Page 8 of Agor the Merciless (Orc Mates #10)

“Borz the Krag-Tender.” His voice rumbled pleasantly. “I’ve been with them since I was small.”

The krag pushed against the fence, wanting attention. Zoe looked to Borz for permission.

“This is Glinda,” he said. “She’s curious about you. Let her smell your hand first.”

Zoe extended her palm cautiously. The krag’s breath was warm and moist against her skin, its nostrils velvety soft despite its fearsome appearance.

“She likes you,” Borz observed as the beast pushed its massive head against Zoe’s hand, demanding scratches. “They know good hearts.”

Zoe stroked the coarse mane, the beast leaning into her touch.

“What are they exactly? They look part horse, part cow, maybe part lion?”

Borz’s laugh was deep and genuine.

“They are krags. Nothing more, nothing less. In our world, they roamed the plains in great herds. Here, they stay close to us. They miss the open spaces of home, I think.”

“Do you?” Zoe asked quietly. “Miss home?”

He considered this, continuing to brush Glinda’s flank in long, gentle strokes.

“The smells. The big sky. The familiar stars.” He shrugged. “But home is where the horde is. Where the krags are safe.”

Glinda butted her head against Borz’s chest, nearly knocking him off balance. He rubbed her ears affectionately.

“She had a calf last spring,” he said proudly. “Strong like her mother.”

“You really love them, don’t you?”

“They carry our burdens. Give milk for our children. Die in battle beside us.” He met Zoe’s eyes directly. “We owe them respect.”

Zoe nodded. The relationship was like her own with the cars she fixed: a partnership built on care and respect, not just use.

Borz returned to his tasks, and Zoe felt like she was the third wheel again.

The orcs were nice and polite, but not big fans of chit-chat, it seemed.

They all had a purpose, and they seemed absorbed by it.

Maybe they felt a little uneasy in her presence, too, seeing how she’d just appeared out of nowhere in their midst, and they were expected to make her feel welcome.

She gave Glinda another smile, then silently removed herself.

She went back to the clearing and took a few minutes to observe how the horde moved around her with a shared purpose, each member focused on their task yet somehow connected to the whole.

Zoe had spent her life being told her strength was unladylike, her knowledge intimidating, her passion for physical work unnatural.

Yet here, in this strange new world, each orc valued precisely what they could contribute.

Hestra brought food to the table. Roric’s craftsmanship protected them all.

Pira’s knowledge of plants healed and nourished.

Zana’s leatherwork clothed and sheltered.

Borz’s connection with the krags provided transportation and sustenance.

Everyone had a meaning that the others respected. Everyone belonged.

She stared down at her hands. Agor had told her she never needed to lift a finger.

He would provide everything. But standing there, watching the horde work together with pride, she realized she couldn’t just sit in the cave and wait for his return.

She needed to contribute, and not just as Agor’s bride, but as Zoe.

She sighed, then something new caught her attention.

A distant, erratic clanging that mingled with a grinding noise she’d recognize anywhere: an engine fighting to turn over.

Her heart jumped in her chest, and she looked around, trying to see where the noises were coming from.

Somewhere at the edge of the camp. She followed a narrow path through the trees until the foliage opened to reveal a large structure unlike anything else in the settlement.

Where the other workstations were simple and primitive, this was a chaotic marvel of improvisation.

An enormous open-sided shed sprawled before her, cobbled together from mismatched materials.

Corrugated metal sheets formed most of the roof, supported by salvaged timber beams. The walls were a patchwork of scavenged wood planks, sheets of rusted metal, and what looked like pieces of highway guardrail.

The whole thing should have collapsed years ago, but somehow it stood, defiant and functional.

Inside, organized chaos reigned. Piles of scrap metal reached toward the ceiling.

Stacks of tires in various states of wear lined one wall.

Engine parts – carburetors, radiators, alternators, and things Zoe couldn’t even identify at a glance – covered every available surface.

Workbenches fashioned from old doors and metal panels held tools that ranged from primitive hammers to socket wrenches and power drills.

The air smelled of grease, gasoline, and hot metal.

