Majutsu-shi no Chikara

CHAPTER 1: Finding Talent

Wizards are powerful beings, wielding arcane energy through rigorous study and discipline. The nature of that study can take many forms, though often leads to things like civilizations — large cities, colleges, academies, and guilds… these places develop standardized practices of magic, books of spells, magical items, and all manner of technology.

In another world, these Wizards might be called Scientists. Maybe. If Wizards’ accomplishments weren’t so damnably remarkable.

Of course, Scientists never had to fight-off a bored, centuries-old dragon or horde of resource-raiding giants… so, there’s a certain urgency to the methods that Wizards use that no otherworldly Scientist would ever dream of using… at least, not without suffering some serious public relations nightmares or literally world-shattering consequences.

In the wilds of the world, Wizardry is far less codified… less “formal”. This gives rise to arcane wielders called Shamans, Sorcerers, Hedge-Wizards and Magicians. Often seen as “lesser Wizards” by the more elite caste of Wizard, they are no less determined in their study — if somewhat more preoccupied with survival (large cities, while tempting targets, are not so easily raided as a smaller town, village, or solitary tower). These arcane scholars in the more remote areas of the world often develop their own unique style of magic, their own signature… and can still twist the fabric of reality into knots alongside the best “classically” educated big-city Wizard.

In another world, perhaps, these more… rural Wizards, or “Wild Mages” would likely be seen as crackpot visionaries with barely-working “prototypes” or small-scale wonders and miserable marketing campaigns. Still, that doesn’t mean that word of a powerful Sorcerer can’t attract attention from any other corner of the world.

When considering all the fantastic, wonderful, and terrible creatures, powers, and planes of reality such a world may face — it’s easy to forget the small, seemingly insignificant creatures and events churning along without cosmos-altering abilities… creatures only looking to “evolve” or plants struggling to “grow”.

“When the seeds ripen in the ground, they will sprout.” Elder Matta said for the dozenth time, that planting season. “Only then will the soil be embraced by the root.”

“Ser, I know.” Damon groaned, his back complaining from trenching furrows the entire morning. “But nary a drop of rain in two ten-days: I don’t think theseeds are the problem, Elder Matta.”

“Now, now.” Matta tutted, his wizened, tattooed, bald head covered by his pale hood and shawl. “It will rain. My rain-calling spell has never failed… I do this the same way every season, and the rains always come.”

Damon sighed wearily, wondering again how quickly Matta was losing his mind, as his own parents had often worried. Wielding magic was not a task for the venerable, so it was said… it wasn’t a good idea for the young to meddle in magic, either, but Matta was old. Two of the oldest Elders of the Village were easily years younger than Matta, and one of those Elders was Bhosti, Damon’s great-grandmère, who had already seen more than seventy winters (if Bhosti could be believed, it was nearer eighty). Now, after three winters of drought, Matta’s rain-calling was the only thing between the village crop and starvation. Irrigation efforts were draining their reserves, and a new water-wheel wouldn’t be finished until late autumn — long after harvest and well before it would be safe to plant again.

Damon was a grown man nearing twenty winters, with long, straight black hair, and broad shoulders. Solidly built, his body was the red-brown of the plains folk — with broad cheekbones and a narrow, long jaw. His eyes were likewise narrow against long days in the sun and so brown as to be nearly black. The ridge of his nose was like a mountain peak above other mountain peaks, contrasting the lines of his brow, cheekbones, and chin. He still had all his teeth, and they yet shone brightly in the light or reflected firelight when he smiled — which was often. More than eight handspans in height and nigh on fourteen or fifteen stone — his body had a smoothness of limb that belied the strong sinew beneath.

He was also skilled enough at hunting and planting that he could lead the other men in his father’s stead; and he respected his elders (especially the Village Elders) enough to not question them outright… still, there was no denying that twenty days after Matta’s rain-calling spell had been met with no rain — for the second time in as many seasons — anyone could have guessed that the aged Sorcerer had lost his touch with magic.

Perhaps just as well, Matta had been leaning heavily into the mentoring of his responsibilities: talking with several of the villagers about testing the young of the village for magical aptitude. Matta called it “sensing”, with a special emphasis in his voice, tilting his head forward meaningfully and wiggling his fingers cryptically. Damon didn’t care, as long as there was a good crop and fair hunting: the Village would prosper. He wasn’t interested in the arcane — beyond what it did for the Village. What mattered to Damon was Ginga, the Tanner’s oldest daughter, who was only a few seasons younger than him. They were a good match and she’d give him plenty of healthy babies. Her parents weren’t opposed to the match, as Damon had already proven himself several times in the last five winters: fending-off ork or goblin raiders, leading hunting parties into the wild-lands, and demonstrating a mastery of cultivation… His family also had a ready path to the Elder council, and Damon had made no bones about bending Bhosti’s ear when it suited him.

Damon intended to talk to Bhosti that evening about Matta’s decline. Sorcerers, especially old Sorcerers, were a serious risk to a small community like the village of Southwold.

“There… thunder.” Matta brightened, his crooked back straightening slightly. “I told you…”

“It’s a horse, Ser.” Damon sighed again, rubbing sweat from his brow as a runner came jogging over.

“Rider coming this way, Damon.” Jatheb barked as he ran by to notify the Elders. “Big fella, heavy armor.”

“A rider?” Matta scowled, turning back the way Jatheb had approached.

“S’what Jay said, Ser.” Damon walked several paces to a split-rail fence and tilted his trenching shovel against the cross-brace. Turning his right hand up to his lips, he tucked his thumb and forefinger into his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. He grinned to himself when he heard the complaint of the approaching horse, but waved to the other field-hands to gather together. Riders never meant good news, and it was always best to get it to as many ears as possible to prepare for whatever horribleness was coming. The last rider had brought warning of drought — five years ago.

As the field-hands gathered, some younger folk of the Village were also milling closer — beckoned by Damon’s call.

“At least that works for any ear.” Damon grumbled, glancing up at the cloudless sky and turning his own ear to the fast-approaching horseman.

Ginga strode out from her family’s house across the main path, tucking a long-knife into her skirts and straightening her belt before grabbing a stave from beside the doorway. Damon looked at her appreciatively. Ginga’s smile was a little crooked, but her body was very healthy and broad. He liked the curve of her arse and the thick meat of her legs, but Ginga’s skirts only outlined the pleasant upper mound of her flanks. Ginga’s breasts, young and full though they were, were done no favors by her shirt — but Damon’s mind recalled a more intimate time not long ago when Ginga had surprised him in the creek while he was bathing. She had healthy dark skin, like fresh soil, and thick, raven hair that she kept cropped close to her scalp most of the year. In winter, she would grow her hair out into a wild nest of fuzz in all directions, and Damon loved the tree-like beauty of it.

