An average orc does two things in his life: murder and plunder. Yet many mages of questionable provincial education believed that the orcs' penchant for violence was a purely cultural aspect of their race. Time and again, such a wizard, whether out of boredom or intellectual deficiency, would decide to snatch an orc child from the steppes of Ervani and raise it, aiming to confirm theories initiated by Ribtik of Burtharb. These theories proclaimed that an orc raised and educated in a proper environment would not significantly differ in behavior from a similarly raised human, elf, or halfling. Typically, however, such experiments ended with the spectacular death of the wizard and several days of mage riots, as his colleagues were determined to avenge their comrade.
An orc is as everyone sees him, but once in a while, an orc appears who is so stupid he can be considered smart. Usually, such an individual doesn't live long among orcs, because no one likes a smartass—especially when it would be akin to a chess enthusiast joining the local Bloody Horns rugby team. A quick and painless death is not a given. But just as someone occasionally wins the lottery, so too, once in a never, a smartass orc gets caught by a not-particularly-bright mage.
And so began the story of Grumgh, called "The Orc in Spectacles" by humans. Not because he actually wore glasses, but because the mage who raised him stubbornly insisted that possessing such attributes would add to his gravitas and wisdom. In practice, this meant Grumgh spent his entire childhood with a wire frame tied to his nose with a string, which not only made him the laughingstock among his peers but also left a permanent mark on his psyche.
The mage, called Sirvelon, was not among the sharpest minds in the Neruram Mages' Guild. He was just an average low-circle sorcerer, whose greatest achievement was successfully boiling water with a spell and only burning half his robe while attempting to master a fireball. Yet his ambitions reached further. He wanted to prove that an orc could be educated, preferably educated enough to be presented at a guild forum as "proof" of Ribtik's theory.
Sirvelon was one of Ribtik's descendants, not from the main bloodline but rather a distant, watered-down relation. However, his ambitions and fondness for his ancestor's legacy were first-league, underpinned by a bitter awareness that his own magic would never be brilliant enough to shine.
Frustration and a hunger for recognition pushed him toward his ancestor's theory. Proving Ribtik right became an obsession for Sirvelon, his only chance to etch his name into the annals of magical history. His goal was not a deeper understanding of orc ontology or breaking social barriers. No, it was pure, unhealthy ambition. He already saw himself presenting a well-spoken orc at the guild forum, while the elder mages, the same ones who called him "Sirvelon, the one who... ah, well, you know"—would begin to hail him as Sirvelon the Wise, the Great, or the Educator.
Grumgh grew up in the shadow of bookshelves that groaned under the weight of volumes, though he was never sure if it was their mass or the dust that made Sirvelon's entire tower creak with every gust of wind. His "educational" methods were as haphazard and ill-conceived as his spellcasting. Grumgh's upbringing rested on four pillars. The first was the aforementioned wire frame on his nose, which, in Sirvelon's opinion, was meant to "stimulate the brain centers responsible for intellect through constant, subtle discomfort." The second was a dry academic treatise, "Ethics, Logic, and Good Manners for Young Minds," which he read aloud to the orc every evening, completely ignoring the fact that most examples concerned courtly etiquette at a venison dinner rather than basic human reflexes. The third pillar consisted of regular, rather random tests, for instance, Sirvelon would throw a charred roll at Grumgh, shouting, "You see! A primitive individual would reflexively catch and eat it! Control yourself! Think!" The final pillar was the systematic cramming of every available scrap of knowledge, from "Anthropology of Magical Beings of the Bronze Age" to "The Application of Chaos Theory Principles and Advanced Trivialistics in Forecasting Military Movements Using the Goblin Wars as an Example."
"Grumgh, tell me, what distinguishes a civilized individual from a barbarian?" asked Sirvelon, sipping wine that tasted like moldy grapes diluted with rainwater.
"Shoes?" guessed the orc, glancing at his own torn and perpetually damp pair.
"No, no, no!" The Mage waved his hand so energetically that wine splashed onto the floor. "It is knowledge! Knowledge, my boy!"
Grumgh nodded, though for him, knowledge mainly meant that when Sirvelon started his tirades, one had to pretend to listen.
Yet, something was sprouting within him. He wasn't like the other orcs he remembered from childhood, brutal, quick to anger, proud of their scars. Grumgh was slow of thought, but stubborn. Sirvelon called it "determination"; orcs would call it "the stubbornness of an idiot." Whatever it was, it made him pore over a book until he dropped, rather than abandon it after ten failed attempts.
