Page 12

We descend a sloping trail that winds between rocky outcrops. Ghorzag remains a few paces ahead, silent. The clang of the fortress recedes, replaced by the soft rustle of wind through knee-high grass. In the distance, I see hints of a forest line, where tall pines rise like sentinels.

I pick my way over a small creek, shoes skimming over slick stones. Ghorzag pauses, glancing back to ensure I don’t slip. “You’re sure you know what you’re looking for?” he asks, voice echoing faintly in the hush of open air.

I nod. “Goldenseal or something similar. The leaves are broad, with ridges and a yellowish tinge near the roots. Might grow in moist soil by the water’s edge.”

He grunts, turning to continue. For a while, neither of us speaks.

I struggle to read the tension in his shoulders.

Is he uncomfortable around me? Or simply cautious?

The memory of last night’s rite flickers—how he stood firm against Gorath’s challenge, how he insisted I belonged under his protection.

It’s an odd contradiction: I’m not sure he welcomes me personally, but he refuses to cast me out either.

Eventually, the trail opens onto a small glen nestled between two rocky ridges. A thin stream trickles along the edge, feeding clusters of reeds and a patch of thicker vegetation. The scent of wet earth and decaying leaves wafts on the breeze.

“This is the place Ragzuk mentioned,” Ghorzag says, nodding at the lush ground near the stream.

I crouch, scanning for the familiar shape of leaves.

Sure enough, a cluster of broad, serrated foliage catches my eye near a rock half-hidden by moss.

“There.” I point, excitement creeping into my voice.

I move quickly, pushing aside damp ferns to reach the plant.

Mud squelches beneath my boots, and a swirl of gnats buzzes around my head, but I press on.

As I carefully dig around the plant, a faint rotting smell stings my nostrils—likely old vegetation. I retrieve a small knife from the belt I borrowed. Ghorzag watches from a few steps away, arms folded. His presence weighs on me, but not unpleasantly.

“Do you truly believe these herbs will help?” he asks after a moment.

I glance up. “I do. If the infection is bacterial or festering, this plant—or something close enough to goldenseal—can help cleanse the wound. In my village, we used it to make a poultice that we’d apply to cuts, especially if they started turning red or swollen.”

He studies me, the vertical lines of his forehead easing slightly, though he doesn’t smile. “We rely on spiritual healing and simpler salves, but… clearly we’re missing something if the infection lingers.”

“It might not always be about missing something,” I say gently, extracting the root with care. “You do have a shaman who can use incantations. But sometimes, good old-fashioned herbs can complement that. Especially if your magic is weaker these days.”

The mention of orc magic—long diminished, I’ve heard—seems to strike a chord. His mouth presses into a line, as if I’ve touched on a sore subject. “Our clan’s magic waned generations ago. The War God’s blessings have mostly turned to spiritual guidance and martial strength.”

I pause, uncertain whether to probe further. But I want to understand. “So the shamans… they still practice incantations, but they don’t have the raw healing power they once did?”

He shifts, glancing at the horizon. “Exactly. Rituals, blessings, reading signs—these remain. But they can’t re-grow limbs or cure lethal wounds by chanting a phrase.

Some orcs resent that loss. They see it as the War God’s punishment for failing him in the past. Others claim it’s a natural ebb and flow of power. ”

I carefully place the uprooted herb in a small leather pouch, wiping mud from my fingers on a rag. “And do you have an opinion on it?”

He hesitates. “I think we shape our own destiny more than we realize. Relying on divine magic alone can weaken a clan. We must adapt, learn, and survive by our own means if necessary.”

A faint smile warms my lips. He’s more pragmatic than I expected.

I rise to my feet, slinging the pouch over my shoulder. Surveying the glen, I spot a few other plants that look promising—small clusters of wide leaves with red berries. “That might be useful too,” I murmur, stepping closer.

Before I can bend down, my foot slips in the slick mud near the stream’s edge. My arms flail, heart jolting. A muddy tumble threatens—but Ghorzag’s reflexes are swift. He lunges forward, his large hand grasping my forearm, steadying me before I can go sprawling face-first into the muck.

His grip is firm, almost bruising in its strength. My breath catches at the sudden contact, and I look up into his face. Despite his gruff demeanor, concern flickers in his eyes, swiftly replaced by that guarded stoicism.

“Careful,” he admonishes, releasing me once I’ve found my balance.

Heat creeps across my cheeks. “I—thank you. Slippery.” My voice comes out softer than I intend.