“Rider comin’?” Ginga walked over, glancing about quickly before brazenly grabbing Damon’s crotch with a deliberate squeeze and kissing him full on the mouth before whispering right to his face. “Fancy a dip in the creek, later?”

Her gray-blue eyes twinkled bright with lust, contrasting her dark skin most pleasantly to Damon, and her smile — crooked as it might be — struck the song of his heart… and his loins. He savored the taste of her mouth for a moment.

“More than anything.” Damon growled, his teeth baring as their lips parted. “Tell yer da you’re gon’ huntin’.”

Damon thought back to yesterday morning, when they were bathing in the stream and Ginga had taken to riding him in the water until he’d spent himself inside her. Her ample breasts, each nearly the size of a honeydew, would clap together lustily with each down-stroke and the water splashed all about her in a delightful spray. The thought of another tryst that night hardened his cock — which Ginga noticed with a toothy grin.

Several children, some only four and five winters, scattered noisily from where goats were being herded away from the path. The cloud of dust from the rider, whose horse had slowed to a weary trot, rolled over the village before the rider made it to the large gathering. Midday sun beat down upon the dusty paths of the village, cracking the over-dry soil and withering the already fading grasses. Hot gusts from the south would occasionally taunt them with dreams of respite, only to blast more dust about them and scour the fields of carefully irrigated water.

The horse was a strong mare, well-kept and healthy. Her brown mane was close-trimmed and the heraldry bore markings of the large city-state of Renks Cairn, which was easily twenty or thirty miles away. The rider was likewise an imposing figure: heavy of shoulders; heavier still of arms and armor. Damon took him for a warmaster or mercenary, else a Knight of the Tower — the soldiers of a Wizard’s guild. The man’s face was that of a weathered northerner (pale with pink-red flush or burns from the sun) with a thick matting of blond mustaches, easily in his thirtieth winter, if not nearer to forty, and he gathered the dust from his mouth and spat it casually to the dirt beside him before addressing the Village. He doffed his helm with some decided slowness, revealing a mop of short, blond-gray hair — neatly trimmed some days ago — plastered to his scalp by the sweat of riding. Damon thought he looked far to heavily armed to be a courier.

“Message for Wizard Matta.” the man sneered, his cold blue eyes narrowing as he looked down at the only person in town with a pale cloth hood and shawl wearing anything that looked like arcane markings.

“I am he.” Matta stiffened his spine proudly, with a creaking of joints and faint breaking of wind. “What missive?”

“Renks Cairn and the Wizards Tower beseech you cease all sorcery in this village.” the messenger’s face relaxed some and he shifted in the saddle. “I’ve been riding two days, where’s your well?”

Murmurs and grumblings rose, but the villagers parted as Matta walked forward and the rider dismounted cumbrously. The horse looked relieved, Damon thought. The messenger was easily nine handspans tall and twenty-five stone (fully clad), to Damon’s eye; and the dents his boots made in the path left little doubt.

“I’ve a letter, as well.” The messenger lifted a sealed leather roll from some sort of crease in his armor that bent in a most unnatural way for metal. “Direct from the Tower.”

“I’ll have it.” Matta politely stated. The messenger smiled a mirthless grin.

“More a proclamation, Wizard Matta.” He harrumphed, glancing about. “Instructions from the Tower, if you please. About that water?”

“This way, Ser.” Damon stepped forward, gesturing deliberately and fighting a sudden urge to bloody this sneering visitor’s chops for his rudeness. “We’ve cisterns and stream — no well.”

“A stream?” The twisting of his face showed a profound distaste for such a thought. “Down-stream of Renks Cairn? I think not.”

“Nay, Ser.” Damon pointed. “It’s fed from a spring in the Willow Wood, two miles from here. It marries the river you suspect, some two more miles hence.”

An air of greed took the messenger’s eyes at this news.

“Spring-fed, you say?” He smiled, suddenly remembering his manners. “Well, good man, lead on! Lead on, pray.”

“Begging pardon, Ser.” Damon bowed thoughtfully and lead the messenger toward the stream. “And whom do I address, Ser?”

“Billsby of the Thirsty Blade.” the messenger cast his eyes about, near salivating at the idea of spring-fed water. “A poor jest, to be sure… I’m just a messenger, Ser…?”

“Damon, Ser. A pleasure.” Damon turned his shoulders while they walked and offered a nodding courtesy.

It was some minutes of silence, which Damon took to mean ill news indeed from Renks Cairn, as they walked. The stream was just beyond the edge of the village, beyond the smallest of their fields — for the ground was too sandy to grow much there. In this smaller field, they grew peppers and squash — favoring the larger fields further out for more demanding crops — a few fruit trees — and pastures for livestock. A small herd of cattle were being tended by the young, mischievous red-haired twins Wanda and Tomas — now twelve winters, and always tasked with tedious chores to keep them away from more delicate village business. The two were skipping stones at one another from across the river, taunting each other merrily and heedless of the cattle — who largely tended themselves anyway, unless wolves hunted too close to the village.

“Just here, the stream is.” Damon bowed politely, still several paces from the water. His soft boots shifted the soil and gravel as he steadied himself to wait for the messenger.

Billsby fairly attacked the stream, wading into the water fully-armored (a poor decision, to Damon’s mind), and taking a lusty mouthful of water and rinsing it through his teeth before spitting back into the stream and proceeding to slake his thirst. The horse, as road-weary as her passenger, crept into the water upstream and began stamping her hooves to cool her belly. Wanda giggled, signaling her brother — but Damon caught their gaze and shook his head somberly. They frowned, hefting their crooks and making to shepherd the cattle elsewhere.

“Devil-breath and dragon’s bollocks, Damon — that is good water.” Billsby laughed. “I say, have you been to Renks Cairn? Dreadful stuff, magicked water… dreadful.”

“I’ve been, Ser.” Damon nodded flatly. “Can’t say as I remember drinking but a tumbler of beer or two.”

“And a wiser man never does.” Billsby laughed, though Damon didn’t see the humor in it. What could be so horrible about water?

