Page 40 of Halfling
She startled, looking to the left to see one of the three slavers slump boneless to the ground, his head the wrong direction. The remaining two stared in horror, but Orek was on them again, dagger flashing.
A heavysmackaround her middle had her gasping, and she scrambled away from the rope. The slaver managed to drag her two steps closer, and he rushed her, throwing the rope around her again.
Sorcha slashed, catching his face. Blood splattered across her arm and cheek as the man cried in pain, stumbling back and letting the rope fall.
She bound out of it and kicked it away before brandishing the blade again.
“I’m not soft,” she growled, and spat in the man’s bleeding face.
The slaver glared, hand trying to stymie the blood that gushed from his ruined cheek. The blade had caught him deeper than she thought, cutting his cheek down to his lip, widening his mouth into a macabre sneer. He still had weapons sheathed at his belt, but he eyed her and then glanced to where the others still fought Orek.
Throwing another dark look her way, he grumbled, “Fuck this,” and turned to run back into the trees.
Sorcha watched him retreat in astonishment.
The sounds of battle drew her attention back to Orek, and she watched in amazement as he held off the remaining two slavers. They attacked him in tandem, filling the gaps the other left, but at every turn, Orek met them. It was nothing like the dueling her father had taught her, not even the dirtier defensive moves he’d specifically shown her to get out of scrapes. Nor was it like the graceful jousting and dueling on horseback she and her siblings had learned from their mother.
Orek’s fighting was brutal, vicious, and quick. A viper coiled, striking hard and without remorse.
It stirred something inside her. Her mind knew enough to be terrified of that kind of power; what hope could she have against it when three grown men hadn’t felled him. And yet…beneath the base horror in recognizing a predator when she saw it, she couldn’t help her awe. She’d never seen anyone so strong or so fast.
If all orcs fought like him, they’d devastate any force sent to meet them.
Under the barrage of Orek’s superior strength, the slavers began to tire. It was only the tiniest misstep, barely a stumble, but Orek took it. When the man to his right hesitated for just a moment, Orek’s hand darted to grab him by the tunic and used him to bludgeon the other.
The caught man groaned and slumped as the other fell back.
Orek roared, those lower fangs bared in a show of dominance that made Sorcha shudder and grip her dagger tighter.
The last slaver scrambled to his feet, kicking up leaves as he retreated into the trees.
The partner he’d left behind groaned again and clawed at the green fist holding his tunic. Sorcha shuddered again when Orek’s green fist slammed into the slaver’s face.
The man writhed and fought, but not for long. In a few moments, Orek beat upon nothing but a limp, bleeding body. Yet he didn’t stop, his fist coiling back and striking again, again, again.
“Orek…”
If he’d heard her, he didn’t let on, fist cracking against bone. The slaver’s nose broke, blood gushing down his face.
“Orek!” she cried, not daring to get closer as she began to shake. “Enough!”
Her voice cut through the clearing as loud as his fist, which stopped and trembled where he held it, back and ready to strike again.
His great shoulders heaved, muscles bunched and trembling. The wicked cut of his fangs stood stark with his gaping mouth, sucking in great gulps of air. His massive body shuddered as if coming awake, and a low, aching groan emanated from his wide chest.
Finally, he lifted his head, pupils blown wide when his gaze found her.
“Orek, you…”
A sudden burn across her cheeks muddled her thoughts. Dropping the dagger, she clapped her hands over her eyes, horrified at the fat tears streaking down her face. The salt burned her chapped lips, and her vision blurred. A sob wracked her chest, the attack, the threat, thehoodall bearing down on her now that it was over.
A tortured keen echoed through the trees, and she peeked between her damp fingers to see Orek falling to his knees before her.
“Don’t cry,” he entreated, holding his hands up in surrender. Big and bloody, they could engulf her whole head. Instead, they hovered in the air, trembling.
“Anything but…don’t cry,” he said again, his groan as resonant as if she’d gutted him.
Sorcha shook her head, and his eyes sank with despair.