At the center of this mechanical sanctuary sat the strangest vehicle Zoe had ever seen.

Its massive frame stood taller than a pickup truck, with oversized tires that could easily navigate the forest terrain.

The body looked like someone had fused parts of three different vehicles together, reinforced with metal plates and welded seams. The engine, exposed and enormous, dominated the front, connected to a custom drivetrain that defied conventional automotive design.

An older orc knelt beside the frame, welding torch in hand, blue-white flame dancing across metal as sparks showered around him. His face was hidden behind a crude mask fashioned from what might have once been a motorcycle helmet with the visor replaced by darkened glass.

Nearby, a younger orc – barely more than a teenager, Zoe thought – hunched over the engine block, arms buried elbow-deep in its mechanical guts. His tusks were smaller and his frame less imposing than the adult’s.

“Come on, you stubborn pile of scrap,” he muttered. “Spark for me.”

The older orc lifted his welding mask, revealing a face creased with age and spotted with oil. “The timing’s off again. Told you to check the distributor.”

“I did check it!” The younger one twisted something. “Third time today.”

“Then check it a fourth time. That’s how…”

“…things get fixed,” they finished in unison.

Zoe stood frozen, forgetting herself completely. She took it all in: the smell of hot engine oil and metal filings, the sight of grease-stained hands working, the sound of metal parts clicking into place.

Home.

She took a step forward, drawn by the younger orc’s struggle with the engine. His approach was all wrong; the issue wasn’t the distributor cap, it was the camshaft position.

The orc glanced up, noticing her at last. His eyes widened.

“Hello.” Zoe stepped fully into the workshop. “I’m Zoe.”

The older orc straightened, setting down his welding torch. He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her makeshift outfit.

“Captain’s new woman,” he grunted, turning back to the vehicle.

Now Zoe was certain they were father and son. They looked so much alike.

The young orc kept staring at her until his father elbowed him. He snapped back to attention, grabbing a wrench and tightening something under the hood.

“Try it now,” his father ordered.

The young one scrambled into the driver’s seat – a space built for a creature twice human size. He turned the key. The engine coughed, sputtered, tried to catch… then a backfire echoed through the workshop, followed by ominous silence.

“Cursed human metal!” The older orc slammed his palm against the vehicle’s frame. “Weak. Unreliable.”

Zoe’s attention was on the engine. The sound was a diagnosis to her: the hesitation between cylinders, the uneven firing sequence, the distinctive knock before the backfire. A timing issue.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Her father’s voice echoed in her head.

“Let the men handle it, Zoe. Nobody wants your opinion.”

Mark’s patronizing smile.

“Cars aren’t really a woman’s thing, babe.”

But this wasn’t her father’s garage. This wasn’t Mark’s world. The rules were different here.

“Your timing is off,” she said.

Both orcs turned to stare at her. The older one snorted.

“I am Grol. This is my son, Tarn. The timing is fine.” He pointed to a spot near the carburetor. “The fuel line is clogged. Human vehicles are primitive, but the principles are simple.”

Zoe bit the inside of her cheek. She realized this was Pira’s husband. Also, he was wrong.

“How can you tell?” Tarn asked, leaning over the engine again. “About the timing?”

At least Pira’s son was willing to listen to her. Zoe moved closer, pointing to the engine.

“It’s the sound. When an engine misfires like that, it’s usually timing. The spark is firing either too early or too late relative to the piston position. In this case, too late. The fuel isn’t igniting at the right moment, so it builds up in the cylinder, then ignites when it shouldn’t.”

Grol crossed his massive arms over his chest. His tattoos identified him as a grunt.

“You know engines?” His tone remained skeptical, but something in his eyes shifted.

“I was a mechanic. Before.” Zoe couldn’t keep the pride from her voice. “In my father’s garage.”

“A female mechanic?” Tarn’s eyes widened, earning him another elbow from his father.

“Humans have strange ways,” Grol muttered. He studied Zoe for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he reached behind him to a cluttered workbench and grabbed a socket wrench. Without warning, he thrust the tool toward her.

“Show us, then.”