Page 4 of The Orc Warrioress and the Elf Lord

He leaned closer to her, still smiling that stupid smile of his. “To be clear, you’re not the least bit attracted to me? Is that right?”

She gave him a withering look and refused to dignify that with a response.

He leaned back. “Pity that,” he said with a shrug. “I think I would give nearly anything to see your bare bosom.”

She clenched her teeth. This was going to be the worst two weeks of her life, clearly.

GATHREN HAD NEVER seen the palace before. She’d seen some drawings of it, rendered in black and white and printed on things from printing presses, so she knew the general outline of the place, its spires and towers and that sort of thing, but she was unprepared for the sheer grandeur of it, the gold tips gleaming in the sunlight, the intricate carvings on the stone face which made the white stone look like lace, the sheer size and height of it.

She could not take her eyes from it as they approached in the carriage. She gazed out the window, rendered speechless by the sight of it. Some part of her had to admit that she did not want this beauty torn asunder by an invading army, even if it was her people invading. She felt the conflict tight in her chest, a ball of anxiety.

She was an orc, but she had been born here, in Lothnehil, in the land of the elves. She had grown up with her mother on a small little farm in the barlinship of Notharlien, part of a tight-knit orc community of only four families, all of whom assisted each other with their crops and animals. They were never welcomed by their elf neighbors, not truly, but they had always been tolerated, left alone, and the elves bought their milk and cheese and vegetables at the markets, until High King Findas.

He had taken the throne about ten years ago, and he had slowly made it his single-minded mission to remove everyone besides elves from Lothnehil. He began rounding up orcs and sending them across the Rathog Pass. He began to forbid trade with other countries and creatures—no more trading with the dwarves across the ocean, for instance. Everything must be elfmade, because elves were superior in every way and needed no interference from other creatures—lower creatures, in his opinion.

At some point during this time, then, Gathren’s family and the other orcs had been banned from selling things at the elvish markets. Elves were not forbidden from buying from orcs, but they had to go out of their way to do so, and few did.

Then some of the orcs from other families were forced across the pass to Arzakh, which was the land of the orcs, in the northwest. This was when Gathren found out she was the daughter of the orc High Chieftain, for her mother had sent off a letter to him, asking that he look after the orcs who had been sent to Arzakh, hoping that the High Chieftain would remember her, would think fondly on their brief time together, hoping for some influence over the man.

But they had heard nothing back from the High Chieftain. Had he even gotten the letter? No one could say.

That was when Gathren had gone to Arzakh herself, presented herself to her father, and then—upon discovering that an invasion was underway—asked to be part of the orc army as a warrioress. Her father had indulged her in that, but he paid her little mind else. She had been given no special treatment, no high status in the fighting, nothing like that. No one even knew the High Chieftain was her father.

“Pretty, mmm?” came Iahir’s voice, breaking into her reverie.

She turned away from the window to look at him, feeling embarrassed at having been caught gaping at the palace. “I suppose,” she said, even though the truth was that pretty was not quite the word for what it was. It was stunning, fantastically beautiful, the kind of thing that seemed far too beautiful to even exist. The craftsmanship was breathtaking.

“You orcs have palaces like this?” he asked.

She shook her head. No, the orcs had nothing like this. Orcs, as a general rule, did not waste time making things look nice, only worrying about functionality and strength. Of course, this was likely because the country of Arzakh was volatile, a country of earthquakes and eruptions, molten rock pouring up from the cracks made in the earth.

The High Chieftain’s fortress in Arzakh had been destroyed five or six times, moved to different sites to avoid repeated eruptions. There was little point in making it pretty.

“Florehil, he’s a Larhilist,” said Iahir conversationally.

Who was a what? She had no idea what he was talking about or how this even followed in their conversation.

“Larhil is at court sometimes,” said Iahir. “Perhaps you’ll meet him.”

She was even more confused.

“At any rate, if it were up to the Larhilists, we should divide the whole palace up amongst at least fifty individuals, give each of them the same amount of space as each other,” said Iahir. “Or perhaps, I know not, the Larhilists may think we must raze the entire thing to the ground, for it is too fine and too pretty and too lovely for any one person or even any fifty people to have. It is unfair that it exists at all, you see, so we must grind it to dust and give everyone something bland and exactly the same as what everyone else has. We must never allow anyone to have anything more than anyone else, you see, if one is a Larhilist.”

“All right,” she said softly, still confused.

“Seems a pity, though,” said Iahir. “It is a pretty palace.”

“It is,” she allowed.

“You orcs want to raze it to the ground as well, I suppose?”

She shrugged. “I suppose.”

“Or just live in it yourselves? To the victor, the spoils?”

“Perhaps.” After all, the orcs had already taken over Bilkwood, the Cirdan palace. The Cirdan elves had been beaten in the wars by the Valaedor elves, so no one ruled in that palace, but it still existed. It was as lovely as this one, but it was hidden and secret, less showy, less presentational, she thought.

“I don’t care a whit either way,” said Iahir with a shrug.