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The Dragon’s Hoard Saloon was located in a small town known as Desert Rose, deep in the badlands of northern Albara. Desert Rose was the bustling western town that everybody back in the east was writing about. People flocked there to work the mines, build the railroads, or try their hand at cattle ranching. Of course, once they got there they realized creating their fortunes from nothing might not be as easy as they had imagined.
At this moment, early on a Saturday night, the Dragon’s Hoard was filled to the brim with folks from all walks of life. Cowboys and farmhands milled about beside miners and working girls. All of them had spent the week working, and this was the last night they had before their respective churches would try to save their souls on Sunday morning.
At the bar, Tim Bennet was working hard to keep the drinks flowing out and the money flowing in. He had built this place up with his bare hands, back when Desert Rose had been nothing more than a signpost between the last place and the next.
Luckily for Tim, a few miners had hit a deposit of coal not two miles from the place, and ever since then, his little saloon had been the hottest spot in town. Everybody knew Tim, and everybody loved him.
One of the miners sitting at the bar motioned for Tim to come closer, and the barkeep obliged. “What is it, Galmar?”
“Another round fer the boys on me!” Galmar Stonecracker cried out, and the room cheered. “We hit a good vein today!”
“A round on the dwarf,” Bennet yelled, “and a round on the house!”
At that, the whole bar exploded in raucous applause. Galmar smiled at Tim and reached over the bar to clap a hand onto the man’s shoulder.
“Yer a good man, Tim... Fer a human, that is!”
The other dwarves seated around Galmar laughed along with him, one piping up, “Bah! Galmar wouldn’t care if ye were a troll, Tim, if ye kept on givin’ him booze!”
“Bib, given the way you smell, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were a troll yourself!” Tim shot back.
Galmar burst out in a hearty laugh, “Gah, he’s right Bib! Yer a right ugly stinkin’ bastard, aren’t ye?!”
Bib was about to protest when the door swung open and everyone in the saloon went quiet. All turned to see the newcomer.
There, in the saloon’s doorway, stood an orc over six feet tall with shoulders wide enough to fill up the whole frame. A six-gun showed plainly on his belt, and by the way he carried himself, he knew how to use the thing. The shining star on his chest made his status clear for all to see; he was an Albara Ranger. A bushy mustache sat above his lip, nestled between two sharp tusks. The tall hat upon his head was as white as fresh snow.
The orc’s duster blew with the wind as he stepped inside. His spurred boots and the rest of his clothes were covered in enough dust to make a giant sneeze.
A few of the patrons edged their way toward the door or scooted their chairs deeper into the shadows. Everybody knew that trouble seemed to follow orcs like a bad wind. And a Ranger besides... Well, that just made the chances of drama unfolding that much greater.
“Guess they let anybody be a ranger nowadays. Bloody shame,” Galmar muttered to no one in particular and spat on the ground.
The orc ranger strode into the room, moving directly to the bar. His boots clacked solidly on the wooden floor as he went, only accentuating the silence of those around him. Choosing a stool directly between a halfling banker and a human rancher, the orc sat at the bar. Both of the patrons stood and walked away from the ranger as he took his seat. He did not seem to notice. If he did notice, then he surely did not care.
Tim sighed and moved over to where the ranger sat. “How can I help you, good sir?”
The orc looked up, his short tusks gleaming in the soft light of the bar, “You have any faerie spirit? It’s been a long ride to get here, and more riding to do in the morning.”
Before Tim could answer, Galmar snorted loudly, “Bah! A faerie-drinkin’, star-wearin’ orc ranger. I’ve done seen it all now!”
The orc did not even turn toward the dwarf miner, keeping his eyes on Tim. “Got any?”
Tim nodded. “Think so, I’ve had a bottle in the backroom for a few years now. Folk round here don’t drink too much of that stuff. I’ll go back and grab it.”
“I thank you, barkeep,” the orc’s voice was gruff, like large stones being ground against each other.
After a few moments, Tim returned with a bottle of bright green liquid. He held the bottle out at arms reach, as if in fear of its contents.
“This the stuff?” Tim asked.
The ranger grunted his approval, and Tim poured him out a glass. As the barkeep slid the drink across to him, a bit splashed out to land on the old wood countertop. It sizzled lightly and a trail of smoke rose into the air.
The orc grabbed the glass in one big green hand and threw back his head, draining it in seconds.
“Another, barkeep. If you please.”
Tim obliged, pouring another glass of the stuff. “What’s your name, Ranger?”
The orc drained the second glass and let out a loud belch. “Thurk. Thurk Gutarg. And you?” Thurk extended his hand toward the human bartender.
Tim took the orc’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “Tim. Tim Bennet. This is my bar. What brings you to the edge of Las Tierras Baldías, Thurk?”
“Ranger business,” Thurk responded. “I’m looking into something nearby.”
