CHAPTER 11 — Veikr
STEPHANIE
Ulda is grimacing in pain by the time we reach our destination. She tries moving Opkug’s sling to her back, but that doesn’t seem to help much. With a ragged sigh, she gets Opkug reattached to her front.
“Are you okay?” I ask, bracing myself to get clobbered.
She gives me a threatening look. “Is there any particular reason why you think I wouldn’t be?”
Strapped to her mom’s chest, I’d swear that Opkug gives me wide eyes like I’m an idiot.
Reconsidering the wisdom of bothering to ask, I gesture at Ulda. “You look like you’re,” I take a gulp of air and finish, “not feeling well.”
I expect her to bite off my head, and my eyes jump to her set of double tusks.
To my surprise though, she doesn’t say anything to cut me off at my knees.
She stretches her back, and when that doesn’t seem to give her relief, her hands go to her stomach.
“I’m deep in my pregnancy days. Everything hurts.
It’s normal for me,” she adds a bit darkly.
“That sucks—” I start.
But she barks at me, cutting off my offer of sympathy. “Why are you just sitting still? We didn’t come all this way for you to gawk. Get out and get in the store!”
Biting my tongue, I clamber down from the buggy and look up at her, still seated stiffly. “You want me to go in by myself?”
She gives me a look that both answers my question and delivers a threat.
I hold up my hands. “Okay, but I don’t know what to ask for. And I don’t have any money—”
Ulda straightens like she’s insulted. “You are the wife of Roarg Hammerfist. You could go to any store in this kingdom and be extended credit in his good name, don’t you fash about that.
Now. Turn around. Go inside. Tell them who you belong to, and get the usual order.
I’ll join you shortly.” She grimaces, shifting on the unforgiving bench seat.
I wince for her. Because as fun as riding in a horse-drawn vehicle is (and it is fun!
Especially when you aren’t being driven to your own beheading), my rear was slightly less appreciative of the ride, and I’m not however many months pregnant, like some grouchy Orc sisterwives are.
“All right,” I tell her. “I’m headed in. I hope your back feels better soon.”
I expect her to snap at me before I scurry off, but she doesn’t.
And the fact that she doesn’t actually makes me worry more.
Still, I’m sure no matter how much she looks like someone’s ridden roughshod over her, she’ll have no trouble slapping me for irritating her, so before that happens, I hustle up to the entrance of the meat store.
And there, I lose my breath.
Smack dab in the middle of the entrance is a piece of parchment paper nailed into the wood.
It reads:
ARE YOU IN LOVE WITH YOUR LOVE STORY YET? WANT YOUR EXPERIENCE TO BE EVEN MORE EPIC? brING YOUR GOLD EARNINGS TO THE ZULDANA OUTPOST WHERE YOU CAN GET HINTS, TIPS, AND EVEN LEVEL UP.
Jaw dropped, heart hammering in my chest, my eyes race over the fine print, which instructs interested parties on where to locate the outpost in the Orc’s town square.
This is what my coins are for. “Level up? Like I can pay to advance to… what? Can I just exit this game without completing it?” I breathe aloud, daring to hope.
I’ve been stymied because I don’t know how to complete my game.
I had sex with an Orc, for crying out loud!
He insisted we give each other freaking marriage vows.
I beheaded chickens and made lunch with his wives.
I bounced his babies while he had sex with his wives.
What more can I possibly have to do here before I can go home?
But besides my game issues, what’s happened to Esther and Lisa? What the heck are they stuck doing? I’m worried, but maybe this is how I can get answers. I just have to make it to the town square.
Which, I realize with a sharply indrawn breath, shouldn’t be too big of a problem—I’ll tell the Hammerfists that I’d like to be fitted for dresses after all. I’ll slip away and run to Zuldana!
Peeking over my shoulder, I find Ulda still sitting in the wagon, head back, eyes closed, Opkug hitched to her front as her mom winces and kneads herself at the small of her spine.
A twinge pings through me—worry for Ulda that she’s obviously miserable—and something vaguely related to guilt, because I’m taking advantage of her convalescence to disobey her order.
Rather than walking my tail into the butcher shop, I take this opportunity to tiptoe to the edge of the stone building and peer around the side.
From this vantage point, I spy that I can take a cobbled path to several shops nearby.
The storefronts have signs, but I can’t read them from here.
