Chapter 46

Beer for the Tzards

Ogo

For the first time in weeks, I issued the first wheel order: starboard. Light morning fog wisped by and left dew in its wake upon orc skin and dark wood. Hawkin’s barrels gleamed their impossible colors. As if from a stupor, my orcs slowly braced themselves as the ships turned. We carved into the waves and the rhythm of slapping water fell silent. We sailed into the gulf as far as we could.

“Drop anchor!” I said.

We dropped anchor. My Captains echoed my order and dropped anchor one by one.

“Drop the jolly boats!”

The boats fell, slapped the sea, and rubbed against the ship as they bobbed.

“With me!”

Rope ladders were unfurled. I descended to one of the jolly boats. My translator Jix boarded my jolly boat. Orcs filed into the other boats, and barrels were dropped into the sea and tethered to our boats. The colors of Hawkin’s barrels trailed us like a net of bloated mermaid tails. As we rowed to shore, dawn light discovered the gulf waters. The fog brightened into a copper haze. It almost felt like the fog was the end of a giant’s candle wick and the cool water of the summer sea warmed like melting wax. The coast of the gulf wasn’t rocky, sandy, nor was it earthy, or silty. It was a swamp, and the sea spilled into the swamp like a constant rush of overflowing warm wax. Creatures dodged about in the line of black trees, reeds, and canebrake.

Spears with fish hook tips rained around our boats like a brief torrent of hail. An orc in the jolly boat beside mine grunted. One of the spears had impaled his breast. He rowed with one hand and pried the spear out with his other. We smiled at each other.

Another volley of spears hit the water like a sprinkle of sudden hail. Foam streamed out from one of the pierced barrels in a white arc. The orcs that it showered licked their lips and gave deep gravel laughs. Creatures ashore gurgled as we drew near. A strong bubbly command rose among the purl of fluid voices.

“Translate,” I told Jix.

Jix tabled her rowing. “Stop fire. Nonhuman.”

“Translate rapidly, Jix. Make me feel like I know their language!”

Jix said nothing. This wasn’t our first time working together. She knew the drill. She was so quick with translation, it always seemed like there were never language barriers. So when we reached the swamp edge, and when the chief of the tzards spoke, it was as if I could understand him directly.

“Goblins!” The tzard chief said.

I stood.

“Orcs!” the chief said. “Flash color. Barrel. Stand down.”

As soon as our jolly boats slipped into the swamp, insects swarmed us. Insects were nothing to orc skin. They went for our eyes but a quick blink smeared them into paste on our eyelashes. They frenzied for blood on my companion’s chest.

“Halt slow stop!”

I echoed the tzard’s command. Our momentum slipped us into the midst of the tzards. They were half the size of goblins. If I crammed my foot and ankle down the throat of a tzard, they would fit like boots. Webbed fins lined their hunched backs. Their heads were frog shaped and their eyes had 4 different lids. They stood on roots of swamp trees that were raised like legs bent at knees. Fins bladed their elbows, like the gray wings of a bat. Their frog mouths, with smiles at rest, came off mocking. Some did smile mockingly. Their teeth were cousin to piranha, and their long tongues must have been made for wrestling eels and snakes from long, slim mud tunnels. Like their webbed fins, their gray skin stretched over lengths of bones and wrinkled at joints. Joints that were knots, like burl on wood.

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The chief beckoned one of his lessers who from then on translated for him. Migigle introduced himself.

“Problem with big boat?” he said. “Stuck in gulf?”

“Beer for trade.” I said.

The swamp-filled lot of tzards hooted and splashed and chittered and clicked and croaked.

“Give us flashy barrel for keeping.” Migigle said.

“For trade.”

“Maybe trade. That one for keeping. Trespass us swamp. Friendly payment.”

I gestured to my orcs. “Give him the barrel.”

One buoyed barrel was pushed through swamp water to the chief, but Migigle shook his head.

“Come this way,” he said.

The tzards turned toward the deep of the swamp and escorted us in. Given their previous clamor I expected them to splash their way in, but they moved silently whether in water or over roots. The only ripples came from our jolly boats. The only sounds came from our rowing and the barrels that bumped together and knocked on the roots and swamp trees.

The trees were tall like they wanted to crane their necks to gasp the sky. Leaves hung from branches like seaweed left to cure. Wiry moss bearded the forks of trees like patches of black mold. There were faces in the trees. Only when they blinked did I make out the camouflaged tzard warriors. An acrid haze hung in the air and choked the swamp from sunlight. Rotten tree stumps shaped like stalagmites appeared just above the waterline like rotting teeth. We passed by occasional clumps of green grass that huddled in something like fear. They stood stiff and encircled like their blades were swords.

Then we came upon the tzard settlement. They had decorated the swamp with everything they’ve ever earned in trade. Hide tents covered hollows of roots. Timber shelves were strapped to trees with leather strips. Cauldrons hung above coals in numerous open kitchens. Sacks of burlap were heaped in piles. Odds and ends were stored in tree hollows. Monstrous lengths of bones provided arched house architecture. Beyond the kitchens, it looked like the roots of trees had been trained throughout the ears into nests. Young tzards peered from nest entrances.

Eel boiled in one of the cauldrons. Migigle had one of his lessers tip the cauldron to pour out the top layer of eel fat into a lantern with a snaking wick. A glowing ember was fetched with a pair of tongs to light the wick. Other lanterns were filled. Soon, the swamp glowed a tarnished bronze. Migigle invited us into a long building made of giant rib bones covered in hide. Lopsided tables and chairs were arranged parallel to the walls. We filled in. Tzards brought in a dozen lanterns. Migigle sat at the head of the table. Jix sat between him and I.

“Orc sit,” Migigle said. “Drinking now.”

The barrel of weird colors was brought in. The tzards spent a few minutes dazzling over the label. They tried to decipher an opening and rejected any help. They managed to finally open it and took turns pouring the beer out into their cupped, webbed hands. They slapped the beer with their tongues, they slurped and murmured, they inhaled the foam, and they gasped with delight.

After a long conference, Migigle said, “Long time no goblin beer.”

“Trade with me,” I said.

“Fetch trade things,” Migigle said to the tzards at his side.

They brought back baskets full of treasure. Migigle introduced each item: oyster pearls, slug pearls, good-moss, black fruits shaped like tamarind pods, jars of cold eel fat, dried swamp flowers, bones, dried snake eyes, and a host of other monster parts.

I mustered patience. “Coin?”

Migigle laughed at the translation. “Human trade pearl and flowers, slugs trade good-moss, scarpadae trade eyes and fat and fruit, greffles trade bones.”

“No coin?”

“Cats sometimes coin. Never beer.”

“What do the cats trade?”

“Sometimes coin.”

“For?”

“Clear rock golems make.”

“Do the golems trade for coin?”

“Golems trade good-moss.”

I requested 1 oyster pearl.

“Goblins trade pearls with human for coin,” Migigle said.

“We’ll trade for good-moss and pearls. Eel too.”

“Eel, eel. Come share custom.”

‘Come’ was mistranslated. We stayed right where we were. Food was brought to us and we feasted on oyster, eel, snake, and goblin spit beer. Migigle accepted the trade. After the hurlicorns—good luck, Barnacle-eyes—our second trade transpired with the tzards.