“Outlaws about?”
Thurk shook his head. “No, not exactly. Got some reports of something strange going on up to the north. Gayne County, you know it?”
Tim nodded. “I know it. Not much up there besides a few farms. Don’t think the trains even run through there yet.”
“That’s the place. Strange goings ons up there lately,” Thurk said, fiddling with the star on his chest. “Let me get another glass, Mister Bennet. It’s been rough traveling.”
Tim poured out more of the glowing booze. He could swear that it felt hot through the glass. This time the whole barroom watched in amazement as Thurk guzzled down his third serving of the stuff.
As the orc slammed the glass back down on the counter, he spoke out to the room, “I’m looking to get a posse together before I ride out tomorrow morning. If it’s a beast we find, you’ll get your trophies. If not, the state of Albara will pay you what’s due.”
The customers at the bar muttered among themselves, some even laughed at the thought. Rangers often rode through looking for extra hands on their missions, and the money was usually good. Riding with an orc, though—that was just begging for trouble. As the seconds passed, it seemed as though no one would speak up.
Finally, Galmar said what they were all thinking: “Travelin’ with an orc. Psh... Me ancestors would be turnin’ in their graves at the thought of it!”
Thurk finally looked over to the gruff miner. He was at least middle-aged, though it was hard to tell with dwarves. The little man’s beard was long and gray, and his arms were thick with muscle. Dwarves tended to be ornery and close-minded, but they also tended to be some of the best allies one could hope for when things got hairy. Thurk had no backup coming to meet him in Gayne, and he was sure to need some help if he encountered any trouble.
How to convince an old dwarf to try something new, though?
Thurk turned to the dwarf and back to his bottle of faerie spirit, which was now about half full. “I’ll tell you what, dwarf, I’ll make you a deal: If you can drink what's left in my bottle, I’ll give you my gun and my wallet, and I’ll ride right out of town. If you can’t finish it, then you’ll join me up to Gayne County.”
Galmar slipped off his stool and stood to his full height of well less than five feet. With a stern look on his face, he sauntered up to the orc ranger. The dwarf’s ample belly stuck out well ahead of the rest of his body, and he was close enough for Thurk to count the thick hairs in his beard.
“That elf’s piss?” Galmar laughed. “Orc, I been drinkin’ since before your grandpiggy was still suckling at the teat. That green slop ain’t nothin’ but water to me. As far as your wager... Well, I ain’t one for guns, but I ain’t one to walk away from a challenge, either.”
Galmar reached out a soot-covered hand, and the ranger took it. “Good. Let’s see it, dwarf.”
With a grunt, Galmar reached up to the bar and grabbed the bottle of liquor in one hand. Without taking his eyes off Thurk, the old dwarf raised the bottle to his lips. Thurk smiled as the miner began to guzzle.
After the first gulp, Galmar’s eyes opened wide in surprise, but he kept going. On the second gulp, a lone tear trekked its way down the side of the dwarf’s face. With the third gulp, it all came sputtering back up to land in a steaming puddle at Galmar’s feet.
“By the gods!” Galmar choked out between coughs. “What the ‘ell is in this stuff!”
Thurk stood with a smile and patted Galmar on the back. “I’ll see you at sunrise, dwarf, outside the saloon.”
With that, the orc placed a few coins on the bar for Tim and walked out. Everyone watched in silence.
––––––––
THE NEXT MORNING, AS the sun rose, Thurk waited on the steps of the saloon. In his hands, he held the reins of his bay mare, Bluebell. Everything the orc ranger owned lay in the saddlebags hanging at her sides.
It was not much, Thurk knew, but he did not need much. A sleeping bag, a few days of supplies, his long gun, and a change of clothes. Unlike most others of his species, Thurk did not wear much jewelry. The only such item in his possession was his amulet to the orc god, Uunthu, which hung around his neck. Long ago, Thurk’s mother had given him that amulet and told him that it would protect him.
He had never been one to take too much stock in the gods, but he had not died yet, so the amulet stayed around his neck. Besides, it was good to have something to remind you of home, and Thurk had not seen his mother since he had left to join the rangers many years prior.
As the sun continued to rise, Thurk figured that Galmar was not coming. Dwarves were long-lived beings and very set in their ways. They hated Thurk’s kind for things that had happened hundreds of years before, in lands far from this place.
It was not just the dwarves, though it was true they hated the orcs most of all; It was every race. They all hated orcs, whether they realized it or not. Even those like Tim Bennet, who could at least hold a conversation with Thurk, still made a strange face at the sight of an orc ranger.
This was the way it had always been, and it had stopped bothering Thurk Gutarg long ago.
As Thurk stood to mount his horse and leave, he spotted a figure approaching from down the road. It was Galmar, leading a small black-and-white pony.
