Page 2 of Orc's Claim
No, this orc won’t make that mistake. Confidence rolls off him as he swings twice, forcing the yenga back where it sinks into the silty edge of the water. The yenga squeals in distress as it struggles to free its back legs.
I’ve never seen anyone single-handedly hunt a yenga before. Four, even three people coordinating an attack, like a pack of wolves working together to surround and take down prey, yes, but not one lone man, not without a bow and arrow that gives him the ability to kill safely, from a distance.
Do orcs have long distance weapons? We know so little of them, except that they carry an abundance of knives and swords on their person.
This man… no, he’s not quite a man, but certainly not a monster. This orc—I correct my way of thinking—grips the horns, and, with nothing more than sheer strength, wrestles the yenga to the ground.
He knows what he’s doing.
I wonder who is deadlier, the yenga or the orc.
A loud squeal of desperation rips from the yenga’s throat. It knows it’s not going to survive. But it doesn’t relent. Life on Kovos at its most basic struggle of life and death.
The orc uses every inch of his body to trap the flailing legs and head while dodging the overgrown horns. For such a large male, he moves with grace and precision, correctly anticipating the yenga’s every move.
With his arms locked around the beast’s throat and his knees pressed into its back, the orc need only draw one of the many knives he wears and slit the beast’s throat.
I bite my lip, knowing how this will end, but I’m too mesmerized to look away.
The orc’s head snaps in my direction. I freeze, praying he can’t see me.
I recognize him! The same orc from the market, the one who’s always watching me.
Dark green eyes stare my way for what feels like an eternity, as if he intends to make me his next prey. A shiver travels through me.
Shit, not only am I alone, I wandered beyond the safe zone. I’m no longer in yelling distance to the market.
With a sudden burst of energy, the pinned yenga flails, attempting to tear itself free. The orc grunts and swears in Orcan but doesn’t lose his grip, despite the yenga digging its hind legs in for more purchase. Once, twice, the yenga bucks, trying to throw the orc off him.
With grunts and snorts, the yenga thrusts its head wildly from side to side. Before I can blink, the orc slices a knife across the animal’s throat. A merciful kill, which is ironic considering what my people say about orcs. That they’re more animal than the beasts they hunt.
The orc places his hand on the head of the yenga, between its horns, closes his eyes and says something in Orcan. He speaks softly, almost reverently, to the dead animal.
It’s a stunningly peaceful moment following such a violent act. As if he’s praying, thanking his gods for sparing his life or for the kill. I’m not sure which, only that his expression softens to one of sheer peace.
I wish I had one of the translation chips in my ear. The bantarans sell them to all who can pay, but the men in our colony control the money and they only purchase the chips for themselves. Even though the women do all the selling in the market, they say we don’t need translators.
One of many ways they make us depend on them. We’re second-class citizens here. Worse than on Earth, and that’s before the Coalition invaded.
The orc suddenly opens his eyes. Hard green orbs stare directly at me.
I sink behind the tree trunk, praying he didn’t see me.
Silence blankets the area. No grunts, no footsteps, not even the wind dares to move through the trees.
Did he see me?
Run or stay completely still?
My heart races from the uncertainty of what to do.
I wait. If he had indeed seen me, he would have approached by now. Or yelled out to me, or… I don’t know what he would have done or if any of the vile rumors Owen and the other guards spread are true. All I can do is remain utterly still until the orc moves on.
The rhythmic sawing of a knife against flesh filters through the trees before another sound I can’t quite deduce reaches me. Curiosity prompts me to peek through the branches. He’s already gutted the yenga and is stringing it up by its hind legs to allow the blood to drain.
Like a work of art, the orc moves with grace and beauty. Aside from a weapons harness, he wears a leather loin cloth and boots.
One by one, he removes the broadsword from his back, then the harness that holds many knives against his chest. His boots land with a thump on the silty shoreline, the first and only sound I’ve heard in a while.
