Page 2 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
I throw my full weight against the rotting barrier. The rope snaps with a sharp crack, and an entire section of the bridge's side gives way. The dark elves leap backward as the structure begins to collapse, but I'm already falling with it into the abyss below.
The water hits me like a physical blow, driving the air from my lungs and sending me tumbling through the darkness. The underground river is swift and mercilessly cold, carrying me away from Liiandor faster than any pursuit could follow. I surface gasping, my lungs burning as I struggle to stay afloat in the churning current.
Rock walls rush past in a blur, and I can hear the roar of rapids ahead. I manage to grab hold of a protruding stone just as the river widens, pulling myself partially out of the water with strength I didn't know I possessed. My entire body shakes from cold and shock, but I'm alive.
More importantly, I'm free.
The river carries me for what feels like hours, though it's impossible to tell time in the absolute darkness of the underground caverns. I drift in and out of consciousness, clinging to whatever handholds I can find as the current drags me ever farther from my prison. The wound has stopped bleeding, sealed by the icy water, but my limbs feel like lead.
Eventually, the tunnel begins to slope upward, and I see light ahead—real light, not the magical illumination of dark elf cities. Dawn. I've survived the night.
The river deposits me in a shallow pool surrounded by scrub brush and twisted trees. I crawl onto the muddy bank and collapse, every muscle in my body screaming in protest. The sky above is painted in shades of gold and crimson, and I've never seen anything more beautiful.
But my relief is short-lived. As my vision clears, I realize where the underground river has carried me. The landscape around me is harsh and unforgiving—red earth dotted with thorny vegetation and jagged rock formations that stretch toward the horizon like the bones of some ancient beast.
The Orclands.
I've escaped one death only to stumble into another. Everyone knows what happens to humans who venture into orc territory. The stories are consistent across every culture on Protheka—orcs are savage, bloodthirsty creatures who delight in torture and feast on the flesh of their enemies. They show no mercy to trespassers, especially humans.
But as I struggle standing up, swaying with exhaustion and blood loss, I realize I have no choice. Behind me lies Liiandor and certain death at the hands of King Kres. Ahead lies the unknown dangers of orc territory. At least here, I have a chance—however slim.
My stomach clenches with hunger, reminding me that I haven't eaten since yesterday morning. The sacrificial fast was meant to purify my blood for The Serpent, but now it leaves me weak and lightheaded. I need food, water, and shelter, but I have no idea how to find any of them in this desolate wasteland.
A sound reaches my ears—rhythmic and growing louder. Hoofbeats. Multiple riders approaching fast.
I dive behind a cluster of boulders just as a group of mounted figures crests a nearby hill. Even from a distance, there's no mistaking what they are. The riders are massive, their green skin gleaming in the morning light, with tusks protruding from their lower jaws. They wear leather and metal armor decorated with bones and crude weapons, and their mounts are some kind of beast I've never seen before—larger than horses, with scales instead of fur and eyes like burning coals.
Orcs. And they're heading straight for me.
I press myself deeper into the shadows between the rocks, hardly daring to breathe. The stories flood back to me—tales of humans skinned alive and left to die in the desert sun, of women taken as slaves and used until they broke, of children fed to the orcs' war beasts for sport. My hand instinctively moves to the shallow cut along my ribs, and I wonder if it would be kinderto reopen the wound and bleed out quietly rather than face whatever torments await me.
The hoofbeats grow louder, and I can hear voices now—deep, guttural sounds that must be the orc language. They're very close, and I can already smell them: leather, sweat, and something wild and dangerous that makes my pulse race.
One of the voices rises above the others, barking what sounds like orders. The tone is commanding, authoritative, and something about it sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear. Well, not entirely fear.
The sound of movement surrounds my hiding place, and realizing with dread that they've dismounted. Heavy footsteps circle the boulder cluster, methodical and patient. They know I'm here.
"Come out, little human," a voice rumbles in heavily accented common tongue. The words are rough, like gravel grinding together, but perfectly understandable. "I can smell your blood. You're injured and alone in our territory. Running will only make your death more painful."
I close my eyes and take a shuddering breath. After everything I've survived—years of slavery, a sacrificial ritual, a death-defying escape—it seems fitting that my story would end here, captured by the very monsters parents use to frighten their children into obedience.
But I won't go quietly. If I'm going to die, I'll do it on my feet.
I stand slowly, my legs shaking with exhaustion and terror, and step out from behind the rocks. Six orcs surround me in a loose circle, their weapons drawn but not immediately threatening. They're even larger up close than I expected—the smallest among them stands at least seven feet tall, with shoulders broad enough to dwarf any human warrior.
But it's their leader who commands my attention. He's a giant even among his own kind, standing well over eight feettall with muscle layered upon muscle beneath skin the color of deep forest shadows. Tribal tattoos cover his shoulders and arms in intricate patterns that speak of battles won and enemies defeated. His black hair is braided with small bones and metal rings, and his eyes are not what I expected.
Instead of the mindless brutality I've been taught to fear, I see intelligence there. Sharp, calculating, and undeniably dangerous, but intelligent nonetheless. He studies me with the same intensity I imagine a predator reserves for prey that might fight back.
"Well," he rumbles, his voice like distant thunder. "What do we have here?"
2
ROGAR
The human female stands before me like a wraith conjured from the morning mist, her dark amber eyes blazing with defiance despite the exhaustion etched into every line of her small frame. Blood stains the white silk of her torn garment—a sacrificial gown, if I'm not mistaken. The metallic scent mingles with something else, something that shouldn't be possible.
Magic. Old magic, dormant but present in her bloodline.
