It would be a while before the rest of the orcs arrived, following the scout ship that had rescued the idiot harpy, and Stomp hoped that she’d be able to take a break at the grindstone then. Her arms were getting tired.
The minotaur in human form leaned in harder, scrubbing one rock against another to pulverize a third. It was easy enough, since the white pebbles were softer than the gray stones, but she’d been at it for longer than her human arms were up for. When this latest handful was rendered to fine sand, she gratefully set down the oval-shaped grindstone. She reached for the tiny broom to sweep the powder into a bucket, but found that Windmane was using it.
“This dust sure gets everywhere,” the human-shaped centaur said. She brushed her own grinding plate clean before passing over the broom. “It’s probably easier for the harpies to manage, with their scaly bird feet.”
Stomp shrugged. “I don’t know; it probably gets stuck between their scales too.”
Windmane clapped white dust off her light brown hands. “I guess. Can’t imagine doing this with my feet.”
“It’s all in what you’re used to,” Stomp said with as much confidence as she could muster. It was only by focusing on the task in front of her that she could ignore the way her field of vision had shrunk. There was nothing behind her that she needed to see right now. It would be okay. This was a safe workroom, with a few of the harpy locals coming and going to oversee the repayment of their hospitality. Grinding rocks was tiresome, but not dangerous.
“I’m out of pebbles,” Windmane said. “Think they’ll bring us more, or are we done?”
Stomp glanced down at the small amount of tiny rocks left to grind. “I’ll ask,” she volunteered. A look around the room — turning her body as much as her head — showed that none of the harpies were present. Well, nothing for it. Walking around with partial vision was unpleasant, but easier than getting Windmane moving on two feet. Stomp got up, brushing the dust off her own dark brown hands, and she made her careful way to the door.
She could hear the ongoing crack of rocks outside even before she reached the foot-level latch. When the door swung open, it was clear that there was plenty more work to do.
Under the direct supervision of what passed for a muscular harpy, the rest of Stomp’s herd were taking turns with a pair of rock-crushing stations. While the indoor work was a detailed affair, this was suited to brute strength. The harpies hadn’t allowed any objections about who would be doing which task.
Right now, Bellow was making a show of it with the biggest stone, smashing it into a pile of rubble in the shallow depression in the ground. Bags of rocks waited to the side, freshly mined from the cliffs. This spot had clearly been used for generations. The harpy looked concerned that Bellow might crack the bedrock.
“Hold it lower,” the harpy said in the tone of someone repeating himself. “Making chips fly is wasteful and dangerous.”
Stomp watched the bull humor him with a grin, lowering the stone but still hitting just as hard. Her horn caps shone in the sunlight — short but well-formed — and she made a magnificent sight. Stomp was proud to be part of her herd.
Though as she approached, and the new size difference became more obvious, pride gave place to worry. What did Bellow need her for, cursed as she was now, with four other proper minotaurs at her side?
Stomp said nothing of this, merely smiling with her human mouth as she approached. “How’s it going out here?”
The harpy overseer started to answer, but Bellow spoke over him.
“Great!” the bull said, stopping to pose. At the other station, Trample stopped as well. “This is a fine way to repay our hosts,” Bellow said. “Much better than messing with fish or cleaning.”
Stomp nodded, thinking of the tasks that the young dragon and the remaining pixies had been assigned. Neither sounded appealing to her. She wondered briefly what the harpy of the group was doing, then remembered that she lived here, and would be at home with a dry set of clothes.
Dry clothes, and a tarnished ego, Stomp thought. I’m not surprised she left that broken rig in the sea. The walk up was probably embarrassing enough without it.
Stomp spent a moment arguing with herself when she realized first that the harpy might not have dry clothes available, since none of the village wore more than their own feathers, then she realized second that the only extra clothes around were in the minotaur’s own cart.
But they won’t fit her at ALL, Stomp told herself, And I’m certainly not giving up my festival gear just because someone was idiot enough to jump in the sea. She can wait for her own clothes to dry out. Or make something with a blanket. She’ll be fine.
Stomp returned her attention to the conversation around her, and found that Bellow was questioning the big harpy about the mortar-making process.
“So is there magic involved? You can tell me; we won’t share your secret.”
“There is not,” the harpy said drily.
“What do you do, mix the crushed rock with something mysterious to make it harden?”
“Water.”
“That’s it?” Bellow pressed, smiling. “You’re sure this rock isn’t magical?”
“You have to cook it first,” the harpy explained. “Add sand and other ingredients for the different varieties.”
“Aha, I knew there was something mysterious!”
“Which is mysterious to you: sand or fire?”