Billsby then opened his armor below his waist, levered-forth his penis, and pissed into the stream. Damon’s jaw tightened, but he reasoned the stream would be clean enough by morning. Once the messenger had relieved himself and emerged from the stream, Billsby unhooked a small metal flute from his vambrace and blew a single, soft note. Damon wondered at the thing and noticed the water sloshing all about Billsby was shedding from his armor faster and faster, until Billsby appeared near as dry as when he’d arrived.

“Useful tool, fae-flutes.” Billsby waved the device triumphantly before clasping it securely to his vambrace again. “Never travel the wilds without one, says I.”

“Ser’s judgment is sound.” Damon nodded, though he had no idea what a fae-flute was or what it might do… other than evidently remove extra water from a rude and careless wastrel messenger. “Elder Matta will likely be eager to hear the content’s of Ser’s missive from the Tower.”

The mare, sufficiently cooled, took to imbibing from the stream — ignoring her passenger and the village entirely for several minutes before she ambled from the water to crop grass nearby.

…

“To the Wizard Matta, and the village of Southwold in which he resides.” Billsby took a moment to clear his throat, his eyes flicking across the assembly of the village plaza before he continued. “The Guild of Wizards and the Arcane Tower, in their wisdom, acknowledge the many years of dutiful service of the Wizard Matta, offering him peace and respite in this uncertain time.”

This bit of frippery took many villagers aback, as they had never received a message direct from the Tower of Renks Cairn — or anywhere beyond… but the older folk (and certainly a few of the Elders) nodded their heads sagely at the formality — their attitudes seeming to placate the more uncertain members of the assembly.

“The Guild, in honor of Wizard Matta’s tireless service, give him leave to retire in grace — without apprentice — with all ceremony. A new Wizard, seasoned in the Guild-hall, shall arrive on the equinox to provide for the needs of Southwold in fullness — and to provide for Wizard Matta’s succession. The Guild further beseeches Wizard Matta to attend the Guild-hall in his honor and commemoration of this most esteemed Wizard’s legacy, by and through which the Guild shall make known the many deeds for which Wizard Matta, the Elemental, shall be remembered…”

And on and on, the letter went. Billsby stopped for breath many times, clearly having rehearsed this message more than once before his days-long ride from Renks Cairn. For every platitude and lofty honorific, Damon noted Matta’s mood darkening into a very clear despondency. Whether from this “sudden”, cognizant ouster, or something else only Matta might know, Damon couldn’t be sure — but it was evident to the eyes of those present to see: the Wizard was not pleased.

At length, and with practiced ceremony, Billsby concluded the recitation.

“…and so set forth on this day, the tenth day of the Spring of the seventeenth year of Ser Majesty Soraya Hitsuyo, long may She reign.” Billsby then coughed, spit, and nodded resolutely before handing the letter to Matta, who took it reluctantly as one might a venomous serpent.

Tenth of Spring? Almost two ten-days ago… Damon frowned thoughtfully, but was looking toward the ground, so as not to appear rude. Ginga, to his immediate right, touched his hand with hers. He offered a curt tilt of his head, letting her know he’d talk with her about it later.

“I take my leave, that you may discuss your business.” Billsby cleared his throat, his hand casually drifting down to steady his sword-hilt as he turned. “I shall take my respite on the north road, whence I return. If you have answer for the Tower, I shall receive it on the morrow.”

“I shall have answer.” Matta grunted darkly, his gray-brown eyes staring into the distance.

Without further ceremony, Southwold resumed its daily business… though more quietly, perhaps, and Matta hastily met with families to discuss — albeit unsteadily — the cause for sensing the children for magical aptitude. As afternoon became evening, and meals were shared, Elder Matta wearily approached the signal bell at the edge of Southwold’s central plaza. It was a simple affair, plain iron without special markings, no larger than a man’s head, and a wooden mallet tethered to the post on which the bell was raised. It looked an iron mushroom rising from the dirt, but its chime was both clear and even. The mallet’s head was wrapped in several layers of stripped leather bands, adding to the sonorous notes a smoothness of their rising — for the mallet scarcely struck the bell with any great rapport. And yet, the bell would sound. Rising from a low moan to a clear and steady call, the bell summoned all of Southwold to gather before the Elders.

Damon sighed, knowing that, at least until middle night at the soonest, he was not to enjoy folding himself together with Ginga and spilling his seed into her fertile womb. There were other, similarly forlorn faces and grumbled whispers as Southwold gathered. The eldest of the children were separating-away the children from their parents to wait away from the gathering-place — lest their fussing interrupt Southwold’s business. Only the youngest babes, nestled and sleeping on their father’s breast or suckling at their mother’s tit would be suffered to attend — for who would scold a nursing babe for its hunger?

Now, with five Elders gathered around the bell, and Elder Matta holding the mallet, the villagers of Southwold grew quiet and respectful. The oldest men, some grandfathers or fathers of men already grown, mixed with the oldest women, arranged opposite the Elders of the assembly. The younger men and women, most the eldest of the childless were arranged in the middle — commanded by their surrounds to listen all around, lest they hear nothing.

As was custom, the Elders would begin the meeting by addressing the young — who in turn would address their parents, and who in turn would speak back to the Elders. It was in this way that Southwold kept its peace — for who would say they were not heard that were given chance to speak?

“Who speaks before the Elders?” Bhosti grated, scratching idly at her breast as she stared over the heads of the men and women of Southwold gathered in the plaza that evening. The air was hot and still, dry… no clouds, yet.

“Damon speaks.” Damon lifted his eyes to meet Bhosti’s. She sighed heavily, seeming very tired. Damon tread the childless ground of youth, but carried himself with the manner of a man expecting his first grandchildren.

“The Elders of the Village will hear you, Damon.” Elder Shaum, regarded as the eldest of the Elders (save Matta), rasped and licked his shriveled lips. “What say you, this night?”

“I say, my Elders, that Elder Matta should determine his own time to take his leave.” Damon made a sweeping gesture in the vague direction of Renks Cairn, launching into the customary praises. “The Wizards of Renks Cairn do not know Southwold and do not love us as Elder Matta loves us. He has shed his blood for us for years beyond counting, and our love for him is boundless.”

“Still your tongue waggling.” Matta tapped the small wooden mallet against the simple iron bell that served as the centerpiece of Southwold. “We all know they are coming for me… too old… too frail…”

“Elder Matta…” Damon lifted his hands toward the Wizard in effort to soothe the ancient, the bell’s toll rising beneath his voice.

“Pah!” Matta coughed, then spit a thin bit of phlegm into the dust. “Their pretty words do not hide their meaning. You all heard!”

