Page 5 of Scoring the Orc
"Why are they like that?" I murmur, more to myself than to my fellow slaves. "Why do the orcs have to be so... so harsh?"
Suddenly, my mind is filled with images of them. Green skin, tusks protruding from their mouths, and a volatile nature that can upset even the most stoic of dark elves.
Jiana pauses, leaning on her mop with a sigh. "Maybe it’s just the way they’re raised, or maybe it's the life they’re forced to lead. Being tough might be the only way they know how to survive."
Her attempt at explanation does little to comfort me. It's hard to imagine that brutality could be merely a survival tactic when it seems so deeply ingrained in their culture, so celebrated in their games.
Myra shakes her head sympathetically at Jiana and me, her eyes softening with resolve and fear. "We best be on our best behavior then," she murmurs, her voice a low blend of resignation and caution. "Don't want to risk angering Master Aleryn before the match and end up his bet."
I nod silently, feeling a heavy lump form in my throat. The broom in my hands feels heavier now, each stroke across the cold, hard floor echoing the weight of our predicament. I return to sweeping, pushing the broom back and forth mechanically, my movements automatic but my mind far from the task.
The great hall, with its high ceilings and grand windows, suddenly feels like a prison, the ornate decorations mocking us with their silent opulence. The light streaming in casts long, dark shadows that seem to stretch out like fingers, grasping at us, reminding us of our entrapment.
As I sweep, my thoughts whirl chaotically. The notion of being used as a wager in a game is dehumanizing, reducing us to mere objects of exchange. I understand the necessity of survival in Aleryn's world, but the coldness of it cuts deeply. I wonder about the others, about who among us might be chosen, and whether there might be any way to protect them—or if such thoughts are as futile as trying to sweep away the shadows themselves.
The whispers between Jiana and Myra grow quieter, laden with unspoken fears and shared anxieties. We work closer together than usual, our usual spaces of isolation breached by the need for quiet companionship, for the comfort that comes from shared dread. It's a small defiance, but in our world, even small acts carry weight.
"My mother used to tell me stories," I whisper back, not stopping my sweeping. "She said that not all orcs are cruel. That some are like us, just trying to get by in a world that’s too harsh, too ready to judge."
Jiana looks at me, her expression a mixture of hope and skepticism. "Maybe," she says softly. "But stories won’t change our fate."
"No," Myra interjects. "But maybe knowing there could be kindness out there might help us cope. We need to hold onto whatever hope we can find, even if it’s just in stories."
Their words stir something in me—a flicker of defiance, a spark of hope. Maybe hope is a dangerous thing in our position, but it’s also a form of resistance, a way to keep the darkness at bay.
4
JURTO
When I ram my body into the training dummy, constructed of logs and thin sheets of plated armor, the flimsy thing explodes from the force of the impact. Splinters of wood and metal fly in all directions, while I emerge unscathed with the ball still tucked under my arm.
Aleryn won’t stand a fucking chance against me.
With a proud smirk on my face, I continue the play. I dash forward, imagining opposing defenders on the other team trying to claw at my skin and wrestle me to the ground.
Like muscle memory, my body moves naturally to avoid these invisible foes until I find myself in front of the moving goalpost. It moves from side to side at a gradual pace, so I time my shot nicely and launch the ball directly into the goal.
Turning around to face the rest of my teammates, my chest heaves with satisfaction. Hrogun stares at me with a blank expression, even as I make the move to approach him.
As I close the distance to Hrogun, my nostrils flare with each heavy breath. Casting a quick, questioning glance with a slight tilt of my head, I demand answers from his unusually somber expression.
Hrogun meets my gaze squarely, his voice a low rumble, barely audible against the rustling of the passing breeze. "Aleryn's raised the stakes for the match," he informs me, his eyes narrowing slightly. "He's wagering a human slave this time."
A flicker of irritation sparks within me. Aleryn's ploy is clear as day—it's not about the human; it’s about him flaunting his confidence, insinuating that his dark elf team will trample us without effort. The thought tightens my jaw. He's using this bet to get in our heads, to rattle us.
"Why up the ante with a human?" I grunt, more to myself than to Hrogun, the disdain clear in my tone. "Does he think we'll be distracted? Does he assume we'll falter, knowing the price?"
Hrogun shrugs, his thick arms crossing over his chest. "Perhaps he believes it'll unsettle us, make us lose focus. Aleryn likes to play mind games, you know that. He wants to believe he's already won."
The idea stokes the fire of competition within me. It's not about the slave—humans are traded often in these games, a fact of life here on Tlouz—but the presumption of victory that Aleryn dares to flaunt. It grates on me, this arrogance.
I turn back to the field, my eyes tracing the outline of the goalposts. The calm before the storm of our next match seems almost eerie now, charged with this new tension.
"We'll show him," I declare, my voice a low growl, turning back to face Hrogun with a fierce glare. "We’ll smash his team into the ground. We’ll take that human and everything else he holds dear. Not because we care for the prize, but to crush his pride."
As Hrogun nods his head in agreement, I clap him on the shoulder, a silent acknowledgment of our shared resolve. The rest of the team pauses their drills and gather around, their practice halting as the news spreads like a low, ominous thunder through the ranks. Their faces are masks of concentration, the air thick with brewing storms.
Krodash, the largest of my warriors, approaches, his heavy footsteps thudding against the soft earth. His tusks gleam slightly in the dimming light, his eyes narrowed into slits. He’s always had a keen sense for when the tension rises amongst the team, crippled by uncertainty and unanswered questions.