Page 4 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
The question cuts deeper than any blade. How long, indeed? Until she proves herself useful? Until the dark elves come calling? Until my clan decides she's more liability than asset?
"That depends entirely on you."
I lift her onto Sunder's back as easily as I might handle a child, though the way she settles against me is anything but childlike. Her body fits against mine with startling precision, and I find myself hyperaware of every point of contact. The curve of her spine against my chest, the weight of her head againstmy shoulder, the way her breath catches when Sunder begins to move.
We ride in silence for the first hour, the only sounds the rhythmic pound of claws against stone and the whisper of wind through the surrounding canyon walls. The Orclands stretch around us in endless variations of red and brown, broken only by the occasional splash of hardy vegetation that has learned to thrive in this unforgiving environment.
"Why did you help me?" Zahra asks suddenly, her voice barely audible over the wind.
The question catches me off guard. In truth, I'm not entirely certain myself. Perhaps it's the way she stood her ground despite impossible odds. Perhaps it's the intelligence that burns behind her eyes like banked coals. Or perhaps it's something far more dangerous—the recognition of a kindred spirit in the most unlikely of packages.
"You were fighting," I say finally. "Even when defeat was certain, you chose to fight rather than submit. That deserves respect, regardless of species."
She twists in my arms to look at me directly, and the movement brings our faces close enough that her breath brush against my cheek. "Is that really why?"
The simple question carries weight that threatens to crush my carefully maintained control. Because the truth is far more complicated than respect for courage. The truth is that something about this small, fierce human calls to parts of myself I've kept buried since becoming chieftain. Parts that recognize strength in unexpected forms, that hunger for companionship beyond the bonds of clan loyalty.
"Ask me again when you've survived your first week among the Stormfang," I say instead.
Her laugh is bitter as the desert wind. "Assuming I live that long."
"You will." The belief in my voice surprises us both. "Whatever else you are, Zahra, you're a survivor. The dark elves couldn't break you, and they've perfected the art of breaking humans for centuries."
She settles back against my chest, and I feel some of the tension leave her shoulders. "You sound like you speak from experience."
"I've seen what they do to prisoners." The words taste like ash in my mouth. "The lucky ones die quickly."
"And the unlucky ones?"
"Become warnings to others who might consider defying dark elf rule."
We crest a ridge, and the Stormfang settlement spreads below us—a cluster of stone and hide structures built into the natural caves and overhangs that honeycomb this section of canyon wall. Smoke rises from cooking fires, and I can see the small figures of clan members going about their daily tasks. Children chase each other between the tents while their mothers prepare the morning meal. Warriors tend to weapons and mounts, ever ready for the next raid or defensive action.
Home. The word carries more weight now than it did this morning, viewed through the eyes of someone who has never known such security.
"It's not what I expected," Zahra murmurs.
"What did you expect?"
"Skulls mounted on spikes. Cages full of prisoners. The usual orc stereotypes."
I snort. "We save the skull-mounting for special occasions. And prisoners don't last long enough to need cages."
The joke falls flat when she stiffens against me. Clearly, my attempt at humor needs work. Social interaction has never been my strongest skill—battle strategy and tactical planning leave little time for developing conversational finesse.
"Relax," I say, adjusting my grip around her waist. "You're not a prisoner. Not anymore."
"Then what am I?"
The question hangs between us as Sunder picks his way down the narrow path toward the settlement. What is she, indeed? Refugee? Asset? Potential liability? The honest answer is that I don't know, and uncertainty is not a luxury chieftains can afford.
"You're someone who fought when fighting seemed impossible," I say at last. "Someone who chose freedom over certain death. That makes you... interesting."
"Interesting." She tastes the word like fine wine. "I've been called many things, but interesting is new."
"What have you been called?"
"Stubborn. Difficult. Ungrateful. The usual complaints about slaves who don't know their place."
