If I still had my shop, I would be spending my time creating useful tinctures and salves for the patrol work I am doing. It seems that, despite the sales pitch sounding rather banal—just rounding up some stragglers from the Orc Hordes—I will be in some rather more considerable danger due to the reckless nature of the party.
Since I do not have my shop anymore, I decide to spend the next two days practicing Orcish. I remember hearing that there were primers offered by the military because too few translators could be found, back during the siege. Perhaps some are still available at the garrison. If not, I can check the pawn shop.
The military complex in Nodkis is located in the northeast corner of town, not far from where I am in the Rose District. It’s relatively small since the main force resides in Buknar Vull, just a couple days’ ride away. On foot, a week.
I have never been to Buknar Vull and the closest I came was when I escaped the attack on Nodkis. I hear it is nothing special. From the looks of the military compound in Nodkis, I’d be inclined to agree.
The complex has three buildings, all single-storey. A fence that can only be described as quaint encircles the buildings and central courtyard. The building with all the soldiers standing around and being generally rowdy is likely the barracks. Another building appears to be for equipment, tack, and horses. The last is small and empty, with a big window gilded across many of the small panes in tiny, foiled letters.
I can’t read what it says until I am practically standing in front of it: “Elysium Military: Offices of Operations & Administration”.
The glare off the windows and the dark interior makes it difficult to see much of anything through the glass, so I open the door and step inside without much of an idea of what I will find inside.
I’ve been in military offices before, in other nations, and this one is no different. A few desks, walls covered in shelves, all surfaces laden with books and papers, and one lonely caretaker seemingly forgotten until they’re not.
The middle-aged man sitting at one of the three desks in the cramped room looks up as I enter, mouth agape. I can’t tell whether it is because he is surprised by my size, surprised by someone entering at all, or just because that is how he looks.
“Can I help you?” he attempts to say, but largely leaves off the “you”. He’s squinting terribly.
“Orcish language primers,” I say, taking a couple steps forward.
He scrunches just one half of his face and rubs the other side with his hand, smudging a little ink across his cheek. A moment later, he releases the contortion and raises a finger triumphantly. “Yes, um, you mean to work as a translator?”
“Yes,” I lie. He probably would not give me one if I tell him that I am considering moving to Kadraka because living in Elysium is akin to dying a slow death of the mind.
He nods in understanding and rises from the desk, shuffles over to a bureau, and pulls open the middle drawer to peruse its contents. He leans over and practically puts his face in the drawer to do so.
As he does, I take a more thorough look at the offices and see that they are relatively tidy. Papers are in neat stacks and volumes are in order. There is, however, a stale smell and a fair accumulation of dust. Still, it does not surprise me when the man says, “A-ha!” and lifts a slim, coverless booklet from the drawer.
He shuffles over and hands me the booklet. The title page, which is immediately visible due to the lack of hard cover, reads The Language of the Orcs: A Diplomatic Primer.
Seems straightforward enough.
“Thank you,” I say, ready to leave.
“Do you know any Orcish already?” the man asks.
“No,” I admit. Technically I know a few words and phrases, enough to barter or ask for directions, but not enough to dominate a tribe.
“Well have you learned another lang…uage…before?” he pauses in the middle of his question, realizing, I surmise, that the figure he is speaking to appears quite foreign. He squints at me so hard his head tilts back.
“Yes.”
“Oh really,” he sounds relieved for some reason. “How many languages do you know?”
I tally them quickly: my mother tongue of Nashaavi, the language of magic and dragons commonly referred to as Draconic, Goblin-speak, Elysian, Morish, a functional amount of Lizardman, and the forbidden tongue of the Demons which would probably cause me to be exiled from Elysium—but certainly be put to death in Dromatica—were it to be discovered. “Five,” I reply.
“I see!” he exclaims. “In that case, I’m sure you’ll be ready in no time. Not to scare you off, but we have quite the backlog of notes and missives that need translating. We haven’t had a trustworthy translator in a while. Can’t trust the orcs won’t send in spies among our midst, you know?”
I suppose he thinks because we are both human, that I share his prejudices. I simply ignore it.
“Good-bye,” I end the conversation decisively and exit the small building.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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