ZAROD IS THE MOST FOOLISH orc I have ever met.
Even as children, when we had been forced to spar together at the Keep, I knew he would rather use his head for jokes than making wise decisions. On the day we first met, one of his eyes was already bruised, swelling shut, but he still wore that wide smile as he made some quip about my mother’s cooking and him eating it. Truth be told, I don’t understand most of his jokes.
It made the others around me laugh and that had been all the reason I needed to punch him, ending our round in one minute flat.
As children, I could tell Zarod was different from other orc males. Not only because of his humorous disposition but because most younglings would’ve sulked and cried after a defeat like that. Zarod only laughed, smiled through the blood in his mouth that dripped onto his fledgling tusks, and said he’d rather be my friend than ever receive a blow like that again.
Here we are almost thirty years later, and he still wears that ridiculous grin. One that has not faded even after all the horrors we’ve seen and inflicted over the years together. He joined my clan after I was named general and moved with me into the Black Claw Village—remote and as far away from Dread’s Keep as possible—without question.
He has become my best soldier and a dear friend through it all.
And now he was going to die.
This was supposed to be a simple mission, one King Vorgak had given to me with glee, knowing I would have no choice but accept it. Despite how degrading it was. As general of the Black Claw Clan, my soldiers and I are the strongest orcs on this mountain and he had us scouting out each and every western outpost to make sure they were in good shape and stocked for the winter. This was simple work, far below the standing of my clan.
Not to mention, the king hasn’t sent a scouting party west in decades. This whole mission is just his way of exploiting his control over me. Whatever he demands, I have to obey it, no matter how much I hate it.
I’d kill him if I could, but then that would leave ruling to me and I have no desire to be anything except general to my clan. I’ve seen what power does to the orcs in my family and I have no desire to follow their fate.
In two days we will be back at the Keep, assuring the king that the outposts have been surveyed and replenished. Another day after that I will be back in my village where I can watch over my people and train our newer soldiers.
Zarod groans at my feet as he rolls onto his side and throws up the contents of his stomach. Liquidy, half-digested vegetables from our meager stew earlier today fall into the snow.
“You are a fucking idiot, Zarod,” I say, his white tusks gleaming in the fire light as they break into that familiar smile.
“I prefer the term reckless thinker because I did think about those berries before eating them. I thought maybe they would be a tasty afternoon treat. But recklessly, I didn’t consider that they could be poisonous.”
“Your reckless thinking is going to end in your death.”
“Gah,” Zarod cries, “you are morbid. Our great general Bazur is so sullen and morose.”
“Morose?” I raise a brow.
“Morose,” Zarod says again, a dreamy look washing over his face. “Mornga taught it to me. Says she likes it when I use sophisticated words like that. Especially when we’re both naked.”
Despite myself I chuckle. Once.
“She’ll like it a lot more if you return alive. Which given your current state…” I trail off, motioning toward his vomit.
“Ah, cheer up Bazy, I’m strong, I’m young. Able-bodied, witty, charming, and I have a massive co—” Zarod cuts off to throw up more of today’s lunch.
I grimace and look around our bleak campsite.
Despite our roaring fire, the chill in the wind is rapidly becoming unbearable. My fur lined cloak barely keeps me warm and my traveling clothes are already damp from the snow. The soldiers around me share the last of our meager rations. This journey was long and grueling; we packed only what we could carry. I never anticipated the storms being this bad or the wildlife being this sparse.
My men had gone to bed at night with growling stomachs. Each time one sounded, my teeth would grind, shame curdling my stomach. It is my job, as their general and leader, to protect them and provide for them. And I haven’t
Zarod shouldn’t have been so hungry that he ate those yellow spotted berries. I am angry with him for eating them but I’m furious with myself for letting my soldiers down.
Targoc approaches Zarod and I slowly. He is the youngest among us at nineteen and has never set foot on a battlefield. His light green skin is not marred with scars like mine and Zarod’s. Targoc’s green eyes take in Zarod’s paling complection, the perspiration on his brow and the reddish tinge to his vomit. Blood. Not a good sign.
“What are we going to do with him, General?” Targoc asks me. “We are two days from Dread’s Keep. My mother treated a male who had eaten those berries and he didn’t last the night.”
“Why is everyone in this clan so set on my death? I’ll be fine, it’s a little fever, nothing more.”
Even as Zarod speaks, his eyes become more unfocused. I try not to recoil when I press my hand to his forehead. He is burning up.
“What did your mother do to treat this?” I ask.
