Page 2 of Orc's Little Human
I drop flat behind a cluster of rocks barely big enough to hide a child, pressing my face into the dirt. The hoofbeats grow louder, accompanied now by harsh voices shouting in that guttural tone of orcs.
Not the camp guards. Something else.
The riders thunder past close enough that I feel the vibration through the ground. Dust clouds kicked up by their mounts settle over me like a burial shroud. I don't move, don't breathe, until the sound fades into the distance.
When I finally lift my head, my whole body trembles with more than just cold. Orcs this far from the Orclands means raiding parties. Means I've traded one nightmare for another.
I need shelter. Somewhere to wait out whatever's coming.
The landscape offers nothing but scattered rocks and scrub brush, but there—a shallow ravine cuts across the wasteland like a scar. If I can reach it, maybe I can find an overhang or cave to hide in until the danger passes.
I'm halfway across the open ground when the earth starts trembling again. This time it's not just hoofbeats—it's the thunder of a full war party. Dozens of riders, maybe more, their battle cries echoing off the rocks like the howls of demons.
My legs pump desperately as I sprint for the ravine, but it's too far. Too exposed. The sound grows louder behind me, accompanied by guttural shouts and the clash of metal. They're coming fast, and I'll never make it.
A shadow falls across me just as I reach the edge of the ravine. Massive hands seize my arms and haul me upright like I weigh nothing. The orc holding me has skin the color of old bronze, marbled with darker veins that look like cracks in weathered stone. His tusks curve wickedly from his lower jaw, and when he grins, I see teeth filed to points.
"Look what crawled out of the desert," he rumbles, his voice like grinding millstones.
Other orcs gather around us—a dozen warriors mounted on creatures that look like equus crossed with nightmares. Their steeds snort and paw at the ground, foam speckling their midnight coats. The riders themselves are a study in barely contained violence, all scarred hide armor and weapons that have tasted blood recently.
"Human female," another orc observes, dismounting with predatory grace. This one's smaller than the rest but moves like a blade given flesh. "Been running hard by the look of her."
My legs shake, whether from exhaustion or terror I can't tell. Both, probably. The brand on my collarbone burns like it's been freshly applied, and I wonder if they can sense what I am. What I carry.
Don't show fear. Don't give them the satisfaction.
But my body betrays me—trembling hands, rapid breathing, the way I flinch when one of them steps closer. They smell of smoke and iron, of blood that's not their own. Everything about them screams predator, and I'm just another piece of prey that wandered into their territory.
"Tie her up," the bronze-skinned orc orders. "She'll fetch a good price at the next settlement."
Rough hands bind my wrists with coarse rope that bites into the raw wounds left by my shackles. They boost me onto one of their mounts, settling me in front of a warrior who reeks of old sweat and something else—something that makes my stomach turn. His arm circles my waist like an iron band, holding me in place.
We ride hard through the night, the landscape blurring past in shades of silver and black. My captor doesn't speak, but I feel his eyes on me constantly, assessing. Calculating. The other orcs joke among themselves in their harsh tones, their laughter like the sound of breaking bones.
By dawn, we're climbing through rocky hills that jut from the earth like broken teeth. The air grows thick with salt and the crash of distant waves. We're heading for the coast—toward the Orclands proper.
The settlement appears without warning, carved into the clifftops like a wound in the stone. Gor'thul. Even the name sounds like a curse. Blackened wooden palisades topped with bones—human bones, I realize with a chill—rise from the rocky ground. Smoke curls from dozens of fires, carrying the scent of charred meat and something fouler.
Crude dwellings built from driftwood and hide cluster along the cliff's edge, connected by narrow walkways that look like they'd collapse in a strong wind. Everything about this place speaks of violence held barely in check, of a people who've carved their existence from stone and suffering.
The gates swing open with a groan of tortured metal. More orcs gather as we ride through—warriors, craftsmen, even a few females watching from doorways with calculating eyes. They all turn to stare at me, and the weight of their attention makes my skin crawl.
We stop in what passes for the settlement's center—a circular space surrounded by the largest longhouses. A fire pit dominatesthe middle, its flames casting dancing shadows on the assembled crowd. The orc behind me dismounts and hauls me down after him, my legs nearly buckling when they hit solid ground.
"Spoils from the desert raid," he announces, his voice carrying easily over the murmur of the crowd. "Human female, young and healthy."
The orcs press closer, examining me like livestock at market. Hands reach out to test the muscle in my arms, to lift my chin and peer at my face. I jerk away from their touch, earning amused chuckles.
Stay strong. Don't let them see how terrified you are.
But I am terrified. Bone-deep, soul-shaking terror that makes my vision blur at the edges. I've heard stories about what orcs do to human captives. About the lucky ones who die quickly.
A figure pushes through the crowd, and the other orcs step aside with visible reluctance. This one's different—leaner than the others but no less dangerous. His skin has a grayish cast that makes him look carved from storm clouds, and ritual scars cover his tusks in intricate patterns. When he moves, it's with the fluid grace of a born killer.
"Varok," someone calls out, and the name sends a ripple through the gathered orcs.
So this is Varok. Even without knowing who he is, I can tell he's important by the way the others defer to him. By the cold calculation in his dark eyes as he looks me over.