Market carts are parked at the sides of the street ahead, their loads containing everything from vegetables to caged chickens.
The traffic on the road is crowded, with Orcs walking or riding animals or driving animals.
Not all of the work animals are pudgy draft horses like the Trekpaards we came with—there are oxen teams (the oxen have tusks and horns, which is a strange combination to see) and what look an awful lot like buffalo.
(The Dances With Wolves kind, not water buffalo.) And yes, they’re tusked too.
Huh.
Being trekked along the main street is more produce and more animals.
In the very middle of the square is a fountain surrounded by little stands selling grilled things on skewers.
I see all of this. But nowhere do I see anything resembling a Zuldana sign.
It’s supposed to be nestled between an apothecary and a cobbler’s shop, but I don’t see signs for those anywhere in easy view either.
Darn it. This will take me some reconnaissance.
Before Ulda can catch me outside of the butcher shop where she explicitly ordered me to be, I hurry back to the door of the store, take one look back at her—she’s out of the buggy and has her back to me now, her hands on the closest horse, her forehead resting against his thick neck—and I wave to Opkug, who’s facing me, yank the shop’s handle, hauling open the door, and slip inside to the welcoming tinkle of bells.
To my surprise, I have to descend steps. Steps that lead into a dark, basement-like atmosphere.
Warily, I do.
When I reach the bottom, I stare around me.
The smell of smoke and salt is what fills my nose.
And you could say without a doubt that this place isn’t like the tourist trap butcher shops from home.
It’s much, much more serious. The ones I’ve known try to give strong impressions of “farm kitchen goodness” type vibes, with stores focusing heavily on ambience, featuring lots of windows with loads of sunlight.
In my world, butcher shops have fudge, toys for kids, jams and jellies and candles, and sandwich fixings and cheeses displayed behind chilled glass cases. Everything is homey and cute.
This place is nearly pitch black, lit only by two oil lamps near the counters, and it’s cold.
Everything is stone and wood, save for the customary glass case with cuts of meat inside it.
The meat sits on blocks of ice. Offered in the case are also a series of animal heads; goat heads, deer heads, cow heads, eyes clouded and staring, tongues dried and lolling out—and I’m never going to be hungry again.
Okay, not really, but for some reason, severed heads are a little off-putting to me.
I’m even having trouble appreciating the fact that everything in this world apparently has tusks, as evidenced by the ivory jutting out of every mouth.
I blame my Happy Meal Western upbringing, where food comes in foil wrappers and colorful cardboard boxes with puzzles on the outside.
Behind the case that holds the sliced meat and heads are rows of dressed and hanging bodies. Cow carcasses, and presumably deer and very large goats, hang suspended by meat hooks sunk at the joints of their rear legs.
Quit being a baby, Stephanie. This is probably not too different from the world behind my sterile-looking grocery store purchases.
Clearing my throat to give me time to gather some poise, I turn my attention to the white-smocked butcher in the room, and blink.
This Orc is bald, his jaw is wider than his skull, and he has a fearsome underbite that makes him resemble a tusked bulldog.
A thick gold ring pierces his nose, hanging down heavily from his septum.
I jolt hard when I realize I’m staring. Crap! “Hi. I was told that we have a tab here, so I can just order what we need…”
He frowns harder at me. “That depends. Who is ‘we’?” He squints at me like I’m a bug he’s never seen. “Move into the light, girl. I can barely see you. Are you one of them Dragonkind hybrids—”
“NO!” I shake my head wildly. I know one thing here: I do NOT want to be associated with the Dragonkind. Because sheeeesh, Orcs have serious issues with Dragonkind. “I’m—
Before I can say another word, the butcher almost drops his cleaver. His eyes are locked on my cheek. His gaze speeds around my tattooed face. “You are a Hammerfist?”
It’s really weird that my face now acts as a nametag.
“You are Hammerfist’s new wife?” the Orc stresses, and I try not to bristle on the emphasis he keeps putting on you. “Does Roarg know you’re out of his house with your hair down?”
I frown at him and touch my hair. “Is that a problem…?”
He widens his eyes and tilts his head, gaping a bit. “It would be if you were my wife, let alone my new bride.” He looks me up and down. “He’s been telling everyone today that you—”
He cuts himself off, eyes jumping up to mine, green cheeks darkening.