The Orc Who Cried, page 1
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A drought-ridden Arizona town hires a very special kind of rainmaker: A siren.
But when it comes time to pay for her services, Mayor Archer Bertrand has a change of heart. After all, the old races are legally non-people and can’t sign contracts.
That was just his first mistake.
This short story is set in the old races-inhabited world of Magorian & Jones, written by Taylen Carver. It is not commercially released, but provided free to readers and fans of the series.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
Special Offer – Free Urban Fantasy
About The Orc Who Cried
Title Page
The Story So Far…
The Orc Who Cried
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About the Author
Other books by Taylen Carver
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ABOUT THE ORC WHO CRIED
Falconer folk are a little strange…
Harley von Canmore, firebird and Chief of Police of Falconer, a tiny town in the foothills of the Canadian Rockies, struggles to reconcile her new life as one of the Old Races. It’s Christmas Eve and bitterly cold, yet Harley is setting fire to her bed while she sleeps, paper burns when she touches it, and no one needs a room heater when she’s in it.
When a body is found at the base of Maze Peak lookout, Harley must put aside her personal issues and investigate. What the RCMP suspect is a simple accident grows complicated when she digs a little deeper…
The Orc Who Cried is part of the Harley Firebird urban fantasy series of novelettes, which is set in the same world as Taylen Carver’s Magorian & Jones series.
1.0: The Dragon of Falconer
2.0: The Orc Who Cried
…and more to come.
Urban Fantasy Novelette
THE STORY SO FAR…
Harley von Canmore is a firebird, one of the rarest of the Old Races. The Old Races are former humans who survived the Tutu virus, only to metamorphosed into other creatures. Goblyns, who are called orcs in North America, are the most common. There are also hobgoblins, dwarves, fae, angels, dryads, dragons, salamanders, sirens, avancs and water leapers, each aligned with one of the elements; Earth, Air, Fire and Water.
The town of Falconer, in the foothills of the Canadian Rocky Mountains, had a population of just over 1,000 people, and every last person contracted the Tutu virus. Now the residents are becoming Old Ones, without official status in Canada and scrambling to survive. The town’s mayor, Akicita Frazier, hires Harley to police the town.
Harley had a career as decorated RCMP officer before her change. She resents the loss of that career and is in denial about her new life as a firebird. She also serves two masters; the law, which she has sworn to uphold, and Campbell von Havre, a dragon elemental to whom firebirds are subject. Her cop instincts tell her Campbell is not the simple businessman he appears to be, but he does seem to put the good of Falconer first.
Now read on…
THE ORC WHO CRIED
THIS TIME, HARLEY MANAGED TO wake before the sheets actually caught on fire. She tugged on the chain of the beside lamp, pushed herself up on her hands and examined the sheet beneath her.
The movement yanked on her wings. She’d tangled the top sheet up in them again. She pulled at the sheet with one hand and dumped the entire thing into the bucket next to her bed. It hissed as it settled in the water.
The sheet beneath her was a dark brown, almost black. Cotton fibers glowed orange. Embers.
Harley eased herself off the mattress, so her wings didn’t fan the embers and make the sheet and bed whoof into full flames. She’d learned that the hard way. Grimly, she pulled the comforter to the floor and stripped the bed. She pushed the bottom sheet into the bucket. Steam rose as the embers were extinguished.
The mattress protector beneath the sheet was scorched a dull brown. It wasn’t charcoal, at least. Scorch marks she could live with. Not that she had a replacement for it, anyway.
The oversized teeshirt with the slashed back she was wearing was also stiff with melted fibers and brown where it had rested against her. She pushed it into the water with the sheets. By then it was gone five a.m. She had an incoming call at five-thirty, so she dressed and padded downstairs to the kitchen.
It was still pitch-black outside. The solstice had only been three days ago. It was Christmas Eve, and the snow was deep and crisp and even.
Mrs. Ulick had left the kitchen pristine, as usual. Plus, there was a bonus—a batch of raisin oatmeal cookies in a plastic container, with Harley’s name written on a Post It note. The handwriting was ill-formed. Mrs. Ulick’s claws didn’t let her wield delicate tools like pens with finesse. But she could still cook like a dream.
It was too late to thank her. The Ulicks would be settling in for their night, down in the basement.
Harley ate three of the cookies in big bites, then made coffee while she ate a fourth. She picked up a fifth, settled at the scratched Formica table in the breakfast nook and opened up her laptop.
She sipped her coffee until the call came in. It connected and Michael Jones’ clear Celtic features formed. He smiled, showing even, white teeth. “You look tired, Harley.”
“And happy Christmas Eve to you, too, doc.” She sipped her coffee.
Jones tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. “It happened again, didn’t it?”
Harley gave him a hard smile. “I woke before the bed actually went up in flames.”
“That’s progress, I suppose.” He rubbed his jaw. “It’s perplexing. I’ve never heard of any of the fire elements doing this.”
“Know lots of firebirds, do you?” she asked sweetly.
He smiled. “I wish I could say you are one of a kind, Harley.”
“You actually know firebirds?” She lowered her mug.
