Page 17 of Alien Orc Warlord's Captive Bride

"I don't know. I...it's just weird, with everyone hating humans so much."

"Well. Most of the soldiers are out. Ragnar has tripled guards and sent out patrols. He's also been getting volunteers for..." She trails off, and I realize she was about to spill strategic information.

Information that will be in the hands of their enemies, as soon as I am

"So who's left?"

"Mostly civilians, and a few soldiers. And the children, of course. To them, you're like a strange animal. They are fascinated. When I walked up to the great hall this morning, there were a dozen of them, hiding in the bushes, trying to catch a glimpse of you."

"Oh dear," I say, because I just want to disappear.

"Come on. It'll be okay. I know you won't be here long but..." She swallows. "Look. You're going to be Lord Ashbourne's bride. He is a powerful man, but you'll have direct access to him. If you learn about us, it could take years, but you can plant the seeds in his mind. We are not a threat to him. We just want to live out here, alone, at peace with the land."

"Okay. I'll do my best," I say, anxiety spiking. Lord Ashbourne will view me as no more than a trophy, a breeding sow to bear his heirs, but even if it's false hope, I need to do everything I can to advocate for her species.

"Then come on, let me show you the village. Here. I've got shoes for you," she says, handing me a pair of leather boots that are a size too big. I try not to look too closely at them, fearing I'll see bloodstains from the previous owner.

10

RAGNAR

Ipull my furs around me as I stand on the peak in heavy boots. Even our species is affected by the cold and biting wind, and though the air is clear, a gust kicks up a gale of snow, scouring my face. I brought twelve of my men, younger, with good reflexes and keen eyes, up to the peak with rifles in hand. We are followed by another three big soldiers lugging boxes of ammunition.

I've tested the weapons. They can be fired thirty times before they must be exchanged for more ammunition, and these twelve have been working nonstop to replace the bullets quickly, learning the mechanism of the cowardly weapon to be able to keep a high rate of fire.

It's clear and harsh up here near the peak, and I can look down to Aira's village, along with the other six small farming villages that surround Lord Ashbourne's cold grey castle. Smoke rises from chimneys, and little shapes walk around in the villages. Wagons, drawn not by horses but by the infernal engines of Ashbourne's technology, surrounded by soldiers, bring supplies to his castle to get through the winter. Behind those walls, people will be safe.

In the villages, their stomachs will gnaw.

I scan down the mountainside, looking for any hint of movement of the men escorting the messenger back. I catch a glimpse of a shadow, but as I focus, it is only a hardy mountain goat.

I reach down, under the snows, and grab a slab of ice, grunting as I lift it and throw it over the side of the peak as high as I can. "Fire!" I yell, without letting my men prepare.

Some curse, but one, only nineteen, with sharp eyes and a hard face, has already raised his weapon. The crack of the rifle sounds and the chunk of ice explodes into a flurry. He lowers his weapon, chews, and spits out black liquid of the tobacco grass. His fangs are stained yellowish, his eyes cold and green as he waits.

"Good. Lord Ashbourne has a new weapon. Black metal birds of prey that will report our movements back to his people." The Orc soldiers growl. I picked ones who were open-minded, who did not dogmatically follow the old ways of combat with axes and spears, but who could embrace the new methods of combat that would help us survive. Younger, often ones with wiry, light physiques who did not excel in close combat and want to learn a new way to fight for the tribe.

"The twelve of you will train today. You must be able to bear the cold for long hours. There will be two shifts of six, on these peaks," I say, pointing one by one at the vantage points that will protect our mountain home. "Shifts will be around the clock. Half day each. You have one job. To be able to shoot down the scouting birds before they can bring back information. Understood?"

"Understood," says the one who shot down the chunk of ice.

"Good. You three. Lay out targets."

I watch for a good half hour, ignoring the frost. When one of the soldiers complains that he feels like an old woman, sitting down as if he is sewing furs, I take the rifle from his hands and fire, showing him that even the warlord of the tribe is not above the new technology.

They go through hundreds of rounds, and slowly, their aim improves, and none complains about the biting cold.

We will adapt. We will survive in these lands that are our birthright, no matter what the humans try to put against us.

11

AIRA

The great hall is silent, the long wooden table empty and cleaned. The table bears the stains of hundreds of meals, greasy residue of animal fats from the meaty diet of the Orcs, but the stone floor is polished clean, without a scratch. I follow Silga, looking closely at her back, seeing more hawks among the swirling blue and green patterns of her paints as she brings me to the entrance of the great cave and we look down at the village.

The village is bustling with activity. The long river that runs through the village is thick with jumping fish. Two Orc women are wading into the waters with nets, clucking and yelling at each other as fish jump past, and an older man with a long spear is driving his weapon into the waters to catch the ones they miss, pulling out fish and putting them into a huge bucket. The two women have matching pink and purple paints adorning their bodies, fish and berry designs that cover their hard green flesh. Along the walls of the valley where the Orc village is nestled, homes are built into the stone itself, some as high as four stories. From one, three Orc teenagers are peering out, and when they see me glancing, they duck under the stone and out of sight.

The clang of metal is coming from a stone house, where black smoke is funneled up a long wooden pipe, dissipating in the cold breeze above. "We work the blacksmith only on windy days, so the smoke doesn't betray us," says Silga, seeing where I'm looking.

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