Page 4 of Halfling
He was tired and wounded—and Kaldar knew it.
The insufferable male grinned when Orek, after a tense moment of glowering at Kaldar, let the insult pass with a huff.
Chuckling to himself, Kaldar walked off with the kill. Orek clenched his teeth so tightly he thought they might crack as he glared after Kaldar. They both knew the only acknowledgement Orek got came when he brought in food, and now all would assume it was Kaldar who’d killed the boar, Kaldar who’d been gored in the hunt, Kaldar who provided best for the clan. Kaldar, the chief’s nephew, who they already loved and respected. Kaldar, who all the orcesses fawned over. Kaldar, who didn’t need this like Orek did.
A sharp slap to his arm had Orek remembering Talon. He swallowed hard, having forgotten the first rule of survival—never take your eyes off the threat.
Talon’s smile was gone now as he frowned down at Orek, his black eyes narrowed.
He pointed to the tent opening. “Don’t let anyone in. And don’t you dare go inside. Everything’s a gift for Krul and must be untouched, just as he likes.”
Orek frowned in confusion but Talon waved the others away before pointing a big finger right at Orek’s nose.
“You fuck this up, runt, and I’ll skin you alive,” he growled before hurrying off to the fire.
The beast snarled at yet another insult, but Orek did his best to swallow it. The tents around him grew quiet as the clan gathered to eat, and he was left completely alone; no one worried that the runt wouldn’t follow orders.
Orek glared at the tent over his shoulder as he took off his pack. What gifts could be so important that they needed guarding? Nobody was stupid enough to steal from Krul. Sure, many kin skimmed from the supply tent—warriors made off with wine, took extra weapons, and others pinched more spices and herbs or furs than they needed. But a gift for Krul? Never.
He pulled out an already filthy rag from his pack and began to mop up the boar blood from his neck and shoulders as best he could. That hot water was becoming a distant dream, and he suspected even a full belly tonight after Talon’s big surprise was unlikely. Gifts meant celebration which meant the clan getting drunk, and Orek hadn’t been stupid enough to stay around for that in years.
His side and shoulders ached from the hunt, and he tried rolling his neck to loosen his muscles. Stiffness meant being slower, and slower meant danger.
When exactly was Talon coming back for the gifts? And why did he need someone to guard a bunch of jugs and crates?
Talon was an aging orc, a vulnerable position in Krul Stone-Skin’s clan. For years he’d been one of the biggest, most vicious fighters, but lately, gray had begun to sprout at the temples of his mane and his waist had grown fleshy and wide. One of the smiths had been quietly gossiping for moons about how he’d had to adjust Talon’s belts and bracers to fit.
Orek supposed this was a move to stay in Krul’s favor. Never a place Orek had been. But Krul was a clever, shrewd orc who’d stayed clan chief much longer than any other kin in living memory. Would he really be won over with wine and furs?
He couldn’t help a snort of derision as he wrung out the sweat and blood from the rag.It better be a good gift.
The noise in the camp grew from a contented hum to excited sounds and cheers. Kaldar must have shown up with the boar. Orek sneered, imagining all the females and elders cooing over what a good hunter Kaldar was, how big his kill was, how strong he was, how…
Orek rubbed at his filthy skin harder, jealousy burning hot and ugly inside him.
It’s the halfling’s lot. Get used to it.
A noise stopped him. He almost scoffed again to think it was Merk and his wayward hand but no, it’d been…different.
He held his breath and perked his ears. There it was again, a little grumble and the scrape of shuffling feet.
He peered around to the back of the tent. Was someone already inside, stealing Talon’s gifts?Fuck!
Orek slapped the tent flap and charged inside, ready to oust the thief. Not that he gave one bullshit about Talon’s gifts, but he did value his own hide.
It was dark inside the tent, the thief had wisely not brought a lantern, and Orek couldn’t see anything moving around. He stepped further into the tent, around the first line of jugs and barrels, then past a stack of crates, keeping his steps light and breath silent.
Nothing moved or made a sound—but then, barely there at all, a small exhale.
His eyes swung to the far side of the tent, up against the thick canvas siding. Curled up and hidden amongst the crates was a small figure.
An orcling?
He opened his mouth to scold the youngling, but then it moved again, drawing him closer.
Gloom enveloped the tent and he couldn’t see as well as full-kin in the dark, but the shape became clearer the closer he came. It was too big to be an orcling, at least a very young one, but also too small for a warrior or even an orcess. Delicate hands and booted feet had been tied together, a cloth gag tied around the mouth and head.
The figure moved again. Meager light caught in defiant eyes, and for a moment, one horrible moment, Orek thought it was his mother.
