The Nannak Read online

toward someone in the crowd. "Boy," he barked. "Take him inside."

  A young orc, perhaps a little younger than me, hurried toward the front door. Anxious to escape their fiendish stares, I followed him, stepping through the entrance into a grand hall. It was clean—spotless in fact—with dark-stained wooden floors and lofty ceilings. Suits of polished armor on faceless mannequins were arranged along the walls. Above them hung the mounted heads of snarling animals. I was shocked. Orcs were simple creatures, nomads. Since when had they become sophisticated?

  I must been quite the sight, staring as I was, for the young orc shook his head before disappearing up a flight of stairs.

  And that's when I saw it, on a banner hanging from a wall: the Eye of Morroth. It was simple enough—a stylized eye painted in blood, a symbol of the Devil God, ever watchful, never sleeping. It had become synonymous in the Good Kingdom with evil, and displaying it was strictly forbidden. I would see it sometimes, painted on walls and gravestones by vandals. It always gave me chills. Now, seeing it displayed so prominently—in a dwelling, no less—made me nauseous.

  "Are you coming?"

  The young orc had returned down the stairs and seemed rather annoyed. Slinging my bag around my shoulder, I followed him up the flight of stairs to a bedroom. It was small, furnished only with a bed and a black lacquered set of drawers. I say a bed, but really it was a board with a thin mat over top. Just looking at it I knew it would be uncomfortable. I didn't say anything, though, for my attention had shifted to a small cage on the floor in the corner.

  I thought it empty at first, save for some shredded paper lining the bottom and a round stone sitting in the middle. But then I saw the stone move, and I realized it was an enormous spider. It looked like a powdered dinner roll, ambling around on thick, fuzzy, gray legs.

  "What is your name?"

  I tore myself away from the cage to see my young host watching me.

  "Arlo," I said.

  This amused him. "What kind of name is that?" he smirked.

  "It's my name."

  He remained there, studying me with those fiendish eyes. That was what struck me the most that first day—not their skin, nor their beastly noses, but their eyes. Unlike humans, they had no iris, only pupils, and it made even the simplest glance unsettling.

  "And what is your name?" I asked.

  "Borgol," he answered.

  "What kind of name is that?" I asked, giving him a smirk of my own.

  "My father's name."

  My smile disappeared.

  "Was that him outside?" I asked, glancing at the window. "Your father, I mean?"

  "It was."

  It clearly pleased him to be able to say that. I stood there, listening to the sound of paper rustling as the spider moved to the other side of the cage.

  "What is that?" I asked.

  The orc looked at me, confused. "A spider," he said.

  "I know that, but what is he doing in here?"

  "He's yours."

  I knelt beside the cage to study the creature, taking care to leave some room in case it managed to escape. It didn't appear to have any eyes, or even a mouth, yet somehow I could tell it was watching me.

  "What if I don't want it?" I asked.

  Borgol shook his head, clearly not approving of the question. "It was my brother's spider, but he's gone now. His room is now your room. And so, that is your spider."

  I pictured myself sleeping on the little mat, that thing creeping around in the background.

  "Can you take it?" I asked.

  "I already have one."

  "Wouldn't it like to have a friend?"

  Borgol looked at me and then walked to the door.

  "We will be eating soon," he said. He didn't say anything else; instead he left, closing the door behind him.

  Setting my bag on the floor, I took a moment to wander the room. So this belonged to my counterpart, did it? It certainly didn't have much; the chest of drawers was empty, and so was the closet. It seemed clean, though, as did the mat on the floor.

  I started thinking about my own bedroom with its comfy bed and rows of books. Would the orc appreciate it? And my family. How would they be with an enemy among them? As stern as my father was, he was nothing like the brute I’d met outside. And my mother, well she would have her hands full trying to instill manners in someone who came from somewhere so obviously lacking them.

  Where there was bound to be trouble was with my brother Seth. My older brother, David, would never hurt anyone, not even to defend himself, but Seth enjoyed violence in a manner that was, as my mother described it, uncommon. How he would coexist with an orc was something I couldn't fathom.

  I remained in my room until a loud gonging prompted me to step into the hall. I thought it an alarm, and after the fifth such strike I made my way downstairs only to be escorted by a burly orc in leather armor to a neighboring room. It was dinnertime, and I sat at a table, joined by the rest of the family, including a female orc I immediately sussed was the mother.