A sleeping bag lay rolled over the pony’s back. The dwarf himself carried a round metal shield on his left arm, and a large axe was strapped to his mount’s side.
“Let’s get goin, orc,” Galmar said as he walked up.
Thurk looked at the stocky man. “You don’t need to come if you’re not up to it, dwarf.”
“A dwarf don’t turn back on his word,” answered Galmar. “Besides, I’m not one to walk away from the chance of gettin’ a bit of gold in me pocket. Trust me at that.”
Thurk nodded. “Let’s go now, then. If we leave now, we could be there in three days.”
“You got supplies enough fer the both of us?”
“I do, and my rifle besides. Plenty of game in this land,” Thurk looked past Galmar to his pony. “No gun for yourself?”
The dwarf shook his head, “Don’t trust the damn things. Too unreliable.” He slapped a hand onto the blade of his axe. “This old girl don’t go anywhere I don’t aim her.”
“You know how to handle yourself in a fight?” Thurk asked.
The dwarf pulled up his pant leg in response, revealing a ragged old battle scar, “Got this in 1775, the battle for Le Lac. Split that amphibian bastard down the middle after he done this to me.”
Thurk nodded, pulling down his collar to reveal a round scar much more recent than Galmar’s own, “1861, Tain Creek.”
Galmar grunted, “A dark day.”
“Aye. It was.” Thurk answered, moving to stand beside Bluebell. “Let’s get on then, dwarf, we’re losing the day.”
––––––––
NOT MUCH LAY IN THE open badlands between Desert Rose and Gayne County besides sagebrush and grass. Thurk and Galmar rode alongside each other, though the dwarf’s pony often gazed sideways at the orc ranger and shied away nervously.
After a few hours riding in silence, Galmar spoke: “So, what’s been going on out in Gayne bad enough to send a ranger out?”
“For a while the sheriff there was sending in reports of pets and livestock going missing—occasionally people. But with them being so far out there... Well, that is to be expected, at some level. In the last couple weeks, though, we’ve had no word at all.”
“Any thoughts as to what might be goin’ on?” Galmar asked.
“No way to know for sure...” Thurk said. “But out in that country, could be anything. Lots of beasts in that untamed land—bandits and natives too. We’ll know more once we get there and question the townsfolk.”
Miles disappeared beneath their horses’ hooves, and the sun trekked its way slowly across the sky. As the orb sank into the horizon, it cast a red glow over the world. The shadows of the scrub stretched out toward the pair of travelers like grasping hands.
“You know what the cyclops say when the sun sits just on the horizon like that?” Thurk asked his stocky companion.
“No, shoot.”
“They say it’s their god’s eye, peering down at them from the heavens, just before he goes to sleep for the night.”
Galmar looked thoughtful for a moment, “Hmph. Well, my god’s got both ‘is eyes, far as I know. Guess it could be ‘is pecker though... Set on the edge of the world just like that... Showin’ off.”
Galmar looked at Thurk, who looked back. After a few seconds of silence, both broke out in raucous laughter.
“Ye know what, Orc,” Galmar said, wheezing, “Ye might be alright after all!”
The dwarf went silent, turning back to the sinking red sun. The light played over his countenance, leaving deep patches of shadow around his eyes and in the creases of his face.
“You know what we say about this sun?” The dwarf asked, not turning away from the light. Thurk’s silence invited him to say more. “We say it’s the light of Grammon’s Forge, shown to us for just a moment at the end of a good day of work. Every dwarf dreams of the day they get to work that forge; stoking the flames for eternity, creating new worlds.”
Thurk looked back at the dwarf who seemed lost in thought. “To us orcs, it is the blood of our forefathers, soaking the land. They died for us to live, and when we die, we will join them.”
Galmar turned forward and snapped his reins. “World’s changin’ orc, and fast. Nothin’ much makes sense to an old dwarf anymore. A hundred years ago... there was nothin’ out here on these plains besides Na’anti and rattlesnakes. In another hundred years, it’ll be full of all sorts of folk, building towns and cities. I wonder if I’ll be here to see it.”
“You’re right, dwarf, the world is changing,” Thurk looked back at Galmar who had just last night spat on the ground at the sight of him; an orc in a ranger’s clothes. “And I think we’re changing with it.”
––––––––
AS THE UNLIKELY COMPANIONS set to making camp, the moon was just rising. The night was clear and quiet. Soon, a chill began to set in and Thurk made a small fire.
Two cans of beans later, and both the orc and dwarf were setting down to sleep. It was then that a sound arose from the darkness, just outside the firelight. They both froze.
“Wha-” Galmar started, but was quickly shushed by Thurk.
The orc’s nostrils flared, pulling in scents from the world around them. His eyes widened at whatever it was that he could smell. Galmar sniffed too, but could smell nothing.
