Her Rugged Orcs

8. Eira

8

EIRA

T he steady drip of water marks dawn's approach. My muscles ache from sitting on the stone floor, but the warmth of three orc bodies around me has made it bearable.

"It's time," Murok whispers, his braids brushing my shoulder as he rises.

I follow them out of our cell, my bare feet silent on the cold stone. The underground tunnels stretch before us, lit only by scattered torches that cast more shadows than light. The dampness of the walls makes me shiver, but Grash's massive hand steadies me at my back.

"Stay close," he rumbles.

Dren moves like a shadow, the stolen keys making no sound as he leads us through the twisting passages. The air grows thicker as we descend deeper into the pit's maze of corridors, carrying the metallic scent of old blood and rust.

"We're here," Murok points to the row of cells ahead. Inside, our allies wait - the result of yesterday's negotiations. My stomach twists, remembering how I had to play the submissive slave again, but it worked.

Dren moves from cell to cell, unlocking each door with practiced efficiency. The humans emerge first, followed by the elves, and finally the two orcs.

"Remember," I whisper to them, "weapons storage first, then we split into the groups we discussed."

We move as one through the darkness, our footsteps barely echoing off the walls. The air grows cooler as we descend further, and the torches become more sparse. My heart pounds, but I force my breathing to remain steady.

"Another left here," Murok directs, his tactical mind mapping our route.

I catch glimpses of my companions in the flickering torchlight - Grash's determined scowl, Murok's calculating gaze, and Dren's silent vigilance.

The weapons storage door looms before us, its iron-bound wood a testament to what lies beyond. One of the humans, Marcus, points to the blind spot he mentioned - a shadowed alcove where the torchlight doesn't reach.

"Guards change every four hours," he whispers. "We've got twenty minutes."

Dren quickly works the lock. The mechanism clicks, and the door swings open with barely a creak. The armory smells of oil and leather. Racks of weapons gleam in the dim torchlight. My fingers itch seeing so much steel.

"Don't get greedy," Murok warns as we slip inside. "Take what you can use, nothing more."

I run my hand along a row of daggers. Two find their way into my newly acquired boots, another strapped to my thigh. The weight of them grounds me, reminds me I'm not helpless anymore.

"Here." Grash presses a short sword into my palm. The grip fits perfectly, and I try not to think about how he knew exactly what I needed.

Around us, our allies arm themselves with quiet efficiency. The elves choose longbows and quivers, while the other orcs heft battle axes that would break my arms to lift.

Dren appears at my side and adjusts the strap of my sword belt. His fingers brush my waist, steadying me when I wobble.

"The guards will notice soon," one of the elves warns, nocking an arrow to his new bow.

"Let them," Grash growls, testing the edge of a massive axe.

"Not yet," I say, touching his arm. "We stick to the plan."

Marcus signals from the door. "Time's up."

We move like shadows back into the corridor, our new arsenal hidden beneath cloaks and tunics.

The stench of decay grows stronger as we reach the tunnel junction. My new daggers press reassuringly against my skin as I scan the branching paths ahead.

"This is where we split," Murok says. "The orc brothers will create their distraction to the west."

"Remember," I whisper to our allies, "wait for the signal before moving."

The elves nod, their new bows at the ready as they take the southern tunnel. The humans disappear down the northern path, leaving just the four of us.

"Stay between us," Grash rumbles, positioning himself at my front while Dren and Murok flank my sides.

The tunnel narrows as we proceed, forcing us to walk single file. The walls press closer, slick with moisture and something I don't want to identify. My boots splash through puddles of questionable origin.

"The sewers should be just ahead," Murok murmurs. "Once we hear the distraction-"

A distant crash echoes through the tunnels, followed by shouts and the clash of steel.

"That would be our cue," I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite my racing heart.

We quicken our pace, moving as silently as possible through the darkness. The sounds of fighting grow more distant, but new noises replace them - the scurrying of rats, the hollow drip of water, and something else... something that makes the hair on my neck stand up.

Dren's hand suddenly grips my arm, pulling me to a stop. His eyes narrow at the shadows ahead.

Before any of us can react, a dark shape launches from an alcove I hadn't noticed. Steel glints in the torchlight as a dark elf springs directly at me, blade aimed for my throat.

My body moves before my mind can catch up, muscle memory taking over from years of watching, learning, surviving. The short sword Grash gave me feels alive in my hands as I drive it up and forward.

The blade slides through flesh with surprising ease. Hot blood spills over my fingers, coating my hands in crimson warmth that makes my stomach lurch. The dark elf's eyes widen in shock – he expected me to cower, to submit. Instead, he gurgles as his life drains away.

My hands shake as his body crumples to the floor. The metallic scent of blood fills my nostrils. But I can't look away from what I just did.

"Breathe," Murok says, his voice steady and measured as he approaches. "Just breathe."

I gulp in air, realizing I'd been holding my breath. The sword in my hand feels heavier now, weighted with what I've done. What I'm capable of doing.

"You had no choice," Grash murmurs. His fingers wrap around my wrist where I still grip the bloody blade, gentle despite his size. The warmth of his touch anchors me to the present.

Dren stands silent, his silver eyes reflecting the torchlight as he watches me. He doesn't speak, but his gaze holds understanding – the weight of first blood, the shock of survival, the horror mixed with savage satisfaction. He sees it all.

For the first time since entering these pits, I feel something shift inside me. I'm not just something to be protected anymore. I'm not just a prize to be claimed or a toy to be used. I am dangerous. I am alive.

The realization hits me like a physical force – I might actually survive this place. Not because three orcs decided to protect me, but because I can protect myself now.

The moment suddenly shatters as boots thunder through the tunnel. Torchlight floods the passage as guards pour in from both directions, their weapons drawn. We are surrounded.