Illustration by @Gafou01

CAPTURED BY THE ORC

Chapter 19: An Unexpected Ally

 

Their tour began at the center of the village. Rows and rows of tents and stalls were set up and offered every item imaginable. There were food stalls that offered exotic spiced meats and strange-looking fruits. Fine embroidered linens were displayed on racks as artisans shouted out prices. Up and down, left and right, everywhere you looked, orcs were selling. 

 

Shakil slowed down in front of a forest green tent where, inside, a small brown orc was hunched over a covered table, arranging glittering bracelets on a display mat. 

 

“Anything new today, Vetu?” Shakil asked the small orc.

 

“Ah, Shakil, good morning.” The orc’s voice squeaked and cracked like the wooden planks of a ship. “Have you found a Mating Day gift yet?”

 

“I’m considering a few things.” The braided orc kicked at the ground and sent a pebble skipping across the dirt.

 

“Ah,” Vetu wrung his hands together. “Well then, perhaps some of my new items would help you decide?” He grabbed a bag sitting just inside the tent flaps and dumped its contents out onto the display table. There were strands and strands of gold chains, silver pendants inlaid with rubies, bronze belt buckles shaped like magnificent birds, and rings with such intricate filigree that they appeared to have been woven out of precious metals. 

 

“Well, Samson,” Shakil waved lazily at the mound of treasure. “Do you see anything worthwhile?” Despite the orc’s casual act, Samson saw the urgent look in his escort’s eyes that pleaded, “Help me.”

 

Samson pressed his lips together, holding back a grin as he looked over what had been laid out.t. As he rummaged through the goods, a glittering from the pile caught his eye. Curious, Samson dug it out. It was a pair of dazzling pink diamond earrings. Each was set into a graceful gold filigree and was surrounded by sparkling small white gems. They were perfect.

 

“These,” Samson presented the jewels to Shakil. “Get her these.”

 

Shakil’s eyes widened as Samson held up the earrings. “Perfect,” the orc’s mouth curved into a dreamy smile. “I can just picture her now . . . lying on our bed, wearing nothing but the earrings and a smile, her climbing on top of me—”

 

“A very wise choice.” The shopkeeper orc took the earrings and placed them inside a small padded box before turning stiffly back to Samson. “And for you?”

 

“Yes, what about you, Samson?” Shakil coughed as he adjusted his loincloth. “Anything catch your eye?”

 

“It’s all very beautiful,” Samson said carefully, not wanting to offend the old peddler, “but I don’t need any jewelry.”

 

“Oh?” Shakil grunted.

 

“Oh?” Vetu echoed.

 

Samson offered an apologetic smile. “I guess I would like something more . . . practical.”

 

“Practical? I have practical,” Vetu said. His merchant's heart invigorated, he hobbled to the back of the tent and returned a short moment later cradling several jars against his chest. They appeared to be filled with white pebbles. He set them down on the table triumphantly. “Well? What do you think of these?”

 

Samson gasped in delight, but Shakil’s expression was blank. “What is it?” he asked, picking one up and shaking it. “Sand?”

 

“It’s—it’s spring salt. Scented spring salt.” Samson had heard about this from one of the merchants who had visited his village but never had a chance to try it. His orc guide, however, remained baffled. “You put them in hot bath water to soften and perfume your skin.” Samson grabbed the bottles and began uncorking them, inhaling deeply. “This one is rosemary. Here you have orange blossoms. And this . . . ah, lavender.” Samson was beginning to feel lightheaded. “Where did you find these, Vetu?”

 

The old orc puffed his chest out. “Like a courtesan’s age, you must never ask a merchant where he got his treasures.”  

 

“Treasures, indeed.” Shakil placed his hands over the bottles in front of them. “Vetu, add these ‘spring salts’ to my order as well.”

 

Samson swallowed his cry of disappointment. He’d just been about to pull out his bag of coins to purchase the lot. Real scented spring salt! And he’d missed the chance to try them.

 

Shakil chuckled at Samson’s crestfallen expression. “Don’t cry, the salts are for you.”

 

“No, I couldn’t—”

 

The braided orc raised a hand, stopping Samson’s protest. “It is a gift.” When Samson showed no sign of backing down, Shakil sighed. “If you like, think of it as payment for helping me choose a Mating Day gift for Adora. Last year I gave her a pair of sturdy lambskin work boots, and she put Dragon’s Breath peppers in my stew. I was shitting fire for a week.”

 

Samson snorted. “You’re so different.”

 

Shakil cocked one of his black bushy eyebrows.

 

“You . . . I mean, orcs . . . ” Samson shook his head. “I’d just heard so many horrible things.”

 

Realization dawned on the orc’s face. “Ah, you mean about how we feast on the flesh of our captives?”

 

“Among other things.”

 

“Well, style is a form of function,” Shakil mused thoughtfully. “It’s possible that long ago orcs committed such acts for a purpose. It’s true that many orcs still believe that there is no strength in a clan that does not take what it wants by force. However, as our world expands and with each new generation, those monstrous customs become more imprudent.” The orc shrugged. “Who knows? In a couple hundred years, humans and orcs may be living together in peace.”

 

“What about Dalthu?” Samson asked, ignoring his companion’s pointed stare. “Where does he stand? Is he new orc or old orc?”

