Chapter 67

The Quarotte

Ogo

Orcs were silent when handling Hawkin’s chimeric colored barrels. Orc fingers thick as piglets traced the labels. Those colors did strange things to the mind. Every pair of orc eyes that laid upon the barrels lingered there. Mouths hung open in tusk and teeth revealing awe.

“Sixty carts!” I said. “Stack them five high!.”

Barrels slammed into cart beds. Orcs hefted the barrels with less than a grunt. Carts protested with creaks and twists of hardwood grain. An orc set a barrel on the topmost stack atop one pyramid. The wood of the cart did not move, but it released a tremble of sound.

“Easy,” said Tik to the cart. “You’re built by orcs. You can handle the load.”

“Unless Iki built that one,” I said.

Iki, hefting two barrels beneath each arm, said, “I make one mistake…”

“The cart bed was upside down,” said Efg. “Just like your brain.”

Orcs erupted in laughter, even Iki. “It was my first attempt,” he said.

Iki’s laughter joined ours. Hot plumes of breath rose between pairs of orc tusks. Flurries of snow fell onto the barrels and caught onto the edges of the labels. Hawkin’s branded name gleamed. Behind us, our snow slowly accumulated on the masts, taffrails, and lines. An orc saluted me. Snow fell from his shoulder.

“All set Commander,” said Upu.

I held a hand out toward the evergreen valley. Flurries flew through my fingers. The valley sloped down between terrific mountains that split the clouds. A river sloshed along it and meandered deep into cat territory. The surface of the water was filled with planks of ice the size of axe handles.

“Jix,” I said.

Jix unraveled her map. “Few days east.”

“By song it’ll feel like an hour.”

I put myself between the handles of the foremost cart with the bed to my back. Crouching put me beneath the handles. Heaving, my tongue whipped out my belly’s grunt. A roar rattled my throat and wet my tusks. The handles rose and the wheels turned. Warm air vaporized from my skin.

“Onward!”

Orcs roared with effort. Carts creaked. Wheels turned. Hawkin’s barrels jostled. A single-file line led us deep into the valley. Song was our companion. Deep song that came deep from from bagpipe-shaped bellies.

Sound was different at night. Raw song no longer echoed. The night soaked it up. Frost collected on eyelashes. Simple blinks broke the ice crystals.

Light was different at night. No torch, no glint of eyes, no ember could match the brilliant ethereal light of Hawkin’s barrels. Each cart rolled through rough terrain in the center of a wobbling ball of chimeric light. Ground frost soaked up those colors. The sight was so breathtaking, our song softened and our pace slowed.

“Sing of Balk!” came a cry from down the line.

Ah yes! Balk, the great ancient seafarer who rowed a mastless galleon through tsunami and hurricane! That was a good and mighty song. It was a traveling song of muscle and grit and salt-worn red eyes.

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“But we’ll roll instead of row!” came another voice.

Puffs of vapored chuckles rose through chimeric light. As we sang, each bubble of light rolled forward through the valley. We rolled through the nights and wheeled through the days. Flurries of snow came and went. Wind chilled the ring on my tusk. It felt as cold as tundra rock.

On our fourth day of travel, I pressed a palm to the frigid face of a boulder that blocked the path. The constant cadence of sloshing beer came to final splashes as my orcs set their carts down.

“All front!” I called.

In pairs, we punched the boulder. What humans did with chisel and hammer, we did with muscle and knuckle. Conversation was plenty as we took turns elongating fractures in the stone. Punches punctuated laughter. Great long cracks were celebrated. Huge chips of stone were hauled into the forest that was bristle-brush thick. It was Iki’s headbutt that split the boulders at last. The sound of tusk on stone hit the good nerve! A sprinkle of grunts spread through the orcs.

After a brief meal of eel and goblin spit beer, we hefted cart handles.

“Onward!”

Beer sloshed at our backs. When the trail narrowed and we slipped over stones, Barrels with Hawkin’s branded name tumbled off a few carts. There was no recovering the broken barrels, nor the beer that oozed through the rocks. My bottom jaw ground circles in frustration. Each barrel was a grain of wealth!

“Care!” I bellowed. “Slow and easy! This is our money!”

That did it. No more barrels broke. Orc faces were set in concentration. Greedy smiles melted over tusks.

We traveled until the light of Hawkin’s chimeric colored barrels lapped over split-rail fences at early dawn. The fences led into a city of tents and wood beams. The city lay sprawled across the foot of the valley. Speckles of black freckled the city as far as the eye could see. At the gates of the city, the cats congregated.

“No taller than humans,” said Jix.

“Tusks,” Tik said. He pointed at the saber fangs of an approaching cat dressed in layers of boar fur.

“Orcs,” said the cat.

“We’ve brought beer to sell.”

“Orcs.”

“Will you trade for coin?”

“Orcs.”

Jix and I shared a brief glance. “Orcs,” I said. I slapped my breast.

“Beer,” the cat said. “Humans among you?”

Iki was shoved forward. Tik grinned and said, “His brain’s human sized.”

The cat smiled as only a cat could smile. Their tail swished. “Come with me. Beer will be a hard sell, but Jeresh will welcome you. Or turn you away.”

“Heave!” I commanded. “Onward.”

What a spectacle we became. Thousands of cats emerged throughout the city to gaze upon orcs. Child cats leapt into the carts and tumbled all about. The black freckles of the city turned out to be obsidian. Obsidian hung by myriad strings. Obsidian panes had been drilled through and sewn to tent walls. Obsidian polluted the city. Obsidian was the only jewelry, the only thing for pottery, the only tools, the only weapons. …Apart from the claws; long as human fingers they were.

Throughout the city, cats gawked. Even our guide.

“Magic beer?” he said.

“Just the barrel. What’s inside tastes like magic. Goblin spit beer.”

“Some Quarotte might be interested. Most will not.”

“Quarotte.”

“My people.”

“I’ll sell to those who might be interested.”

“It’s up to Jeresh. There he is.”

I set the shafts of the cart down. “Halt!”

A massive multi-domed tent stood before us. Black panes were sewn on every inch of fabric. The tent seemed almost like a giant cluster of black crystals. The early winter sun exposed the deep gold and silver sheens of the obsidian panes. A quarotte in draped white fur stood at the threshold of the tent. Minuscule diamond plates of obsidian decorated the fur. The glass sheened cold metallic green.

We followed a cobbled path into the tent.

“Welcome to Fitz-Dhis, orcs. Humans?”

“No, my lord,” our guide said.

“Then you may pass.” Jeresh turned and started away.

“Lord Jeresh,” I said. “I’ve brought beer to sell.”

He turned. He gazed at the carts. “You won’t be selling your beer in my kingdom.” He turned once more.

“I heard the golems trade for glass. Is that true?”

Lord Jeresh took a breath that made him seem annoyed. “Obsidian. And if you’ve got that, we’ll trade. Otherwise, you're free to pass through. Be on your way orcs.”

I moved to follow Lord Jeresh but several Quarotte intercepted me. Each one was relaxed and kept emotionless eye contact. I didn’t need them to brandish their claws to read the warning.