musty at the same time. Curious, I put some on my tongue and was greeted by a taste that could only be described as oily fire.
"Spicy, Golo?"
At his mother's request, Borgol the Younger handed me a metal mug. Inside was a frothy drink that looked like beaten egg sprinkled with bits of diced ham. It tasted rank, like milk that had been left out on the counter. Even so, it did a remarkable job of dousing the fire on my tongue. Mouth still prickling, I looked down at my food. There was a lot there, and for a moment I wondered if my hosts would be offended if I ate only my rice. But if there was one thing you could call me, it was stubborn, and in a bout of pure madness I decided I would eat the entire thing.
I ate quickly, taking spoonfuls of sauce and rice and washing them down with that awful ham-and-milk concoction. It was torture, but I persevered, treating it like a challenge where every mouthful brought me closer to my goal. The orcs themselves were drawn in, watching, even smiling—pushing me on in a way that caused me to forget where I was.
Those last few bites were hell, but as I said, I'm stubborn, and when I swallowed that final piece of rice I raised my hands in victory, grateful that—for the moment at least—I would be viewed as something other than some pathetic weakling. That feeling of achievement would be short-lived, because it wasn't long before the food I'd worked so doggedly to put in my stomach was readying to bring itself back up.
"You look green, Golo," said Borgol the Elder.
I felt horrible, and I grabbed hold of the bench, rocking slowly back and forth as the urge to vomit welled up inside me. Fortunately the orcs took pity on me, and I was handed a sick bowl and sent back to my room where hopefully a good night's sleep would see my stomach return to normal.
I resisted the urge to vomit until midnight, at which time my insides exploded, and I filled that sick bowl with a brownish substance that looked like melted chocolate ice cream. I did this approximately once an hour until the sun rose. It was mostly noise by that point. All that was coming out was a thin mixture of saliva and bile, but I couldn't stop it.
Exhausted, I fell asleep only to be woken by Borgol the Elder.
"Get up," he growled.
I thought I was dreaming at first. Drenched in sweat, I sat slowly up on the mat, squinting at the light streaming in from the window.
"I've been sick," I said.
He looked at the bowl and then at me.
"I see," he said. "Now get up. It’s time for school."
I wanted so badly to close my eyes, but the one-eyed orc frightened me, and I obediently put on my boots and followed him outside.
It turned out “school” was a wooden enclosure where half a dozen students of various ages and sizes took turns beating the tar out of me.
I was never great at fighting, at least not compared to my brother Seth, but I could at least defend myself. Unfortunately the night of vomiting had sapped me of my strength, and once that first punch connected, it was all I could do to remain upright while they raced to inflict as much damage as they could before the time ran out.
They were relentless, charging at me with a ferocity that left me no time to think. The fact I was human only spurred them harder, and when the largest one finally knocked me unconscious, it was at the end of a gauntlet that saw not only my nose broken but my eyes swollen shut as well.
I eventually found myself back in the bedroom. I could only assume someone carried me, because I didn't remember leaving the enclosure. Barely able to move, I struggled to drink some water that had been left for me on the floor. My body refused to accept it, though, and I was soon back on my hands and knees, pain exploding through my face while I expelled the water back in the bowl.
I gave up trying to rehydrate myself, and I lay on the mat while I fell in and out of sleep. That I was faring so badly must have been a source of amusement for my hosts, for they entered my room every few hours to tell me how awful I looked before chuckling back down the hall. But even they grew concerned, and as the days passed and my condition worsened, I was eventually paid a visit by a healer.
Tall, with almost too long a neck and a bone through his nose, the first thing he did was take my pulse, placing his fingers on my neck in exactly the same manner as a doctor would at home.
"Tell me," he said. "When was the last time you could have anything to drink?"
I looked at his necklace of bird skulls, wondering if I was dreaming.
"The morning before I arrived," I said.
He looked at my eyes, and then inside my mouth before pressing his ear against my chest, listening as I exhaled.
"I fear you will not last long. If you'd had an opportunity to adjust, then perhaps it would be different, but as it is, your physiology is simply too different."
