Page 22 of Halfling
He lifted a large fern frond out of his way, careful not to bend or damage any of the leaves, and held it aloft for Sorcha.
She hesitated, a line between her brows. After a moment, she fixed her gaze ahead of her and walked determinedly under the frond and his arm.
Orek let her lead the way, though being able to see her did nothing to ease his churning guts.
His lips fell open, ready to say…something. It took a while to come to him, but when he found the words, he pushed them out.
“I meant no offense.”
Sorcha stopped and turned to him, blinking in surprise. She didn’t seem angry or upset, for which he was grateful, but his guts continued knotting as he waited for her to say…something.
It wasn’t that Orek disliked her talking—truly, he actually…enjoyed the sound of her voice. There was a lyrical note to it, and she often made amusing quips and talked to herself when he doubted she realized. He’d always enjoyed the peace and noises of the forest, but he didn’t mind her sounds. Not at all.
It was that she asked questions and expected answers from him. He wasn’t…used to it.
“All right…” she said slowly, brows arched in a way he’d quickly come to realize was expectant.
He cleared his throat. “I’m not…used to talking.” His ears burned at the truth, at the admission, and at the coarseness of it. Orek’s voice served him little purpose; no one wanted him to elaborate or explain. No one cared what he had to say. Orders were given and threats were made. Perhaps a bit of friendly chatter with Fulk and a handful of others. But that was it.
A horrible, sucking feeling consumed him to think she perhaps understood all this from what he said—and what he didn’t.
She nodded slowly. “I don’t mean to pester you. I’m just trying to…I suppose it makes me feel better to know something about the strange male I’m following blindly through the forest.”
That affront he’d felt before, a white-hot coal of shame and frustration, sparked in his chest. He ground his back teeth, his jaw popping, but he took a breath, let some of the irritation leave him with a hot huff through his nostrils.
“It is a risk you take, trusting me,” he conceded. “I know this.”
“Thank you. I’ll leave you alone, if it makes you uncomfortable.”
Orek stopped himself from shifting uncomfortably through sheer will.
“No, I…I understand. I will answer as best I can.”
She smiled, dazzling him. A dimple appeared in her left cheek, and the freckles seemed to dance across her skin.
She’s pleased. I’ve pleased her.
Satisfaction, warm and syrupy, flowed through his veins.
He could do this, wanted to do this. For her. He could bear speaking a little more, especially if the boon was hearing her speak, too.
“So,” she said, “how long have you been a hunter for your clan?”
They passed that day and the next like that, wiling away theirjourney with questions. Well, she did, and he endeavored toindulge her. Sorcha didn’t miss how he now attempted to answer her questions with more than a grunt or a yes or no. He attempted to give her more syllables, and she appreciated the effort.
As they trekked through the forest and made camp again for the night, she asked him about the forest and his favorite places in it. She learned there was a lake to the south she’d never heard of before, one that went on and on like a sea. She’d asked if it wasn’t indeed the ocean, having heard of the southern seas some of the human maps guessed at. He told her the water was fresh and sweet, and the same fish that swam in the rivers also swam in the lake.
He was more reticent to speak of his clan, his answers shorter and gruffer. She tried not to push or pry at him too roughly, but her curiosity often got the better of her. He spoke a little more freely of general orcish history, told her the story of how the ancestors came in their longboats from the northern seas many centuries ago.
“They say the gales ripped through the masts and cracked them in half, but the ancestors kept their keels and sailed onward for the new lands,” he told her over their fire in that pleasant, rumbling voice of his. She forgot to keep spooning stew into her mouth, so enraptured was she as he spun her a tale, stringing more words together than he ever had.
For all his quietness, when telling a story, Orek came alive. His hands flicked and waved like the tossing sea, his voice ebbing and crashing like the storms that battered the first orcs to the continent. Eyes glittering gold in the firelight, he never once looked down or away from her as he recounted what had to be a well-known and well-loved story.
She devoured it as surely as her stew, and she couldn’t help grinning at how he blushed when his story ended and he realized how long he’d been speaking.
He cleared his throat and looked into his bowl, still half-full of his own meal. He brought it to his mouth to slurp from the bowl, as she used his only spoon.
“They say great battles were fought after the landing,” Sorcha said. “There are still tapestries adorning the palace depicting it.”
