Page 20 of The War God's Woman

At that, several orcs within earshot shift uncomfortably. One of the older warriors snorts, leaning forward with an audible creak of his leather armor. “Why let a human watch our combat drills?” he rumbles, tusks protruding. “She could be feeding information to other humans.”

His name is Vargul, a staunch traditionalist who believes all humans are weak and cunning in the worst ways. I meet his gaze without flinching. “If we’re forging an alliance, there should be no secrets,” I say evenly. “If you trust me, you trust my judgment in inviting her.”

Vargul grunts, scowling at his plate. Lirienne’s posture goes rigid, but she says nothing, merely taking a small bite of bread as if it might steady her nerves.

Trying to defuse the tension, I turn to her. “Orc training can be… intense. I want you to see it firsthand, so you understand what it means to survive in this clan.”

She nods, swallowing carefully. “I appreciate the chance.”

A young orc child, no more than eight summers old, sidles up to the table, eyes wide and curious. She clutches a worn wooden spoon in her hand, evidently too shy to speak. Her gaze flicks between me and Lirienne.

Lirienne notices. Smiling softly, she greets the girl, “Hello.”

The girl’s cheeks darken, a flush that, on orc skin, takes on a faintly mottled hue. “H-hello,” she stammers, then darts away.

An amused murmur ripples among a few of the onlookers. Children are often less encumbered by prejudice, and seeing that small interaction, I can’t help feeling a flicker of hope. Maybe in time, the clan could view Lirienne without suspicion.

But the hush that follows reminds me we’re not there yet. The clan is deeply divided, and it will take more than a few cordial exchanges to mend centuries of distrust.

After breakfast, I lead Lirienne to the open-air training grounds adjacent to the fortress’s east wall. A tall wooden palisade encircles a wide, packed dirt arena, where orcs practice in rotating drills throughout the day. Dark scuff marks on the earth bear testament to countless hours of sparring, and a rack of dull practice weapons stands at the arena’s edge.

A dozen orc warriors—mostly younger, newly blooded fighters—are already there, brandishing wooden axes or padded spear staves in short, brutal arcs. Now and again, a barked correction from an older instructor rings out, punctuated by the dull thud of weapon against shield.

As soon as Lirienne and I step into view, the activity pauses. Orc gazes land on us with an almost physical weight. A few warriors scowl, but most simply stare with cautious curiosity.

I clear my throat. “Continue,” I order. “We’re here to observe.”

Slowly, the drills resume. Lirienne drifts toward the perimeter, and I walk beside her. She watches closely as pairs oforcs circle each other, testing footwork. “They look so… precise,” she whispers. “I’ve seen brawls in my village, but this is different. It’s disciplined.”

Pride flickers in my chest. “We train from the time we can lift a blade, so that discipline becomes second nature. Without it, orcish ferocity can devolve into chaos.”

We stop near the weapons rack. Lirienne’s gaze flicks over the battered training axes, the broad-bladed spears, the shields bearing chipped paint. She reaches out, almost hesitantly, to run her fingertips along the haft of a wooden axe. A moment later, she draws her hand back as if uncertain.

“I’ve never wielded something like this,” she admits.

“Would you like to try?” I ask, the idea forming before I can think better of it.

She blinks, surprise and a hint of apprehension crossing her features. Around us, I sense the attention of the younger warriors intensifying. They pause in their drills, openly watching now.

“I—I’m not sure I’d be any good,” she says softly, glancing at the watchers. “Besides, I came here to observe, not to disrupt.”

My mouth curves into a faint half-smile. “Observing is one thing. Understanding is another.” Then, louder, so the onlookers can hear, I add, “Bring me a practice axe.”

One of the instructors, a lean orc with braided black hair, hastens to comply. He hands me a wooden axe weighted to mimic the heft of steel. I test its balance, satisfied, then offer it to Lirienne.

She hesitates, glancing around at the scowls and whispers. But when she meets my gaze, she takes a breath—steadying herself—and accepts the axe. I recognize the flicker of determination in her eyes. She might be wary, but she won’t back down from the challenge.

“Hold it like this,” I instruct, stepping behind her and guiding her grip. “Keep your elbows slightly bent.”

Her posture is stiff, tension thrumming through her small frame. The handle, even in its practice form, likely feels heavy to someone unaccustomed to orcish weapons. She tries to adjust her stance as I direct.

A muted ripple of chuckles rises from a few of the younger warriors. One mutters, “She’s going to drop it on her foot.”

Lirienne’s cheeks color. I shoot the warrior a warning look, and he clamps his mouth shut. Then I turn back to her. “Ignore them. Focus on the feel of the weapon.”

She exhales and tries a tentative swing. It is clumsy—unbalanced. The blade of the wooden axe wobbles. A fresh wave of snickers arises. Lirienne winces but braces her stance.

“Again,” I say.

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