Bellow was already off on a tangent, to the clear entertainment of everyone but the harpy. “Hey, if you need fire, we should get that dragon involved. Surely dragonfire can cook this stuff faster and better.”
“No thank you,” the harpy said. “We have a kiln. Now if you please, there are a few more bags to crush.”
“Afraid the dragonfire might show you up? That’s okay. Maybe we can ask the kid to help with fishing instead. Or maybe a dragon would be better at spear-fishing too?” Bellow put a hand to her chest. “I’m already showing up your strongest rock-crushers; this is shaping up to be an embarrassing day for your village.”
The harpy crooked his wings and angled his head forward in irritation. “Are you quite done?” he asked. One clawed foot pointed toward the bags.
Bellow was still chuckling while she hefted the crushing rock, with Stomp and the others smiling indulgently, when someone out of sight called, “The orcs are here!”
“Finally,” the harpy said. “That’s enough for now. Off with you.” He made shooing motions with his foot.
Bellow didn’t need to be told twice. She tossed the crushing rock onto the pile and headed in the direction of the shout, giving directions for Throwfast and Carve to bring the centaur along.
Stomp hurried after Bellow on her short human legs. While Stare and Trample waited for her, the bull was clearly preoccupied. Stomp couldn’t blame her, but it didn’t do much for her peace of mind.
Harpies were flocking toward the far edge of the village. Pixies darted after them. It wasn’t hard to figure out where the orcs would be, especially when deep voices drifted on the breeze. Stomp was grateful that the harpies were so short, since even when she stopped behind a crowd of them, she could see over every head. Bellow and the others stood beside her, with the centaur arriving soon, and they all watched the procession that was making its way up the trail from the sea.
The orcs were large, taller than the minotaurs (though barely), wearing brightly colored clothes over their black-and-white hides. White patches covered their eyes and throats, highlighting jaws as wide as the sky. When they opened those jaws, baring rows of triangular teeth, Stomp felt like she was watching their entire heads crack in half. But they did it so cheerfully.
They were singing as they walked. Stamping in time, swinging the baskets and crates that they carried. It was a song that Stomp had never heard before.
You want more oars than enemies
Or you’re going home riding on the float.
Fight the sea and not your team
Or you’re going home riding on the float.
But if they hit first then hit back twice
Or you’re going home riding on the float.
No oars, no spear, no honor left
You’re going home riding on the float.
Cold and wet, a laughingstock
You’re going home riding on the float.
They reached the top of the trail and greeted the harpy elders with much laughter and pleasantries, while Stomp wondered what float they were singing about. Then she caught sight of the boats that were beached down on the shore, and it made sense. Most of them were two-parters: one place to sit and paddle, with poles out to the side attached to a stabilizing float. The biggest boats had flat decks balanced over two hulls, while the smallest were the maneuverable ribs-and-leviathan-leather canoes like the scout ship. A strange collection, to be sure.
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Bellow was grinding her hooves into the dirt, clearly trying not to make a scene. Stomp put a hand on her arm in comfort, privately mourning its tiny size while Trample and Stare offered similar reassurances. Their bull need not feel threatened by these enormous newcomers. The herd knew who they followed.
And there was the rest of the herd, carrying Windmane like the helpless thing she was. They joined the huddle, with the human-centaur swept up in the hug.
Windmane whispered to Stomp, “What’s happening?”
“Herd unity.”
“Gotcha.” To her credit, the centaur didn’t question it further. She just added her own tiny arms to the nearest muscular shoulder, and soon enough Bellow let out a deep breath to signal calm. Everyone eased back and watched the haggling in silence. Well, mostly silence.
“Wow, orcs are properly terrifying up close,” Windmane said from her perch in Throwfast’s arms. “They could bite somebody’s head off.”
Stomp flicked a glance up at Bellow. “I think they’d rather sing.”
She proved to be more right than she knew, since as soon as the goods were traded — seal pelts for rare foods, which the harpies had likely bought at the festival specifically to trade now — the waiting crowd broke out into a celebration. At least three different songs wove through the air at once.
A few of the orcs carried their haul back to the boats while the others joined the harpies in traipsing over to a large flat area outside the village. To Stomp’s expert eyes, the bare dirt there looked like a fine dancing ground. She was glad to see Bellow lead the herd to join the festivities.
Pixies swirled in the air above, making it all the more festive. Towering orcs chatted with the feathery little harpies like old friends, laughing and telling stories. Food and drink were appearing from somewhere; Stomp couldn’t tell if they had come from the village or the boats or both. No dancing had started yet, but it was surely just a matter of time.
Next to the dirt was a grassy area with oddly triangular rocks scattered about, which Stomp took for art until the first harpy jumped up on the highest point and made a show of balancing on one foot with wings furled. Another took a stance on a nearby rock, then a third brought out a pair of sticks padded with thick cloth, and Stomp started to get an idea of what was happening.
