Chapter 11 The Orc Method
The Orc Method
Brok
“How sure are you that this will work, Brok? This doesn’t smell very appealing.”
Barnaby held the basket of flat cakes as far away from himself as possible. I shot him an unimpressed look. “I’ll have you know the Kharak’dur is highly popular among the dire wolves in the Iron Steppe.”
In fact, the plant had almost gone extinct because those damn packs of wild beasts had devoured it with such greed. If not for my tribe, it might have disappeared from the realm entirely.
We were fortunate indeed to have the leftover Kharak’dur that Barnaby had refused to drink. It had been almost too easy to marinate some quality Wagyu in the liquid Barnaby had disdained and create some simple flat cakes from the meat. The result wasn’t pretty, but it would work.
This was the Orc Method. Simple, but efficient. The Rescue Paws animals were going to go wild over it.
Barnaby’s whiskers twitched, but he didn’t protest further. “If you say so, Brok. It’s my last hope, anyway.”
Juggling my own, much larger basket, I clutched the printout we’d received from Grix.
The map was tiny, made for the eyes of a kobold.
It also didn’t involve driving, because kobolds didn’t drive.
I squinted at the cramped symbols and tried to make sense of the directions. “Come on. I think it’s this way.”
The estate sprawled ahead of us. It was as massive as the dragon’s den I’d visited the last time I’d been to the Iron Steppe. There was only one difference. The dragon living here didn’t hoard coins, but dogs.
There were so many of them, some large, some so tiny I wondered how their species even survived evolution. All of them seemed at ease, their tails wagging as they reveled in the attention.
Barnaby eyed them all with visible caution, his ears swiveling like radar dishes. So far, there hadn’t been a potential repeat of the Rottweiler incident, but we’d only just arrived.
An elderly German Shepherd spotted me first. No doubt, it must have been some kind of guard dog once. Even now, it sensed the danger.
The dog turned toward us slowly, ears flattening against its skull. This was it. The end game.
That had always been the dangerous part about coming here. Animals always knew. The glamor worked fine on humans, but dogs saw right through it. Most of them got nervous. Some got aggressive. A few just kept their distance and watched.
From here, it would all depend on how we handled the problem. It all depended on the magic of the Orc Method.
I kept my movements slow and deliberate, trying to project calm. The German Shepherd backed away from us, never breaking eye contact. The dog’s hackles were slightly raised, body tense and ready to bolt.
Barnaby noticed. His tail started to move a little too quickly, that telltale sign of rising panic I’d learned to recognize over the past few weeks. “See? The damn beasts know something’s wrong. No offense.”
“None taken,” I said, adjusting my grip on the basket. “It’s temporary. Once they smell the treats, they’ll forget about everything else.”
Kharak’dur had never failed with the dire wolves. These dogs weren’t quite as savage as the beasts in the steppe. But they’d been through hardship, known hunger, pain, and loss. I refused to believe the flat cakes wouldn’t work on them.
Before I could retrieve my secret weapon from the basket, a sharp laugh froze me in my tracks. “There you are, Barnaby. And… companion. You must be Brok, right?”
I turned, only to find myself facing a massive fox. Yes, an actual fox, standing on two legs, three feet away from us.
Wearing a black cocktail dress that somehow worked despite the bushy tail, he was eyeing us with visible amusement. “What an unexpected surprise.”
It was, of course, Reynard. I’d never met him before, but he was unmistakable. He’d also worn many disguises throughout his past. Never one of a female, but maybe he was taking a more modern approach.
Barnaby’s eyes went wide, and his ears went rigid. Much like those of the German Shepherd still watching us. “Reynard? What are you doing here?”
Reynard’s eyes flashed with displeasure. “It’s Vixen today, Osterhase,” he said, gliding toward us. “Remember it.”
Vixen. Was that the name of his current alias? He was really embracing it, wasn’t he?
I watched Barnaby’s shoulders hunch even further. He was about to bolt. If he ran now, we’d lose our last chance at boosting his Joy Coefficient. The flat cakes would be useless by tomorrow.
Reynard leaned in to examine our baskets, his snout wrinkling in exaggerated disgust. One manicured claw poked at the flat cakes like he was prodding something dead. “Are these supposed to be cookies? They look like someone sat on them. Repeatedly. And what is that smell?”
Barnaby’s breathing hitched. His paw trembled on the basket handle.
I stepped forward, drawing Reynard’s attention away from Barnaby before he could spiral completely. “Dogs don’t care about how a treat looks. They only care about the taste.”
“How rustic.” Reynard’s tail swished behind him, slow and deliberate. A predator toying with prey. “I’m sure the judges will be very impressed by your commitment to authenticity. Nothing says ‘joy’ quite like aggressively ugly baked goods.”
A few nearby guests had noticed the exchange, their conversations pausing. I could feel their attention like weight on my shoulders.
Barnaby needed a win. Needed proof that this wasn’t a complete disaster. Needed something to hold onto before Reynard destroyed what little confidence he had left.
I pulled out one of the flat cakes. The scent of Kharak’dur wafted across the lawn, carried on the evening breeze.
The German Shepherd’s nose twitched. Its ears perked up. The uncertainty in its posture vanished, replaced by sudden, laser-focused interest.
Then it lunged.
I barely had time to toss the cake before the dog crashed into my legs with the force of a small battering ram. A terrier yipped and joined the chase. A Great Dane’s tail started wagging so hard its entire back end swayed.
Within seconds, I was surrounded. Dogs pressed against my legs, jumped at my hands, whined and barked and competed for position like I was made of meat. The German Shepherd managed to snag a piece, and its eyes went half-closed with pleasure.
Just like the dire wolves in the Iron Steppe. Ha. I told you so, Barnaby.
