Page 3 of Halfling
He was given one night for his grief and despair.
When morning came, and he learned what had happened, Orek could only worry about himself.
Orla had been right.
That night, Krul challenged his father for leadership. And won.
1
Twenty Years Later
The drizzling mist clung to Orek’s cloak and shoulders, beginning to steam as he neared the orc camp. He bounced the boar carcass higher on his shoulders, cringing as a warm trickle of congealing blood ran down his neck into his collar, and began up the steep, rocky hillside.
He’d tracked the beast for two days, and it had put up an admirable fight—he’d the gore to the side to prove it. The wound pinched and pulled as he walked, and with every long step uphill, the longing for his tent and a hot cauldron of water tugged harder at his gut. He’d wait long enough by the fire to give over his kill, hope for a quick comment on how big the beast was, and then he was bound for his bed. He almost groaned thinking about it.
Then someone did groan, and he almost tripped.
It was off to the left and had his ear perking up, but he didn’t stop. Merk must be guarding tonight, and the groan could only mean he was asleep or tugging on his cock rather than watching the path.
Orek huffed in irritation. It was only a matter of time before something much worse than him slipped past Merk into the Stone-Skin camp. The clan chief’s fearsome reputation would only keep invaders out so long, especially with Krul growing older in years.
Bright firelight lit the top of the hill, silhouetting the boulders lining the entrance into camp like the maw of some great stone beast. Orek passed through the outer ring and wove through more stone circles, finally catching the path into the camp proper.
The tall steeples of the chief’s tents across camp were burnished a warm amber in the firelight, and a wave of warmth hit Orek as he passed into the first circle of tents. The pop and sizzle of meat over the great fire reached him even though he couldn’t see it through the warren of tents; it made his stomach gurgle in anticipation, and he picked up his pace.
A wave of noise hit him next, the camp emanating a happy rumble as orc-kin gathered for the evening meal. He’d always enjoyed this time of day, watching all the kin gather round over their meal, chatting like birds about their days. Females came with the younglings, and sometimes songs were sung, silly shanties and tragic ballads. Orek was never included, never drawn into the circles of gossip or singing, but he liked to watch as he quietly ate what he could scavenge. But he was always sure to leave early, before the males were too deep into their cups.
The boar he carried grew a little lighter as he strode the path through camp, proud of what he’d contributed to the clan. Much as they reviled him, called himruntand spat at him, they couldn’t say he didn’t contribute.
After his father lost Krul’s challenge, he’d spent the rest of his days in pain and bitterness. The shame of surrendering nipped Ulrek’s heels for his final miserable years, making his mood sour and his fists frequent. But he’d kept Orek near, needing the help of someone spry and quick. Orek had spent his youth serving his father and the group of friends and allies Ulrek still had. The group of wizened, bitter males had mocked him, but they still taught him what they knew of fighting and hunting, even if they sometimes didn’t know it.
Orek learned everything he could, trained every spare second—he had to in a clan where small meant vulnerable.
If his father had done him any one kindness, it was waiting to die until Orek was nearly full grown and able to defend himself against Kaldar and the other youths. Now, Orek was the swiftest runner, the quickest fighter, and the best hunter in the clan. Whether or not anyone acknowledged it.
It was his fourth big kill just this moon. For many nights, the clan had feasted on what he’d provided, and that kept Orek warm at night when the communal fire didn’t.
He’d spent the last twenty years making the best of it, proving himself to them—for what else could he do? What else was out there for a halfling like him?
A growl stirred in his chest, and Orek’s gaze snapped up.
Ahead, a familiar sneer leaned around one of the supply tents, and Orek’s spine straightened, drawing him to full height.
Not that it mattered much, he still only came to Kaldar’s chin.
“Here’s the runt,” Kaldar crowed. “He can guard the tent—even he can manage that.”
As he approached, Orek saw a handful of orcs gathered round the entrance to the supply tent. At the center stood Talon, one of Krul’s top enforcers, with a gleeful smile curling around his tusks. Meaty hands on his hips, Talon watched with greedy eyes as two warriors finished placing large jugs and crates in the tent.
He glanced up at Kaldar’s words, barely considering Orek. “Yes, fine, have the runt stand guard. I have to see to preparations. Everything must be perfect.”
“I’ve got to get this to the fire,” Orek said as neutrally as he could, trying to keep the frown from his face.
Why would they need someone to guard the supply tent deep within the camp?
“I’ll take that.” Kaldar reached over Orek’s head, plucked the boar off his back, and threw it over one of his own shoulders. He grinned wide at Orek. “I’m sure everyone will be pleased with it.”
That growl clawed up his throat, but Orek bit it back. His inner beast, the one revered by all orcs for its aggression and berserker strength, gnashed against his kill being stolen by the handsome, smug full-kin. Orek’s inner beast wasn’t overly loud or forward, so feeling it rumble so violently in his chest almost unnerved him. He assumed, being only half-kin, it wasn’t as strong as others’—that, or it was smarter, knowing it was stupidity to pick fights he couldn’t win.
