33. Thrag

33

THRAG

T he icy wind howls through the night, carrying with it the stench of the Icefang orcs. My heart thumps in my chest as I stride toward the clearing, my broad shoulders squared and my grip tight on my axe. The moonlight casts an ethereal glow on the snow-covered landscape, turning the world into a canvas of silver and black. My eyes, honed by countless battles, scan the tree line. I soon spot the movement, and the Icefang orcs emerge from the trees. The sight of them stirs a familiar rage within me, a burning ember forged in the ashes of my past.

The leader, Vorrak, steps forward from the ranks of his clan, a smug grin on his face. "Thrag," he calls out, his voice a gravelly rumble. "I didn't think I'd see you again."

I try to keep my expression impassive, though the sight of him stirs a tempest of rage within me.

My golden eyes narrow slightly. "How did you find us?" I demand, my words echoing off the snow-dusted cliffs. I make sure my voice carries back to the cave, hoping the villagers, including Claire, can hear the truth of their betrayal.

His chuckle is a hollow sound that reverberates off the trees. "People talk when they're hungry, Thrag. Survival makes cowards of us all," he says snidely.

The implications of his words curl in my gut. Someone within the village has sold their soul for the promise of survival. The betrayal stings sharper than any blade. My blood is boiling, but I don't let my anger cloud my judgment. I need answers.

"Who betrayed us?" I demand, my gaze sweeping over the gathered orcs.

Vorrak shrugs nonchalantly. "Does it matter? You're outnumbered, and your precious humans are no match for us," he replies smugly.

Before I can retort, three of Vorrak's minions charge at me, their weapons raised high. My instincts kick in, and I stand strong, ready to meet their assault with the solid steel of my axe.

The first orc lunges at me, his axe a blur of silver. I sidestep, my boots crunching in the snow, and swing my own axe in a vicious arc. The blade bites into his armor, eliciting a grunt of pain as he stumbles forward. I follow through with a swift kick to his back, sending him sprawling into the snow.

"Not so tough now, are you?" I growl, my voice a deep rumble that cuts through the chaos of battle.

The second orc is on me in an instant, his sword slashing toward my exposed flank. I pivot, catching his blade with the haft of my axe, and drive my fist into his face. Bone crunches beneath my knuckles, and he reels backward, blood streaming from his broken nose.

The third orc circles me warily, his eyes darting between his fallen comrades and the sharp edge of my axe. "You're a dead orc, Thrag," he spits, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and hatred.

I grin, baring my teeth in a feral smile. "Come and claim your prize, then," I taunt, beckoning him closer with a wave of my hand.

He charges, his battle cry a high-pitched wail that shatters the silence of the night. I stand my ground, waiting until the last possible second before I strike. My axe slices through the air, meeting his sword with a resounding clang that reverberates in my chest.

We lock eyes, our faces inches apart, our breaths mingling in the frigid air. I can see the moment his resolve crumbles, the flicker of doubt that creeps into his gaze. With a snarl, I shove him away, and he stumbles, off-balance and vulnerable.

I don't hesitate. My axe descends in a deadly arc, biting deep into his shoulder. He cries out, his sword falling from limp fingers, and crumples to the ground, a whimpering heap of defeated orc.

The clearing falls silent, save for the ragged panting of the survivors and the low moans of the wounded. I stand over the fallen orcs, my chest heaving, the taste of victory sharp on my tongue. My golden eyes scan the crowd of Icefang orcs, daring them to send more of their warriors to their doom. My heart beats like a war drum in my chest, the adrenaline of battle still coursing through my veins.

The circle of Icefang orcs parts, revealing Vorrak. His icy eyes survey the fallen before returning to me with grudging admiration.

"Well done, Thrag," Vorrak calls out. "It's been a long time since anyone from your pathetic excuse of a clan has shown any semblance of skill."

My jaw tightens at his words. "You want a fight? Fight me. Leave them out of it," I growl.

A murmur ripples through the ranks of the Icefangs, their growls of anticipation hanging heavy in the frosty air. Vorrak's grin widens, revealing a row of yellowed teeth. "A duel, then? Orc against orc?" he asks amused.

The circle closes in around us, a living wall of muscle and menace. I tighten my grip on my axe, the worn leather of the handle comforting beneath my fingers. My muscles coil like a spring, ready to unleash hell upon Vorrak's arrogant hide. "If I win, you leave. If you win, take what you want," I bark.

Vorrak nods, the light from the moon casting an ethereal glow on his cruel features. "Agreed," he says confidently.

The circle tightens, and I can feel the collective breath of the onlookers held in suspense. My golden eyes lock onto Vorrak's, reading the eagerness for combat that mirrors my own. We are predators, he and I, cut from the same brutal cloth, yet set on opposing paths by fate's capricious hand.

"I won't go down easy," I warn, my voice a low growl that reverberates in the stillness.

Vorrak chuckles, his own weapon—a massive, double-bladed axe—gleaming wickedly in the moonlight. "I'd expect no less from you, Thrag," he sneers.

We circle each other, our movements fluid and measured. The snow crunches beneath our boots, the only sound in the otherwise silent expanse of the clearing.