Illustration by: @Sebastrucktor

CAPTURED BY THE ORC

Chapter Fifteen: Mak’gora

 

“What did he say?!”

 

"The breeder isn’t claimed?"

 

“But the ritual—”

 

“Impossible!” The braided orc Shakil gave a strained laugh as he drifted to Dalthu’s side. "That's right, impossible. We all saw, didn't we? We witnessed the ceremony—"

 

“You were tricked. We were all tricked by that . . . that . . . “ Baronk stabbed a finger at Samson. “Gubuk.”

 

Dalthu stepped in front of Samson, blocking him from view. “Watch what you say.”

 

“Me?” Baronk scoffed. “I speak the truth. Unlike some.” 

 

“Are you calling my mate a liar?”

 

“I am calling you a liar, you—” the gray-eyed orc spat on the ground, “Mal Karash!”

 

Dalthu lunged at Baronk and the cavern exploded into chaos. Samson was nearly knocked to the ground as Shakil and the surrounding orcs rushed in to separate them. 

 

“Sha!”

 

“Wait—”

 

“Grab him!”

 

“Let go—”

 

“HOSHAT.” 

 

The command vibrated through the cave and, like magic, everything stopped. A path parted through the crowd as the speaker, a giant orc with tusks painted red, advanced towards them. “What is the meaning of this?”   

 

Baronk spoke first. “War Chief, it is an outrage. I have been robbed.” 

 

“The only thief here is Baronk,” Dalthu jumped in. “He attacked my mate—”

 

“Your mate?”  

 

“ENOUGH.” The War Chief’s voice echoed off the walls of the cavern and Samson felt Dalthu flinch as if he had been whipped. The painted orc sighed, “Baronk, the mating ceremony was completed. We all witnessed it, yet you’re claiming that this man is actually your mate?” His tone suggested that Baronk may as well have declared that ogres would make excellent teachers. There were several titters from the crowd. 

 

A vein running down Baronk’s forehead bulged angrily. “Yes, War Chief. I do.”

 

“The human clearly bears the mark. Are you suggesting that it’s fake?”

 

“No, I’m not.”

 

A one-eyed orc piped up, “Perhaps we were all hallucinating when we watched Dalthu give the blessing of the goddess?” 

 

“No, that’s not—” 

 

Shakil piled on, “Govall, did we smoke halfling pipeweed and then forget?”

 

“That’s not what I’m saying!” Baronk shrieked.

 

“Then on what grounds do you make your claim?!”

 

“On the grounds that they’ve never fucked!” Spittle flew from Baronk’s mouth and the laughter stopped. 

 

The War Chief flashed an inscrutable look at Dalthu before turning back to Baronk. “Do you have proof?” he asked, scratching along his jawline. 

 

“I tested the breeder myself. He was tighter than a dead kobold,” Baronk leered suggestively at Samson, “at least until I took him.”

 

“Liar.” Everyone turned to look at Samson, but he was beyond caring. Blood pounded in his head as the memories of what the loathsome monster in front of him did. He dug his fingernails painfully into his palms as his hands balled into fists and repeated, “Liar!” 

 

“Oh ho! The bitch speaks!” Baronk’s lip curled into a snarl, “Well, go on breeder, did Dalthu split you like dry wood?” 

 

Before he could retort, Dalthu gently pulled Samson to his side and placed a protective arm around his shoulder. “His name,” he said, “is Samson and I have the privilege of knowing his body as well as his name.”

 

“So you say,” a high, smooth voice rose from the group of orcs, “but can anyone else?” 

 

An orc, slighter than the others, pushed through the mass of shoulders into the center of the cave.

 

Samson blinked. 

 

At least . . .  I think it’s an orc? 

 

The subject in question was the color of broccoli left out in the sun for too long. The creature’s belly was distended and hung down over the front of a bright purple loincloth. The most distracting feature, though, was his accouterments. He was pierced all over, and every hole was gilded with jewelry. Earrings, nose rings, eyebrow rings, tusk rings, even nipple rings with chains crisscrossing his bloated middle. His body was festooned with so much metal that it made Samson’s eyes blur. 

 

“Ragnuk,” the War Chief addressed the gaudy orc, “explain yourself.”

 

Ragnuk gave an exaggerated wave toward Dalthu and Samson and, in a raised voice, asked, “If any orc has seen their mating, speak now.”

 

An eerie silence descended.

 

"You see?” Baronk hissed. “I told you. While the rest of us were claiming our mates, Dalthu stayed out of sight."

