Page 18 of Alien Orc Warlord's Captive Bride

She leads me down the steps, and bushes rustle near the bottom. As I come closer, there's a yell, and four Orc children, in loincloths, sprint away in fear.

"I feel like a monster out of a fairy tale."

"They're shy. Don't worry."

The entire village is well protected by the two valley walls that rise up on either side. There's only one entrance, at the far side, through the tight pass which is guarded by two Orcs holding spears, and a third, sitting on a boulder with a rifle on his lap. Some Orcs are kneeling in a little garden, tilling the soil, others tanning hides.

It is nothing like what I would have expected. From the stories, the Orcs would have human slaves toiling for them, nude women tied up to sate their beastly desires.

The clang of hammers stops, and from the blacksmithy, a big, low building, I see an older Orc appear at the window. He watches me carefully, then extends his hand to beckon me.

"Who is that?"

"Old Mr. Tork. He's fascinated with humans."

"What does he want from me?"

Silga smiles. "I'd imagine he'd like to pick your brain."

I follow her on the path to the blacksmithy. The wooden door opens. Mr. Tork is short for an Orc, perhaps six foot five, and he's missing his left hand, which ends in a nub. His right arm is twice the size of his left, huge muscles bulging, and he puts a long hammer on the wall with his other tools.

He glances down to the black ring on my finger, then up to me. "Welcome, Aira. How do you do, Silga?"

"I'm good."

I don't speak, too nervous. "The name's Tork. Tusk Tork." He extends his right hand to me. I take it, and he barely squeezes, too gentle, as if he thinks my hand will shatter under the slightest touch. "I need your help."

His workshop is a forge, an anvil with a long, beaten piece of metal, and next to it are twenty metal tubes. "You're trying to make rifles," I say, blinking.

"Smart. Very smart. So youwillbe of use to me. We've taken more ammunition than we could use from the war parties, but we don't have enough weapons to shoot them. I've been trying to recreate your technology."

"It cost you," says Silga, sadly.

"I was born with two hands. I can spare one of them," grins Tusk. I feel no animosity from him, only a deep curiosity. "I've been able to make a weapon that can fire the bullets, but the accuracy is terrible. I'm missing something."

"She wouldn't know anything about rifles. She worked in a farming village," says Silga, trying to brace him for disappointment.

"Well. That's not completely true," I say. "When I was sixteen, some of Lord Ashbourne's troops were on a patrol in our village. One of them took a liking to me, and thought he'd impress me by showing off his gun. I'd hoped to steal it, but he never gave me a chance." I walk to the anvil, where the long half piece of metal that will form half the barrel of a gun is lying. "See here? On the inside? It needs to have...like, spirals. That's how the bullets fire farther, with more accuracy."

"Spirals. Of course! The Chieftain never let me open up one of the rifles to see their secrets. He said they were too valuable."

"It's called rifling. It makes the bullet sort of...spin. I don't know the physics, but it'll shoot longer."

"Rifling. And do you know how to make the spirals?"

"I don't, sorry. But I bet Silga could. She's got incredible hands, and a keen eye for details."

To my shock, the Orc woman blushes, her green cheeks flushing as she looks down, unused to the praise. "I don't know about that," she says.

"If the Chieftain lends you a rifle, you could...well, you could maybe coat the inside of the front of the barrel with some of your clay, or soot. Then put a piece of cloth or...paper inside, maybe you can get a replica of the pattern?"

"That might work," says Silga, tapping her right fang with her finger. “We could also melt wax, coat the inside of a rifle, and try to gently pull it out.”

There's a pounding at the door, then it's kicked opened. "What the hell are you doing? Giving our secrets to our enemies?"

It's an Orc I haven't met before, a young one, not yet twenty. He's ugly, with uneven, slanted teeth, a wispy beard that cannot hide his weak jaw. His left eye is gone, with a brutal scar, and his other is pure hate. The Orc's one eye is wide and bloodshot, like the whole world is taunting him.

Tusk moves quick for an old man. The hammer is already in his hand, his body between me and the angry Orc. "You forget your place, boy. She's a guest under the Chieftain's protection. You raise your weapon to her, you raise it to him."

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