Page 10 of The Orc Chief's Baker
Most of the orcs were seated around the main bonfire for the midday meal. It was stoked high, because there was no threat of attack here. They’d carried in large logs for seating though a few relaxed on the moss and leaf covered ground instead. They chatted amicably, chewed messily, threw large branches over the blaze and let the embers dance upward and disappear against the bright blue sky.
Ogvick, the youngest male in their band, sniffed the air just as Brovdir got within earshot. His eyes snapped to the bag in Brovdir’s hand.
Brovdir knew this was a very dangerous game he was about to play, that it could backfire, but he had to take the risk. He’d thought through every course he could take, and this was truly the only option with any real chance of success. The Rove Wood orcs would stop him if he tried to go to the trade without theirpermission. They’d catch him using their keen sense of smell and magic if he tried to sneak over.
But they couldn’t stop fifty orc warriors all at once.
With that in mind, he unwrapped the cookies and let the full force of the delectable scent waft toward the orcs seated at the fire. They all turned in an instant.
Ogvick got to his feet first. “Brovdir, what is that?”
“Where did you get that?” Caivid was next to reach him. The bright green male was one of his closest friends and did not hide his confusion.
Brovdir swallowed hard, tensed. His throat felt like it was being stabbed by a thousand poison-soaked knives, but he worked out the words. “Woman. Oakwall Village.”
“From a woman? What is Oakwall?”
Brovdir hesitated only slightly before he waved his brethren to follow him, tying the bag of treats to his empty knife sheath as he went.
He led them to his brother, Warlord Karthoc, a male who was as powerful as his temper was fiery. Brovdir would be lucky if Karthoc didn’t string him up and lash him for this.
But it would be worth it to see the woman again.
The woods concealed the camp well. Rough leather tents blended with the foliage. Each structure was only large enough for an orc to sleep and crouch and was held up using branches they found on sight. The flaps were worn, and some even had holes where arrows had pierced or were stitched up from blades. Every one of them had seen battle or attack by soldiers. They were as tattered and tired as the orcs who lived in them.
As they passed, any orc who’d been relaxing within their tent came out to follow the crowd, curiosity pulling them from their privacy.
The clamoring of orcs as the word spread of this mysterious “Oakwall Village” surrounded Brovdir, and in an instant, nearly all fifty of the warriors who lived within these woods were in tow.
The tent that his brother owned was significantly larger than the rest, big enough to sleep ten grown warriors. As the warlord, it wasn’t outlandish for Karthoc to have a more comfortable dwelling, but this was the first time Brovdir had ever seen Karthoc actuallystayinside his own tent. Typically, his brother reserved the space as a healing house.
But no healing was needed here. Not a single warrior had gotten more than a stubbed toe since they’d arrived in these woods.
Upon hearing nearly his entire camp approaching, the warlord threw back the flap and exited into the fray.
Karthoc was a burly male, taller and larger than the rest of his clan, with just as many scars as the rest of them. His square jaw and cropped short hair made him seem ruthless and unrelenting but there were bags under his dark eyes. Despite being in the Rove Woods, Brovdir’s brother was more exhausted than he would be in the heat of battle.
Karthoc’s brows shot up as he saw his entire camp of warriors clamoring with questions.
“Fucking calm down.Calm down!” Karthoc threw up his hands and walked into the center of the circle of males before narrowing his gaze on Brovdir. “What is the meaning of this?”
Brovdir moved into the center of the circle as well and tapped his throat.
Karthoc scowled. “Your voice is still gone? How much did you speak today?”
The incredulous tone forced Brovdir to give his brother a flat, unamused look. Karthoc had been in a meeting with Chief Ergoth of Rove Wood Clan since before dawn. The discussion of his cousin Govek’s ascension to the role of chief wasnotgoingwell, and while Brovdir didn’t fault his brother for needing to default the leadership of the warriors onto his shoulders for the time being, itdidmean he was forced to talk more often than his damaged vocal cords could withstand.
Ogvick spoke up. “Warlord, he says he got this food from a village called Oakwall.”
“He smells of a woman!” another proclaimed. “One without the stench of her Rove Wood mate. You told us the only women here were mated to the males.”
Karthoc shot Brovdir a withering look that made him feel like a daisy baking in a roasting pit.
“You said the orcs here got their women from outside Rove! So, what did Brovdir mean when he said there was a village?”
“A village withwomenin it?”
“Men too, I’d guess.”