“Just one. He’s…also unique.” Jones shook his head. “And before you ask, no, he doesn’t set fire to his bed while he’s sleeping.” He scratched his jaw with a thoughtful expression. “I’m sure there is a way we could arrange for you to come out here. I’d really like to examine you—”
“No, doc. I am absolutely not traveling to Spain just for you to feel my pulse. I have a job to do here. I’m the town’s police chief.”
“If we arranged a flight, it would only take a few days. They could spare you that long, couldn’t they?”
She rolled her eyes. “I have two constables, both completely new to police work and the nearest RCMP office doesn’t want to have anything to do with this town. There is no one else, Michael. I can’t justify abandoning them for even a few days. There’s nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.”
“But you’re eating like a famine is due to hit tomorrow. That’s your third biscuit while we’ve been talking. Your resting body heat is climbing so high your bed smolders while you sleep. You might feel fine, but something is not functioning as it should.”
“It’s Christmas Eve,” she pointed out. “And besides, what commercial flight would let me on it? I don’t have a passport.”
“There are private planes and ways to get around borders, especially here in Spain, for Old Ones.”
She laughed. It was the only sane response to that idea.
“At least promise me you’ll think about it.”
“I’ll think about it.” In her mind, she qualified the statement. She would maybe consider if she wanted to think about it at all. “But while I can do my job, I have to keep doing my job.”
He sighed and nodded. “Very well. Until next week?”
“Have a good Christmas, Michael.”
“And you. Do you have plans?”
She paused. “I…ah…sleeping, probably. Maybe send Bohdan and Mojag home for the day and run the station by myself.”
He frowned. “That’s not good, Harley. Don’t you have family?”
“Who are willing to talk to me and not pretend I died six months ago?” she asked, her smile brittle.
At that moment, her phone vibrated, jiggling upon the table.
Jones grimaced. “I’ve been watching that happen to Old Ones for years now, and I am still no closer to understanding why.”
She read the screen of her phone.
Need you at Maze Peak lookout. Body. :( Mojag on his way. It was Bohdan Kask, her other constable.
“If I ever figure it out myself, I’ll pass it along,” Harley told him distantly. “And I have to go.” She looked up at him and lifted the phone. “A body. See?”
“It’s almost like someone heard me,” Michael Jones said with a wry smile. “Take care, Harley.”
They disconnected. Moodily, she finished her coffee and ate another cookie and watched through the big picture window next to the table as the moon sank to the horizon, and the last of the glow left the untouched snow in the backyard. It was so cold out there that frost was building on the corners of the window, making it look like a Christmas cliché.
Then she ate yet one more cookie, just because. Who the hell cared, anyway?
When Mojag arrived and honked his horn, she brushed her jeans of cookie crumbs and went out.
•
ON THEIR WAY TO THE lookout, Mojag gave Harley the facts as he knew them. The deceased was Lubbert Maxwell, a Falconer resident. He’d been found at the bottom of the Maze Peak lookout, buried in snow.
“Snow is three feet
“That’s why he died? Suffocation?”
Mojag shook his head. “Someone will have to check him out officially, but by the angle of his neck, my guess is it’s broken.”
The headlights lit up the section of the road just ahead. Snowflakes, just a few, drifted down into their cones of light. The sky was much lighter in the east and she could see silhouettes of trees as Mojag drove out of town, heading northwest.
“Maxwell fell from the lookout?” she hazarded. “He fell, broke his neck and then the avalanche…and that’s way too big a coincidence.” She tapped her knee. “And you want me there for why?” she added. “I’ve walked you two through processing a body and the site.”
“Lubby Maxwell was still human,” Mojag said, in his meditative tone. “That means calling in the RCMP to process it officially, right? They won’t deal with us.”
“But they’ll deal with me. Sort of,” Harley said in agreement.
It didn’t take long to reach Maze Peak. It was Harley’s first visit to the mountain. Sunlight spilled over the snow, turning it pink and casting long shadows, as the truck rattled along a winding road. A fork appeared, with signage indicating that the lookout could be accessed by taking the left fork.
“You can drive to the lookout?” Harley said. She studied the fork. The road was a mush of multiple tire tracks. “Not steep enough to discourage anyone from driving up there, either.”
“It’s got a couple of hairpins, which keeps the gradient low,” Mojag said. “It’s a make-out site for teenagers in the summer, and there’s a foot trail up to the peak, so the hikers use it all year round.”
Bohdan Kask’s green SUV sat nose-in beneath a big sign announcing the lookout and trail for Maze Peak. A map painted on the sign showed the tourist features of the mountain. Mojag parked beside it.
“You sure you don’t want a coat?” He stepped down to the snow-covered gravel and zipped up his heavy winter coat and pulled on thick gloves.
Harley just rolled her eyes.
He turned up the collar and pointed to the trail path. “That way.”
The trail path was clear because dozens of boots had packed it down. She could see crampon marks. At least the hikers were wearing sensible gear for the climate. Spike marks from hiking poles punctured the snow along the edges, too.