 

“My mate requested privacy—”

 

“You let the breeder command you?” The bedazzled orc’s voice was silky like a scarf tied dangerously tight - promising warmth while quietly strangling its victim.

 

Dalthu’s face was relaxed, but Samson felt his thick fingers twitch against his skin. “Worry about your own Ragnuk.”

 

“A dog without a leash is everyone’s worry.” The words dripped with mock concern. “Who knows? He could bite someday.” 

 

The crowd murmured restlessly.

 

“I am still training him,” Dalthu said tightly.

 

“I see,” Ragnuk adjusted one of his gold nipple rings thoughtfully. “Perhaps then the problem is not the training . . . but the trainer?”

 

That did it. Dalthu’s face contorted with rage. “You dare—” 

 

The War Chief stuck out his arm, stopping Dalthu from approaching. “Careful, Ragnuk, or you’ll go too far,” he growled. “You do not speak for the horde.”

 

Ragnuk’s eyebrows jumped up comically. “Please excuse my rudeness, War Chief. I misspoke. You see, I am merely concerned for the sake of the horde.”

 

“You arrogant—” Dalthu spat, but the War Chief cut him off. 

 

“Do you think the horde is so weak that one mischievous breeder will bring disaster?”

 

“Only if its master cannot control it,” Ragnuk smirked. “Would you allow a rabid dog to run free in the village?” 

 

“I warn you one last time, Ragnuk. Be careful what you say.”

 

“The comparison is disagreeable, but the point remains. Can Dalthu be a proper master? If not,” Ragunk shrugged, “perhaps someone else should try?” 

 

“Enough! If my word is not sufficient then let my body prove the truth.” Dalthu stalked up to Baronk and, staring eye to eye, uttered a single word. “Mak’gora.” 

 

The warrior’s voice held such menace that a shiver ran through Samson. The blue light of the cavern flickered as if even the cave itself had taken a breath of surprise.

 

“War Chief, this is ridic—” Shakil’s attempt to pacify was drowned out by a crescendo of laughter. It was Baronk. He was cackling like a gnoll in a feeding frenzy.

 

“I accept your challenge.” The gray-eyed creature bared his teeth in a horrible grin. “And after I kill you, Dalthu, I’ll fuck that treacherous breeder on top of your corpse.”

 

******************

 

Samson was jostled by the crowd as they all hurried back out through the cave. He lost sight of Dalthu as the orcs pushed past him. A large hand gripped his shoulder from behind. It was the War Chief. "Come with me." 

 

Samson tried to pull away. "I'll stay with Dalthu." 

 

The orc shook his head and tightened his grip. "Until the Mak'gora is over you must stay with me."

 

"Mak'gora?"

 

The orc didn’t reply but instead pushed Samson ahead and wordlessly walked him out of the caves into the open air. The village torches had been lit, casting shadows over the dirt path as orcs and humans emerged from their homes. The war chief approached the gathering orcs, speaking to each of them in turn. They chattered excitedly and Samson thought he noticed several orcs exchanging small handfuls of silver.  

 

"Samson?” It was Rachelle. Her dark eyebrows furrowed as she hurried over to them. “Kilug, what happened?" 

 

Kilug? Who—

 

“Ask your son,” the War Chief replied. “It’s beyond me now.”

 

“He’s our son, and I asked you.”

 

Wait…

 

“S—son?” Samson blinked up at the War Chief. “Dalthu’s your son?” 

 

Kilug avoided Samson’s gaze and continued speaking to Rachelle. “Our son has challenged Baronk to Mak’gora.”

 

“What?!” Rachelle’s expression darkened. “Tell me everything.” 

 

"Baronk claims that he has already mated with this one," Kilug gestured toward Samson.

 

"Sha! That no-good mal karash," Rachelle shook her head. “Well, he’s clearly lying. You and Dalthu have already lain together, right Samson?”

 

Samson nodded. “Right. . . . well—I mean, we’ve done almost everything.”

 

Rachelle’s normally expressive face went still. “What do you mean? Have you not—” she looked around anxiously and stepped closer to Samson. "Samson," she said in a lowered voice. "Have you and Dalthu had intercourse?"

 

Samson didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. His eyes admitted everything.

 

Kilug cursed softly as Rachelle clapped her hands over her mouth, stifling a wail of despair. "Why . . . why did you not . . . What was he thinking?!" 

 

“But he’s seen and touched every part of me,” Samson crossed his arms. “Why does it matter so much that we haven’t . . . you know . . .”

