Page 13 of Scoring the Orc

The orcs erupt in wild celebration, their massive bodies slamming into each other with bone-jarring thuds that speak of victory and relief. Jurto, towering and formidable, is hoisted onto the shoulders of his teammates. Their cheers are raw, filled with the triumph of the underdog. They howl and beat their chests, a fierce pride radiating from every line of their sweat-drenched bodies. Their grins are wide, revealing sharp teeth, their joy infectious to their supporters who mirror the celebration with less ferocity but equal happiness.

Contrastingly, the dark elves, including Aleryn, are the picture of defeat. Their shoulders slump, heads bow, and the air of invincibility that once cloaked them is shattered. Aleryn stands apart, his expression one of utter defeat, his hands on his knees as he catches his breath, eyes fixed on the ground. His teammates exchange looks of frustration and regret.

Aleryn always used to call me useless, but what can I say about him and his team? The ones who were too weak to win against the orcs?

Around me, the fans' reactions are a mixed bag of emotions. Orc supporters jump up and down, clapping, shouting, some even hugging each other in their elation. The atmosphere is electric with their victory chants echoing around the arena. On the other hand, fans of the dark elves are solemn, some shaking their heads in disbelief, others silently leaving their seats, their disappointment too heavy for words.

I stand frozen, my own reaction muted by shock and a gnawing fear for what comes next. The reality of my situation sets in, stark and undeniable against the backdrop of celebration. Jurto's win isn't just a game changer; it's a life changer for me. I feel exposed, vulnerable as eyes might start to turn my way, the human prize in a game I never wished to play. My future, once tied to Aleryn's fortunes, now hangs uncertain in the balance, swayed by the jubilant cries of those celebrating Jurto's undeniable prowess.

My heart drops like a stone as reality sinks in. The Bloodcrushers have won. The raw, unfiltered reality hits me—because of Aleryn's reckless wager, I now belong to them. More specifically, to Jurto, the colossal leader whose prowess on the field has just sealed my fate.

I wrap my arms around myself, an instinctive, futile attempt to shield from the implications of what's just happened. Jurto, still perched high on the shoulders of his teammates, is the epicenter of the raucous celebration. His laugh booms across the field, a victorious, thunderous sound that makes supporters cheer louder and my heart sink deeper.

The stadium around me feels like it's spinning, all blending into a dizzying whirl. Every cheer stabs at me, each shout of Jurto's name a reminder of the new life that awaits me—a life I never chose.

My gaze fixes on Jurto again. He's everything formidable and feared, a warrior born from the tales meant to frighten children into obedience. And now, possibly my master. The thought sends a shiver through me, cold despite the warmth of the crowded stadium.

There's a hollow feeling in my stomach, a mix of dread and disbelief. How could Aleryn have gambled so recklessly? How could he have lost? As the reality sets in, my knees feel weak, and I grip the back of the seat in front of me to steady myself. My future, once filled with choices, now seems as directed and inevitable as the path of the ball that sealed my fate

10

JURTO

“The win is awarded to the Bloodcrushers!” The scrawny orc who would never last an hour on the field shouts as he thrusts the massive trophy toward me. It’s dented – likely from too many orc parties it’s been shoved around – and scratched, but that only fills me with more pride to be able to rip it from his hands and hold it high. It’s hard fought and hard won for the trophy alone.

Screams erupt from the crowd and my teammates – well, the conscious ones at least – and I grin widely as I thrust the trophy higher. But that’s nothing compared to the frenzy that starts to shift through the crowd as spoils are pulled out.

I can’t help but smirk at the dark elves as they drag out all that they betted. Next comes the spoils—chests of gold, piles of roasted meats, and finely crafted weapons and armor. My team tears into our bounty with victorious abandon. The scent of roasted meats fills the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and sweat.

I watch as the dark elves grudgingly drag out their bets, their faces twisted with resentment. They thought they could best us. Fools. I revel in their defeat.

“Check this out!” Rogar exclaims, prying open a chest brimming with gold coins. He lets out a victorious roar, tossing a handful into the air. The coins glitter in the sunlight, raining down like golden confetti.

“Save some for the rest of us, you greedy bastard!” Krodash laughs, giving Rogar a hearty shove.

I can’t help but chuckle at their antics. This camaraderie, this unrestrained joy, is what makes the brutality of zyrphix worthwhile. I survey the spoils: intricately crafted weapons and armor, each piece a testament to its maker’s skill. These are not mere trinkets; they are symbols of our dominance.

“Look at this blade!” Varg shouts, holding up a dark elf sword with a wickedly curved edge. “This’ll slice through anything!”

“Better not cut yourself on it, Varg,” I tease. “Wouldn’t want you out of the next match.”

He grins, his tusks glinting. “Not a chance, captain.”

As the team feasts on the roasted meats, I feel a sense of satisfaction wash over me. This victory, these spoils, they’re tangible proof of our strength and skill. I grab a hunk of meat, tearing into it with relish. The flavor explodes in my mouth, rich and savory.

Then the human slave girl, Emilia, is led trembling onto the field. She’s petite, nearly two feet shorter than me, with fair skin dotted with freckles that stand out against the flush of her rosy cheeks. Her long wavy auburn hair cascades down her back, catching the light in fiery hues.

Large green eyes, wide with apprehension, peer out from a heart-shaped face. Her button nose and soft smile give her an almost ethereal innocence. Delicate hands clutch nervously at the fabric of her simple dress, and her slender build seems fragile amidst the chaos of the arena.

When I first heard a human was part of the prize, I scoffed at the thought. What use is a human in a world of orcs and dark elves, where strength and brutality reign supreme? But now, seeing her up close, something stirs within me. An unexpected protectiveness, a curiosity.

“Bring her here,” I command, my voice gruff and authoritative. The dark elves leading her hesitate for a moment, then comply, pushing her gently but firmly in my direction.

Just as they begin to move, Aleryn, the dark elf captain, steps forward, his face twisted with rage. “No! She belongs to us! You’ve taken enough!” He spits the words out, his eyes blazing with anger and humiliation.

I turn to face him, my own anger rising. “You lost, Aleryn. The spoils are ours by right.” My voice is low, dangerous. The crowd around us falls silent, sensing the imminent confrontation.

Aleryn draws his sword, the blade glinting menacingly in the sunlight. “You have enough! You aren’t taking her, too,” he snarls, lunging at me with swift, deadly precision.

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