Page 7 of Agor the Merciless (Orc Mates #10)

The orcs scattered across the clearing, returning to their duties after Agor’s introduction. Sunlight spilled between the trees, warming Zoe’s skin through the borrowed shirt. The morning air carried unfamiliar scents – pine, wood smoke, and the earthy musk of the krags.

Agor’s massive hand squeezed her shoulder to get her attention.

“Captain’s duties wait for no one. Rest. Eat. I will return before sunset.”

“But what should I…”

“The horde serves you now. Whatever you need, ask.”

He turned and strode away, his braid swinging between his shoulder blades. Orcs parted before him.

Zoe wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly feeling exposed. Her makeshift dress hung awkwardly on her frame. The orcs cast curious glances her way before returning to their tasks. Some muttered to each other, others pretended not to stare.

Rest? Eat? Just sit in the cave and wait?

Memories of the garage surfaced. She had never been good at stillness.

Even as a child, she’d dismantled toys to see how they worked and then rebuild them better.

Zoe squared her shoulders. If this was her new home, she needed to understand it.

Needed to understand them. She set out to explore the place.

An orc female knelt nearby, a pile of unfinished arrows beside her. Her hands worked in a blur, sharpening, testing, placing each finished arrowhead in a leather quiver. Dark tattoos circled her neck, marking her as a grunt. Zoe approached her.

“Mind if I watch for a minute? I’m Zoe, by the way.”

The female looked up, her movements slowing but not stopping. Sharp eyes met Zoe’s, filled with curiosity rather than hostility.

“Hestra the Huntress.” She tested an arrowhead against her thumb, drawing a small bead of blood to check its edge.

“Those look wickedly sharp.” Zoe crouched beside her. “How many do you make in a day?”

Hestra’s expression shifted, surprised by the question.

“Three dozen, when the hunting is good.” She handed one to Zoe, handle first. “The balance matters more than the sharpness. A true arrow flies straight, finds its mark.”

Zoe turned the arrow, feeling its weight.

“My dad used to say the same about socket wrenches.”

Hestra’s brow furrowed. “Socket... wrenches?”

“Tools. For fixing things. I’m… I was a mechanic.” Zoe handed the arrow back. “Like you’re a huntress.”

Hestra the Huntress nodded in understanding.

“You made things work again.” She selected another arrowhead. “The captain chose well. Usefulness is a virtue.”

A shower of sparks erupted from the far side of the clearing, followed by the rhythmic ring of hammer on metal. Zoe rose, drawn toward the sound.

“That would be Roric the Smith,” Hestra offered, not looking up from her work. “His forge never cools.”

“Thanks. Maybe I’ll go introduce myself.”

Hestra merely nodded, already absorbed by her arrows.

Zoe followed the sound and heat across the clearing to a covered workspace protecting a glowing forge.

Orange flames roared like a living creature under a stone chimney that channeled smoke upward.

A male orc with shoulders like small mountains hammered at a glowing piece of metal.

Sweat carved paths through the soot on his green skin.

Zoe paused at a respectful distance. The orc plunged the red-hot blade into a water barrel, and there was a satisfying hiss.

“That sound never gets old, does it?” she called over the fading steam, trying to strike some sort of conversation. She felt like she was trying too hard, but how else was she going to meet Agor’s orcs and eventually fit in?

The smith turned, surprise on his face. Tiny burn scars peppered his forearms and chest like a constellation. He set his hammer down and wiped his hands on a leather apron.

“The captain’s bride.” He gave a nod that might have been a bow.

Zoe stepped closer to examine the blade cooling in the water.

“Beautiful work. The balance looks perfect.”

Roric’s eyes widened. “You know metalwork?”

“Cars. Engines.” She shrugged. “Different application, same principles. Metal that’s too brittle shatters. Too soft, it bends.”

Roric grunted, reassessing her with new interest.

“This one’s a field knife for Hestra. Small game, skinning.” He reached behind him and lifted a massive sword. “But this… this is my pride. The captain’s war blade.”

The sword caught the forge-light, dancing with orange reflections. Runes she couldn’t read ran along the fuller.

“May I?” she asked, extending her hands.

Roric hesitated, then carefully placed the weapon across her palms. It was heavier than she expected.

“It’s magnificent.” She returned it with the reverence it deserved. “What do the markings mean?”

A smile crossed his face. “Protection. Strength. Old words from our home world.”

He turned back to his forge with renewed energy, as if her appreciation had stoked his fire. The heat from the forge was intense. Zoe stepped back, wiping sweat from her forehead.

