Inspected Like Livestock

Chapter 6: The Scent of Prey (Part 2)

Lyra's heart slammed against her ribs. Her body went rigid with terror, every instinct screaming at her to thrash, to bite, to do something---but the weight on her back was immense, and the hand over her mouth was so large it nearly covered her from nose to chin, and she could feel the hard edge of something sharp pressing against the side of her throat.

She made herself nod. A tiny, jerky motion.

The weight shifted. The hand stayed clamped over her mouth, but another hand---equally huge, equally rough---grabbed her by the upper arm and hauled her upright as if she weighed nothing. Her feet kicked at the leaves, found no purchase, and then she was being dragged backward, away from the fire, away from Aelindra's sleeping form.

She twisted her head, desperate, and caught a glimpse of her captor.

It was one of the creatures from the camp. An orc. She had only seen them from a distance before, hunched shapes moving between tents, but this one was right there, close enough that she could see the texture of its grey-green skin, the heavy ridge of its brow, the small, deep-set eyes that glinted with a flat, calculating intelligence. Its lower jaw jutted forward, revealing the tips of yellowed tusks. It was wearing crude leather armor stitched with bone, and it smelled---gods, it smelled like a slaughterhouse floor.

No no no no no---

She bucked and kicked, her bare heels striking uselessly against the orc's shins. It grunted, unimpressed, and tightened its grip until she felt her bones creak.

"Fight later," it muttered, almost conversationally. "Fight in camp. Everyone watch. More fun."

It dragged her into the trees.

Behind them, the embers of the campfire pulsed once, twice, and then the clearing was empty except for a sleeping elf and the slowly fading scent of human terror.

The journey through the darkness was a blur of pain and panic.

The orc---Gruk, though Lyra did not know his name---moved through the forest with a speed that seemed impossible for something so large. Branches whipped past, lashing at Lyra's bare legs and arms. Her feet, already tender from days of walking, caught on roots and stones until she stopped trying to run and simply let herself be dragged, stumbling and gasping against the hand that never once loosened its grip on her mouth.

She tried to think. She tried to plan. But her mind was a white wall of fear, and every time she managed to grab hold of a coherent thought, the orc would yank her forward and it would shatter all over again.

Aelindra. Aelindra will wake up. She'll see I'm gone. She'll come.

The thought was the only thing keeping her from dissolving entirely.

After what felt like an eternity---though it could not have been more than ten minutes---the trees thinned, and the orange glow of firelight replaced the darkness. Voices reached her ears, deep and guttural, speaking a language she did not understand. The orc camp.

Gruk shouldered through a gap in a crude palisade of sharpened logs, and Lyra found herself in the middle of a nightmare.

The camp was smaller than she had remembered from Aelindra's description---perhaps a dozen tents made of stitched hides, a central fire pit where something that might have been a deer carcass was roasting on a spit, and scattered clusters of weapons, supplies, and bone piles that she did not want to examine too closely. And everywhere, everywhere, there were orcs.

They turned as Gruk entered. Conversations died. The crackle of the fire was suddenly the loudest sound in the clearing.

Lyra hung in Gruk's grip, her feet barely touching the ground, her naked body on full display for every pair of eyes in the camp. She could feel their gazes like physical things, crawling over her skin: her breasts, her belly, the exposed cleft between her legs. One of the orcs---a massive brute with a scar that split his face from forehead to jaw---let out a low, appreciative grunt.

"What's this?" one of them called out in the common tongue, thickly accented but understandable. "Gruk bring back a toy?"

"Found her in the woods," Gruk said, and there was a smug satisfaction in his voice. "Sleeping by a fire. No clothes. No weapons. Just her and an elf."

The scarred orc stepped closer, and Lyra tried to shrink back, but Gruk held her fast. The orc's eyes---small, yellow, and utterly without pity---traveled down her body with the slow deliberation of someone examining livestock.

"Elf," he repeated. "Where?"

"Asleep. Didn't wake."

"You kill it?"

Gruk hesitated. "Didn't need to. Took the human quiet. Elf doesn't know."

The scarred orc---the chieftain, Lyra realized with a sick lurch of her stomach---considered this. Then he shrugged, a massive roll of his shoulders, and turned his attention back to Lyra.

"She's scrawny," he observed. "But clean enough. Good teats. Good hips." He reached out a hand---thick-fingered, nails crusted with dirt---and before Lyra could twist away, he closed it around her left breast and squeezed.