A dish left on the grill over the cooling coals caught my attention. It was the same wide clay pot with the lid where the orc had kept the blood sausage before.
My heart thudded with hope.
Did he forget it here?
My feet carried me to the fire pit before I knew it.
“Please, please,”I prayed in my head silently.“Let there be at least a scrap of food. Any food.”
Just before reaching for the lid, however, I paused.
What if it was a trap?
What if the pot was a bait?
Then it occurred to me that I didn’t even care. Let him trap me, let him do whatever he wanted to me. At that moment, I didn’t even mind if he butchered and ate me like he did with the boar, as long as I also got something to eat first.
I grabbed the pot and opened the lid.
The most fantastic aroma hit my nostrils—the smell of food.
Having been sitting on the grill over the hot coals, the pot was still warm. I couldn’t see exactly what the food in it was in the darkness, but I didn’t need to see it in order to eat it.
Scooping the pieces with my hands, I shoved them into my mouth as quickly as I could.
In my hurry, I hardly tasted it, but I believed there were a few flaky pieces of fish, a couple of roasted potatoes, and chunks of some grilled vegetable, turnip or maybe squash. Everything was sprinkled with aromatic herbs and slathered in butter, and I devoured it all in minutes.
Once the food was gone, I diligently licked the pot clean, getting every last drop of the herbed butter from the bottom. Then I sat in one of the huge log armchairs by the fire pit. I kept the pot on my lap even when there was nothing more to eat or lick. Hugging it to me, I wondered why the orc had left it on the grill.
Could it be an oversight on his part? Did he gather the leftovers after his dinner to keep for tomorrow, then forgot to put the pot into the cellar before going to bed? Even the most organized people made mistakes from time to time, didn’t they?
But then why would he leave it over the coals, as if to keep it warm for someone? He couldn’t have left the food deliberately for me, could he?
He didn’t want me to keep even a bite of sausage yesterday.
But he wanted me to have the fish skin today.
Was it because I cried? Did he feel sorry for me?
I didn’t even know if primitive beasts like bog orcs were capable of compassion. The books I’d read described them as wild, uncivilized beings with their level of intelligence being barely above that of animals. But the books also claimed that bog orcs lived in tribes or clans.
Why was this orc alone? Why didn’t he have any friends or family to share this cabin with?
I hadn’t been inside his cabin, of course, but I imagined it was also clean and well organized like the grounds around it. It must be warm and cozy, too, with a big, comfy bed made with fluffy blankets and puffy pillows that smelled like freshly washed linen.
Hugging the still warm pot, I leaned back in the armchair, then laid my weary head on the wide armrest.
I didn’t belong to the Wetlands. I had no place to call home anymore. But right now, I would’ve loved to belong right here, in this clean, comfy place with the big, neat orc who cooked the most delicious food.
A hard, loud noise jolted me out of my sleep. I sat up and opened my eyes.
Damned me and my carelessness. It was morning already. I was still laying in the orc’s chair by his fire pit. The pot I’d been hugging when falling asleep was now gone.
The orc was standing on the other side of the fire pit with a huge ax raised over his head.
Horror speared me. My body tensed, ready to bolt.
Then the orc lowered his ax, splitting a thick log in half with a single blow. The sound of him chopping wood had been what woke me up.