The two competitors whacked at each other gleefully while onlookers cheered, and other pairs took up the challenge on different rocks. As soon as one fell, a new competitor scrambled up to challenge the winner.
Stomp looked up at Bellow, who was watching everything, still tense. “Want to give it a try?” Stomp asked, pitching the suggestion to pass as a joke if the bull wasn’t interested.
Bellow flicked an ear. “I’m not about to hurt someone’s fragile bird bones.”
A sudden deep-voiced cheer made Stomp whirl to see two orcs flip over a pair of the conical rocks and attempt to balance on the flat ends. They wobbled madly for a moment, then settled into position with impressive ease.
Someone handed them paddles.
“Now I want to try it,” Bellow said over the sound of hearty whacks and laughter.
At Stomp’s encouragement, and the rest of the herd’s approval, Bellow entered the field to find an unclaimed rock. She flipped it with ease. The balancing was a little less easy, but after a brief practice, the bull waved everyone back and called for an opponent.
“Who is great enough to take me on?” she shouted, arms spread. Stomp led the herd in applauding in advance.
An orc laughed. “All right, little cousin. Let’s see what you’ve got.” He gathered paddles from a bystander, and flipped over the opposing rock. Other orcs cheered them both on. He handed Bellow a paddle with a friendly grin showing too many teeth, then he took up his position.
And knocked her off with the first swing.
“That was just a test!” Bellow exclaimed amid laughter, climbing back onto the rock.
“Of course it was,” the orc allowed. “Ready!”
He won the next round too, but not as easily, and she really made him work for the third. By the fourth, everyone was laughing, and other orcs wanted a try.
“I will take on all comers!” Bellow announced with a smile. “No one will beat me at falling off rocks.”
Stomp breathed easy on the sidelines, deeply happy at the sight of Bellow relaxed and joking. The herd as a whole had settled into enjoying the unexpected party; a harpy was passing around grain cakes that were good if a little fishy, along with some sweet drink. Even Windmane had a taste. She was still being carried. Stomp didn’t know if that was her idea or Throwfast’s.
By the time Bellow was getting visibly tired, Stomp had an idea for how to give her an exit without losing face. A different drink was making the rounds, and it was absolutely vile. “Bellow!” she called, “You have to try this!”
Bellow bowed out of further balance battles, and gratefully came over to try the offerings. Stomp made sure that the herd had some of each drink on hand, for comparison and entertainment. Trample grabbed a fresh cup of the better one and offered that first.
“You’ll like this one,” Trample said.
“It’s made from honey,” Stomp added.
Bellow tried it. “A little too sweet, but not bad.”
“This one,” Stomp said, holding a cup at arm’s length, “You have to try for a different reason.” Behind her, Carve and Stare snickered in anticipation.
Bellow accepted the cup with a knowing look. “I’m going to like that other one more in a second, aren’t I?”
At Stomp’s urging, she drank the whole cup of fermented fish squeezings or whatever it was, then coughed dramatically for the entertainment of the herd.
“Bluh! Gimme.” Another drink of the honey stuff led to different expressions and a long string of attempts to describe the unpleasantness. “It’s like the very soul of the ocean purged its hatred into that cup.”
“Like hoof fungus that wants to be a fish when it grows up,” Stomp agreed.
“Like someone tried to make lamp fuel out of a pile of mold, then left it outside for a year,” Stare contributed.
“Like a bad dream turned rancid,” Carve added.
They continued on in this vein until the orcs laughingly took mock-offense at this vile slander, and the herd had to admit that it wasn’t that bad, not really, not for something that had clearly been scraped off a rock and seasoned with mud that morning.
The orcs broke out in a taunting song, which they all knew and the harpies recognized, and which was easy to pick up at the chorus. Pixies hummed wordlessly. Musical instruments appeared. Stomp was too delighted to wonder who had brought them. She opened her mouth to suggest that someone go get theirs, but Trample and Stare were already running for the cart.
This they could do!
And they did. The flutes and drums for performing were underneath the ones for selling, but the pair found them quickly enough and returned. Then the herd set about showing the assembled crowd just what kind of talent it took to perform at the Dryad Forest Festival.
Stomp had an awful moment at first, when she realized that her human mouth didn’t fit the minotaur flute, but she traded roles with Trample and played the hand drum instead. The song went off without a hitch, and got overwhelming applause.
Not to be outdone, the assembled harpy musicians took a turn, using fascinating instruments that were new to Stomp. Each one was made for bird feet, and some had to be stabilized by wing-fingers. A minotaur couldn’t hope to play any of them.