 

“By joining your bodies you join your souls. Without the act you are not claimed and if you are not claimed . . .” Rachelle voice trembled. “How does Baronk know about this?"

 

"When he attacked me, he touched me and he knew," Samson tensed as he recalled the gray-eyed orc’s words. "He said that he would have to thank Dalthu."

 

Rachelle’s shoulders sagged. "Then Baronk has the right to challenge for you."

 

"Challenge?"

 

"And not just Baronk,” she muttered quickly. “As long as you and my son have not joined as one, any orc can challenge for you."

 

"Rachelle, what is this challenge?"

 

"It is the Mak'gora," Rachelle pressed her lips together into a thin line. "The death duel." 

 

A cheer went up from the village and Kilug cursed again. “It’s time.”

 

Rachelle fell to her knees and clasped her hands together as Kilug led Samson away. Her whispered prayers fell out of earshot as they joined the growing circle of orcs. 

 

The combatants stood in the center of the ring. Baronk spun his stone-head hammer around with ease. He noticed Samson’s arrival and let the head of the hammer fall hard between his feet. Samson felt Baronk’s eyes crawl over his skin.

 

Dalthu approached Samson, blocking Baronk from sight. He wore a wooden shield high up his left arm and carried a massive two-handed axe in his right hand. Samson felt a ripple of worry in his stomach.

 

“Don’t do this,” Samson begged.

 

“You doubt me?” Dalthu’s hot breath brushed Samson’s forehead.

 

“N-no, but I . . . but— he’s bigger than you,” Samson blurted out.

 

“Yes.”

 

“And stronger.”

 

"Bet on him if you want." 

 

“Maybe I will!” 

 

Dalthu flashed a grin before turning around to face his opponent. “Lok'tar Ogar,” he said and hit his axe against his shield twice. Baronk returned the salute and the duel began. 

 

Roaring, Dalthu charged forward, shield and axe raised. Baronk greeted him with his hammer and struck against Dalthu’s shield with such force that it sent the golden-eyed warrior stumbling to the ground. He brought his shield up just as Baronk swung again. 

 

CRACK!

 

Dalthu’s shield split in two.

 

Samson stared in horror. The fight had just begun and Dalthu's only means of defense was already shattered.

 

Dalthu's eyes widened in surprise, and the gray-eyed orc swung his hammer again with a shout. Dalthu spun away, and the blow landed harmlessly on the dirt where his head had been. 

 

Scrambling to his feet, Dalthu muttered, “Luck,” but his breathing was heavy. Dalthu threw the broken shield into the dirt. Hefting his axe with both hands, he cautiously mirrored Baronk’s position. The two orcs stalked around the ring, watching each other for the slightest opening.

 

Baronk attacked first. He darted forward like a viper, swinging his hammer at Dalthu’s head. Dalthu backed out of reach, but Baronk pressed his attack and swung again. This time Dalthu brought his axe handle up and blocked the strike. Baronk countered and swung his shield, bashing Dalthu across his face. Blood splattered onto the ground.

 

This is madness.

 

"You have to stop this," Samson pleaded. "He's going to get killed."

 

"That is possible,” the War Chief agreed. 

 

"But you can't, you can't do—" Samson was silenced by the War Chief’s cold gaze. “He’s your son . . .”

 

The night air filled with the clash of metal and wood. The sound of every blow made Samson cringe. He searched the crowd for anyone who might help stop the fight. But orcs and humans alike were watching with gross enthusiasm and rattling the coins in their shaking fists. Everyone . . . except one. A woman. Samson hadn’t seen her before. Standing perfectly still in the jostling sea of spectators, she stared unblinking at Baronk. Her wide, fearful eyes followed his every movement.

 

Could she be Baronk’s—

 

“RAAAAARRGGGGHHHHHH!”

 

Samson whipped his attention back to the fight just as Dalthu managed to go on the offensive. He swung his axe at Baronk’s head and the gray-eyed orc dodged to the side. Dalthu swung again, but this time Baronk stepped into the strike and caught it on his shield. Then he brought his hammer down on Dalthu's trapped arm with a sickening crunch. 

 

Dalthu staggered away. Sweat poured down his forehead and matted his black hair to his skin. His face grew slack from exhaustion, and he gulped air like a dying fish.

 

"Stop this!" Samson ran toward them but was immediately caught and restrained by Kilug. "Let me go! Let me go!"

 

Dalthu swung wildly at Baronk, but the gray-eyed titan stepped back out of reach, and the force of the swing threw Dalthu off balance and he staggered.

