Watching orcs and goblins hammering side-by-side at the forges for hours in the sweltering desert heat was certainly not on my list of things I wanted to do. But damn if it wasn’t an impressive sight. Lura’s smiths had access to good quality iron and steel on top of a wide array of materials the nomadic people collected in the course of their journey. The eclipse came and went, and by the time the sun started to drop, the fighters I’d designed for the orcs looked more like the kind of aircraft an age-of-sail pirate might design.
Like with Ringo’s Boglins, I’d blocked off access to firearms to Lura’s hunters. The last thing I wanted was orcs making their own guns. All the guns on the aircraft, likewise, were going to be loaded and maintained by my goblins—even if the orc hunters were lending their superior aim. Precautions to keep the orcs from racing to the top of the food chain in Rava seemed prudent to me, given their propensity for raiding and looting. But that didn’t stop them from working with the canoneers to describe new and novel ammunitions for the recoilless rifles, which the canoneers would then transcribe to the igni.
“How big is this null-devil?” I asked Lura, watching as a large harpoon head was hammered into shape.
“I’ve not seen it—so tell you, by virtue of lungs that yet draw breath,” said Lura. She considered. “Tis not so long as the whistler. Worry not, for the knowing of it will not change a thing.”
I imagined few things outside of highways and railroads were as long as the whistler. The creature had been so long its thoughts probably didn’t even reach its rear end, which mostly just tried to keep up with the front. I’m also sure Lura was purposefully being unhelpful. But this wasn’t just a pleasure hunt for me. This could help me bridge the divide between the Ifrit exiles of Tribe Apollo who refused to return home, and the Ifrit King in the City of Brass who believed I’d stolen them.
“We just have a lot to get done, and I want to make sure we cover every angle.”
“Angles will yet remain when the sun is fresh, little brother king. Talk only of labor makes for a poor guest. Go, enjoy the pleasures this gathering offers.”
I sputtered. “A poor guest!?”
Lura shrugged and offered a toothy grin. I waved her off, but… when in Rome, I suppose. I’d been in the forges for hours, and the sun was starting to droop toward the horizon.
I wandered past to the cook tents where the orcs were searing and seasoning meat directly on hot coals. The crackling of wood and the pop of sizzling fat made my mouth water. I’m not sure how the cooks managed their tasks with all the goblins running around with their mouths open hoping something would drop into them, but they did, and they had a lot of orcs and goblins to feed. One of them recognized my crown and held a hand up in greeting, along with a small pita sandwich, which I took before moving on. The snack-sized bite had a spicy cream on it that reminded me of a chipotle tahini kebab sauce, and the portion wasn’t enough to put me in a stupor. This was a pleasure food, and I savored every bite as I wandered.
The Dawn’s Light camp was huge, but it wasn’t only Lura’s hunters who had come. Apparently this attempt at the null-devil had turned into something of a spectacle once the other orc factions learned she was going to be using goblin artifice in the attempt. I kept walking through hundreds of orcs that accepted my presence without a second thought. Goblins ran about like wayward children, sometimes even through the various competitive sports the orcs apparently played in their down-time.
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I spotted a game that looked like horseshoes, several wresting pits with shirtless, sweating orcs caked in dust and salt. My favorite was the orc sport that was a bit like soccer, in that they used their feet to move the ball, but I think that was only tertiary because both hands were occupied with sticks they used to whip whoever had possession. I saw javelin throwing, lassoing, trick oryx riding, and tests of marksmanship. Orc children even smaller than goblins rode small deer or tamed boars with their tusks ground down, led on a rope by older orcs long in the tooth.
It reminded me of nothing so much as a county fair. Strange to think these slate-skinned raiders were making me more homesick than my own kind had when I flew through the human city of Habberport. My competitive side missed all these games. I’d been so busy since coming to Rava that my own entertainment had taken a backseat to all other tasks. A psychology major I dated in college had explained a concept to me once, a hierarchy of human needs. Basically it meant that your higher-order needs like entertainment and self-actualization couldn’t be addressed until you’d taken care of your baser needs like safety, shelter, and hunger.
I’d been caught in a workaholic whirlwind since I’d gotten to Rava. But now the tribe was self-sustaining, self-propagating, self-innovating, and had largely grown beyond my need to babysit the day-to-day logistics. Maybe now there was some room for living. I wandered over to where a small handball from some game or other had been discarded, along with a an orc’s one-handed wooden club that I could just heft with two hands. I took an experimental swing with it. Not perfect, but not bad.
I whistled to get the attention of one of my secretive service members and sent him to bring me a canoneer. He dashed off, and a few minutes later returned with Luther in tow.
“Yes, my emperor?” asked Luther, struggling to keep his armful of loose papers from spilling out of his grip.
“Get a fresh sheet ready,” I said. “I’m going to canonize the rules of a game called Baseball.”
Several goblins within earshot had already begun to gather, as well as one or two orcs wondering what the excitement was about. I gave Luther a quick and dirty rundown of the sport and then sent goblins to find material to uses as bases. They returned with a half-empty sack, an old orc boot, a wooden platter, and someone’s pillow. Good enough.
I divided the goblins into two equal teams, making sure to keep the scrappers and wranglers even on both sides. I joined Armstrong’s team. The tribe seemed quite confused, at first. Once Luther finished his comic-style instructions, the canon started to take hold, and even the forest goblins started to get it.
I’m not going to bore you with the nine-inning play by play of a game that only vaguely resembled its Earth counterpart—none of which was sane or sensical. Even codified in the canon, the goblins’ loose understanding of the rules resulted in batters that ran to bases at random (or in circles), the pitcher using a rock slinger to launch the ball, fielders rugby-tackling runners, and an abrupt end when the shortstop literally ate the ball. With the scores a complete mystery, both sides claimed victory, which erupted into a total bench brawl.
But it was sport, it was fun, and it was something had had been sorely lacking in the tribe. I sat back with my dinner, watching orcs give the incomprehensible version of the game a go. Exhausted goblins dozed next to me, and more of them wandered around, flopping onto the pile as they got too tired to continue terrorizing the camp. Other sleeping mounds began to form on top of orcs who had passed out from too much drinking and revelry. I soon found my own eyes drooping and wriggled my way into a press of bodies where I promptly fell asleep.