Page 10 of Agor the Merciless
He turned and strode away, his braid swinging between his shoulder blades. Orcs parted before him.
Zoe wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling exposed. Her makeshift dress hung awkwardly on her frame. The orcs cast curious glances her way before returning to their tasks. Some muttered to each other, others pretended not to stare.
Rest? Eat? Just sit in the cave and wait?
Memories of the garage surfaced. She had never been good at stillness. Even as a child, she’d dismantled toys to see how they worked and then rebuild them better. Zoe squared her shoulders. If this was her new home, she needed to understand it. Needed to understand them. She set out to explore the place.
An orc female knelt nearby, a pile of unfinished arrows beside her. Her hands worked in a blur, sharpening, testing, placing each finished arrowhead in a leather quiver. Dark tattoos circled her neck, marking her as a grunt. Zoe approached her.
“Mind if I watch for a minute? I’m Zoe, by the way.”
The female looked up, her movements slowing but not stopping. Sharp eyes met Zoe’s, filled with curiosity rather than hostility.
“Hestra the Huntress.” She tested an arrowhead against her thumb, drawing a small bead of blood to check its edge.
“Those look wickedly sharp.” Zoe crouched beside her. “How many do you make in a day?”
Hestra’s expression shifted, surprised by the question.
“Three dozen, when the hunting is good.” She handed one to Zoe, handle first. “The balance matters more than the sharpness. A true arrow flies straight, finds its mark.”
Zoe turned the arrow, feeling its weight.
“My dad used to say the same about socket wrenches.”
Hestra’s brow furrowed. “Socket... wrenches?”
“Tools. For fixing things. I’m… I was a mechanic.” Zoe handed the arrow back. “Like you’re a huntress.”
Hestra the Huntress nodded in understanding.
“You made things work again.” She selected another arrowhead. “The captain chose well. Usefulness is a virtue.”
A shower of sparks erupted from the far side of the clearing, followed by the rhythmic ring of hammer on metal. Zoe rose, drawn toward the sound.
“That would be Roric the Smith,” Hestra offered, not looking up from her work. “His forge never cools.”
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll go introduce myself.”
Hestra merely nodded, already absorbed by her arrows.
Zoe followed the sound and heat across the clearing to a covered workspace protecting a glowing forge. Orange flames roared like a living creature under a stone chimney that channeled smoke upward. A male orc with shoulders like small mountains hammered at a glowing piece of metal. Sweat carved paths through the soot on his green skin. Zoe paused at arespectful distance. The orc plunged the red-hot blade into a water barrel, and there was a satisfying hiss.
“That sound never gets old, does it?” she called over the fading steam, trying to strike some sort of conversation. She felt like she was trying too hard, but how else was she going to meet Agor’s orcs and eventually fit in?
The smith turned, surprise on his face. Tiny burn scars peppered his forearms and chest like a constellation. He set his hammer down and wiped his hands on a leather apron.
“The captain’s bride.” He gave a nod that might have been a bow.
Zoe stepped closer to examine the blade cooling in the water.
“Beautiful work. The balance looks perfect.”
Roric’s eyes widened. “You know metalwork?”
“Cars. Engines.” She shrugged. “Different application, same principles. Metal that’s too brittle shatters. Too soft, it bends.”
Roric grunted, reassessing her with new interest.