Matta cast his gaze upon the assemblage, none daring to speak against him — though he could see the doubts behind their eyes. Damon, for all his youthful vigor, was perhaps the oldest among the children in his mind. He saw things simply and clearly… oh, to be so young again. The bell’s note seemed to lend strength to Matta.

“They mean to unseat me, and take apprenticeship from me.” Matta scowled, raising his gnarled hands in defiance. “Me! Who has turned marauders and giants away from Southwold for two lifetimes! Who has seen the birthing and dying of Southwold’s families since even I have forgotten when! Who calls the rains in time of drought…”

“But the rains have not come.” Someone behind Damon grumbled, followed by murmured agreements nearby. Damon could guess who had spoken, but it would be doubly rude to interject, now.

“The rains will come.” Matta shouted, his voice cracking with age and weariness. “Eighty years alone, I have called the rains over Southwold… always, I have called the rains.”

A fit of coughing stole his breath, dragging him to his knees. A young man, no more than twelve or thirteen winters stepped forward to steady him.

“Please, Elder.” No more than a boy, he pleaded. “Please, be soothed.”

Matta’s entire body shook violently with each wet cough, his face purple beneath his pale hood and shawl. He jerked his head to the side, meaning to dismiss the young man. Then, the coughing stopped, and Matta seemed to shiver with his rage.

After long, tense moments — all eyes transfixed by the ancient wizard’s fit of pique — Damon could guess many of them were expecting Matta to drop stone dead at that instant. Matta defied such expectation after what felt a long minute, staggering to his feet and leaning heavily on the young man — Damon recognized him as Ginga’s eldest brother (still many winters younger than her, for Ginga had two younger sisters yet older than this boy), Hollin.

Thank you, Hollin. Damon nodded as the lad looked away from Matta only the barest moment, continuing to steady the ancient dutifully.

“Good boy, Hollin.” Matta patted Hollin’s shoulder, sagging heavily within his own skin even as he directed his attention to the assembly. “I will not be riddanced so easily. I will call the rains…”

A sudden hush struck the village for a heartbeat — all eyes locked on Matta as he seemed to lose his place for a moment… something far more terrible pressed in around them. Goats bleated restlessly in the corrals, and the hot night air felt thick with malice.

“ORKS!” a scream echoed in the distance, and several shrieks, whistles, and animal cries rose in all directions. Chaos. Flashes of light. Screaming.

Orks were not to be trifled-with at any time, least of all at night. The feral among them could see better in the dark than even the sharp-eyed owl or bat, and could scent-out prey better still. Now, Southwold was beset by what seemed an army of the murderous creatures — though it was in truth perhaps no more than a dozen.

Amid the wails and chaos, several men and women took charge; rallying teams within the village to counter violence with greater violence. Spears and rakes were brought to bear, shovels and clubs or the odd torch lashing out in the closer quarters. The most desperate used their belt-knives, often reserved for eating.

Matta stood, forgotten, his eyes clouding in confusion. Then, as though casting his many years off with his shawl, he bared his wizened head. His tattoos, blurry black splotches on his wrinkled, shriveled scalp, flashed at their edges with flame-like light. The outlines vanished, but left in the mind’s-eye the terrible images conjured forth in Matta’s fury.

Speaking a string of complex, incomprehensible syllables, Matta’s gnarled, bony fingers plucked the air like harp-strings… or bow-strings.

Darts of flame pierced the air before Matta, stabbing into being from somewhere else, streaking into the black of night to find ork flesh and set it ablaze. The villagers were heartened, and cries of triumph echoed — but it was not the end of the fray. Already, three orks had grouped into a crude phalanx and were hewing into the defenders — driving a score or more fleeing before them. A hunting horn sounded, striking fear into every human heart… a war party was upon them. Even a child of ten winters knew the only mercy a war party offered was under the blade. What had been a moment of triumph turned to despair. What had been cheering turned to wailing.

Above the din, a keening whistle pierced the air — somewhere akin to the shrillest winter wind and the shriek of the fiercest raptor held interminable in the night. It caused even the war party to hesitate. Only for a moment, before the orks steeled themselves and renewed their attack.

With a flash of light and the clap of thunder, the rider, Billsby, appeared ahorse in their midst like a statue. He had gone at dusk, taking his leave to camp where he pleased on the outermost reaches of Southwold on the road back to Renks Cairn… now, he was returned, wrathful and godlike on his steed, his blade aloft and the small fae-flute to his lips.

No sooner had the mercenary appeared in a crack of thunder than the lightning followed him from whence he came, bringing another deafening shock of thunder and blinding all too slow or foolish to look away. Orks were knocked flat, those in Billsby’s direct wake were blasted apart in a shower of charred flesh and gore. So great was the destruction that several homes caught fire, and one was flattened completely.

Damon could barely see; could hear nothing over the screaming thunder in his ears. The orks that had pressed him had crumpled to the ground with him, but he could yet move. They were still as death. The war party halted its attack, and all became still for another shaking breath. Billsby, a mad gleam in his eyes, was smiling as he spurred his horse into the spear-points of the war party’s leading phalanx.

“Fuck you all, whore-son mongrels! And fuck those Wizards in their damn Tower for sending me out here.” His smile held no joy, no glee. His was the fanged grin of a predator. “To me, you shivering cowards! To me, and fight — if you have blood left in you.”

The mare leapt forward at the touch of his spurs, heedless of the flames, blood, and steel all around. Her hooves trampled any before her, while Billsby’s blade arced out and clove ork heads from shoulders. Damon struggled to his feet and balanced his spear, bracing himself for a charging ork that disappeared before his eyes beneath the mare’s pounding hooves.

“Damon!” Billsby cried out, reining his horse left and right, his blade never still. “Damon, damn you! Get them to safety! I shall follow!”

Another horn, and another. The night became a single, deafening horn-blast from all directions, and Damon shouted to his friends… his family. He didn’t know if they could hear, but they saw his face… they saw his hands and body. Whether they understood, they heeded his movement and gathered before him. Their weapons turned outward, as one, and they cut their way toward the darkness of the Willow Wood… the nearest place of retreat that offered as much salvation as uncertainty — if only because it was not the open target of Southwold in the dusty plains. Damon swore he could hear a drum pounding in the darkness, but did not know if the sound was in his ears or his skull — such was the shock of Billsby’s arrival.