 

The braided orc pursed his lips. “When Dalthu was young he also believed the old ways were the best ways. He believed that a closed fist was better than an open hand; that respect was earned through violence. We all worried. He was walking down a path of blood and greed. But then one day he changed.” Shakil smiled down at Samson. “It was the day he saw you, Samson. The way he spoke about you, well, I’d never heard him speak so gently.”

 

Samson wanted to ask where Dalthu had first seen him, but before he could open his mouth a voice called out, “Aka’magosh, Shakil.” Samson wrinkled his nose.

 

Ragnuk.

 

After meeting the detestable orc in the Temple of the Goddess, Samson had hoped it would be a one-time event. No such luck. As the putrid green orc waddled towards them, he spread his adorned arms as his robe billowed out, making him look like a giant bat.

 

“Ah, Shakil, my old friend, and who’s this? Dalthu’s breeder?” he sneered. “You know, I used to think humans were all so prudish but after the show you put on during the ceremony . . .” The way Ragnuk’s piggy eyes ran up and down his body made Samson’s stomach clench. “No wonder Dalthu’s been keeping you hidden. So . . . tenacious.” 

 

Samson balled up his fists, fighting to keep his voice from trembling. “You know, I used to think all orcs had amazing strength and physique,” he said. “But after seeing you, I guess that’s not the case, you shriveled testic—”

 

“Samson.” Shakil interrupted him before he could finish the insult, but leaned down to Samson’s ear and murmured, “Good one,” before righting himself and proclaiming loudly, “I must speak with the illustrious Ragnuk alone. You.” He pointed at Samson. “Wait here.” Shakil stabbed the same finger towards the ground, then, with a wink, marched off dragging a sputtering Ragnuk along behind him.

 

“Yeah, that’s right, get out of here, you undigested lump of gristle,” Samson muttered at their disappearing backs. “You vicious . . . treacherous . . . lecherous . . . STOCK FISH!”

 

“Excuse me.”

 

Samson nearly jumped out of his skin. He whirled around, and standing behind him was a small woman. Her nose was curved like the beak of a hawk, which made her dark, narrow eyes look all the more menacing. Samson recognized her at once.

 

It’s the woman from the Mak’gora. The one who watched Baronk so closely.

 

The woman bowed slightly. “Aka’magosh,” she said in a low voice, “I did not mean to startle you.”

 

“Haah,” Samson exhaled, clutching his chest while trying to calm his frantic heartbeat. “It’s fine. Can I help you?”

 

“Actually, I was hoping I could help you.”

 

Samson took a step back. Despite her soft tone, something in the way this woman spoke raised the hairs on the back of his neck. “What kind of help?” 

 

“Escape.”

 

Samson froze. “What?” His voice was barely a whisper. 

 

“I said I want to help you escape.”

 

“Who are y—”

 

“Hazel,” she said evenly. “My name is Hazel. I am . . . was . . . Baronk’s mother.”

 

Silence fell. A stray breeze decided to run through the trees, but even the leaves reprimanded it with a chorus of “shhhhhhhhhhh.” 

 

Memories of that dreadful night flew through Samson’s mind. 

 

What should I say? What can I say?

 

Hazel spoke before he could. “Do you not want to escape?” she asked, mistaking his silence for hesitation.

 

“No—I mean, yes! Yes, I do, I just—” Samson’s mind struggled to catch up with the situation. “Why? Why would you help me?”

 

“Because I am just like you.” Hazel stepped toward him, closing the gap between them. She wrung her hands together like she was washing them. “Just like you, I was stolen from my family. Like you, my life was destroyed by these monsters.”

 

Samson pulled away from her. For some reason it irritated him to hear Hazel use the word. Samson remembered how he had called Dalthu a monster. The look upon the warrior’s face had been . . . well, the memory left a bitter taste. 

 

“But Baronk was your son,” he said, retreating from her even further. “Didn’t you love him? Or was he a monster to you as well?”

 

Hazel’s hands stopped moving. A small tremble ran through her fingers. “What mother wouldn’t love her child?”

 

“I still don’t understand. Don’t you blame—”

 

“Blame?” Hazel snapped and Samson jerked back. She immediately softened her voice, but wrath never left her eyes. “Yes, I do blame, but not you. No, you are just a poor reed . . . merely bending to the winds of misfortune. But I can set you free. So . . . will you trust me?”

 

Samson thought of home. Of running down the path back to his village, of his father hugging him tightly, of the smell of corn pollen clinging to his shirt, of his mother weeping into her apron as she welcomed him back, of his brother Kane . . . 

 

“When do we leave?” Samson said and clasped Hazel’s waiting hand with his own.

 

A ghost of a smile threatened Hazel’s face. “When the village is threatened the horde will leave to protect it. We will wait and make our move then. Be ready.” And with that, Hazel turned and disappeared back into the marketplace.

 

Samson looked over the wooden posts of the village wall. He stared at the treeline that seemed infinite. Once, it had seemed so threatening, but now he could finally see a way back.

 

Wait for me, brother. I’ll be home soon.

 

To be continued . . .

 

P.S. Don’t worry Readers! A longer chapter filled with smut is a’coming!