Targoc’s mother is a wonderful healer. I remember how proud she was of her son when he was selected to come out for this mission. She thanked me for choosing him, thanked me for all that I had done for her family.
If she could see how he has labored in my care I doubt she would be so grateful to me.
“It was a long time ago; she used some type of herb. The most important thing is to get the fever down. If we can lower it and keep him cool until we reach the Keep, he may survive.”
“Easier said than done, friends. I’m a hot-blooded male,” Zarod says, his words slurring slightly. “That’s what all the females say. You know, my charming disposition, which is in sharp contrast to the two of yours, is what makes me irresistible to them. It’s how I got my beautiful Mornga. Oh, Mornga…”
Zarod sighs again and that dreamy loving expression overtakes him once more.
“Stop talking,” I growl, picking up fistfuls of snow and holding it against his hot skin. Zarod thrashes, resisting the icy temperature but quickly stops his protest. The snow meets his flesh with a disheartening sizzle. Targoc and I work to bury him enough so he stays cool for as long as possible.
“He needs food and water,” Targoc says once we cover Zarod’s feet.
“Everyone needs food and water.”
Targoc blanches at my harsh words. It is not the youngling’s fault. It is mine. I am harsh with him because I am being harsh with myself.
“I can try and ‘’— A thunderous snapping of branches followed by a shrill scream reaches my ears. Targoc’s eyes widen and the soldiers around the fire perk up. Even Zarod manages to make an excited sound despite his snow covering.
Hunting in this climate has been abysmal. We’ve set traps at every camp and every night we wait for that familiar sound. That sound meant food, that sound meant not going to bed hungry.
My mouth is already watering as I rise from Zarod’s side.
“Watch over him,” I direct Targoc. “I’ll go and see what our trap caught for dinner.”
“I hope it’s a great, juicy beast. My belly has been empty for far too long,” calls one of my soldiers from the fire pit. I grab my bow, strapping it across my back, then do the same with my quiver of arrows. I pick up my battle ax and loop it through the hook on my belt.
Trudging through the snow and away from the warmth of camp I make the quick journey to the trap. My capture is oddly quiet. The whiny, pitiful sounds the frostelks usually emit once caught are absent, and I quickly become apprehensive. I quiet my steps, not wanting to announce my presence until I know what I’ve caught.
The trap comes into view, the old net fraying but holding as it dangles from the strong branch of an evergreen. I reach for my arrow fifty feet away and ready to strike this creature in the heart and bring it back to camp to feed my soldiers.
What color fur is that? Is it…pink?
Blinking rapidly so my eyes adjust to the darkness around me, it comes into view.
Not an it, I notice with some alarm. A she. A female, a human female. With brightly colored pink hair. The same magenta as the darksky roses that grow on Brokenbone Mountain. She can’t see me hidden in the tree line like this. Human ears aren’t as sensitive as an orc’s so I know she didn’t hear me come upon her either.
I watch as her brown eyes scan the area around her, frantically searching for something, anything to free herself with. It’s clear she is unarmed, or she would’ve already tried cutting through the net.
I can hear her muttering to herself quietly. Chastising herself in some way but I can’t make out the words. What is she doing out here? Humans are weak, prone to injury, and risk becoming dinner to any number of predators lurking in the tree line. Yet this tiny human, shivers and shakes inside my net, all alone?
Her traveling party must be around here somewhere—she must’ve gotten separated from them.
The thought of leaving her does cross my mind. Humans are trouble. Especially ones that look as fragile as her. Thin traveling clothes, a soaked cloak, no gloves to keep away the chill in the air. If something doesn’t eat her out here, she’ll freeze to death.
Where is her traveling party? I haven’t heard anyone close by.
I consider returning to camp and explaining to my men that the trap was accidentally triggered. Their sounds of disappointment are already ringing in my ears as I imagine the scenario. I can’t come back with nothing. But the only thing I have caught in the last two weeks is this pink-haired human.
This human who I can hear beginning to weep softly. Mother of the Mountain, spare me…
Emerging from the tree line before I properly think this through, I make as much noise as possible. I step on a few fallen branches, the crack echoing in the night air, and brush along the low hanging limbs. It’s enough to startle her and make her aware of my presence.
I watch as she frantically wipes at her eyes and tries to sit up straighter in the net.
“Hello,” she calls out, “who—who’s there?” Her voice is soft, gentle. It strokes over my skin like a caress, and I realize how long it’s been since I’ve enjoyed a female’s company. After being around so many gruff orc soldiers I forget just how soft voices can be.