He spared a glance over his shoulder. True to his word, and truer still to the plated armor he wore, Billsby wheeled his mare with deadly skill. The blade in his hand, either from his own practice or some magical endowment, fairly sang in the air as it struck each foe — seeming to never miss a lethal blow. Elder Matta was wreathed in a circle of arcane flames, looking half his age and full of deadly power; darts of fire scattering in all directions to find orks Damon could not see.

Those Damon was shepherding toward safety stopped, buckling backward as they ran afoul of yet more orks. Damon sprang to the fore, his spear dragging an ork to the ground as he shouted defiantly at them. The scrum buckled and twisted, pulling left and right as staves, spears, blades, and claws sought flesh in the darkness. As many screams pierced the night, more were pain and dying than rage or blood-lust.

Another horse slammed into Damon, riderless and black, wielding a club the length of his leg. Horse? Nay, an ork, head and shoulders above him, clouted him solidly and the world vanished into blackness.

Billsby saw the troll, but could not get to it before it began trampling and smashing the villagers. His mare, not half so mad to tangle with a troll, bolted from beneath him to take her chances with the rest of the war party. Billsby would not be cowed. He stepped from the saddle and blew the final note of the fae-flute… shattering the metal flute and the darkness with another bolt of lightning.

“Come, troll!” Billsby screamed, the lightning gathering around him and catapulting him at the fell beast. “Let us see what makes you!”

The explosion that followed detonated yards beyond the troll, yards beyond the ring of fighting villagers and orks, into the darkness. Then, as before, the lightning chased Billsby from where he’d leapt from his mare — through the troll and dozens of orks. Dolls and straw, the orks were scattered in blazing pieces. The troll’s body flew apart in a cloud of burning gore in all directions.

It might only just be enough, Billsby frowned, limbering his shield from his back.

Amid the spattering gore of raining troll, water began to trickle from the sky. Then heavy drops… then a deluge… hailstones… heartbeats had passed from Billsby’s crazed ride through a troll, and suddenly he was in the middle of the fiercest hailstorm he’d ever witnessed. Lightning lanced from the sky — true lightning, not the paltry magic he’d called from the fae-flute. This was the raging might of the gods themselves, blasting with a surgical precision into the war party.

“By the Powers.” Billsby’s jaw slackened, witnessing Matta in his full fury. Now, he knew why the Tower had sent him… and knew it would mean nothing… less than nothing… to such a mad sorceror.

Naked, screaming unintelligible words with a throat no mortal could muster, above the crashing thunder and hailstones, Matta’s voice ripped the sky open — his weathered hands were swollen with energy… he was magic incarnate, the storm of the heavens, the seed and the stone, the proliferation… Matta was. His battle-song broke the war party’s spirit, and his magic broke their flesh. So glutted of his energies, Matta was more than a man, more than a thing… he became a force. His eyes burned with the heat of daylight, his mouth spewed fire and the gale of a hurricane. Lightning streaked from the cloudless sky, tracing painful lines in the darkness wherever his fingers bade them go… Matta, the Elemental, the Tower had called him. How poorly they had captured his devastating capacity.

Billsby fled toward the Willow Wood, hoping his horse would be spared the Wizard’s wrath. He didn’t care anymore if Southwold survived, nor any in it. When a Wizard went mad, there were no friends or safety while the Wizard lived. Billsby knew better. Still, Billsby was not a woodsman… and he did not have the night-eyes of orks. In the darkness, he was as much their prey as anyone else. Even so — he made them buy his capture dearly.

Matta’s battle-song, full-throated, chased the surviving orks like cowering dogs from Southwold, in rains of ice and lightning, with spouts of flame at their heels.

By morning, the grave-like silence in the village was Matta’s only companion to greet the dawn. The shriveled ancient huddled under his shawl, quaking with quiet sobs at the wreckage around him.

…

Damon awoke to fingers prodding his ribs, which stabbed white pain into his skull and threatened to swallow him in darkness again. He rolled onto his left side, which hurt less and freed him to vomit. Emptying his stomach did nothing for the pain, but his stomach quieted.

“That’ll have to do.” an unfamiliar whisper stole into his ears as a rough hand grabbed his naked shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

Damon groaned, trying to answer, trying to nod his head. His stomach lurched and he vomited bile.

“Right, be still, then.” the hand patted his shoulder coarsely. “No use fighting right now, anyway.”

“Bil…by?” Damon wheezed. The pain in his ribs had lessened, slightly.

“shhh.” The hand retreated, but he could tell the other man was close. Something foul assaulted his nostrils when he tried to breathe. He gagged again.

“That’s ork-stink.” Billsby gruffed. “Could die from that, if they don’t skin us, first.”

Damon shivered and tried to open his eyes. One eye didn’t seem to work… perhaps blinded when the horse… no, giant ork, had hit him.

“Lucky that troll din’t kill ya.” Billsby scratched idly at his bare ass, observing the dark prison tent with a scowl. “Well, maybe lucky in’t the word.”

Damon realized his pain was lessening. His “blind” eye offered a cloudy report similar to his good eye. It seemed as if Billsby had healed him… somehow.

“You… healed…?” Damon found breathing easy enough, but talking hurt his head terribly.

“You’re a fuckin’ mess, boy.” The mercenary snorted. “Quit talking, half your face is broken. Let the magic do its job and be quiet.”

“You, quiet.” a thick, ork voice barked from a few yards away. Heavy footfalls approached, thick boots on hard ground.

“Swallow a pike, troll-shite.” Billsby stood, squaring his shoulders to draw attention away from the younger man he’d healed. “An’ while you’re at it, squat on a halberd ye half-wi-”

A meaty thud punctuated Billsby’s insult, cutting it short and staggering him.

“Quiet, meat.” the ork snarled, so close the short tusks of his mouth touched Billsby’s cheek. “I eat tongue.”

Billsby stared death at the ork but was silent, his eyes locked with the savage.

They stared, each daring the other to blink. At last, the ork grunted — spraying spittle or snot on Billsby’s face.

“Quiet, meat.” the ork straightened, towering a head and shoulders above the otherwise large human. “Maybe live.”

The ork chuckled at its joke as it walked away, content it had somehow made its point.

“Well, well.” Billsby squatted back down by Damon, his voice lower than before… venomous.

“Hnnn?” Damon inquired, the blurring of his eye much improved and the pain in his body now tolerable rather than crippling.

“They need breeders.” Billsby murmured, then spat blood toward the ork — who sneered back with satisfaction before resolutely making an effort to “ignore” the human prisoners. “That’s a thin strand of hope.”

