And then, as if in answer to her silent desperation, she heard raised voices coming from behind the corner of the inn. One, shrill and full of rage, belonged to Borin the innkeeper. The other was deep, guttural, and expressed confused stubbornness.
"Get out, I said! Get out, you green brute! There's no work for you here! You're too stupid even to scrub the latrines!"
"But the notice," replied the deep voice. "I saw a notice. They're looking for strong hands for hay carting."
"That notice's been there for three winters! And it's not for orcs! Now get out of my sight before I call the lads and we tan your hide!"
Tamira cautiously peeked around the corner. In the muddy yard behind the inn stood Borin, red-faced and brandishing a broom. Facing him, stooped under the weight of an invisible burden, stood an orc. He was enormous, even for his kind, but his posture inspired not fear, but rather pity. He wore a velvet doublet that was two sizes too small and chafed his armpits, and trousers that ended a good few inches above his ankles, revealing boots crudely stitched together with string. But the most absurd detail was a wire frame tied to his nose with string, imitating spectacles.
He looked just as out of place as she did. Like a living embodiment of failure.
"Sir," the orc was saying, his voice oddly measured, as if reading from a boring treatise. "I am capable of demonstrating significant physical productivity. My previous educational experiences also included..."
"Enough!" Borin roared and swung the broom.
The orc didn't react with aggression. He just stepped back, tripping over his own, too-large feet. He landed on his backside with a loud splat, splashing mud everywhere. The wire frame slid down onto his mouth.
Tamira stared at the sight. An orc. It was something she'd only heard about in stories used to scare naughty children. "Be good, or an orc will come and eat you!" And yet, here he was. Real. And he looked like an even bigger loser than she was.
Something clicked in her mind. It was a crazy, desperate, utterly idiotic idea. An idea only someone with absolutely no other options could have.
Before Borin could approach him with the broom, Tamira stepped out of hiding. Her heart was hammering like a forge, and her knees had the consistency of jelly. She walked over to the orc lying in the mud, trying to lend her clumsy figure some semblance of dignity. She looked at Borin.
"Excuse me," she said, her voice sounding shrill and unnatural. "Is this... gentleman causing trouble?"
Borin gaped at her, then burst out laughing.
"Gentleman? That? That's a green weed cluttering my yard! And you, girl, go back to your singing. Or to washing dishes. Just not here."
Borin was still chuckling, but his laughter now held not pure malice, but astonishment at the absurdity of the whole situation. An orc in the mud, a half-elf with a voice like a saw's screech asking about him with emphasis, as if he were some forgotten aristocrat.
"Trouble?" Borin wiped a tear of laughter. "Girl, you are one big trouble, and this" – he pointed the broom at the orc – "is a disaster on wheels. Get out of here, both of you. Before you attract even more bad luck."
Tamira ignored the mockery. Her stubbornness, the same one that made her practice the lute for hours despite having no talent, now focused on a single goal. She leaned over the green-skinned creature, offering a hand. Her movement was, as usual, clumsy and abrupt, nearly plunging her face-first into the mud beside him.
"Get up," she said, her shrill voice trying to sound firm. "No time to lie down. Did you hear about the notice?"
The orc looked up from over the wire frame. His broad, green face was covered in mud and wore an expression of deep, intellectual bewilderment. He rubbed his eyes, smearing them further.
"Notice?" he repeated, as if analyzing each word. "Yes. I have seen many notices. Most are outdated, imprecise, or offer compensation disproportionate to the labor input. The one on the post was about hay. Agriculture is a respectable profession, but my physical predispositions are... mismatched."
"Not the hay, you rock!" Tamira hissed, losing patience. "The haunting! In Landom's Nook! Five silvers!"
The words "five silvers" worked on Grumgh like a magic spell. Slowly, with a loud squelch, he rose to his feet from the mud. His gaze, usually hazy and thoughtful, sharpened for a moment.
"Five silvers," he repeated, and his voice held a note of something Tamira didn't expect to hear from an orc: calculating seriousness. "That is a sum sufficient to purchase 250 loaves of quality bread, or pay rent for a modest room for one month, assuming that..."
"Enough!" Tamira cut him off. "It's enough that it's a lot. They need volunteers. I thought..." she hesitated, her confidence suddenly deflating. The idea seemed even dumber now that she was standing next to one of the giants whose main interest was splitting skulls. "I thought we could... try. Together."