As she moved away, a sweet, herbal scent drifted toward her. Past the forge, in a sunny patch near the edge of the trees, splashes of color stood out against the browns and greens of the camp. She followed her nose.

A female orc sat surrounded by plants of every description: flowers, roots, herbs, and fungi sorted into wooden bowls. Her fingers moved deftly, weaving some into small bundles for drying, while others were being ground with a stone mortar and pestle.

“That smells amazing.” Zoe inhaled deeply. “Like mint, but... spicier?”

The female looked up with a delighted grin, tusks gleaming in the sunlight.

“The captain’s bride notices! Yes, yes! Mountain mint. Good for stomach pains and…” she winked dramatically, “…for making the breath sweet for kissing.”

Zoe laughed. “I’m Zoe.”

“Pira the Forager!” She patted the ground enthusiastically. “Sit, sit! I’ll show you which plants to eat, which to brew, which to avoid unless you want your insides to become your outsides!”

Zoe sat cross-legged beside her, drawn in by the orc’s infectious cheerfulness.

“This root…” Pira held up a gnarled, brown thing, “looks like poison but makes the best stew. Bitter first, then sweet like honey.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I heard you last night. The captain kept you busy, yes?”

Heat flooded Zoe’s face.

“No shame!” Pira clapped her on the shoulder hard enough to rattle her teeth. “A good match makes good noise! My Grol… the loudest in the horde!”

“Grol? Your mate?”

“My husband, you’d say. The master builder. Big hands, bigger heart.” Pira sorted through her plants, pushing a small bundle of dried leaves toward Zoe. “For you. Tea. Helps with the soreness after... vigorous nights.”

Zoe accepted the gift, mortified but grateful. “Thank you.”

“The captain has waited long for a mate strong enough. The others broke too easily.” Pira nodded sagely. “But you… you have fire inside. Like him.”

The acceptance in Pira’s words was lovely, but Zoe was now red to the tips of her ears.

Pira prattled on, not noticing Zoe was kind of looking for an escape.

It had nothing to do with the old female orc, but with how embarrassed Zoe felt that after less than twenty-four hours, all the orcs seemed to know how she sounded when she liked what was being done to her.

The sound of rhythmic scraping drew her attention to the opposite side of the clearing, thankfully.

Something new to explore. She thanked Pira for the tea and crossed through the center of the camp, where several orcs were constructing a new shelter.

Just beyond them, a strong smell of tanning solutions filled the air.

Large wooden frames stood in rows, each supporting stretched animal hides in various stages of preparation.

A female orc worked on the nearest frame, her muscled arms scraping the underside of a hide with a curved blade.

“That looks like hard work,” Zoe observed, stopping a few feet away.

The female didn’t pause. “All work worth doing is hard.”

“I’m Zoe.”

“Zana the Tanner.” The scraper moved in long, powerful strokes. “The hides won’t clean themselves.”

Zana didn’t seem like a talker. Zoe felt like she was interrupting her, but she didn’t want to give up yet. She realized she wanted all the orcs under Agor’s command to like her.

“I’ve never seen leather made from scratch before.”

“Watched my mother. She watched hers.” Zana finally looked up, her eyes assessing. “Your hands. They’re worker’s hands.”

Zoe glanced down at her calloused palms, the half-moon scar on her thumb from a slipped wrench.

“Mechanic. I used to fix broken engines in a previous life.”

The female orc nodded as if this made perfect sense.

“We need both makers and fixers.” She gestured to a frame holding a particularly large hide. “Bear. For the captain’s winter cloak. For you too, now.”

“Beautiful work,” Zoe said.

“No. Not beautiful.” Zana corrected without heat. “Useful. Strong. Will last years.” She returned to her scraping, but her posture had softened slightly. “Come back tomorrow. I’ll show you how, if you want.”

The invitation was unexpected.

“I’d like that.”

Zoe walked past the tanning area, following a well-worn path that led toward the sound of animals. The smell changed from the sharp chemical scent of tanning solutions to the earthy, musky odor of large beasts. The path opened into a wide area where sturdy wooden fences contained the krags.

The beasts were massive, with muscular bodies covered in short fur, with lion-like manes and oversized paws ending in dulled claws. One made a sound between a moo and a growl as a broad-shouldered male brushed its flank with a huge brush.

Zoe approached the fence.

“They’re magnificent.”

The male turned, revealing a gentler face than the others, with a broken tusk and eyes that crinkled at the corners.

“They know when they’re admired.”

As if to prove his point, the nearest krag stretched its neck toward Zoe, nostrils flaring to catch her scent.

“I’m Zoe.”