“What?” Damon was surprised and proud that he’d formed an entire word, despite the nauseating effort it took.

“That’s a mule.” Billsby nodded toward the guard, then spat more loudly and made a show of coughing noisily before whispering behind his hand. “They’re short on breeding stock.”

Cold panic gripped Damon’s chest, dwarfing the pain, as every nightmare he’d ever heard about orks swelled into his mind. Tales of ork raiders taking women and men in the night, slaughtering most but forcing the rest to be used to breed more orks within a tribe. Often, orks led such violent, savage lives that their war bands became so inbred that they could not reproduce anymore… becoming “mules”. Damon thought of how hideous orks looked and considered death a kinder fate to siring anymore such beasts — however it might prolong his life in the short-term.

Another moan, this one in the shadows Damon’s eyes couldn’t pierce, drew his attention to other survivors. Five more in all… a sixth had already succumbed to his wounds. All men of Southwold… well, all except Billsby.

“They’ll take me, first… might give us a chance to make a break for it.” Billsby coughed again and made a show of nursing his jaw to hide his face from their guard. “If I can get to my sword, I could probably take a female hostage. That usually gets an exchange.”

“Hostage?” Damon hissed, the weight of Billsby’s plan forming in his mind.

“Aye. If they’ve only a few, it’s a mint.” Billsby smiled behind his hand, then looked into the shadows hiding Damon’s fellows. “Might be enough to save more’n one or two of ya.”

The guard barked something in the guttural ork-speak… something like belching, growling, and snorting at the same time — but each sound was more feral than the last.

“Well, the mule just got wise.” Billsby sighed, not bothering to mask what he was saying, anymore. “They’ll be taking us two at a time. Fuck ’em.”

There was a malicious twinkle in Billsby’s eyes as he glanced to Damon.

“Nice knowin’ ya, Damon.” Billsby chuckled. “You find my sword, cut down everything don’t have teats.”

The guard approached and grabbed Billsby’s neck with one hand — that’s when Damon noticed the faint glint of an edge disappearing in Billsby’s palm.

“I eat…” the ork started, lifting Billsby bodily with one arm like a small sack of grain. A flash of movement and the ork dropped him, staggering backward and clutching it’s neck. Blood spewed in pulsing geysers from a puncture that went through the ork’s windpipe and into the side of its throat, blood whistling outward in a fine spray.

Billsby landed neatly on his feet and laughed.

“Aye, whore-son, I heard… tongues, was it?” He taunted as the ork gasped blood and tried to clamp its hands over the wounds. It appeared to be quickly fading. “Tongue my arse, you mule shite.”

Billsby kicked the sinking ork in the groin, though the blow seemed to have little real effect. Billsby seemed satisfied with the result as the ork collapsed to the ground and went slack.

“Not very creative, orks.” Billsby spat on the dead guard before turning to Damon. “We’ll need to use that… but trouble’s… remember — they’re going to breed us. You want ta live you…”

The shouting from outside interrupted.

“More mules!” Billsby’s arms went wide as two more orks stormed in, their tusked faces twisted in rage. “Remember to keep your breeders safe for your slut, or they might break yer dicks off an’ feed em ta ya!”

One of the orks managed to wrestle Billsby into an arm-pinning hug and grabbed the human’s face with his massive jaws. The other ork was already dead on the ground when another trio of orks swarmed in and grabbed every breathing human. None too gently, they hauled them out of the prison tent into searing daylight.

Dazzled by the sudden change in light and crushed nearly to breathless by the grip of orks (and their stink), the humans were carried and dragged across the substantial camp of orks to a large, solid-looking yurt. The only permanent fixture of the entire camp, though Billsby did not have time to explain as they were hauled inside, deposited onto a sprawling rug of pelts, and left in the relative dark.

The door was barred behind them. Shouting, barking, snarling rose beyond the door, and signal horns blasted. A drumbeat started. It sounded like a heart-beat. Another drum, beating in rhythm, with the barest delay such that each boom became an echo of itself.

B-Boom, B-Boom, B-Boom, B-Boom.

It set Damon’s teeth on edge — especially when he found himself breathing in time with the rhythm. A small brazier cast dancing firelight, revealing murky shadows within the yurt and giving the walls the look of a living thing moving around them. An aroma, like honeysuckle yet not so cloying amid the scent of dried pelts, insinuated itself into Damon’s nostrils even as his eyes adjusted feebly to the faint light.

“Oh yes, set the mood for us.” Billsby stood and limbered himself, shaking his arms and legs, his secret blade carefully concealed in his palm. “This’ll get their fuck-sluts ready…”

His voice trailed off as a half-dozen female orks fairly appeared around them from the shadows. The light of the brazier seemed to increase, though the flames did not grow… Damon found he could see far more clearly than before.

It was at this moment that Damon realized he knew absolutely nothing of orks.

…

“Hush, little man.” her voice was melodious, and thick like honey.

Her yellow-gray eyes were like a wolf’s, keen and predatory. Her face was strong, almost mannish, but far softer in its angles than any ork face Damon had ever seen, with a narrower jaw and small tusks no longer than half the length of Damon’s smallest finger. Her mouth was wide, but looked narrow on her face, with full lips tinted almost purple. Her nose was broad and flat, but seemed to draw attention from her mouth directly to her eyes. Her ears — large, sweeping, pointed ears – that were as long as Damon’s hand and peaked just near the back of her skull. Naked and hairless, her brown-green skin contoured every muscle of her body in such a way that every movement seemed to cause a different part of her body to bulge or bounce. Her breasts were perhaps the most confusing part of her, for they looked like the smooth, round, soft masses he expected on a woman — but they swelled forward from the lean, hardened muscles of her chest in a contrast that defied his mind. The nipples were dark, purple nubs set on purple-black areola nearly as big as Damon’s palm. His eyes trailed down her body involuntarily to her crotch — the smoother flesh between her legs swelling just slightly from the muscles of her stomach and away from the rippling cords of her legs into a plum-colored mound with the barest evidence of her midnight-purple lips shifting in and out of view as she turned. She was easily a head taller than Damon and everything about her oozed sex.

Confounding Damon further, she was casually holding Billsby’s head with one hand — lifting the broad human by his skull effortlessly, her palm splayed across his nose and mouth… the end of each finger ending in black fingernails that might be polished-down talons, each drawing a trickle of blood from Billsby where her digits met his skin. Her other hand coolly, almost delicately, peeled the tiny blade from Billsby’s hand and dropped it to the pelts below. Damon felt the drumming rhythm in his chest, and his naked flesh seemed to pulse with the sound… his cock was hard, but he’d not realized it until just now.