He merely nods, stepping back. But the moment lingers, an undercurrent of awareness crackling between us. My pulse thuds, not entirely from the near fall.

I duck my head, focusing on the next plant. “Right. Let’s… gather a few more, then head back.”

He grunts agreement, yet I sense his gaze lingering on me.

A strange warmth settles in my chest, a quiet spark of gratitude that he caught me—and something else, a swirl of unspoken tension.

This is the orc who basically claimed me as a strategic mate , I remind myself.

He’s bound to me by necessity, not necessarily by affection.

But in that moment, it’s easy to forget the complexities.

We spend the next half hour collecting assorted roots and leaves from the glen’s shaded nooks.

I show Ghorzag which plants might serve as antiseptics, and he helps dig them up with the efficient skill of a warrior who’s spent his life handling blades.

Soon, my pouch bulges with greenery, the smell of damp soil clinging to our hands.

“We should return,” he says, scanning the sky. “The clan will be suspicious if we’re gone too long. Besides, these should be enough to attempt Ragzuk’s poultice.”

I nod, wiping sweat from my brow. The sun climbs, the day’s warmth growing insistent. My boots squelch in the mud as we make our way back up the rocky trail toward the fortress.

At first, we walk in silence, but I feel a subtle shift in Ghorzag’s posture—a lowering of tension, like he’s no longer quite so prepared for ambush. Or maybe that’s my wishful thinking.

“I never expected to be rummaging through plants with an orc chieftain,” I admit with a tentative laugh. “But… thank you for coming with me. I’m sure you have more pressing matters.”

He gives me a sidelong look, tusks gleaming in the midday light. “Protecting the clan is my duty. If this helps keep a warrior from losing his leg—or stops further suspicion from the clan—then it’s worth it.”

Right, duty. I swallow the faint sting of disappointment. But I can’t blame him for seeing everything through the lens of leadership. “I’m still grateful,” I say quietly. “For letting me do something useful.”

He doesn’t reply, but a glimmer in his gaze suggests he hears me.

We continue on, cresting a small rise. The fortress walls loom ahead, the dark stone stark against the bright sky.

My mind drifts to the scout’s injury, how I’ll mix the herbs into a poultice—an opportunity to prove, if only in some small measure, that not all humans are worthless in orc eyes.

We return through the main gates. An orc guard with a scar across his brow eyes me distrustfully, but offers Ghorzag a respectful nod.

The courtyard is busier than ever. A group of older orcs clusters around a sturdy table, apparently debating resource allocations, while a line of younger ones practices archery with short, sinew-backed bows.

Several orcs pause to watch as Ghorzag and I cross the space toward the stone structure where Ragzuk waits. Their stares cling like burrs, but Ghorzag’s presence keeps them at bay—no one dares approach or hiss curses at me when he’s by my side.

Inside the herbal workspace, Ragzuk looks up from grinding a paste. He exhales in relief. “I wondered if you’d manage to find anything.”

I hold up the bulging pouch. “We found quite a bit. The ground near the stream was perfect for these plants.”

He beckons me over to a rudimentary worktable. I spill the contents across its rough surface—roots, leaves, and stems. Immediately, the pungent aroma fills the room, earthy and slightly bitter. Ragzuk’s brows rise. “Impressive haul. Now let’s see if it does any good.”

With Ghorzag standing near the door, arms folded, I set to work separating the pieces I recognize: a cluster that resembles goldenseal, some broad-leafed plants with berries that might enhance the antimicrobial effect.

I explain to Ragzuk how to crush them into a moist poultice.

He grunts in acknowledgment, occasionally sprinkling in bits of dried orcish herbs I don’t recognize.

We have a thick, greenish paste that smells sharp enough to clear anyone’s sinuses. Ragzuk nods in satisfaction. “That should do. Let’s apply it now.”

He beckons me to follow him into an adjoining chamber, smaller and darker. A single cot rests against the wall, occupied by a young orc warrior with a bandaged leg propped on a rolled blanket. His skin is clammy, his breathing shallow, and pain etches deep furrows in his brow.

“This is Kratun,” Ragzuk says quietly. “He took a blade to the calf during a scouting mission. The wound was shallow, but something got into his bloodstream.”

Kratun glances at me with glazed eyes, confusion and a tinge of hostility flickering across his features. “Human,” he rasps. “W-what?—?”

“She’s here to help,” Ragzuk says firmly, cutting off the orc’s protest. “Trust me, you’ll want any relief you can get.”