Sitting in his study, Myrl wondered how much of his life going forward would involve him just sitting, awaiting word from others.
He knew intellectually that his life before taking the throne was made up of his waiting on word from his Aunt or her husband that they agreed it was time for Myrl to ascend… but, now that he had, he found he was spending more of his time waiting upon the words and actions of others, rather than doing things himself.
In all of the old stories that the Bards told on festival days, and all of the fairy stories he had read in books, the king or the prince would constantly be running off to kill this murderous beast, halt the march of the vast Orc army, or slay those hideous hags, with maybe even take a little extra time to swing by the village and outsmart the schemes of the Elves, who were both oddly pedantic yet completely blind to the language of the contracts they made with fair maidens.
And that was another item on his list to complain about to himself as he waited and read. There were very few “fair maidens” he had run into since taking the Crown. He had scads of noble ladies and matrons thrusting their daughters at him (or throwing themselves at him…) but anyone he would categorize as a “fair maiden” were as yet not in the city of Ghlow. Or, maybe just being kept from the sight of the young king by some of the surviving evil hags or scheming Elves that had not been routed by previous kings or princes of the Realm.
He put down the book, one of his father’s journals, and stood to stretch as he walked a tight circle around the large comfy chair and the table at the center of his study. His father hadn’t, at least not in this tome, had anything to say on the matter of monsters attacking the city docks. Nor did he comment upon Ghlow’s lack of maidens, fair or otherwise.
His father had written here a little about how lucky he had been to be married to someone he could talk to and on whom he could rely. His parents had married before taking the throne, had even had a few years to get to know one another while trying to conceive an heir, and he mentioned in his writings how he and the Queen had hoped to have several children while they still were able.
Some hopes are always left to die, Ashe always said, and some are killed.
A guard, and older woman named Meggie, who had been one of the pair standing outside of his study tapped on the frame to get his attention before saying, “My liege. Lord Ashe is on his way to see you. He had to attend to a detail he noted that you would want him to see to, before he is able to join you here.” She finished, and gave Myrl a crisp bow.
“Thank you Meggie. Please allow him in once he arrives.” Myrl smiled at that, Ashe usually walked past any guard post in the castle without pausing. Myrl doubted it ever occurred to him that some place in the palace, ANY place in fact, might be barred from THE Lord Ashe.
She moved to return to her post outside of his door, with only a slight smile moving across her lips as she turned. She knows Ashe will go wherever he wants just as well as I do. He thought.
Myrl also doubted that any of his guards would try to stop the man. They all knew that Ashe outranked everyone in the Kingdom by the singular dint of Myrl’s good regard. Now Myrl smiled. He sighed as he returned to his seat, and his reading.
It was only moments after he sat down that there was a mild disturbance outside of the door, and the guard Meggie was back inside the study, making a small bow.
“My liege.” She paused, looking slightly uncomfortable as she straightened. “The tro… er… the Palace Chef is at the door, with a cart. He says he has your evening tea, and… uhm… a snack.”
“Oh!” He was surprised for a moment as he considered. “Is it past the 8th bell already?”
Meggie looked relieved to have it confirmed that the hulking chef was expected. The palace guards had come to respect the large Orc’s cooking skills, as well as his ability to organize and run the palace kitchens on Myrl’s behalf. Most of the Palace guardsmen had been made up of career guards who had not come with Myrl from his years at the garrison at Jibiril Keep. Those men and women who had already been here at the palace did not trust the Orc as the guardsmen that had served at the keep with the Orc.
It was only natural, Myrl supposed. Most of these soldiers had never seen an Orc in person, much less expected to serve with one IN the palace.
Myrl gestured for her and her watch partner, Plonce, to let the Orc, and his cart, pass.