Many would say that educating an orc, teaching him algebra, arithmetic, classical literature, musical instruments, and even magic, is extremely difficult. Unfortunately, they would be wrong, grievously wrong. Teaching an orc such things is, in fact, achievable.
"Remember, Grumgh, the point is not for you to understand everything. It is enough that you memorize and recite." Sirvelon repeated this so often that the orc began to treat learning as the skill of memorizing things. Sirvelon taught him letters, simple arithmetic, and the basics of magic, not because he wanted to raise Grumgh, but so he could one day boast at the guild: "Look, even an orc can read, so Ribtik's theories are true!"
The relationship with Sirvelon was fraught with tension. The mage treated him with a mixture of pride and contempt.
"You are my greatest work, Grumgh. Even if you understand nothing, you still prove me right," he would say with a goblet in hand.
The orc usually responded with silence. He didn't know whether to feel gratitude or hatred. Over time, he learned it was best to feel nothing.
Grumgh's idyllic life lasted until the 283rd Convocation of the Neruram Mages. The sixteen-year-old orc was to be presented to the chapter and confirm Ribtik's theories once and for all. But Grumgh knew well that no matter how it went, his life would change irrevocably. Most likely for the much worse.
The Mages' Guild building could undoubtedly be compared to the palaces of Neruram's minor princes, but this was no surprise; high-ranking mages command high fees even for highly banal commissions. Finding a mage who won't try to squeeze the last copper from your purse is like finding a live dragon sitting on a hoard of gold—not very possible, as all the wealthy dragons have been slaughtered to the last by adventurers, mages, merchant guilds, various warlords, and even cobblers. The average dragon nowadays focuses on consumption, not capital accumulation like its ancestors, but this limits its encounters with dragon slayers of all stripes.
Thanks to these qualities, the mages had amassed a considerable fortune, and the royal family might as well have moved into the guild and lived on a par with the royal palace. Frescoes, golden ornaments, paintings, and sculptures adorned every room, and servants in livery weaved among the dignified guests, offering trays of dark, thick wine and small canapés whose size was inversely proportional to the snobbery of the institution serving them.
Dressed up like a dog's dinner, Grumgh walked through the guild's corridor, dragged by Sirvelon like a dog on a leash. His "outfit" consisted of a velvet doublet that chafed his armpits and trousers that were a good foot too short. He felt hundreds of eyes upon him. Mages in rich robes interrupted their conversations to stare at this peculiar pair. Whispers and giggles swirled in the air, thick with the scent of incense, magic, and an arrogant sense of superiority. Sirvelon puffed up with pride, certain this was his moment of glory.
"Remember, boy," hissed Sirvelon, not turning his head. "Smile and be polite. And by the gods, say nothing unless asked. And then, only say what I taught you."
Finally, they stood before heavy oak doors adorned with silver runes. This was where the chapter assembled. Sirvelon straightened up, adjusted his collar, and pushed the doors open.
The hall was enormous, circular, under a dome whose frescoes depicted great magical discoveries. Carved benches lined the walls, upon which sat dozens of the most powerful mages of Neruram. Their eyes, like vultures, immediately settled on Grumgh. The scent of the orc's fear mingled with the odor of old wood, dust, and power.
The council of elders, a group of old men with piercing eyes and robes betraying unimaginable wealth, sat behind a semicircular table on a raised platform. One of them, with a long, gray beard and piercing blue eyes, raised a hand, commanding silence. His voice, when he spoke, was like the creaking of an old, wise log.
"Sirvelon. You present to us... this experiment?" he said, and the word "experiment" sounded like a verdict.
"Venerable Archmage," Sirvelon recited, bowing low. "Before you stands Grumgh. The fruit of my years of research and proof of the truth of the theory of the great Ribtik of Burtharb! An educated, civilized, well-read orc. He is ready to answer your questions and prove that even the lowest of races can rise to the heights of understanding under the right... guidance."
The Archmage nodded, and his gaze shifted to Grumgh.
"Very well. Orc. Tell us... what is your opinion on the metaphysical implications of high-order teleportation within the context of Ebb's Theory?"
The hall fell silent. Sirvelon turned pale as a sheet. This was not on his list of prepared questions. This was something he himself had barely touched upon in his lectures, and Grumgh certainly didn't understand it.
Grumgh felt his brain overheating. The words sounded familiar, but their meaning slipped through his fingers like sand. He saw the expectant, mocking faces of the mages. He saw the panicked, silent plea in Sirvelon's eyes. He felt the velvet doublet becoming damp under his arms and the wire frame of the spectacles digging into the bridge of his nose.
The silence in the hall became almost tangible, thicker than the incense smoke and heavier than the golden frescoes on the dome. Everyone was waiting. For stupidity, for a stumble, for a spectacle.