The message was definitely grim, but I was too weak to care.
Meanwhile the healer retrieved something from his bag. Helping me sit, he made me hold out my hand, giving me a fat little grub that writhed the moment it dropped into my palm.
"Take it," he said. "Don't bite it. Just swallow it whole."
Naturally I hesitated. The last time I'd eaten anything like that was years ago on a dare, and this thing was sprouting thick little hairs. But I could feel my life ebbing away, and after taking a deep breath I did what I was told, popping it in my mouth before swallowing it down.
"What happens next?" I asked.
"You sleep."
And sleep I did, falling into a strange dream about a rabbit preaching to me about the power and glory of Morroth the Terrible. He wouldn't stop, and even after briefly waking, I fell asleep again only to see him there, intent on converting me to his religion.
It was exhausting, yet I could assume it was a sign of the grub doing its work, for when I woke, and I mean properly woke, I felt normal. I was still weak, but I was no longer nauseous. In fact I was ravenous. Desperate for something to eat, I crept downstairs where I found Borgol the Younger chewing on some jerky.
"Do you think I could have some?"
I don't think he heard me approach, but the moment he saw me he stepped back in surprise.
"What is it?" I asked, for clearly something was amiss.
"Your eyes…"
I went to a mirror and what I saw nearly sent me to the floor. The color in my eyes was gone; all that was left were the pupils. It was like staring into the face of an orc, and I grabbed Borgol the Younger by the shoulders, demanding to know where I could find the healer who’d treated me.
Fortunately his building was close, and the moment the healer saw me, he ordered Borgol outside while he studied my suddenly orcish eyes.
"How strange," he said.
"Was it the grub?" I asked.
"I can only assume."
"It's not permanent, is it?"
The healer continued examining my eyes, pulling down my lower eyelids with his thumbs.
"The grub is a parasite, attaching itself to the base of the brain. It is present in orcs from birth, passed down from the mother while still in the womb. It toughens us, allowing us to consume things that would otherwise kill us. You see, as a race we orcs originated in caverns deep underground. It was a harsh world, with little to eat. And what food there was, was poisonous. And it is thanks to Morroth and his Gift of the Grub that we were able to not only survive, but thrive."
"But you didn't answer my question. Will my eyes ever return to normal?”
The healer took a step backward, absently rubbing his thumb against one of the bird skulls of his necklace.
"You are the first human I know of to have taken the grub. And I will be honest: I wasn't certain it would work. Our races share many similarities, but there are differences as well. So while I don't have any writings to tell me definitively either way, my suspicion is yes, this is most likely permanent."
His answer was a kick to the testicles.
"Now, don't be upset, Arlo. That is your name, isn't it? That the grub worked is a good thing. You'd be dead otherwise. The fact your eyes have changed is a small pri
ce to pay if it means your continued survival. Tell me, other than your eyes, how do you feel?"
"I feel good, I suppose," I answered slowly.
"Your color is certainly improved. Your temperature is good. Here, let me check your pulse."
He grabbed my wrist, silently counting the beats, and while he did, I couldn't help but think about how familiar it all felt. His demeanor, the way he spoke, it really felt like I was dealing with a human.
"How is it you know so much about my people?" I asked.
The healer smiled, his lips rising in the same arc as the bone through his nose.
"I lived in Basilica," he explained.
I couldn't have been more surprised if he’d told me his mother was a marsupial.
"You lived in The Good Kingdom?"
"For twenty years. I studied medicine at the university there. I even had my own practice."
"But I thought this was the first time either of our kind was allowed in each other's countries!"
"Officially, yes. But there have always been a small number of us making our way north to study in the Great Halls so that we could bring what we learned back to our own people."
His information was nothing short of a revelation.
"But what about the reverse?" I wondered. "Do humans ever travel south?"
"There are some," he answered. "Traders mostly. But by far the numbers favor those traveling north. Take this town, for example. One hundred years ago something like this wouldn't have existed. Above ground we were a nomadic race, drifting across the earth in search of plunder. But your cities so left an impression, a growing number of us