Even King Batak’s know-it-all wizards didn’t know where the mists came from. They were definitely not natural. That was for sure. Every creature with magic in its blood could feel the dark call from the swirling ephemeral tendrils. No one in their right mind would answer the call, though, less they disappear from the face of the lands, never to be seen again. It had happened. Every orc knew of someone who had wandered past the sentries and never returned. Some said the mists were cast by eldritch elven sorcerers from times gone by, lich wizards who had broken away from the elven army and struck out on their own, reaching out to draw the living into their dead hordes.
So, with wariness, Karak took the path to the northern line to start his patrol. The mists were thicker than usual, and unusually lively.
“You can fuck the hell off right fucking now,” he told them firmly when a tendril tried to wrap itself around his ankle. It skulked back when he glared at it, a flick of his wrist marshaling his own power for a fireball. He wasn’t sure what damage a fireball would do to a tendril of mist but it seemed to take the hint and backed off. Quickly.
Rolling his shoulders, he clicked his fingers at Claw and the pair of them continued on their way.
Halfway through his self-designated patrol the hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he stopped dead in his tracks, Claw a statue by his heel.
They weren’t alone.
CHAPTER TWO
A voice cut through the chill air. High pitched and melodious, it was female.
His brows snapped together. What the fuck was a female doing out here? In orc territory?
He tilted his head, listening to the words she sang. Something about flying without wings, which didn’t make sense.
But it was undeniably a female voice, even if said female’s sanity was in question. More than that, whoever it was, they were not orc-kind. No orc, even a female one, had such a high-pitched and frankly pleasant voice. All of his people sounded like a cross between a landslide and a bad throat infection.
Signaling to Claw for stealth, Karak crept forward toward a line of bushes and vegetation that separated him from the singer. He frowned again. Whoever it was… they were making no attempt to be stealthy, stomping around like a herd of warthogs with twigs and branches breaking beneath their feet as they pushed through the undergrowth.
By the tusk, why were they pushing through unbroken terrain when more than enough paths and trails were already cut through the woods? And what the fuck were they doing here? This area wasn’t safe. It was the no-man’s-land between orc-held territory and the front lines held by the elven army, so taking an evening stroll here was tantamount to suicide. Both sides were known to patrol this area—shit hole that it was—so there was no way of telling who would come upon you if you decided to take a walk. Singing even…
He crouched in the bushes, waiting for the female to come into view. Perhaps it was a faery princess. Fuck, he hoped it was. If he snatched one of those ditzy little fuckers, the orcs would have the upper hand and this war was about to get a shitload more comfortable for them. Batak might even give him a promotion. Probably not. It would probably be another medal… a useless bauble to pin on his chest because it amused the king to try and “pretty” Karak up.
He could practically hear Batak now…
“You gotta have something to sweeten the deal with the ladies, and moon’s tits, your face isn’t going to cut it. Is it, Karak?”
Please be a faery princess, he thought hard, as though that could will it to happen. Only for his eyes to pop open wide when the singer finally came into view.
She was… tiny. Like the smallest faery he’d ever seen, and that was saying something. As Batak’s right-hand orc, he’d seen every class of faery there was, and interrogated all of them. Rumor had it that his name alone was enough to make faery maidens faint, and he was the bogeyman faery parents threatened their kids with if they misbehaved.
His eyes narrowed as he watched her. Unlike most faery-kin, she didn’t have wings. Perhaps she was some kind of abnormality? He’d heard the faeries were having problems breeding in recent years. He put that thought from his mind. At least they had women, unlike his kind. They were lucky. Who cared if a few of their brats were freaks born without wings. Wings freaked him out anyway.
“Walk back to the town, she said. It’ll be fine, she said,” the tiny little female snarled as she stomped along.
She appeared to be talking to herself rather than Karak, which was good. No way could she see him anyway, not crouched down as he was with his magic concealing him and making him appear as just another large bush.
She wasn’t dressed like any faery he’d seen. Instead of being outfitted for war like most of her kind, the curvy lengths of her legs were exposed for his avid gaze. His gaze flicked downward and he almost snorted in amazement. The ridiculous footwear she had on, simple straps attached to the highest heels he’d ever seen, were not at all suited to hiking through any woods, never mind a grim terrain like the Wasted Woods.
“What’s the worst that could happen, she said.” She stopped for a moment, raising both her hands to the sky like she expected an answer. “What’s the worst that could fucking happen?”
He frowned. Who was she talking to? The gods?
He smothered a snort. She was definitely not playing with a full deck if she thought they were going to answer her. The last time any of the gods had intervened in the affairs of the mortal realm had been generations ago. The orcs had never worshiped any of them. Why should they when all the gods had condemned orc-kind as a bastard half-breed race not worth the bother?
“Fucking horror movie shit, that’s what happened!”
She hissed and stomped onward. Karak watched in bemusement as she plunged forward, slapping branches aside and breaking undergrowth as she forged her own path… when a perfectly good one lay mere feet away.
“Should have stayed with the damn car. Now I’m in the middle of nowhere and… where the fuck is the damn road? It’s not like it can up and walk the hell off!”
He followed her, unseen, as she chattered on and on to herself, the trees (thankfully dryad-less), and the air around her. She didn’t see him, but then he didn’t expect her to. For all their massive size—far bigger than any of the other races, bar maybe trolls and giants—orc-kind were silent of foot and fast. If an orc didn’t want you to see him, you didn’t see him… not until his knife was protruding from your ribs.
Despite himself, Karak found a smile curving his lips at the little female’s antics. Perhaps she was a faery court jester? She was certainly amusing with her little hissy fits and the way she stamped her tiny foot in anger.
Claw followed him, slinking low on his belly. His yellow eyes flicked in confusion between Karak and their strange little quarry, as though asking Now? Can I take her down now? Now? How about now?
But he held the beast off with a movement of his hand. She was tiny and Claw would crush her or, at the very least, terrify the life out of her. The last thing he needed was to have to lump an unconscious faery about in woods such as these.
He continued trailing her in silence. Perhaps she would lead him back to wherever the fae camp was around here. Stuck in their winter camp for months, some actionable intelligence would go a long way to ease his and the rest of the camp’s frustration. It would certainly give Mildas’s girls’ cunts a bit of a break.