Grumgh looked at her, then at Borin, who stood with his mouth agape, the broom drooping slightly. His mind, trained for memorization, not understanding, worked laboriously. Rejected by Sirvelon. Penniless. Without purpose. And here was this strange, skinny creature with pointy ears proposing a partnership. Risk of death versus further wandering in search of work and the prospect of starving to death.
"Together," he said finally, not as a question, but as a statement of fact. "The probability of success in confronting the undead increases by 47.3 percent with the cooperation of two individuals, even if their individual competencies are... dubious. Assuming they possess basic armament and at least rudimentary tactical knowledge."
"Oh gods," Borin groaned, shaking his head. "It's like watching two disasters join forces to create one big, divine catastrophe."
Tamira ignored him. A small spark of hope ignited in her chest. She nodded to Grumgh, her clumsy gesture nearly ending with her head hitting his chest.
"So... a deal? We split the payment half and half?"
"Two and half silvers," stated Grumgh, nodding his massive head. "Enough for 125 loaves of bread. Acceptable."
"Good!" Tamira straightened up, trying to look like a leader. It came out as pathetic as always. "Then let's go. To Landom's Nook. First..." she looked at his torn boots and her thin cloak. "...First we need to get there somehow."
Borin sighed deeply, reached for the purse on his belt, and pulled out ten coppers. He threw them into the mud in front of them.
"That's for your journey. Just so I never see you again. Either of you. It's an investment in my peace of mind."
"We thank you for your hospitality," Grumgh grumbled, which sounded so absurdly formal under the circumstances that Borin just froze.
Borin turned on his heel and disappeared into the depths of the inn, slamming the door with such force that the frame seemed to shake. Grumgh and Tamira stood for a moment in the muddy alley, surrounded by a silence that felt thicker than the previous mockery. Ten coppers lay in a brown puddle, like a forgotten offering to the god of losers.
Tamira was the first to shake off the numbness. Her fingers, still trembling, reached for the coins. They were cold and foreign in her hand, but they represented more than she'd had in months. She put them in her purse, pulling the drawstring tight with determination.
"Well then..." she began uncertainly, her voice like a rusty saw. "I suppose we should go."
Grumgh nodded, and the wire frame on his nose wobbled precariously. His gaze was fixed on the ground, as if analyzing the mud's structure.
"Yes. Logistically speaking, the optimal solution is to depart this location in the shortest possible time."
Tamira looked at him, confused. The language he used was as foreign to her as elven songs were to the village farmers. But there was no aggression in his voice, only a kind of mechanical resignation.
They set off towards the outskirts, avoiding puddles and manure piles. Larnwick Stream slowly disappeared behind them, and with it, the shadow of shame and humiliation. As they passed the last hut and found themselves on the bumpy road leading into the forest, Tamira felt she could take a deeper breath. She was no longer alone.
Suddenly she stopped and turned to Grumgh. Her clumsy movements nearly made her bump into him.
"Listen," she said, looking at his broad, green face, etched with fatigue and mud. "Since we're going together and... well, probably going to die, we should probably know each other's names. That's... how it's done, right?"
Grumgh looked up. His eyes, deep-set under heavy brows, seemed clumsily human.
"That is rational," he replied after a moment. "Exchanging basic identifying data will facilitate action coordination. I am Grumgh."
"Tamira," the half-elf shot back, instinctively straightening up, which ended in a slight wobble. Her ears twitched slightly, drooping a bit. "So... Grumgh. How do we get there? It's far. Do you have a plan?"
Grumgh fell silent for a long moment. His brain, trained in memorizing treatises, not in planning logistical operations, worked with visible effort. His gaze traveled from his own torn boots, to Tamira's thin cloak, to the ten coppers in her purse.
"Analyzing the available resources," he began, speaking slowly and methodically, "we possess insufficient capital to rent any mount, let alone a carriage. The average cost of a one-day mule rental is..."
"Grumgh!" Tamira interrupted him, grabbing her head. "Speak simpler!"
"We cannot afford a horse," stated the orc. "Self-transport remains. Pedestrian locomotion."
"I have some money!" Tamira squeaked, reaching for her own purse.
The ork snatched her purse with a swift, almost feral movement and began counting the coins. "Twenty-four coppers..." he began, laboriously conducting new calculations.