The trail split and a sign pointed to the left, announcing the lookout trail, which they took.
Ahead, around a bunch of snow-ladened firs, Harley heard voices. The light was growing stronger with each passing minute, too.
Then they hit fresh snow—nearly a meter of it, and none of it was a smooth blanket the way freshly fallen snow laid. This was a churned up, chunky sea of white, flecked with dirt and twigs, last summer’s brown leaves and broken off pine needles.
Several sets of footsteps showed, each step buried deep.
“We need to string up some barricade tape,” Harley said. “It’ll minimize the tracks.”
She walked beside the tracks that were there, leaving her own fresh trail, but that made the going tougher. Her boots sank in up to her knees. She waded through the snow, following the previous steps.
A dozen meters on, she came to where Bohdan stood with a figure nearly his height, wrapped to the eyes in muffling winter gear. They were holding the leash of a German Shepherd. The dog sat by their side, billowing steam clouds as it panted. It wore snow booties and a quilted coat.
“Who’s this?” Harley asked, stopping beside Bohdan.
Bohdan wore a hooded coat and a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face, and spoke through the scarf. “Isadora ap Red Deer. This is Chief Canmore, Izzy.”
The woman pulled down her own scarf, which revealed the mild points on her ears. She was a fae. “I’ve seen you about, Chief.” Her voice was pleasant. Almost mesmerizing. Her gaze shifted to Harley’s wings, as usual, but came back to her face. “It must be nice, being of the fire, this time of year.”
“I guess,” Harley said, startled.
“Izzy found the…found Maxwell, just after four-thirty this morning,” Bohdan added.
“You were walking the dog at four thirty in the morning?” Harley asked, surprised.
Izzy shook her head. “Baxter wouldn’t settle after the earthquake. Kept whining and pawing at the door. I gave in just after four, got out of bed and took him out, just to shut him up. My house is over that-a-way, just over a kilometer. He came straight here.”
‘Here’ was in front of them—the body was half buried in the snow, but someone had dug away enough to reveal the upper half of the body. A man in his early forties, showing the first flecks of grey in a good head of dark hair. Thick through the body, but not overweight. Although if he’d lived another ten years, he would have got there.
His eyes were already filmed over. They had been grey, she thought.
And the neck was definitely broken. Postmortem or cause of death, or the reason he’d fallen…they’d have to figure that out.
Harley pulled her phone out with a sigh. “Yeah, we’ll have to get the RCMP out here for this one.”
First, she texted Akicita and let her know that she wouldn’t be able to make the morning tea appointment Akicita had set up for her. Again. There was a touch of satisfaction in having a legitimate excuse this time.
Then she phoned the Sundre RCMP station, to leave a message to let them know there was an actual, legitimate piece of policework for them out here in the woo woo lands.
She put the phone away and looked at the fae. “You said something about an earthquake?”
Izzy nodded, as she pulled the scarf back over her nose and mouth. “Around maybe one this morning.”
“It wasn’t just the sound of the avalanche you heard?” Bohdan asked.
Izzy shook her head. “The ground shook. It was an earthquake.”
“We didn’t feel anything in Falconer,” Harley pointed out.
“I’ve seen lots of avalanches, growing up here,” Izzy said. “Some really big ones. It wasn’t an avalanche.”
“Very localized tremor, maybe?” Bohdan asked doubtfully.
“The Rockies are on a fault line,” Mojag added.
Her phone buzzed. Harley pulled it out. “Add it to the list of questions that need answers,” she told her two constables.
Akicita’s text was to the point, displaying her steel backbone. You are not cancelling a third time. I’ll pick you up in an hour. Make your constables earn their salaries.
Harley sighed. Maze Peak lookout, she texted and put the phone away again. “In an hour, I have an interview with Moira Falconer I can’t get out of,” she told Bohdan and Mojag. “So let’s do what we can until I go. If the RCMP don’t get here in the meantime, you’ll have to deal with them.”
They got down to business. Harley interviewed Izzy ap Red Deer and took clean, comprehensive notes to give to the RCMP, who wouldn’t know what questions to ask a fae, anyway.
Staff Sergeant Chuck Hopson arrived with one of his constables at almost the same time as Akicita pulled up in the carpark in her sedan. Harley handed over her notes and had Mojag lead them along the trail to the body.
Then she turned and tramped over to where Akicita’s car idled, sending up plumes of steam.
Hiding her sigh, Harley opened the passenger door, bent and pushed the back of the seat into steep decline, then got in and threaded the tips of her wings on either side of the seat, before carefully closing the door. Then she eased the seatbelt over the top and clipped it closed.
“You know it’s twenty below, this morning, right?” Akicita said, as she eased the car out of the getting-crowded parking lot.
“Could be worse. Could be thirty below.” Harley glanced at the diminutive woman. Akicita had to be in her forties, but she looked like she was barely twenty. Her straight black hair was wound up into a French pleat and pinned. She wore neat round earrings, too. Harley couldn’t see what she was wearing beneath the coat, but the coat wasn’t her usual down-filled parka. It was a dark, full length coat like businesspeople wore.
