Page 11 of Her Rugged Orcs

"The sewers run beneath the eastern wall," Eira says, kneeling beside Murok who's scratching a crude map into the dirt floor. Her hair falls forward, catching the dim light. "And the guard rotation changes just before dawn."

"Perfect timing." Murok's fingers trace the lines he's drawn. "The orc brothers will create a distraction here, while the elves-"

"Can't trust the elves," I cut in, my voice sharp. The memory of their hungry eyes on Eira makes my blood boil.

"We don't need to trust them," she counters, her eyes meeting mine. "We just need them to act in their own interest."

Grash grunts in agreement. "They'll fight their way to freedom same as anyone."

"The human knows the guard patterns," I admit reluctantly. "Says there's a blind spot near the weapon storage."

Murok nods, adding another mark to his dirt map. "That's where we'll arm ourselves. Dren, you'll take point. Your silence is our advantage."

"I'll handle the keys," Eira offers, but I shake my head.

"Too risky. You stay between us." My tone leaves no room for argument. "Grash at your back, Murok on your left, me leading."

She opens her mouth to protest, but Murok cuts her off. "He's right. You're our most valuable asset – we can't risk losing you."

She nods, and we return to the plan, mapping out every step until dawn.

8

EIRA

The steady drip of water marks dawn's approach. My muscles ache from sitting on the stone floor, but the warmth of three orc bodies around me has made it bearable.

"It's time," Murok whispers, his braids brushing my shoulder as he rises.

I follow them out of our cell, my bare feet silent on the cold stone. The underground tunnels stretch before us, lit only by scattered torches that cast more shadows than light. The dampness of the walls makes me shiver, but Grash's massive hand steadies me at my back.

"Stay close," he rumbles.

Dren moves like a shadow, the stolen keys making no sound as he leads us through the twisting passages. The air grows thicker as we descend deeper into the pit's maze of corridors, carrying the metallic scent of old blood and rust.

"We're here," Murok points to the row of cells ahead. Inside, our allies wait - the result of yesterday's negotiations. My stomach twists, remembering how I had to play the submissive slave again, but it worked.

Dren moves from cell to cell, unlocking each door with practiced efficiency. The humans emerge first, followed by the elves, and finally the two orcs.

"Remember," I whisper to them, "weapons storage first, then we split into the groups we discussed."

We move as one through the darkness, our footsteps barely echoing off the walls. The air grows cooler as we descend further, and the torches become more sparse. My heart pounds, but I force my breathing to remain steady.

"Another left here," Murok directs, his tactical mind mapping our route.

I catch glimpses of my companions in the flickering torchlight - Grash's determined scowl, Murok's calculating gaze, and Dren's silent vigilance.

The weapons storage door looms before us, its iron-bound wood a testament to what lies beyond. One of the humans, Marcus, points to the blind spot he mentioned - a shadowed alcove where the torchlight doesn't reach.

"Guards change every four hours," he whispers. "We've got twenty minutes."

Dren quickly works the lock. The mechanism clicks, and the door swings open with barely a creak. The armory smells of oil and leather. Racks of weapons gleam in the dim torchlight. My fingers itch seeing so much steel.

"Don't get greedy," Murok warns as we slip inside. "Take what you can use, nothing more."

I run my hand along a row of daggers. Two find their way into my newly acquired boots, another strapped to my thigh. The weight of them grounds me, reminds me I'm not helpless anymore.

"Here." Grash presses a short sword into my palm. The grip fits perfectly, and I try not to think about how he knew exactly what I needed.

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