keep that in mind. But what did I do?”

  Tibs shook his head. “Dude. Nymal’s a guy.”

  “Huh?” That couldn’t be right.

  Tibs guided him out into the hallway and they followed Nymal at a distance. As they went, Trorm took of his sunglasses and checked them for damage. He put them back on and looked at Tibs.

  Tibroth “Tibs” Jones

  Gender: Male

  Emotion: AMUSED.

  Interest Level: 0

  They seemed to be working just fine. “Weird. The enchantment on these sunglasses say she’s a woman. I mean, he’s a woman.” Trorm shook his head. “I am not off to a good start today.”