  I'd heard stories of men, frontier men mostly, taking orcish women as their brides and starting half-breed families deep in the woods. I could only assume there was something wrong with them, because this woman was repulsive. She was wide, wider even than Borgol the Elder, with a cauldron-shaped head, scraggly gray hair and breasts that flopped on the table like a huge pair of half-empty wineskins. I could imagine her hunting cattle, striking them dead with a single blow from a cast-iron pan.

  Made uncomfortable by their stares, I brought my gaze to study the room around me. Like the front hall, this room was decorated with suits of armor, but unlike that first room, this one contained a suit of human origin.

  "Hey, that's a knight's covering!" I said, forgetting myself.

  "Glorious, isn't it?"

  I turned to see Borgol the Elder smiling, ivory teeth jutting up from behind a meaty lip.

  "Killed him myself," he growled. "Speared him through the neck. Would you like to see his head?"

  Before I could comprehend the question, he dropped a collection of leathery heads onto the table in front of me. They were small, like doll heads, with their eyes and mouths sewn shut.

  "He's the golden-haired one," said Borgol, grinning.

  I glanced at the shining suit of armor and then back at the tiny head lying on the table. Was it true? Was that the face of one of my realm's defenders?

  While I stared, a half dozen sauce-filled, battered steel bowls were placed in the middle of the table. Mercifully, Borgol retrieved his shrunken heads and a smooth stone slab was put in front of me, along with a spoon and a nasty looking two-pronged fork.

  "Are you hungry, Golo?" Borgol the Elder asked.

  I nodded and watched as father, mother, and son served themselves the contents of the metal bowls, methodically plopping it onto their own slabs in a counterclockwise manner, while a glob of rice was put in the center.

  And then it was my turn. I must have done a satisfactory job, for nobody said anything, and when I was finished I placed my hands in my lap and politely waited for the others to eat, just to be safe.

  As if on cue, my hosts picked up their two-pronged forks and stabbed the meaty section between their thumb and index finger on their right hand. It made me jump, and I stared as blood welled from Borgol the Elder's wound.

  "Don't you pray before eating?" he asked.

  What a gift I must have been, cowering in response to even the most everyday facets of their culture. I didn't mean to; I'd have much preferred to project something less fearful, but everything about them was so ugly I couldn't help myself. The tables, however, were about to be turned.

  "I-I don't believe in a god," I stuttered.

  It was as though I’d approached every orc in the room and slapped them in the face. Borgol the Elder went so far as to do a double take, grabbing hold of his wife's meaty shoulder so he wouldn't topple backward onto the floor.

  "What about Sol?" he demanded, upon recovering. "The Sun God! You worship him,
don't you?"

  The anger in his voice made me wonder if I shouldn't simply agree, but this was a subject about which I'd become rather outspoken, and I decided to remain true to my convictions, even if that meant softening my stance somewhat.

  "That’s an Eastern thing," I explained. "We on the plains are a pragmatic people, preferring to focus our energies on more tangible pursuits."

  The old orc glared at me. "Does your king know about this?"

  "He does, and he doesn't like it, but what can he do? We're many miles away, and it isn't as though we're harming anyone."

  Clearly Borgol the Elder did not agree with my assessment. "I'll tell you what he can do," he growled. "He can bring in his soldiers and kill you until you agree your philosophy is wrong."

  Usually I enjoyed these sorts of discussions. Of course, there wasn't generally a green-skinned monster on the other side of the table threatening to pull my arms out of their sockets. What really confused me was the orc's arguing on behalf of the King.

  "But you worship Morroth, don't you?" I said, nodding toward the demon's banner hanging from the wall. "What difference is it to you whether or not I follow my kingdom's religion?"

  Borgol the Elder looked at me, breathing loudly through his beastly nostrils. "Listen, Golo. You might think yourself clever, but I'm telling you, living here, among my people, you will give up your godlessness."

  The menace in his voice was unmistakable, and he watched me until finally he picked up his fork.

  "Eat," he said.

  Thankful for the change of subject, I scooped up some mustard-colored sauce on my spoon and brought it to my nose. It smelled odd: sweet and