Her Rugged Orcs

20. Murok

20

MUROK

I notice dried leaves and disturbed earth beneath the dense canopy. My fingers trace the subtle indentations - dark elf boots, at least a dozen sets, no more than half a day old. My jaw tightens as I piece together their movement patterns. They're methodically sweeping the forest, closing in on us.

"Clever bastards," I mutter, noting how they've split into smaller groups to cover more ground.

The tracks show they're being careful, professional. Not the usual bounty hunters or mercenaries. I scan the surrounding forest. The late afternoon sun filters through the leaves, casting dancing shadows that could hide an entire patrol.

The rabbit I caught earlier hangs forgotten at my belt as I study the ground again. Something doesn't add up. We've taken every precaution - traveling at night, using streams to mask our scent, laying false trails. Yet somehow, they keep finding us.

We've left ourselves exposed somehow, given them an opening to track us. But how?

A bitter taste fills my mouth. We'll need to change course, take the longer route through the mountain passes. It'll add weeks to our journey back to the settlement, but better that than walking into an ambush.

My thoughts suddenly drift back to the ruins, to Eira. The way she trembled beneath my touch, how she claimed each of us in turn. Something in my chest aches at the memory. She's mine now, whether she realizes it or not. The thought of those dark elf bastards laying hands on her again makes my blood boil.

"They won't have her," I growl softly, standing to my full height.

I gather some herbs to mask our scent as I plot our new route in my head. The others won't like it, but they'll understand. Strategy before speed - that's how you survive. That's how you protect what's yours.

I need to get back to camp, need to move our group before the dark elves decide to close the distance. They want us alive - want her alive - but I won't give them the chance.

I soon stride back into camp, the weight of what I’ve discovered pressing on my shoulders. The others look up as I approach, their expressions shifting from casual to alert. Grash is sharpening his axe, the rhythmic scrape of metal on stone stopping mid-motion. Dren sits silently by the fire, his eyes flicking to me, already reading my tension. Eira is crouched near the edge of the camp, her back to me as she fidgets with something on the ground. She doesn’t turn, but I see her shoulders stiffen.

"We've got trouble," I announce, my voice low and controlled despite the rage simmering beneath. "Fresh tracks. A dozen dark elves, maybe more. They're getting closer."

Grash moves closer, his golden eyes narrowing. "How close?"

"Half a day behind us." I grab a stick, sketching a quick map in the dirt. "They've split into smaller groups, sweeping the forest in a pattern. Professional. Organized."

"We've been careful," Grash growls, his massive hands clenching into fists.

"Too careful for them to keep finding us this easily." I rake my fingers through my braids, frustration building in me. "Something's not right."

Dren emerges from the shadows, his eyes gleaming with understanding. He studies my crude map before speaking. "The tracks suggest they know exactly where to look."

"Exactly," I say, my frustration boiling over. "No wasted movement, no hesitation. They’re not guessing. They know ."

Eira still hasn’t turned, but her hands have stopped moving. She’s listening, but something about the way she’s holding herself feels different.

"We need to change course," I say, forcing myself to focus. "The direct route’s compromised. We’ll take the mountain pass east. It’s longer—adds a couple of weeks to the journey—but it’s the only way to shake them."

"Weeks?" Grash barks, his golden-brown eyes flashing. "Eira can’t handle that kind of climb, and you know it. She’s not built for it."

"She doesn’t have a choice," I snap back, my voice cutting through the air. "And neither do we. Unless you want to hand her over to the dark elves, we’re taking the pass."

Dren steps between us, his presence calm but commanding. "Murok’s right," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The mountains are our best chance. Eira will manage."

I glance at her again, my chest tightening. She’s still silent, still turned away. I want to ask her what’s wrong, but now’s not the time. We need to move, and we need to move fast.

"Pack up," I order, my voice brittle with tension. "Grash, take point. Dren, cover our backs. And Eira"—she finally turns to look at me, her green eyes wide but unreadable—"stay close. No wandering off."

She nods, but there’s a flicker of something in her expression—guilt? Fear? I can’t place it, and I don’t have time to figure it out. The dark elves are closing in, and I’ll be damned if I let them take her.

As the others start moving, I crouch by the fire, smothering it with dirt. My mind races, trying to piece together how they’re tracking us. Something’s wrong, and I’m missing it.

The mountain path soon winds before us. Each step takes us higher into terrain that will test even my endurance. My braids whip in the cold wind as I scan our surroundings, mapping escape routes and defensive positions out of habit.

Dren catches my eye, his silver gaze holding mine for a moment too long. A chill runs down my spine that has nothing to do with the altitude. He's noticed it too - something's definitely off.

I glance back at Eira, watching her pick her way carefully over the rocky ground. Since that night in the ruins, she's been different. Distant. The way she startles at sudden movements, how her eyes dart away when I catch her watching us. At first, I attributed it to confusion over her feelings, the natural aftermath of giving herself to three warriors in one night. But now...

"Keep up," I call back to her, my voice gruff. She jumps slightly, then hurries to close the gap between us.

"I'm fine," she snaps, but there's a tremor in her voice that wasn't there before.

Grash grunts from the front of our group. "We need to move. This exposed ridge is asking for trouble."

I watch Eira's reaction carefully. Her shoulders tense at the mention of trouble, but is it fear of the dark elves or something else? The tactician in me can't ignore the patterns anymore. The dark elves finding us too easily. Her changed behavior. The way she's been disappearing for short periods, claiming she needs privacy.

"It doesn't make sense," I mutter to myself, shaking my head. Why would she betray us to the dark elves? She'd be risking her own freedom, her own life. After everything they did to her...

But doubt gnaws at me like a hungry wolf. I've seen too many battles, too many betrayals to ignore my instincts. And right now, they're screaming at me that something is terribly amiss.