Page 35 of Faeling (Monstrous World #4)

Confusion choked the camp, and wide, fearful eyes flashed in the firelight.

Scuffles broke out across the camp, those warriors who could fighting back with bare fists.

It was for naught, the battle over before it’d begun.

Summarily overwhelmed, the tribesmen were dragged toward the bonfire as more berserkers cleared every tent.

When Vallek passed through his berserkers into the light of the fire, Hormhím ready at his side, startled cries and gasps drowned out the crackling of the great flames.

In all, Vallek counted just forty or so kin, at least half orcesses or orclings.

They stared at him in horror and fright, an apparition come to slaughter them in the night.

“Who is your chieftain?” Vallek boomed.

An older orc stepped forward, a noticeable limp slowing his stride. “Who are you?”

“Watch how you speak to your king,” Ulrich growled.

The older orc looked truly baffled, his graying brows rising in shock. “King?”

“You stand before Vallek Far-Sight, chieftain of Balmirra, king of kin,” announced Ulrich. “You will kneel before him and give your loyalty.”

“It’s time for all eastern tribes to join in allegiance with their kin,” said Vallek. “Your fellows have already knelt. They say Krul is chieftain here. Where is he?”

“Died. Years ago,” said the older orc. “I’m chieftain here.”

By the Ever-Father, these kin truly were isolated. They even spoke with an accent he’d only heard from the very eldest of Balmirrans.

“And you are?”

“Fulk.”

“Well, Fulk, you will speak for your tribe and swear fealty to me and the orcish throne.”

Careful to not quite sneer, Fulk said, “Never heard of a king of kin.”

“Your tribe refused the last one,” said Vallek. “That won’t be tolerated again.”

Hearing the blatant threat, Fulk’s gaze flicked down to the great axe Vallek held. “We haven’t heard of you, so why should we believe you?”

Hefting Hormhím to rest the top of the shaft on his shoulder, Vallek stepped further into the firelight.

The flames caught on Hormhím’s dual blades, as well as Vallek’s armor, polished to a high shine.

He towered above Fulk and the Stone-Skins, and while he wasn’t above using the threat of his size, he felt a niggle of pity for them.

Kept away from others, they had become small and scared in their rocky hills.

“You’ve heard of Balmirra?”

Fulk nodded reluctantly. “Yes.”

“You’ve heard of Kaldebrak, Innrinhom, and Holdur?”

“Yes.”

“All the great orcish cities are mine. Their chieftains have sworn fealty to me. The Sharp-Tooths, Green-Backs, and all the other eastern tribes have knelt before me. The Stone-Skins will, too.” Closing the distance between him and the older orc, Vallek said, “I have no need of your little camp, Fulk Stone-Skin. Your people are but a handful of kin.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“And yet I’m here.” Vallek smiled, all teeth. “Your loyalty won’t be for nothing. You join all kin, together, in a nation that will rival any on the continent.” Sweeping his gaze across the huddled tribe, he added, “Come out from your hills. Your people will know prosperity they can only dream of.”

They didn’t need to know his ultimate aim—to eventually join the tribes together into an eastern bastion, a stronghold to guard the east like that of Kaldebrak in the north and Balmirra in the west. He would fortify the east, strengthen its people to stand strong against the Pyrrossi incursion.

For now, though, he just needed their fealty.

“And if I don’t?”

Vallek dropped his smile. “Then all of you will be taken to Balmirra and interned.” They were a liability otherwise.

“Bastard!” A blur caught in Vallek’s periphery, and he moved backwards in time to avoid the swinging fist of an enraged orc.

Before the attacker could even think about striking again, the berserkers were on him.

The orc, a young, strapping male and the biggest of the Stone-Skins, gave the berserkers a good if untrained fight. All unbridled strength, he could only throw brute force against the berserkers, who soon outwitted and outflanked him.

Together, three berserkers secured the orc’s arms, pinning them behind him at a painful angle. A swift kick to the backs of his knees saw him crash to the dirt.

Although caught, the young hunter glared up at Vallek. Interestingly, from just one eye. A crude patch hid the left one, the edges of a jagged scar poking out from the upper and lower rims.

“We’ll never bow to you,” the orc snarled.

“Shut up, Kaldar,” Fulk growled.

“We never had a king! We don’t need a king!”

“I am the only thing standing between you and the Pyrrossi horde, boy. When they sweep through these lands, who else will come to save you?”

“They wouldn’t dare.”

Vallek snorted. “Of course they would. They already are. And you, the weak underbelly of orc-kin, are their easiest way inside. I won’t allow it.”