The effect rippled outward. More dogs arrived, drawn by the commotion and the scent. A beagle. Two corgis. Something small and fluffy that looked like someone had glued cotton balls to a rat. They swarmed the basket, and I had to hold it above my head to keep them from tearing it apart entirely.
This was working. Better than working. This was exactly what Grix had said we needed.
“Give them more,” I quickly told Barnaby. We had to take advantage of this opportunity. “Maximum exposure. That’s the whole point.”
Barnaby fumbled with his basket but managed to extract a treat and toss it into the pack.
The dogs descended on it like it contained the secret to immortality.
Barnaby watched them in awe, as if he couldn’t quite believe what was going on around him.
“Brok,” he whispered. “This thing is magical. With a cookie like this, I’d never have to worry about being chased again.
I don’t need to do cardio at all to escape the Rottweiler! ”
It was probably true. If Barnaby ever ran into a canine obstacle on one of his trips, using the Kharak’dur would certainly cause a big distraction. But that wasn’t the point of today’s trip. It was also a mistake to say it out loud.
“Oh dear gods,” Reynard muttered under his breath. “This is worse than I thought. You’re a magical rabbit. You shouldn’t need cardio at all. Is this really what I’m competing with?”
“You’re competing with the Osterhase,” I shot back. “Remember it.”
Reynard twitched in irritation. For all his words, he didn’t seem very thrilled with the dogs’ excitement over the flat cakes. His smile had vanished. He didn’t seem quite so eager to mock us now.
Before he could say anything else, a high-pitched yip echoed through the air, somehow carrying over the barking chaos.
A tiny Pomeranian shoved through the crowd of larger dogs with a determination that would have rivaled my own.
The creature was absurd. Professionally groomed to the point of comedy, the creature had fur so fluffy it looked like someone had attached a cloud to a pair of legs.
It wore a collar with more diamonds than I’d seen in one place outside of a jewelry store.
The thing probably weighed less than the basket I was holding.
It planted itself directly in front of me and stared at the basket with unblinking focus. I didn’t need to speak Dog like an orc shaman to understand what that meant.
I pulled out a treat and held it down. The Pomeranian took it with delicate precision, then settled at my feet to destroy it with single-minded intensity.
The little beast didn’t get the chance to finish devouring its prey. “Fifi!” a female voice called out. “Where are you?”
The command cut through the barking with pure authority. An older woman emerged from the crowd, people stepping aside to let her pass.
Every muscle in my body went rigid. What little triumph I’d felt over my successful cakes dissipated into thin air.
The woman was Hazel’s grandmother. I recognized her immediately from The Cocoa Bean. Back then, Hazel had done her best to keep the older woman from paying attention to me and Barnaby, but I could have never mistaken her for anyone else. Those green eyes were just like Hazel’s, after all.
Come to think of it… Hazel had distracted her grandmother by agreeing to go to a gala. Oh, gods. It was… It was this gala. This exact event. Hazel was here.
Which meant I’d failed. I’d tried to keep her out of this, tried to protect her from the unavoidable mess resulting from the Challenge. Somehow she’d ended up right in the middle of it anyway. And if Reynard was here… There was a good chance Isengrim might be, too.
I was on the verge of a panic attack when Hazel’s grandmother stopped in front of me.
She took in the scene with a single assessing glance.
Then, she picked up one of the flat cakes from my basket.
“I’ve never seen Fifi eat anything except my granddaughter’s work with such gusto.
” She sniffed the cake and miraculously didn’t flinch. “Impressive. What’s in them?”
My mind went blank. I couldn’t exactly explain Kharak’dur or the Iron Steppe or the fact that I was an orc carrying around treats made from a plant that drove predators into feeding frenzies.
I also could barely think past the sudden spike of dread coursing through my mind.
“Special recipe from my homeland,” I somehow managed to grit out. “Family secret.”
It wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.
“Fascinating.” Hazel’s grandmother tucked the cake into her expensive purse without asking permission. “If they’re as beneficial as they appear, I might be interested in placing a bulk order for the rescue foundation.”
She waited for a beat, perhaps expecting an answer. When I failed to provide one, she turned and left without a word. Fifi trotted after her, leaving a small pile of crumbs where the treat had been.
As the old woman vanished into the crowd, I shared a look with Barnaby. He didn’t seem to care about the dogs at all anymore. He’d recognized Hazel’s grandmother, too, and he knew what it meant.
I set my basket down a nearby table. The dogs immediately lost interest in me and turned their attention to Barnaby. “Stay here,” I told him. “Keep handing out treats. Smile. Look happy. Boost that Joy Coefficient.”
“Where are you going?”
“To find Hazel.”
He hesitated, and I knew that he was considering offering his help. It would probably come in handy. The power of a magical entity like Barnaby was no joke.
But Reynard was still right there. Not ideal, but at least the damn fox wasn’t lurking around Hazel. Barnaby could distract the Osterfuchs until I found Hazel.
“Well, Vixen…” he said, as if coming to the same conclusion. “What do you think about Brok’s cookies now?”
I didn’t wait to hear Reynard’s reply. I pushed through the crowd, scanning faces, looking for crimson hair and green eyes and the woman who’d somehow become the most important thing in my world.
My hands curled into fists as I moved through the crowd. People stepped aside instinctively, responding to something in my posture even if they couldn’t see past the glamor.
Then I saw her.
She stood in front of a white gazebo, talking to someone in an expensive suit. Tall. Well-groomed. Perfect posture that looked natural but set off every warning instinct I had.
It was him. Isengrim. Just like I’d feared, he was lurking around her, too. Their bodies were so close that if he leaned forward slightly, he could probably kiss her.
Every muscle in my body locked up. I didn’t think. Didn’t plan. I just moved.
“Get away from Hazel, now!”