There was a moment where Garran was fully exposed to his enemies, out in the open but still unnoticed. For the briefest of seconds, he contemplated stepping back into the safety of the trees and trying something else. But seeing the fear in Teya’s eyes sobered him and forced him to hold his ground. The Steward knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that if he sought safety for himself, the green savages would find Teya and kill her thinking she was a wolf, never batting an eye.

Orcs were soldiers by nature. All their race knew--from what Garran understood, anyway--was war and battle. They would fight anyone that stood in their way; even themselves. It was not uncommon for orc civil wars to rage on for months or even years, but these creatures were not extremely common in this area; save the one tribe that attacked Darkfrost Village from time to time.

Garran remembered one particular day. He and Sius had been down by the frozen lake, sparring when they heard the war horns. Wasting no time, the two of them grabbed what equipment they could carry and tore off for the village.

By the time they reached the town’s small square, a battle was in full swing. Wolfkin and orcs were fighting in several sections of the pavilion. Females and children were running for cover, screaming in terror. At least two huts had caught fire as well.

A mother and small pup were running towards them pleading for help as a large looming green mountain of an orc chased them down brandishing his axe. Garran tightened his grip on his mace and readied his stance, but Sius had already nocked an arrow and loosed it at the pursuing orc. The projectile found its mark in the meaty throat of the target. The creature let out a surprised, wet yelp, then fell to the ground with a strangled gurgle. The mother and pup dove behind Garran for protection.

“Get them to safety. I’ll hold them off here,” Sius had shouted as he sent another arrow flying, catching a second assailant in the shoulder.

Knowing better than to argue with Sius and worried about his new charges in-tow, Garran had done as he was told. After the battle was over, the orcs had retreated, but left destruction in their wake. Several Darkfrost warriors had been lost and at least half a dozen homes had been destroyed or severely damaged.

Snapping back to the present, Garran shook his head to focus on the three orcs standing before him. Still examining the rogue wolf prints in the snow, they had yet to notice him. He took a deep, calming breath and cleared his throat, “Hey, you looking for me, putzas?” he said loudly with an air of boldness he wasn’t sure he felt.

Startled, all three of the brutes looked up and grabbed for their weapons. He watched as the three green, pock-marked faces shifted from shock and surprise, to curiosity and suspicion, to what looked like cold calculation.

The three orcs--Frick, Frack, and Scaly Mack, as Garran had monikered them in his head--looked similar, but Garran could tell small differences. Frick had stubby white hair, while Frack had oily tufts of salt and pepper. They stood on the outside of the formation, and were considerably less equipped than the more imposing Scaly Mack. They both held small handaxes in each hand, while Mack had a large chain mace and a wooden shield with metal studs. All three of them, however, were covered in chainmail armor.

‘If it comes to a fight, the odds are against you,’ he heard Sius’ voice chime his head helpfully.

Having worked that much out for himself, Garran held his hands out to each side in a show of non-aggression. He had the large battleaxe strapped to his back, but they’d be upon him before he even unsheathed it. Scaly Mack motioned to Frick with an almost imperceptible nod of his big head and the two of them began to fan out on either side of the wolfkin.

Garran dared not look at the tree where his companion stayed hidden, lest he give her position away or give her some accidental cue to come to his aid. This plan would not work if they both got caught. He kept his eyes forward and locked on the three orcs.

His breath caught in his lungs as he realized the reason Frack was not fanning out with his two mates. The green-skinned warrior was still investigating the footprint leading to the crop of trees. Garran could see his beady eyes following the direction of the print that would lead to Teya.

Without thinking, Garran shouted “Hey! Lizard Breath, do you ever bathe? I can smell you from here!” and turned, bolting up the path at a full run, away from Teya and the orcs.

Hearing grunts of surprise and then anger behind him, he knew the orcs were in pursuit.

‘That was a bad idea,’ said Sius’ voice calmly.

“I KNOW!” Garran shouted back between rasping breaths.

He felt a sting as something whizzed past his left ear and clipped into the flesh of the lobe then thunked into the snowbank beside him. A handaxe. Didn’t count on that… he thought grimly, but continued running. He felt something hard hit his back and heard the clank of metal on metal as another axe glanced off the battleaxe still strapped to his back.

With some effort while charging up a steep incline, he managed to pull the axe from his back and spin around just as one of the orc sidekicks dove for him with their remaining handaxe. He blocked the blow with the handle of his weapon and used the attacker’s momentum to swing them to the side. The orc landed in a pile of snow to the left with a grunt, but the other two pursuers were right behind him.

Seeing no other option, Garran decisively dropped the axe into the snow and once again held his hands out in a show of surrender. His only hope was that they’d take him prisoner and not kill him out of full anger now. It was a risk, but fighting three on one would be riskier.

Scaly Mack, seeing his prey take a submissive stance, approached leisurely with a victorious smirk stretching one side of his wide tooth-filled mouth. Garran stood stock-still, not daring to move as the menacing orc approached. Frick and the now snow-covered Frack stepped on either side of Garran as well, to cut off any other brilliant retreat maneuvers he had in mind.

