Page 10 of Halfling
There was nothing in that corner.
The human was gone.
The moment she was alone again in the tent, Sorcha worked her still-bound arms and her freed legs, moving in slow circles and cracking her stiff ankles. Blood flowed back into her fingers and feet, making them tingle.
She stood up carefully, inch by inch, waiting for something to burst into the tent. Everything remained quiet, except for her overloud breathing that buzzed in her ears. She felt better with her feet under her, but her heart still raced like a bird beating to get out of its cage.
She crept to the front of the tent, wanting to at least see where she was. With her back to a corner post, Sorcha twisted until she could just see through the slit between the tent flaps.
Night had fallen but everything outside glowed a warm amber, probably from the bonfire she could smell but not see.
The idea of a bonfire and what these orcs might cook had her innards protesting, and she tried not to think on it.
She could see more tents lined up in what seemed to be concentric circles, all moving closer toward a center. A well-worn path snaked just outside her tent, curving in one direction closer to the center of the tents and in the other further back into the darkness. She liked that direction.
She was a moment from edging the flap back an inch with the toe of her boot so she could see more when voices drew close. Sorcha pushed back into the deep shadows and listened to what sounded like two orcs talking, friendly enough, in that guttural language they had. She thought one was the orc who’d come in and untied her legs.
Sorcha didn’t know what to make of that, or him, but it was soon clear that he was here to guard her when he moved back to the front of the tent after leaving whomever he’d been talking with. She heard him rummaging around in a pack, theclinkof ceramic and metal as items were shuffled around, a grunt as he wrangled with something.
It took him forever to pack whatever it was into his bag, so long she’d started turning for the back of the tent to see if it had an opening.
A hissing laugh froze her in place, the sound skittering across her skin. The voice that came next was no better, like a hiss and a wheeze that made her want to crawl out of her skin.
The orc she’d seen, the one guarding her, said something in return, and she realized it was a third orc who had laughed.
How many will I have to outrun?
The horrible voice said something else before a hand tipped in black claws grasped the tent flap.
The gag in her mouth kept the gasp in her throat. Sorcha pushed as far back into the corner as she could when a face peered into the tent.
This was the face she’d imagined from listening to stories about orcs. Small, deep-set eyes that glowed like a cat’s in the darkness. Two tusks jutted from the lower jaw and curved along the upper lip, which itself was long and bowed, almost like a fleshy beak. Hair scraped down to the scalp, showing off a long scar that curved around the skull behind the right ear. Small gold rings hanging off long, pointed ears and what looked like an eyetooth pierced through the lobe.
Thiswas an orc, the creature people whispered and warned about in stories told at night, around a fire, that seemed too horrible to be true.
No one knew where orcs came from, really—they’d come ashore in the northern highlands many centuries ago, washed up in battered longships. They’d roved the countryside like wolves, slaughtering and consuming everything they came across, until finally the kingdoms of Eirea, Pyrros to the south, and Caledon to the northeast rallied a great army to push them into the rocky, mountainous lands to the west. There they’d stayed, for the most part, an ominous threat that every now and then came down from the craggy hills to prove once more what a danger orcs could be.
But if this was an orc, with its broad face and tusks and overlapping lips, what then was the creature who’d untied her legs? That one looked almost human compared to this creature.
A cold, clammy wave of sick hit her in the stomach as she watched the orc flare its nostrils and take a long, loud draw of air. Smelling something.
Her.
Sorcha’s throat worked to keep the sick in her stomach, and she bit the gag to keep the scream down, too.
Finally, the face disappeared back outside, but she didn’t dare breathe.
The orcs talked more, and though she couldn’t tell what was said, it sounded tense to her, not the friendly tones of the previous orc her guard had chatted with.
There was a long pause before a shadow fell over the tent opening and another loud sniff had her cringing. The horrible voice said something else and then it was quiet, blessedly quiet.
Her heart raced as she realized it was just the guard who’d untied her outside now, but she used the training her knightly father had given her to stay calm, to wait.
She kept to the shadows as he stood outside, waiting to see what he’d do. It felt like a small eternity before he picked up his pack and eased into the tent.
He didn’t seem to notice her in the corner, and she made no noise to alert him. Instead, he knotted two cords on either tent flap together, closing them in. The sick feeling threatened to rise up her gorge again. They were as alone as they could be in a camp like this, hidden away in the dark.
She could hear and feel her heartbeat as she stood stock still in the corner, watching as he moved further into the tent where she’d been sitting amongst the crates. Whatever he carried was merely a dark bulge against darker shadows, but she could tell it was full to bursting.