As if in a silent dance, the other ork females move around them… each as imposing, impressive, strong, naked, hairless, and delicate as the first. They moved, touched, caressed, lifted, and examined the man-flesh that the mules had delivered to them.

“What devilry…?” Billsby finally breathed. “What sorcery is this…?”

It sounded like begging, though whether for an answer or for the sweet, sexual embrace that these females offered, Billsby couldn’t decide — and it was his own voice. The pressure her hand was making on his skull was immense, and he knew she could have killed him in that instant. His feet weren’t even touching the ground.

“I am in heat, human.” she cooed to him, and set him on his feet before her. Billsby was a large man, but she was half a head taller and just as wide. She leaned down, her hand tilting to cup his face, as blood ran from the wounds where her fingernails had been. She licked the blood over his brown, tenderly and Billsby visibly shivered.

“What…” but Billsby lacked the strength to form the question. His cock ached, it was so hard.

One of the other females, her skin likewise brown-green… or green,brown? Grunted…something. She was kneeling over the one human that didn’t respond to these creatures…

Something in the air changed, and the spell was broken. As a flood of earthen flesh, they stormed the door and it burst open… the drums stopped, and the feral snarling of what Damon realized were mules went quiet.

The lead female snarled something — but Damon noticed the fear in the mules, more than the malice in her posture. One of the mules was singled-out by the group, and surreptitiously torn limb from limb by the females in a bloody rage. Damon became aware of a keening wail and was only distantly aware that it was coming from several of the other mules, prostrating themselves before these females… begging forgiveness.

The entire spectacle took moments, and then the females turned away as though nothing had changed. One of them — perhaps the most green of green-brown of the six lifted a hand, and the drumming resumed. The females entered the yurt single-file, and a dozen mules surged to close the doors. Damon noticed that another beam was being hefted to replace the one the females had destroyed when they “opened” the door.

Daylight stabbed through new holes that this door had likely never seen, a sobering reminder of the raw power in the bodies of these females. Damon realized that he hadn’t looked at his fellows from the village since they were in the prison tent… now, to his shame, he felt he didn’t want to look at them. If they saw his arousal — if they felt similar arousal from these women… nay, ork females… he doubted any of them would want to share the burden of such shame.

Gods protect us. Damon prayed, his lips forming the words soundlessly.

“Don’t like the toys broken, sluts?” Billsby seemed to find his mettle, though from his face, he spoke with far more confidence than he felt. He’d found his secret blade during the brief, violent interlude — but now it was forgotten in his hand, ill-poised for either slashing, piercing, or throwing.

“Haaa….” the lead female breathed out — a hiss like a sigh (or was it the other way round?), as she approached, the scent of her breath oddly compelling to Damon’s senses. It was as they closed the distance that he felt the strange calm of the drums align his breathing, the rippling, predator’s grace and wolfish stares pulling lust into a fog through his mind.

“Stay…” Billsby meant to say Stay back. His voice failed him, and even as he tightening his grip on the blade to attack, his fingers fumbled the sliver of metal and twitched feebly.

“You amuse me, human.” The lead female smiled at him, her teeth gleaming and eyes fairly shining. “I am called Abhilash.”

Billsby returned the smile placidly, then shook his head and frowned. The streaks and speckling of blood on their naked forms seemed to aid his resistance.

“Fuck…” he trailed off, meaning to hurl a throaty Fuck you, but having lost his momentum and forgotten what he was doing.

“Yesss.” There was the barest trace of green light shining from her eyes, or was it Damon’s imagining? “That we will.”

She touched the side of his face again, tenderly, and leaned forward to kiss him. He returned the motion with gusto, his lips mashing against hers in an obviously awkward reversal of a more familiar posture.

“Abhilash?” One of the other females said the name, and it was like hearing wood-chimes beside a stream. Damon’s mouth turned up in a smile, though he didn’t know why.

“No.” Abhilash parted her lips from Billsby long enough to breathe the word on his face, her eyes locked on him. “Mother has given me seed-right.”

She kissed Billsby again, her tongue dancing along his lips as his hands reached up and clumsily touched her solidly muscled body.

There was no other complaint — no other movement. The other females simply stood and watched as Abhilash and Billsby kissed, the latter finding new confidence in the repetition… perhaps finding more of his wits the longer he was surrounded by whatever spell had trapped Southwold’s men here. He kissed Abhilash deliberately, and cupped her groin with one hand while his other sought a breast and caressed it.

He seemed to be searching her body with his hands, the muscles of his face twisting in concentration and passion by turns.

“I never…” Billsby managed between kisses… Abhilash stopped cold, her ears twitched and her eyes stared into Billsby’s face.

“Never kissed a proper ork, b’fore.” Billsby flushed, his cock bouncing in time to his heartbeat… the drum-beats… Damon thought he noticed that everyone in the room was breathing in time to that rhythm, but he wasn’t aware if he’d moved at all.

“Am I not gentle?” Abhilash purred, brushing a tusk down Billsby’s jawline. “Am I not… pleasing?”

Her hand found his cock. As delicate and feminine as her tone implied, her body — while a superb feminine specimen — was nigh comical against the much more pale human flesh. Her hand was at least the length of Billsby’s erect dick, and could grip it easily. Damon shivered at the raw power in those hands and thought, with some relief, that his own erection faltered however slightly.

Still, she caressed him like one might expect of fluted glass… or, as an immensely powerful ork caresses a human to not rip its flesh off.

“Right.” Billsby’s face contorted, an inward struggle taking place.

Damon realized that, if ever Billsby had meant to effect an escape, now was most definitely not the time for it. Perhaps the two of them could defeat one of these females…maybe… but six? Six while naked?

We are dead men. Damon’s mind screamed. His cock bounced in time to the drums.

Abhilash guided Billsby to the floor of pelts, her lips playing along his and her tongue dancing with his tongue.

“Ah…” Abhilash breathed out as Billsby’s hands fondled her, his fingers at last reaching her mound in a way that — evidently — she found pleasing. “A seasoned male is a rare gift.”

“Y’ain’t seen nothing.” Billsby growled, his demeanor seeming to melt slowly back into the brusque, mercenary candor. “I’ll fuck ye’ til ye’ can’t walk.”

“Please.” She smiled, and Billsby gave her a lopsided grin before attacking her mouth with his own.