Up close, these savages were quite intimidating; their green leathery skin pulled tight over bulging muscles. And huge yellowed tusks jutted upward from their lower jaw, protruding from their mouths. Mack, Garran noted with the strange heightened senses of someone in grave peril, had brass rings fitted around each of these tusks. A symbol of rank, no doubt.

Eyes still trained on his captive, Mack bent down and picked up the two-handed axe. He inspected it closely and looked sharply up at Garran. And Garran knew exactly why. It was an orcish made axe. He could imagine the barbarian’s mind racing with implications of how a stray wolfkin so far from home had not only found his way here into orc territory, but was found wielding an orc-made weapon.

Garran had planned for that. He assumed--hoped--that this would be enough of an intrigue for them to bring him back to the camp. If he could get into the camp, he could find Sius. Teya would do the rest.

The orc’s eyes narrowed and he fixed his prisoner with a stare that made Garran swallow hard. In one deft move, the orc flipped the twenty pound axe in his hand, spinning it handle-first. Before Garran could react or brace, Mack rammed the shaft of the weapon into the wolfkin’s stomach with the strength of a bear.

Garran dropped to his knees in the snow, coughing and gasping for breath as the wind left his chest. Nope, didn’t plan for that though. Instinctively, he grabbed for his symbol, but it wasn’t there. It was odd that he had grown accustomed so quickly to feeling its weight around his neck. It was a comfort to know it was there; almost a layer of protection. However, knowing these savages would grab any weapons or magical items from him, he had left it safely with Teya.

As if on cue, Frick and Frack moved in behind him and hastily grabbed both hands, binding him with hempen rope. They snatched him so roughly to his feet, he bit his tongue hard as his teeth clacked together. He tasted coppery blood in his mouth as the groping hands searched him for other weapons. Garran did not protest. Currently, the only fight he had in him was trying to get oxygen to his lungs.

Finding only his dagger and a few food rations in his pack, they seemed convinced--for now--that their prisoner was secure. There was a brief moment when they communicated in their guttural language, while Garran stood bound and bleeding from his ear and now his tongue as he awaited whatever fate was about to befall him.

He had never learned orcish. Sius knew a few words that he had picked up from skirmishes with orcs in the woods, but likely not enough to interpret what these brutes were saying. Save the few obscenities, of course... That would not help much here anyway.

They seemed to be arguing about what to do with him. Likely deciding whether to kill him here, knock him unconscious, or take him to the camp. Killing him was unlikely at this point. They’d have done it by now if they were going to.

Likely, the conversation was whether he was too much of a threat to leave conscious, who wanted to be the unlucky straw-drawer that carried him while unconscious, or tire the prisoner out by frog marching him all the way to the camp. Garran tried to look as least threatening as possible. This was a horrible idea he repeated in his head and Sius’ voice agreed wholeheartedly.

At last, some decision had been made and another bit of hempen rope was knotted and snatched taut around Garran’s neck. Scaly Mack looked at his prisoner and motioned to the battleaxe still in his green hand, “Where? Where get?” he grunted in a broken dialect.

Garran, hiding his surprise at them speaking his language somewhat, shrugged his shoulders as best he could in his position and stated simply, “Found it in a cave.”

There was a metallic flash as the back of Mack’s gauntleted hand connected with Garran’s right cheekbone. The impact caused him to bite down on his tongue again. “Dammit, Mack. That’s where I got it,” he said, wincing.

Ready this time, the wolfkin took a quick step back and dodged the next impending backhand. Frick and Frack were having none of it and grabbed their prisoner by the high collar of his jerkin and his bound arms, pushing him forward back into Scaly’s range. The next blow, he did not dodge, and it was considerably harder than the first. With lightning speed, the orc punched him square in the stomach.

If the two sidekicks hadn’t been holding him up, Garran’s knees would have buckled. All of the air was once again forced out of his lungs and his stomach lurched hard as if he were going to be sick. All he could do was gasp for air.

“Where get?” Scaly repeated again, not so patiently waiting for an answer.

After a brief moment, Garran collected himself as best he could, “You know…” he sputtered between wheezes, “if you’re going to… interrogate someone… you might try not knocking… the wind out… of them next time.”

Scaly Mack backhanded him again. The force of this blow caused Garran’s head to rock to the side and he felt his cheek split open. He was also pretty sure his eye was starting to swell shut. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. Then, spat a wad of red blood into the stark white snow.

Angry now, Garran tugged hard at the vice grip-hold his captors had on him, and stood up to his full height. His ears lay down flat on his head and he snarled, revealing blood-covered teeth, “You’ll pay for that one, Mack,” he said in a low, menacing growl.

The orc smirked another victorious smirk and laughed sardonically. Garran didn’t see the final blow coming. He couldn’t even say for certain where it had come from. He felt the impact and as his eyes were rolling back in his head, he heard Sius say, ‘Yep, you got them right where you want them’ and then, nothing.