Grumgh silently shuffled the coins in his hand for a moment, his broad, green forehead furrowed in concentration. He looked as if he was performing complex equations in his head, not counting a handful of jangling scrap metal.
"Assuming," he finally began, in a voice that sounded like dragging heavy furniture across a stone floor, "that the daily caloric requirement for an individual of my body mass is approximately three thousand calories, and for yours, an estimated one thousand eight hundred, and accepting that an average loaf of medium-quality bread provides three hundred calories and costs one copper, and lodging in the cheapest inn 'on straw' is two coppers per head..."
"Just tell me if it's enough or not!"
The orc looked at her over the wire frame, as if surprised by this lack of scientific curiosity.
"Our combined financial resources amount to thirty-four coppers," he announced solemnly. "The average cost of survival per day on the road, accounting for minimal sustenance and the cheapest lodging, is ten coppers for you and twelve for me, totaling twenty-two. Landom's Nook is approximately seven days' journey on foot under good conditions, which amounts to one hundred and fifty-four coppers. We are therefore operating under a deficit of one hundred and twenty coppers. Not to mention unforeseen expenses, such as bridge tolls, potential footwear repairs, or..."
"So it's not enough!" she interrupted, devastated. Her dream of escape had suddenly receded by twenty coppers. "What now? Do we go back and ask Borin for more? Or..." her gaze fell on the lute in its case. "Maybe we sell... this?"
Grumgh looked at the instrument with cold, analytical curiosity.
"Critical condition. Two strings broken, body scratched, lacks collector's value. Estimated market value: one, maybe two coppers. This does not significantly alter the equation."
Tamira sighed heavily. Her shoulders slumped. They were at the end of their rope before they had even started. She stood in the middle of the muddy road with an orc-accountant and a broken lute, and ahead of them lay seven days of a starvation march leading nowhere.
"An alternative strategy exists," Grumgh suddenly announced, interrupting her dark thoughts.
"What?" she asked, not hiding her hope.
"The elimination of lodging costs through camping and the reduction of sustenance costs through foraging."
"What?"
"Foraging. Sustaining ourselves on what we find in the forest. Roots, berries, mushrooms."
"And what if we poison ourselves?"
"With a bit of caution and basic knowledge, the probability of a fatal poisoning is only eighteen percent. It is an acceptabl
e risk compared to the one hundred percent certainty of failure under the current economic model."Tamira looked at him in disbelief. He was suggesting they subsist on wild weeds. This was a new level of desperation.
"What about weapons?" she asked, pointing at Grumgh's empty hands and her own useless lute. "How are we supposed to deal with those haunted things, whatever they are? Are we going to throw berries at them?"
Grumgh began tapping the back of his head. "'Fundamentals of Tactics and Neutralization of Non-Physical Threats' by Archmage Therion," he began, his voice again taking on the tone of someone reciting a treatise, "indicates that sophisticated weaponry is not required to combat bionecrotic entities. The key components are salt, which disrupts their etheric bonds, and iron, which absorbs negative energy. Fire is also highly effective, though it requires maintaining a safe distance."
Tamira stared at him, feeling the last remnants of hope sink like a stone.
"Salt? Iron?" she said, her voice flat. "I thought you might have a hidden axe. Or at least a solid stick. We have nothing. Not a pinch of salt, not a piece of iron. Unless your wire frame counts."
Grumgh touched the frame on his nose, looking deeply thoughtful.
"Tin alloy with a copper admixture. Insufficient metal purity. Useless," he declared after a moment.
"Great. Just wonderful," Tamira covered her face with her hands. "So our plan is to walk for a week, living on poisonous berries, and then, when we get there, throw insults at the wraiths and sing them my ballads until they die of boredom, is that it?"
"Statistically speaking, your music could indeed induce a state of stupor in a listener, similar to the effects of certain stupor-inducing spells," stated Grumgh with absolute deadpan seriousness. "However, it is not recommended as a primary offensive method. Insufficient scalability."
Tamira looked at him, not knowing whether to cry or laugh hysterically. Instead, her stubbornness, that damned, inherited-from-her-father stubbornness, took over again. She straightened up, even though her knee was trembling.
"Fine. We have no choice. We go. We gather what we can. And when we get there... well, we'll figure something out. We can always run. I'm quite good at running," she added, though her life's history contradicted that statement.