This pink-haired human speaks the elven language of the west, like most of the humans I run across. Mornga was the one who taught it to me years ago. It made my job a lot easier once I learned it. However, almost all of the humans in my village use our language, orcish, so my knowledge of the words are a bit rusty. But I can still understand her.
There is enough light from the moon that I know she can see me as I emerge from the tree line. Her pale skin grows even whiter, her eyes rounding in fear. It’s the type of response I’m used to getting from humans and orcs alike. It’s a response I enjoy getting; I am larger than the other males in my clan. In any of the clans really. Stronger than most, deadly in battle. I should be feared and respected.
However, I find her stench of fear mixing with her earthy scent displeasing.
I should try to make myself look like less of a threat, but I’m not sure there’s a way to do that. Countless battles have rendered my face anything but handsome. It is scarred and hard and I can’t help the scowl that’s formed at finding her instead of dinner.
Being armed to the teeth with an assortment of blades, I’m sure, isn’t helping the situation either.
“Oh my, gods,” she says, almost breathlessly. I grit my teeth. If she’s this scared of me, I doubt she’ll accept any of my offers to help. She looks close to fainting as is. This has been such a colossal waste of time. Zarod is dying back at camp and here I am wasting his last moments silently watching this human.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice sharp and she cringes.
“Who are you?” she asks instead. I try not to roll my eyes.
“An orc.”
She swallows. “I can see that. I thought your kind didn’t travel down this far?”
“Clearly we do.” Why am I answering her questions? Cut her down and be done with it.
I watch her brows furrow, they are dark brown like her eyes, despite the vibrant color of her hair. I’ve never seen a human with that color of hair…maybe she is from the Southlands? Strange that her eyebrows wouldn’t be the same color.
It doesn’t matter what color her hair is, leave her out here and return to camp!
“What is your traveling party doing this far up our mountain?”
“I’m not with a traveling party.” Despite myself I feel a smirk carve my lips as I watch her eyes widen in shock. She didn’t mean to share that bit of information with me. “I mean, I’m not alone. I’m meeting someone.”
Who is she meeting? Why do I wish to know? It has nothing to do with me. Again, I think back to Zarod. I need to end this conversation with this human and return to him.
“I’m going to lower you down from the net.”
The pink-haired human looks shocked again.
“Will you let me go?” she asks, and I nod.
“I have no need to keep a human.”
“You won’t eat me?” A humorless laugh booms out of my chest. This human, who seems to know nothing of our territory, has still managed to hear those stories.
“You wouldn’t make much of a meal.”
Before she can respond, I grip the rope tied around the base of the tree I’m standing next to. Gently, I pull apart the knot and hold it firmly as I absorb the weight in the net. She’s a small thing, barely weighs more than a baby frostelk.
Landing on the ground with a soft thud, she wrestles with the net for a few moments. I should offer to cut her free, but I’ll need use of this net once we move to our next location.
Watching her struggle, her clear exasperation makes me want to smile. I don’t.
I need to get back to camp.
Finally, she is free and the color has risen on her face, matching the pink of her hair. That vibrant colored mane of hers is pulled back in a braid, revealing every freckle that dots her nose and cheeks. Trudging over to her in the snow I take her in fully. She’s dressed in a dark black cloak that is too thin to make a difference against the wind and a wool dress the same dark green as my own skin, stitched with a fine gold threat. A large satchel is slung across her body with papers and plants sticking out of random pockets. There’s also a large metal trunk she’s carrying that rattled when she fully stood up.
This human is tiny compared to me. Her head barely reaches my chest. She’s all soft curves and round features. Round eyes, round face, round hips. Not that I should be looking at those.
The fragility of a human has never appealed to me when it came to looking for a lover.
This one though, she makes me think she could take what I have to give. She’d offer enough softness for the both of us to handle the rough pounding I’d like to give her. She’s shivering in her wet clothes, obviously needing a male to keep her warm and safe. I shake myself from that thought.
Mother of the Mountain, I have been on the road too long.
“Who are you meeting?” I ask, noticing with some disdain her take a step back from me. Her expression is guarded, wary. Smart of her but I don’t like it at all. She’ll trip and fall and crack her skull open and then I’ll have a dead human and a soon to be dead orc to deal with.
“It is not for me to say.”
My brows lower, unease pricking the back of my neck. The human takes another step back, still shivering. She makes quite a sad sight and despite the unease I feel, something else is making my chest feel funny.
“Thank you, for freeing me. I should go now.”
