1
OTHIC
Lord Cia Dareksword is on his knees, weeping. The sound is high and thin in his own opulent study. He’s begging, but not to me. He's begging the empty air, as if Lord Privis himself might magically appear and grant a reprieve.
"I will have the ipia! I swear it! Just one more week!"
He’s a fool. Privis doesn't do reprieves. He sends me.
I stand in the doorway, my axe heavy on my shoulder. The air is permeated with his terror and the cloying, sweet smell of rirzed blossoms. My job is simple. Clean this up.
I take one heavy step into the room. Dareksword’s head snaps toward me, his eyes wide with a fresh, bladder-loosening terror. He scrambles backward on his knees, hands slipping in his own piss. "No... please, monster...please..."
I am not a monster. I am a tool. I amThe Tusk. I am an Iron Tusk warrior, and I will at least grant him a swift end. I draw my axe. Theshingof the heavy steel in the quiet room is deafening.
I don't let him finish his plea. My stroke is fast and clean. The sound is a heavy, wetthunkas the steel bites through bone and gristle. His head topples from his shoulders and rolls, stoppingnear a shattered vase. The body slumps, a fountain of hot, dark elf blood spraying across the pristine white marble.
I hear a cheer from the hall. "The Tusk's done! He's done! It's ours, lads!"
I wipe my axe on Dareksword's silk tunic. I feel nothing. I turn and walk from the room as the rest of the mercenary crew floods in, their hands already itching for treasure.
I move from the study, stepping over the threshold into the chaos of the main hall. My job is done. The execution is finished; the looting is just... aftermath.
The sound of splintering wood echoes from the floor above as the mercenaries kick in bedroom doors. I hear a fresh wave of high-pitched screaming—female servants, dragged from their hiding places. One of the men laughs, a wet, ugly sound. It is not my concern.
I stand guard by the main door, my axe resting on my shoulder, its blade still dripping. I am a wall. A gray-green mountain of indifference.
This is the price,I tell myself. The thought is dull, familiar.This is the price of my food and shelter. This is the world now.
A mercenary, his arms full of silver candelabras, stumbles past me, hissing, "Watch it, Tusk."
I don't move. I don't even look at him. I just stare out into the night, feeling nothing. I force nothingness. It is a shield, thicker than any steel. Here, I am just a tool.
The smell of smoke begins to thicken, acrid and sharp. They're burning the tapestries now. Pointless. The wastefulness of it all is the only thing that briefly sparks my anger.
Then, they bring the women down. Five of them. Human and elf, their thin nightgowns torn, hands bound. They are weeping, a chorus of pathetic, broken sounds. The mercenaries shove them roughly toward the door, herding them liketaurato the slaughter.
This is what I am,the thought whispers, cold and sharp.I am the butcher's dog, guarding the door to the slaughterhouse.
I watch them pass, their terrified eyes skittering over my massive, bloody form, and I feel... nothing. I am a stone.
The smoke is thick, tasting of burning silk and old, dry wood. It stings my eyes, but I don't blink. I just stand by the shattered main door, a silent gray-green statue, watching the mercenaries haul their prizes into the courtyard.
One of them, a human named Jax, shoves a bound, weeping servant girl toward the wagon. "Move, you bitch!" He laughs as she stumbles and falls to her knees in the mud.
I look away, my gaze settling on the burning roof of the estate. The flames lick at the night sky, bright and hungry.This is what I am now. A beast for coin.
I feel the heavy leather pouch ofipiapressed against my side—my payment for the execution. It's warm from my own body heat.But the ipia is good,I tell myself, the familiar justification settling in. The words are a dull, practiced rhythm in my skull.The food is plentiful. The shelter is dry. Privis provides...I glance at the crying girl being shoved into the wagon....women.
The thought feels wrong, hollow, but I force it. Iama beast. This is what beasts crave. Food. Shelter. Mates. This is all there is.What else could an orc ask for?
My hand clenches, the leather of my axe haft groaning. The answer is a bitter, iron taste in my throat.
A clan.
Honor.
A purpose.
