I pause, uncertain whether to probe further. But I want to understand. “So the shamans… they still practice incantations, but they don’t have the raw healing power they once did?”
He shifts, glancing at the horizon. “Exactly. Rituals, blessings, reading signs—these remain. But they can’t re-grow limbs or cure lethal wounds by chanting a phrase. Some orcs resent that loss. They see it as the War God’s punishment for failing him in the past. Others claim it’s a natural ebb and flow of power.”
I carefully place the uprooted herb in a small leather pouch, wiping mud from my fingers on a rag. “And do you have an opinion on it?”
He hesitates. “I think we shape our own destiny more than we realize. Relying on divine magic alone can weaken a clan. We must adapt, learn, and survive by our own means if necessary.”
A faint smile warms my lips. He’s more pragmatic than I expected.
I rise to my feet, slinging the pouch over my shoulder. Surveying the glen, I spot a few other plants that look promising—small clusters of wide leaves with red berries. “That might be useful too,” I murmur, stepping closer.
Before I can bend down, my foot slips in the slick mud near the stream’s edge. My arms flail, heart jolting. A muddy tumblethreatens—but Ghorzag’s reflexes are swift. He lunges forward, his large hand grasping my forearm, steadying me before I can go sprawling face-first into the muck.
His grip is firm, almost bruising in its strength. My breath catches at the sudden contact, and I look up into his face. Despite his gruff demeanor, concern flickers in his eyes, swiftly replaced by that guarded stoicism.
“Careful,” he admonishes, releasing me once I’ve found my balance.
Heat creeps across my cheeks. “I—thank you. Slippery.” My voice comes out softer than I intend.
He merely nods, stepping back. But the moment lingers, an undercurrent of awareness crackling between us. My pulse thuds, not entirely from the near fall.
I duck my head, focusing on the next plant. “Right. Let’s… gather a few more, then head back.”
He grunts agreement, yet I sense his gaze lingering on me. A strange warmth settles in my chest, a quiet spark of gratitude that he caught me—and something else, a swirl of unspoken tension.This is the orc who basically claimed me as a strategic mate, I remind myself.He’s bound to me by necessity, not necessarily by affection.But in that moment, it’s easy to forget the complexities.
We spend the next half hour collecting assorted roots and leaves from the glen’s shaded nooks. I show Ghorzag which plants might serve as antiseptics, and he helps dig them up with the efficient skill of a warrior who’s spent his life handling blades. Soon, my pouch bulges with greenery, the smell of damp soil clinging to our hands.
“We should return,” he says, scanning the sky. “The clan will be suspicious if we’re gone too long. Besides, these should be enough to attempt Ragzuk’s poultice.”
I nod, wiping sweat from my brow. The sun climbs, the day’s warmth growing insistent. My boots squelch in the mud as we make our way back up the rocky trail toward the fortress.
At first, we walk in silence, but I feel a subtle shift in Ghorzag’s posture—a lowering of tension, like he’s no longer quite so prepared for ambush. Or maybe that’s my wishful thinking.
“I never expected to be rummaging through plants with an orc chieftain,” I admit with a tentative laugh. “But… thank you for coming with me. I’m sure you have more pressing matters.”
He gives me a sidelong look, tusks gleaming in the midday light. “Protecting the clan is my duty. If this helps keep a warrior from losing his leg—or stops further suspicion from the clan—then it’s worth it.”
Right, duty. I swallow the faint sting of disappointment. But I can’t blame him for seeing everything through the lens of leadership. “I’m still grateful,” I say quietly. “For letting me do something useful.”
He doesn’t reply, but a glimmer in his gaze suggests he hears me. We continue on, cresting a small rise. The fortress walls loom ahead, the dark stone stark against the bright sky. My mind drifts to the scout’s injury, how I’ll mix the herbs into a poultice—an opportunity to prove, if only in some small measure, that not all humans are worthless in orc eyes.
We return through the main gates. An orc guard with a scar across his brow eyes me distrustfully, but offers Ghorzag a respectful nod. The courtyard is busier than ever. A group of older orcs clusters around a sturdy table, apparently debating resource allocations, while a line of younger ones practices archery with short, sinew-backed bows.
Several orcs pause to watch as Ghorzag and I cross the space toward the stone structure where Ragzuk waits. Their starescling like burrs, but Ghorzag’s presence keeps them at bay—no one dares approach or hiss curses at me when he’s by my side.
Inside the herbal workspace, Ragzuk looks up from grinding a paste. He exhales in relief. “I wondered if you’d manage to find anything.”
I hold up the bulging pouch. “We found quite a bit. The ground near the stream was perfect for these plants.”
He beckons me over to a rudimentary worktable. I spill the contents across its rough surface—roots, leaves, and stems. Immediately, the pungent aroma fills the room, earthy and slightly bitter. Ragzuk’s brows rise. “Impressive haul. Now let’s see if it does any good.”
With Ghorzag standing near the door, arms folded, I set to work separating the pieces I recognize: a cluster that resembles goldenseal, some broad-leafed plants with berries that might enhance the antimicrobial effect. I explain to Ragzuk how to crush them into a moist poultice. He grunts in acknowledgment, occasionally sprinkling in bits of dried orcish herbs I don’t recognize.
We have a thick, greenish paste that smells sharp enough to clear anyone’s sinuses. Ragzuk nods in satisfaction. “That should do. Let’s apply it now.”
He beckons me to follow him into an adjoining chamber, smaller and darker. A single cot rests against the wall, occupied by a young orc warrior with a bandaged leg propped on a rolled blanket. His skin is clammy, his breathing shallow, and pain etches deep furrows in his brow.
“This is Kratun,” Ragzuk says quietly. “He took a blade to the calf during a scouting mission. The wound was shallow, but something got into his bloodstream.”