Then Grumgh remembered one of the countless, sleepless evenings spent poring over volumes in Sirvelon's tower. He hadn't understood most of the words then, but he had memorized them, just as he'd been taught.
His voice trembled, deep and ill-suited to his dressed-up appearance.
"The e-entropic instability of the etheric matrix during multi-point translocation," he recited, slowly, as if spitting out stones, "must be compensated for by an inversional coupling with the astral plane, otherwise... local reality cavitation occurs."
The hall was still silent, but the smirks had frozen. A few elder mages leaned forward. The one with the gray beard raised his eyebrows.
"Interesting..." the Archmage murmured, steepling his fingers over the table. "And could you elaborate, boy, on what this 'local reality cavitation' threatens?"
Sirvelon now had the look of someone who had just watched his flagship, from which he expected glory, suddenly take on water and sink, but to his absolute astonishment, instead of going to the bottom, it began to... float? His mind was racing, trying to recall which book Grumgh could have pulled these terms from. Could it have been Fundamentals of Etheric Engineering? Or perhaps the Scattered Thoughts of old man Albrecht?
Grumgh felt sweat trickling down his back under the velvet. The spectacle wires dug in deeper, bringing tears to his eyes that he desperately tried to hold back. His mind, slow and methodical, searched the dusty shelves of his memory. He didn't understand the question. He only understood that he had to throw out more words. More heavy, foreign words that sounded like incantations.
"The stratification... ehm... of causal dimensions," he stammered, feeling each syllable was like a millstone. "According to... the treatise by Gizbert of Liacar... a domino effect. The decay of stability... of etheric sub-strings. Can lead to... an invasion of entities from parallel planes. Or... the creation of a stable, though unplanned, portal to..." He trailed off because he had run out of memorized sentences. His last resort was what Sirvelon had drilled into him most often when the orc couldn't answer a question. "...to Hell. Usually to Hell."
The last words hung in the air, stark and absurd. For a moment, no one breathed. And then, one of the younger mages, sitting to the side, cracked. His stifled chuckle broke the silence like a hammer hitting glass. It opened the floodgates. The other mages, initially surprised, now saw the absurdity of the whole situation. A dressed-up orc, quoting fragments of advanced treatises quite clearly without understanding, answering a serious question with the threat of opening a portal to Hell.
Laughter, initially hesitant, spread through the hall. It wasn't sincere laughter, but full of mockery, pity, and relief that it wasn't them standing in the center of this circus. Sirvelon stood frozen, his proud posture crumbling into rubble, replaced by a mask of pure terror and humiliation. His great day, his moment of glory, had turned into a farce.
The Archmage with the gray beard did not laugh. His gaze, cold and penetrating, settled on Sirvelon.
"Sirvelon," he said, and his voice extinguished the laughter like a bucket of ice water. "You have presented us with a parrot. Perfectly trained to repeat complicated words whose meaning it does not grasp. This is not proof of civilizing the orc race. This is proof of your desperate attempt to assert your position by using this poor creature. Ribtik's theories, if I understand them correctly, spoke of understanding, not mindless memorization."
"But... Venerable Archmage... he... he reads! He calculates!" Sirvelon stammered, feeling the floor give way beneath him.
"Just like a trained magpie reads and calculates," the Archmage replied dryly. "The experiment is a failure. A pathetic one. And it ends now. Take this... orc away. And I suggest you return to studying the basics. Perhaps you can manage to control a fireball without setting your own sleeves on fire."
The last sentence was a low blow, a public reminder of Sirvelon's greatest failure. The mages began to snicker again. Sirvelon stood paralyzed by shame and rage. His dream lay in ruins, and he himself had become a laughingstock.
As the chapter hall doors closed behind them, cutting off the clamor of ridicule, Sirvelon turned to Grumgh. His face was twisted into a grimace that was no longer pride or contempt, but pure, unbridled fury.
"You idiot!" he snarled, grabbing Grumgh by the sleeve. "You stupid, green imbecile! You've ruined me!"
They were thrown out of the guild not so much with words, but with eloquent silence and doors that slammed shut right in front of their noses. They stood on the cobblestones, beneath the majestic building that just moments ago was supposed to be the stage for Sirvelon's triumph. The mage turned, spat in the direction of the building, and then, without looking at Grumgh, growled,
"Get lost. I don't want to see you anymore. You're a worthless cretin."
And turning on his heel, he left Grumgh alone on the street, in his too-short trousers, his chafing velvet, and with the wire frame on his nose that now seemed to weigh a ton.