Kaldar swung his angry gaze to Fulk. “Don’t you dare fucking do it, uncle. We don’t need these fuckers!”

The berserker holding Kaldar’s right arm pinched it back tighter, earning a grimace of pain.

Fulk met Vallek’s gaze. He sighed. They both knew with Kaldar’s words that Vallek would have his way.

Vallek agreed when Fulk said, “He’s young and stupid.”

That he was.

“But you will be wiser.” Lifting Hormhím to point at Kaldar, Vallek warned, “Your fealty for his other eye.”

Fulk’s lips thinned. The threat was foreseeable, yet the other Stone-Skins gasped in horror. Several cried out for mercy.

“You fucking bastard,” Kaldar sneered, only to have his face thrust into the dirt.

Gods, the boy had more bulk than brains.

It wasn’t hard to see that Fulk thought something similar as he glanced at his nephew, dejected. There was no way out for this sad little clan. If Fulk wanted all of his tribe to see morning, he’d kneel.

Only a few more moments passed before the older orc sighed again and creakily got on his knees.

“No!” Vehement, muffled denial echoed from the ground, where Kaldar wriggled against the berserkers with their knees in his back.

“I defer to you, Vallek Far-Sight,” said Fulk. “The Stone-Skins pledge fealty to Balmirra.”

“Wise.”

Although he didn’t rise, Fulk’s gaze lifted to pin Vallek with a grave look. “The Stone-Skins have known many cruel leaders. Don’t be the next.”

Lowering Hormhím, Vallek nodded solemnly. A reluctant respect for this limping, aged chieftain took hold in his chest. Fulk would bend but not break.

Vallek saw such defiance and strength in Ravenna, too. And he loved her for it.

“You have my word.” Reaching down, he offered Fulk his hand. The older orc took it, regaining his feet. And with a wave from Vallek, the berserkers released Kaldar to scramble to his feet. “Teach that one some manners, though.”

Fulk snorted. “There’s no use.” Peering up at Vallek with a shrewd look, he said, “As king, you’ll want something we found.”

Intrigued, Vallek watched on as Fulk called for another of his hunters to fetch those irons .

“Found them on some Pyrrossi soldiers last winter,” said Fulk. “Didn’t know what to do with them.”

The Stone-Skin hunter returned bearing two sets of manacles. He dropped them at Vallek’s feet and quickly backed away.

The firelight caught in the dull metal, and at first glance, there didn’t seem to be anything remarkable about the irons. Yet, the longer he looked, a sense of foreboding churned up his guts.

“There’s something wrong with them,” Fulk spat, echoing Vallek’s own thought.

He didn’t need to touch them to feel the wrongness emanating from them. Something was indeed wrong with the metal. Magic radiated from them, but not in a way he’d ever felt before. It seemed almost…greedy. As though it whispered and longed to be clapped onto wrists.

Pyrrossi soldiers with enchanted manacles.

Vallek exchanged looks with Ulrich. Gods, what now?

Later that night, so late it was practically tomorrow, Vallek sat with Ulrich in one of the larger Stone-Skin tents.

What pertinent bits hadn’t been sorted out yet could be done in the morning, when nerves and tempers were a little less frayed.

Fulk hadn’t seemed enthusiastic about offering up one of his own tents for them, but he did it all the same.

The strange manacles sat in a sack nearby, and it was a relief to have them out of sight.

Fulk told them what little he knew, just that Pyrrossi soldiers had been caught with them and he believed there were more out there.

It was something to investigate, and Vallek would take them to Ravenna for her opinion on what kind of magic they were spelled with and what this could mean.

For now, though, with berserkers posted as guards outside the tent flaps, Vallek and Ulrich were confident enough to share a celebratory flask of mead to revel in their victory.

Raising it to Ulrich and then to his lips, Vallek said, “To a plan come to fruition.”

When he passed the flask back to Ulrich, his second took a long, hearty swing. “To the unification!” he said a little too loudly. Ulrich never could hold his spirits.

Chuckling, Vallek rested his wrist on his bent knee, trying to get as comfortable as possible reclined in a strange tent.

While this victory was something to savor, he couldn’t help wishing he was back in his own tent, with his mate for company instead.

This triumph would be all the sweeter with her in his arms, pretending to be unimpressed, as he stole kisses.

Gods, he was getting to be a soppy bastard.

His beast merely sighed like a forlorn puppy, wondering why they really needed to stay here rather than reunite with Ravenna.

Telling himself to enjoy it, he took in the laughing Ulrich, candescent with their victory. His second’s obvious good mood lifted Vallek’s. Perhaps it was just the surrealism of so many years and plans finally reaching fulfillment that made him feel apart from the new reality.