To Billsby, Abhilash has offered herself to him — at last content that he was “man enough” to rut with her and give her the fucking she wanted. To Damon’s ears, having recently bedded Ginga in similar fashion, there was nothing pleasant in Abhilash’s tone. There was no lust, no passion… no pleasantry.

It was the cold, spine-freezing call of the hunter. Damon’s mind was his own, once more, and the horror of what was happening invaded his thoughts. His erection vanished, even as the other five females remained fixated on Abhilash’s mating. Even as he looked to the faces of the men he knew — their eyes glazed and staring at the carnal display.

“Please.” She said again, her eyes holding Billsby’s gaze for a moment before the human’s mouth assaulted first her right breast… then her left… and his hips lurched forward with forceful purpose. Abhilash purred, smiling a small smile on her lips as her mouth opened. She slid her tongue over her lips and caught her lower lip just in her teeth — a message any mate would understand — and Billsby sneered lustily and thrust with more force. He seemed to forget the crippling power in her legs, the throat-tearing power of her jaws… all that seemed to matter was the pussy that was squeezing his cock so hard he thought it might burst just from her tightness.

“Yer…” Billsby grunted. “Tightest… ever… fuckin…”

His eyes clamped shut in concentration and Damon realized the poor bastard was so close to orgasm he was probably going to be done in less time than the burning of a single candle. Something in Abhilash’s eyes made Damon recoil physically. That movement caused a ripple within the room.

While his friends and the mercenary might not have noticed, the ork females most certainly did. At first, it was the two nearest him… then the other three as an imperceptible intake of breath seemed to freeze the five of them with their eyes locked on Damon’s flaccid penis. They looked horrified, ashamed… embarrassed. The humans were entirely at their mercy, and the ork females were embarrassed.

That’s when Damon noticed Abhilash staring at him, her face a scowling mask of hatred.

“Oh, fuck…” Billsby grunted, his face scrunched. “Fuckin’ ork… slut…”

He screamed.

Damon watched as, mid orgasm, the ork female smoothly clamped her legs around Billsby’s waist and squeezed… like she was hugging a lover… Billsby’s scream became a strangled moan and went silent — his face contorted in agony, eyes bulging and face turning purple. His spine snapped, and the air rushed out of his body, his eyes searching blindly.

“You.” Abhilash was on her feet, dropping Billsby in a lifeless heap and stalking toward Damon with murder flashing in her eyes.

She stopped, arms-length from him, and looked at his flaccid penis, and then into his face.

“Why do you not lust for my flesh, male?” She demanded.

“Abhilash.” a voice from behind, somewhere in the yurt Damon couldn’t see. His eyes wouldn’t leave the hateful yellow eyes of the ork demon staring him down.

“Answer me!” She screamed, sweeping him up by the neck and shaking him like an insolent child — or a child shaking a doll. “Where is your lust? Why are you soft?”

Faint whining from the other villagers was barely audible as Damon struggled to breathe. His feet kicked the air, striking Abhilash in the stomach and face with little effect to the ork. His face turned purple as he made soft choking sounds and a faint whispered gasp left his lisps — his eyes wide in panic.

“Abhilash.” The voice was more insistent, this time, though not louder. Now, even Abhilash stopped to look.

As though struck, the ork females turned to the rear of the yurt and threw themselves face-down on the pelts. Damon tumbled to the ground, barely conscious and forgotten.

“Mother.” Abhilash whined, and Damon heard fear in her voice. “His cock is soft… it’s his fault.”

“Child.” the voice became a figure, just smaller than Abhilash and her sisters… for indeed, if this was her mother, then these other females must be her kin. Her tone was one of kindness and gentle reproach — but Abhilash shook with terror and Damon thought he heard weeping.

Her skin was the color of an oak, with faint wrinkles and sagging skin as one might expect to see on a human woman in the fullness of thirty winters. Her pointed ears drooped just at the tips, causing them to flare down slightly, and her tusks had a dusty ivory stain to them. Her nose was narrower, and longer, and her lips a black-brown. Her eyes, like silvery moonlight, stood apart from her daughters. Her flesh was well formed, and she wore her years proudly; her breasts had the healthy sway of one who has nursed their young, and the black-brown nipples fairly glowed with their vitality.

Unlike her daughters, the taught cords of her muscles were softened by the womanly flesh of motherhood, and Damon saw tattoos… nay, scars along her hips and belly. He had seen the scars of motherhood on some women, whose children had filled their bellies near bursting — but this was something beyond even that. This was art on ork flesh. These scars told the story of a mother that carried six daughters at once. The flesh of her sex was likewise fuller, and more visible — and it called to him in a way he could not understand.

“Come to me, male.” she beckoned with her dark-skinned hand. Her claws… or fingernails, were deliberately polished and smooth — black as pitch and seeming to suck the light from the room as he looked at her. How many males met their death at those hands?

Damon resisted if for no other reason than he didn’t think he could move without being struck dead. His body felt stuck. A point of heat formed on his back, where a shaft of light beat against him to the rhythm of the drums, pushing him forward. At last, he took a step. His leg ached, and he noticed that his left leg was bleeding — likely from where he’d struck Abhilash’s tusk when she was throttling him. When his eyes went down to his leg, that moment of distraction… he heard a faint intake of breath.

“Male.” again, the voice was more insistent, but not unkind. Damon looked up, feeling the compulsion but wondering if, maybe, now he was going to die.

“Spare my friends.” He whispered, talking another step forward, his back getting warmer and his leg still throbbing.

Abhilash looked up from the floor. He hadn’t made it far enough to pass her, so he could see her look at him… it made him flinch. She was livid… coiled like a serpent about to strike. Damon found his mind in that calm space between living and dying where the mind simply accepts all that it perceives. He had never been here, before. He would memorize every moment, every heartbeat. And then, they would kill him.

Abhilash opened her mouth to hiss, or spit, or curse at him… and Damon tilted his head with curiosity — wondering if her next breath would be a tidal wave, sweeping his life from his body… what would it feel like?

“Child.” and now he heard the harder edge a mother uses to warn her child. Abhilash recoiled, color draining from her face. It was in this moment that Damon saw the power of an ork female.

With that one reproach, all sound in the war camp stopped. Damon looked up at the mother ork and tilted his head to the side. She was very alluring, he admitted, and very dangerous and would probably cut him in half with a glance… but something about her dragged his attention closer, so he took another step and another.

He got the feeling she was watching a baby bird take flight, or catching a butterfly on her finger… or…