Soon Myrl was sitting with a warm cup of strong tea, and a small plate of various cookies. Myrl noticed that the lemon ginger cookies were in the majority, and smiled. Then he saw the three blackberry jam filled cookies, and realized that Master Sergeant Donchaminar Kammick Nit’Sammish of the Cloven Peaks’ Clan, Medalled Hero of the Y’Sek Campaign, and favorite son of his revered grandmother, long may She reign, was prepared to serve Lord Ashe tea and cookies as well.
“Donk?”
There was a sigh at Myrl’s use of the incredibly improper familiar name, Donk’s exhale washed over Myrl’s left arm and hand from where the huge Orc stood behind him and to the left, beside his food trolley. “Sire.”
It was Myrl’s turn to sigh. He stood abruptly, walked to the door, and closed it slowly, nodding to Meggie and Plonce. They nodded back at him, and said “Sire” in unison. Neither looked quite happy.
Walking back to his table, he started anew. “Donk, my friend.”
“Myrl,” his basso rumble answered back with a warm smile. “Ashe sent me a note, asking for tea and a light plate of treats.”
“I don’t see any strips of dried meat.” Myrl raised an eyebrow at his huge friend. “Elbana unable to join us?”
Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.
Donk scowled around his trucks where they just poked up at the edges of his mouth. “She remains at the docks, working on the problem; I have been told. Ashe’s note to me said to not expect her, but to send food and warm drinks down to the docks for her and her men. For the City Guards, as well.”
He continued, “I have Gruen and Barda riding a wagon down now with food and casks of hot mulled, sweetened rubiach for those folks.”
Myrl made a face.
“Myrl, not everyone can stay awake all hours of the night on just tea.” He laughed at that, and the deep thrumming notes of the giant brown and green skinned man’s laugh reverberated in Myrl’s own chest. “Some of us need the rich, strong, decadence of the steeped bean juice that is rubiach. With my grandmother’s compliments to yourself, of course.” The trolls of the Western Mountain ranges of the kingdom took great pride in the many hillside orchards where they grew rubiach. And once the matriarch of Donk’s people knew Donk would be even further from home than he had been while at Jibiril Keep, she had sent a supply of the beans to her grandson every month.
Some nobles had noticed the shipments, and thought to gain favor with Myrl by importing even more of the dried beans. Myrl had heard that some of the finer inns in the city had begun to serve the drink, and that it was an up and coming fashion for the merchants of the city to frequent these “rubiach houses.”
There had been one young enterprising noble, a Viscount, who had bought a pub, and made it into a place where merchants, solicitors, and other young nobles would gather to drink rubiach, and eat pastries all hours of the day and night. He had even named the place “The Black Lord’s Inn.” Myrl had heard that the sign above the door had sported a stylized image of Lord Ashe, and that many of the young nobles in the city were dressing in the darker colors favored by Myrl himself, some even going so far as to dress themselves in clothing of blacks, grays, and silvers like those of Lord Ashe himself.
Lord Ashe found it mortifying.
Myrl, Elbana, and Donk would never openly tease the man about it, but… the temptations were strong.
Meanwhile, Myrl preferred tea. And aside from on his coronation day, rarely wore any black or gray at all. Though he did choose to wear the darker shades of those colors he did wear.
Why wear blue when you could wear indigo? he reasoned.
Donchaminar was one of his favorite people, and not just because of his cooking. Myrl knew he could ask his large friend absolutely anything, and Donk would answer him with honesty and a frank nature that went beyond what most people who shared a past could muster.
There were many things that Myrl was curious about, but would never ask. He had asked years ago about orc marriages. But, as curious as he might be, he wouldn’t, couldn’t ask about orc “romance.” It just wasn’t done.
But, he felt he did need to ask one thing this evening, before Ashe made an appearance. “Donk, I’ve heard you refer to yourself as a ‘troll.’” Myrl stated.
“Certainly.”
Myrl then made another statement. “But, you refuse to allow any of the guardsmen to get away with using the term.” Maybe if he made enough of these statements that skirted the issue, he wouldn’t have to ask.
“Yes. That, my little king,” Here Donk paused for emphasis. “...is true.”