Pivoting on a heel, I watch her battered brown boots take one step. Then another, the snow making her sink all the way up to her knees. With a silent curse, I rub my forehead.
“Wait,” I call out, watching her small frame freeze. “Come back to my camp and warm yourself. The storm is too strong now, you’ll never be able to build a fire.”
Turning back to me, her wide brown eyes are wary.
“Oh, that’s okay. I’d rather—”
“You’ll freeze to death before the sun rises.”
A gasp escapes her full lips. I don’t like the blue tinge to them. I know she wants to deny it, to find some excuse to flee my presence but if she wants to live, I am her best chance for survival.
Stowing my ax, I try an approach that has always worked the best for me when dealing with scared humans.
“Look, I’m not going to hurt you.” I hold up my hands, palms out so she can see they are empty. Just tough green skin decorated with callouses and dark raised scars. She takes a cautious step forward.
“You have two options: either you trust me and come back to my camp where I promise you, you will not be harmed, or you can set out into this storm and freeze. It’s up to you.”
“But …” she trails off, looking around herself. “You swear you’re not going to try and eat me.”
“Believe me, I’d rather fill something other than my stomach with you,” I say in our orc’s tongue. Her dark brows furrow and that confirms my suspicion that she doesn’t know our language.
“What?”
“Nothing. I swear I won’t try to eat you. Now as for my soldiers…” Her spine straightens so fast I fear she may snap in half. I laugh once and shake my head. “They won’t try to eat you either.”
“That’s not so funny,” she says, taking another step toward me, this time close enough to touch that soft skin of hers. She must realize it too because her breathing kicks up, her heart pounding in her chest. Her fear is even stronger up close. I really don’t like her being afraid and I really don’t understand why I care.
“Here,” I say, digging into my pocket and pulling out a small paring knife. I hold the hilt out towards her and watch as her small hand closes around it. “To make you feel better.”
Her brown eyes look up at me, still wary and unsure.
Watching as she grips the knife, I lead her from the tree line and back up to camp. The journey is quiet, only the sounds of her boots sinking into snow remind me that I have a companion next to me. Soon though, I can hear the voices of my soldiers. Their bawdy laughter carries on the wind. The human begins to breathe rapidly again, nervously twitching and gripping the knife harder.
I find myself wanting to ask why she is so scared but I already know.
She’s a human woman, who’s heard tales of our kind. Some true, some not but that makes little difference. The image of us portrayed in songs and legends has worked on this human female. And based on some of the stories I’ve come across in my travels she is well within her rights to fear us.
I’ll make sure none of my soldiers give her any more reasons to.
As we pass through the edge of camp, the energy inside of it shifts. Pairs of glowing yellow eyes focus in on us, dark eyebrows raised. All of these orcs have seen humans before, lived and worked beside them, but seeing one out here like this is a shock.
“Not the type of dinner I was expecting,” one of them jeers. The others laugh but I silence them with a look. This human pales at the words she doesn’t understand.
“I found her in the trap. She is warming by the fire then she will go.”
“Vorgak will want to know—”
“I don’t care what Vorgak wants. She’s a lost human, nothing more,” I growl at all of them. Motioning the human toward the fire, I watch as she lifts her delicate hands towards the flames. “There will be no more discussion on this.”
“Warm yourself, akorzag,” I say, quietly so only she can hear over the roaring fire. I don’t need any of my soldiers watching her too closely. Their attention on her makes her nervous and their focus needs to be on the storm we are preparing to brace for.
The human nods and opens her mouth but is cut off by Targoc.
“Bazur, it’s Zarod, he’s…something’s happened.”
I curse and stomp over to him. My stomach flips when I see his face devoid of that grin. In the short span of time that I was gone, his color has faded from a vibrant green to a pale yellow. The color of death amongst our kind. His eyes are closed and he moans and shivers. Despite being deeply compacted in the snow, sweat still slides in rivulets down his temple.
“These appeared just after you left.” Targoc wipes away some half-melted snow to reveal Zarod’s chest, which has broken out with hundreds of red bumps and welts that throb and pulse before my very eyes. Letting out a groan that rattles his chest, I curse again. Emotion closes my throat.
This is my fault. All of this is my fault. If I hadn’t pissed off Vorgak, he never would’ve sent us on this mission. Zarod would be home now, laughing and causing problems. My soldiers would not be half starved.
What kind of leader am I?
“Put more snow on him,” I respond. “We can only hope his fever breaks.”
Targoc and I pick up more handfuls when there is a sound behind us.
“No!” cries the pink-haired human, charging right at us with the knife extended.