The sound came again then; a footstep, almost inaudible. Thurk slid out from his bedroll as quietly as he could and moved in a crouch toward his saddlebags. There, at the top of the pile, lay his rifle. The horses shifted uncomfortably nearby.
Thurk grabbed his rifle and turned back toward the darkness just as a figure as dark as the night sky came barreling into the firelight and crashed into him. With a muffled cry, the ranger was pushed to the ground beneath fur and fangs.
They rolled, and Thurk’s gun went off once before a large black paw swiped the weapon out of his hands to land a few yards away. The orc locked powerful arms between himself and the predator, but the thing was far stronger than he.
“I’m comin’, orc!” Galmar yelled and stood, tripping over the bedroll in which he was still encased.
Thurk struggled against the dark beast which snarled hungrily over him. He had managed to get one arm braced between himself and his attacker, but sharp claws still threatened to gore him.
Finally, Galmar freed himself from his sleeping bag and grabbed up his axe. With a cry, the dwarf charged at the creature.
“Die ye foul beastie!”
The thing stood upright over Thurk’s prone form, revealing itself as a monstrous black bear. The enraged animal turned quickly on Galmar, swatting him aside with one paw. It roared loudly, spittle flying from its mouth.
Galmar rolled away like a lopsided billiard ball, and the bear spun back around to face Thurk. The orc had crawled halfway to his gun, but the bear planted a paw on the back of his calf and dragged him back under itself.
Kicking the beast in the snout to keep its sharp teeth away, Thurk cried out, “Galmar! My gun!”
The dwarf looked at the weapon with wide eyes, sweat beaded on his brow. “I don’t know how to use the damn thing!”
“Point and shoot!” Thurk rolled aside as the bear came crashing down on two paws, barely missing him.
Galmar stumbled over to the rifle and grabbed it up in both hands. Shaking, he raised the thing to his shoulder and aimed it at the bear. He had never fired a gun before, and truth be told, the things scared him. The old dwarf liked things the old way; swinging heavy weapons at one another till one of you died.
Closing his eyes, Galmar pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
“The hammer! Cock the hammer dwarf!” Thurk screamed.
The bear gripped the front of Thurk’s coat in its mouth and swung the orc about wildly. The fabric of the garment ripped, and he fell hard onto the dirt. Rising to his hands and knees, he attempted to stand, but the bear came charging again and knocked him back to the ground.
Galmar took a steadying breath and worked the hammer back with his thumb. Pointing the barrel straight at the bear’s heart, he pulled the trigger again.
This time, the gun went off with a loud boom. The powerful recoil threatened to pull the weapon from Galmar’s grip, but he held tight. He had no idea where the shot had gone, but the bear immediately stopped in its tracks and turned with confusion toward the dwarf.
With a growl, the animal took one menacing step forward. Working the hammer again, Galmar fired a second shot. This time, he saw the plume of dust as the round hit the ground directly in front of the bear’s paws.
With a small growl, the bear turned and looked back into the night, it seemed to see something invisible in the gloom. It spared one last look at Galmar, its brown eyes gleaming, and ran off.
The dwarf ran immediately to Thurk’s side and helped pull him off the ground.
“Are ye whole, orc?”
Thurk nodded, wiping the dust from his clothes and inspecting the tear in his coat. “I’m fine. She didn’t manage to hurt me too bad. We should post a watch tonight though, in case she, or something else, comes back. I’ll take first.”
Galmar nodded, and made to walk away, but stopped himself. “I thought ye green fellas could battlerage. If ye had, ye could’ve tossed that bear off like a sack o’ grain.”
Thurk sighed. “I don’t do that anymore... I don’t like who I become when the rage comes.”
“An’ what if I weren’t here tonight? Would ye have done it?”
Thurk turned away. “I don’t want to talk about this, dwarf.”
“I ain’t gonna let you walk away from this, orc. If I’m to be travellin’ with ye, I’m to know whether or not ye can handle yerself!”
Thurk whirled around on the dwarf, eyes glinting, “Fine! If you want to know I’ll tell you, dwarf. But you won’t look at me the same after.”
“Try me.”
Thurk swallowed; this was not a story he remembered lightly, and not one which made him proud: “It was in sixty-two. Winter was on us and we were camped up in Frog’s Hole. We were low on supplies, and there was an enemy camp less than five miles off. The commander sent me and four others out to raid their rations. Something set them off, though, and they trapped us in the supply tent. We managed to hold them off for a bit, but one by one my fellows died. I was the last one remaining, and I fired my last shot as the enemies came streaming in. I had no choice... I let the rage take me. By the time the red mist faded, I was covered in blood and gore. I had torn them to shreds. I could taste the iron dripping from my tusks. They were just boys, dwarf, and I killed them all.”
Galmar cleared his throat, “They chose their side, orc.”
“And I chose to kill them to save myself.”