Myrl sipped his tea. It tasted of hibiscus. Not his favorite, but it made an excellent foil, flavor-wise, to the tangy spicy combination of the lemon ginger cookies.
Donk sat down on the broad bench that had been piled with cushions near the fireplace, and stirred a large cup filled, probably, with rubiach and cream. As he stirred the mixture, the scent of it wafted over to where Myrl sat. Cinnamon figured heavily in that aroma.
To anyone else, any human at least, the ceramic mug that Donk regularly drank from was more properly a “mixing bowl with a handle.” Probably one that was made for bakers to mix small batches of pastry dough in.
He finally gave in. “Fine. Why? What differentiates a ‘troll’ from an Orc?”
“My grandmother never told you?” he asked. One large hand scratched at his broad, stubble strewn chin. “I guess I can’t be too surprised. It’s a matter of some social delicacy to our people.” He gave his mug another stir, sipped, and sighed in pleasure.
“An Orc is a member of a family. A tribe. A community. They are even of a nation. But, when we get cut off from those things. Those ‘civilizing factors’ as Ashe would call them, we become Trolls. We are, like humans, better individuals when we are surrounded by our communities.” He tilted his head to the side, considering. “As members of a group, we work towards the goals that serve us all, even when we do the things that most people think of as individual tasks, like working at our trade, we are connected to family and community, and we serve that purpose. The wood carver may spend days alone in their home carving spoons,” and here he held up the spoon he had been using to stir the contents of his mug. “But then they sell or trade those spoons among the community. They are connected.” He then popped most of an entire cake into his maw, and began chewing, with a bliss filled smile working its way across his face.
“But…” Myrl prompted.
“But, when we lose those things, that’s where it all falls apart for us. Where we become ‘trolls.’” He was staring down into his mug now, a lost look on his mottled green and brown face. “If an orc is cut off from family, community, tribe, nation, we lose ourselves. We get very …dark. And sometimes it is like an avalanche; it starts with a few small pebbles shifting and moving. Tumbling. Rolling.”
Another long sip from his quickly diminishing mug of hot rubiach. “An orc loses their spouse. hunting? Rough childbirth. Injury, illness, raiders, any number of stupidities. And suddenly they’re alone in their home. They start lashing out in their pain at their neighbors. The neighbors may try to help, but sometimes our pain makes our decisions for us. None of us are perfect. Suddenly, the neighbors, the community,the tribe, the nation has had enough of your shit and you are now out. Completely out. Exiled.”
“And that…”
“And that changes us for the worse. That turns an orc into a troll. We become hard. Cruel. Our bodies even change. I don’t know why.” Another pause as he sipped his drink again. “Grandmother has a theory or two, but she would even admit she doesn't know exactly why. But, our skin’s thicken, and we start to grow boney plates in places. If we are able to get enough food, we put on size. If it goes on long enough, we become nightmares. A troll in the mountains is a danger. A troll near a village is a tragedy.”
He looked up at Myrl then, his eyes were on the verge of spilling its as yet unshed tears. Myrl had rarely seen his friend in such a state. “When I was 12 or 13, I was a part of a hunting party that my grandmother sent out to remove a troll from where it had nested, near a village. The troll had been one of my Aunts. Like I said, an avalanche.”
“I’m so sorry, Donk. I had no idea. I…”
Donchaminar cut him off with a gentle gesture. “No. It’s something you should know. It’s something that my grandmother would approve of you knowing.”
“I was not aware you had been sent out on a troll-hunt at such a young age, Donk. My condolences.”
The voice startled both Myrl and Donk. The huge orc choked on the sip of rubiach he had just taken, and Myrl dropped the cookie he had just picked up into the folds of his shirt where the opening had loosened. Myrl suppressed a startled “FUCK!” only with great effort.
Lord Ashe’s appearance was sudden, and he came striding out from a corner of the room where two bookshelves met and made for a shadowy nook at this time of night.