But maybe a human could.
“Hey, these human toes can grab, right?” Stomp said to Windmane, who was standing but clinging to Throwfast’s arm for balance. “Do you think they’d be able to hold that thing?” She pointed to a scrape-the-plate-across-the-ribs arrangement.
Windmane grimaced. “Not well.”
“I wanna try it.” Stomp fumbled with her boots and addressed the nearest harpy. “Could I try that, please?”
Windmane shook her head. “You’d better sit down when you do.”
Stomp took the suggestion and did her best at the harpy instrument when it was laid out before her. The harpy explained how it worked — hold this, rub it along that, tap it here, angle it like that — then set a simple rhythm on another instrument.
Stomp was terrible at it, but had fun nonetheless. Human toes, it turned out, were too small to hold much. Good entertainment though. She tried several other things before the dancing started, then she hurried to put her boots back on.
And then Stomp did her level best to do her namesake proud, despite the temporary human form. The heavy boots helped.
The rest of the herd stepped up to join her, and it turned into a whirlwind of camaraderie. Stomp could almost forget the worry about breaking the spell, and pretend that all was right with the world. And what’s more, she could tell that her enthusiasm was helping the others enjoy the moment too. A fine thing.
When she finally sat down next to Windmane for a break, she was smiling as wide as her human mouth would go.
“Nicely done,” Windmane said. “Looks like a fun dance.”
“That’s what I’m named for,” Stomp said proudly.
The centaur cocked her head. “It is? I guess that counts as stomping.”
Stomp laughed. “What, you thought it was just the stepping loudly? What kind of name would that be?”
Windmane threw her hands in the air. “I don’t know! All you guys have names that sound violent; I thought it was more of the same.”
“Violent?” Stomp asked with a blink. “Bellow is named for loud singing, Trample for flattening the ground to make a dance floor, Carve for creating art, Stare for observing beauty, and Throwfast for sports.” She looked at the centaur with amusement. “What in all that sounds violent?”
Windmane just made an exasperated sound, and Stomp chuckled some more. Windmane grumbled about strange minotaur naming conventions.
Stomp gestured broadly at the celebration before them. “All these new experiences, and you’re taking issue with our names?”
Windmane sighed. “It’s just that I thought I understood it, you know? Nothing here is familiar, but there’s herd solidarity, but your herd is completely different from my herd. Mine is dozens of families, with layers of leadership. Yours is one group of mates. I don’t belong here either.”
Stomp put a hand on her arm, squeezing gently. “You’re safe and welcomed,” she said. “And you’ll be back with your own herd soon enough.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Stomp looked around for something to lift her spirits. The other minotaurs were standing nearby, chatting with orcs about music while a cluster of harpy chicks made an adorable attempt at the stomping dance. Everyone was enjoying themselves. In the distance, colorful specks of light swirled in the direction of the village. Nearby pixies zipped off to greet them.
“Hey, look!” Stomp pointed. “The other pixies are coming! I think I can make out a bag of pixie dust.”
“Where??” Windmane asked with surprising urgency. “I want to ask if I can use some too. It’s got to be better than trying to walk like this.”
It didn’t take much urging to get Throwfast to carry Windmane once again. Soon the pair were speeding off in the direction of the pixie swarm, with Carve going along for good measure.
“Has that one ever used pixie dust before?” asked the deep voice of an orc as Stomp got to her feet.
“Not that I know of,” Stomp said, craning her neck to look up.
The orc was shaking his massive head. “You know what they say about fistfights and frigid water.”
Stomp paused. “No. What do they say?”
The smile was unsettling with that many teeth. “If you’re going to start the one, you’d best be prepared for the other.”
“Ah,” Stomp said. “Is that a … boat saying?”
The orc laughed. “Aye, guess it is. Good advice, though.”
“Yes, I suppose so.” Stomp shook herself and stood tall. “I’m sure Windmane will be levelheaded enough to handle the challenge,” she declared. “She won’t be falling into any frigid water, real or figurative.”
“I hope she tries it over here. A flying human or two is just what this party needs.”
Stomp shook her head, once again taking in the sights. “I think this party is pretty great already,” she said. “I’m glad I got to be part of it. Thanks to you folks for improving the day immeasurably.”
“Our pleasure!” the orc said, once again showing too many teeth. “This town is always a fine start to our trade route. Way to kick it off in style.”
Stomp nodded. She caught sight of the silver dragon, who had taken up a polite position at the edge of the crowd and seemed to be enjoying the fishy drink. “Now all we need,” she said, “Is for that elder dragon to come back on his flying carpet with news on how to reverse the spell. He seems on top of things. I’m sure he’s got it handled.”