Spilled Mirovar: Prohibition Orcs, #1

By Michael Warren Lucas

The modern year of 1927, and orcs still have to fight elven asshole bullshit.

Prohibition left exceptions for the church of Men, the Elvish sacraments, even the Dwarfish rituals. But the elves in Congress insist that orcs have no sacraments.

Without the Orcish draught, without the rites, Uruk-Tai's fine strong boys might grow tall. They might earn respect.

But they will never be Orcs.

And Uruk will not let that happen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tilted Windmill Press
• Release date: Sep 4, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386410614

Michael Warren Lucas

Michael Warren Lucas is a writer, computer engineer, and martial artist from Detroit, Michigan. You can find his Web site at www.michaelwarrenlucas.com and his fiction (including more stories about life in the universes beyond the Montague Portals) at all online bookstores. Under the name Michael W Lucas, he's written ten critically-acclaimed books on advanced computing.

Book preview

1

Uruk knelt on one knee on the verge of the rock-strewn gravel beach, letting his thick wool coat almost brush the ground and give his legs a little more protection from the sleet screaming down from Grosse Pointe’s furious night sky. He had yanked his collar up and jammed his corduroy flat cap tightly over his scalp, and crammed his strong hands into the coat’s pockets.

One hand bore brutal brass knuckles. He’d chosen the braided knuckles, the ones without the spikes. The other hand cradled the wooden grip of an orc-scale revolver, slightly too large for humans and chambered for .75-caliber bullets. Spare bullets rattled in the bottom of the pocket.

Like any American orc, he kept his talons trimmed so that they wouldn’t tear out his pockets. Or the rest of his clothes.

Or other soft things. Like bricks.

If events continued as they had, though, he might have to let them grow.

The modern year of 1927, and orcs still had to fight elven asshole bullshit.

Lake Saint Clair wasn’t really a Great Lake but tonight it raged like one, thrashing up waves that clawed their way fifteen or twenty feet inland before they collapsed, sometimes even sluicing over the macadam of Lakeshore Drive. Each wave discarded a fresh skein of noxious seaweed, dead from the November cold, and the greatest surges sprayed the stink of dying algae across his face.

Uruk wondered if the lake felt like an orc. Lake Huron, Lake Superior, they all got the glory. They were strong and angry lakes, yes. They demanded sacrifice of blood and bone, on their own calendar. But even little Lake Saint Clair, when roused, devoured those who disrespected it.

An orc with any sense would be at home. Even his family’s seething, roach-ruled tenement apartment in Hamtramck would be nicer than this freezing, angry midnight. Grandpa always said anger keeps you warm enough, but the icewater punching the gap between cap and collar and shivering down his spine disagreed. Still, his heavy boots with the layered leather soles repulsed rain and cold alike, and beneath the pleated wool coat his thick black sweater and brown canvas pants kept his vitals warm enough.

Fury did not keep you warm.

It just kept you where you needed to be.

Elves could see in the dark—but not on a night like tonight. Even orcs couldn’t see in the dark when the screaming wind and sleet stole the heat from the air. The sprawling mansions facing the lake across Lakeshore Drive were merely darker shadows buried in trees.

A wave crashed up towards Uruk. Behind him, Daka cursed in Orcish. His brother had planted himself too close to the water, again. He probably had wet feet. Again.