 

Baronk did not return the blow, however. He seemed to enjoy playing with his food. He danced back and forth out of range of Dalthu's swings, letting the golden-eyed orc tire himself with every miss.

 

“You dance beautifully,” Baronk sneered. 

 

Dalthu swung his axe and Baronk quickly sidestepped the blade. Dalthu stumbled and fell to his knees, his breath ragged. His eyes searched the crowd for Samson. Finding him, a look of peace passed over his face. Samson thrashed in Kilug’s arms, fighting to get free.  

 

“No,” Samson sobbed. “Stop it.”

 

Baronk grabbed Dalthu by the hair and forced his head back. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of him for you Dalthu Hellfang,” he savored the orc’s name. “Every day I’ll drag him naked through the village. He’ll crawl on his hands and knees and then, in front of everyone, I’m going to violate every hole in his body and wear him like an ornament. Every. Day.” Baronk hefted the hammer over his shoulder and readied himself to deliver the killing blow. 

 

There was a sound. At first, it was small, just a low rumble. But it quickly grew. The rumble turned into a moan which turned into a howl which became a resounding roar. Dalthu grabbed his broken arm and straightened it with a jerk, producing a grotesque CRACK as the bones popped back into place. Baronk took a step back in shock as Dalthu, fists clenched, launched himself at his enemy, smashing him squarely in the face. Baronk lost his grip on the hammer and it fell to the ground behind him.

 

Dalthu brought his other arm up to deliver another punch, but Baronk caught his arm and countered, punching the golden-eyed orc in the solar plexus. 

 

That would have crushed a normal man’s ribs.

 

Dalthu doubled over and Baronk brought a knee up smashing Dalthu’s face. Baronk tried to bring a hook around to punch Dalthu’s kidney, but Dalthu leaned back and kicked the orc’s arm back. Enraged Baronk tried again, but this time Dalthu danced back so the punch only caught air. Baronk rocketed himself forward to deliver a knee again. Dalthu saw the move and countered by bringing his elbow down on top of Baronk’s thigh and returned a gut-punch of his own. This time Dalthu’s flurry of punches made contact and Baronk stumbled back. He threw a desperate punch, but Dalthu grabbed his antagonist's arm. With a full-throated roar, Dalthu swiveled and tossed Baronk over his shoulder. 

 

Baronk landed on his back, and Dalthu was on him, pinning the struggling orc's arms to the ground with his knees. Baronk bucked and twisted, but Dalthu mercilessly pounded his face. Blood sprayed and chunks of flesh spattered and globbed onto the ground as Baronk's struggles grew sluggish, then ceased. Dalthu stood up, towering over his conquered foe; his clenched fists dripped gore. What was left of Baronk's face was a pulpy soup of bone and blood.

 

It's over.

 

Samson let out the breath he had been holding. He was finally safe. It was oddly quiet though. He glanced around and realized with a chill that everyone was staring, not at Dalthu or Baronk, but at him. 

 

What is going on? 

 

“Run to him,” a voice whispered.

 

Was that the War Chief?

 

Samson turned to check and caught sight of Rachelle. She was mouthing something at him. "R-U-N." 

 

Her words from earlier came flooding back to Samson. “As long as you and my son have not joined as one, any orc can challenge for you.”

 

As understanding washed over Samson he noticed a couple of younger orcs had fixed him in their sights and had started to make their way over.

 

“Run, damn you,” Kilug rasped again through clenched teeth. 

 

And Samson ran. He practically flew to Dalthu whose back was still turned toward him. 

 

"Dalthu!" The orc flinched as Samson hugged him from behind. “Dalthu, it’s me—” Before he could finish his mouth was claimed in a brutal kiss. “MmmDalthu, wait—” He sneaked a glance at Dalthu's face and his stomach dropped. Dalthu’s eyes were open. And pitch black.

 

Samson broke the kiss and tried to push himself out of Dalthu’s arms, but the orc held fast. Someone began chanting. Another stamped the ground. The flicker of firelight reflected in the orc's black gaze. Dalthu lowered Samson onto the ground and pushed him onto all fours.

 

Hold on. 

 

Something wet dribbled down his backside and he felt the pressure of the orc's gigantic cock pressed against him.

 

Not like this.

 

Samson gasped, “Wait—”

 

“NO,” Dalthu’s large hands gripped his waist, “I won’t wait anymore.” And with that, Dalthu buried his entire length into Samson.

 

To be continued . . .