Chapter Eleven
Farigoth
Farigoth was alarmed. Andre retreating from the tent, the flap falling closed behind him, was so far from his usual behavior it threw Farigoth for a loop.
Something had gone horribly wrong. When he saw panic in Andre’s eyes, he knew he’d screwed up—he just didn’t know how. He cursed himself for his blindness to Andre’s needs. He should be more observant! Caring for his mate was his sacred duty!
Huffing at his shameful negligence, Farigoth got to his feet. He had to make things right.
“Give him a moment,” George said, stopping him in his tracks. He peeled off his mate’s large, dark wings and grabbed a piece of clothing to cover himself. “You took him hard, and he came so many times… It can be taxing, physically and emotionally.”
Farigoth hesitated. The human had a better grasp of his kind’s habits and needs. At the same time, every instinct in Farigoth screamed to run after Andre and lay the world at his feet. His mate needed him!
He told the imp, who was barely listening, petting his mate, when and where to meet to discuss the details of the festival, then put on his loincloth and left the tent. Reining in the urge to tear through the forest to get to Andre, he trailed him from a distance, not wanting to hound him.
Seeing Andre retreating stabbed his heart. His poor mate was hurting! Farigoth didn’t know what had gone wrong, but he was determined to snuff out any problem there might be. His mate would not suffer; Farigoth wouldn’t allow it.
They reached camp, Andre two hundred paces ahead of him. If he’d noticed Farigoth tailing him through the forest, he gave no sign of it, heading for the makeshift paddock where they kept the horses.
Sweat beaded on Farigoth’s brow. He didn’t like Andre going for a ride by himself. Who knew what dangers lurked in the woods? Wolves! Bears! Snakes!
Pushing through the hustle and bustle of the camp, Farigoth went after him. The scent of woodsmoke and roasting meats hung between the tents, the sounds of bickering orcs and the clang of swordplay ubiquitous.
“Farigoth!”
He turned to find a grim-faced Serckor, his comrades at his back. The orcs didn’t bow.
Farigoth snarled. Normally, that would’ve been enough to send a legion of orcs to their knees. Not this half-dozen.
“When is the next delivery of men coming?” Serckor asked. “How many are they sending?”
Around them, the noise of the camp faded. Every pair of eyes was on Farigoth. The horde had heard Serckor’s question, keen to know when they’d finally get a mate.
Farigoth took a step forward, his weight coming down on the ground like thunder. The orcs flinched—but not Serckor.
“They’re not delivering more men. We are meeting the humans for the festival of Ugkor so they can witness the joy our mates experience. There will be many men for us once they see what we can do for them.”
Serckor snorted derisively. It dawned on Farigoth that he hadn’t expected to hear a mate for him was coming. “I challenge you for chiefship.”
Serckor’s comrades blanched. They had expected him to ask tough questions, to stir trouble, but not this. No orc had dared challenge Farigoth. Not after he’d defeated chief after chief in his quest to unite the tribes. This was dumb, and they knew it.
Farigoth itched to go after Andre, but he couldn’t turn down a challenge to his position, least of all one issued before the tribe.
If he said no, the orcs would descend on him and kill him for his cowardice—or try to anyway.
Farigoth, hopelessly outnumbered, would prevail against impossible odds, but he’d be badly injured, would’ve killed half the tribe and be delayed getting to Andre.
Accepting the challenge was quicker and cleaner.
Farigoth growled his acceptance.
A murmur rolled through the camp like a wave. More and more orcs joined the scene, the shouts of their comrades drawing them in. It had been a long time since a chief had last been challenged. Within minutes, everybody had heard.
The orcs cleared the center of the camp, creating a fighting ring. Farigoth met his opponent there, the tribe gathering around them in a circle.
Orcs brought forward the traditional face paint, which Farigoth dotted on his brow and smeared across his cheeks with two fingers. Having done it so many times, a sense of calm settled. He and Serckor discarded their weapons, tossing them to the bystanders. The drums thundered.
A challenge to chiefship was determined in hand-to-hand combat and fought to the death.
If the challenger triumphed, he wouldn’t want the old chief around after his ascension, and if the chief prevailed, he likewise didn’t appreciate the looming threat of a disgruntled challenger.
The few times the winner hadn’t killed the loser, it had ended badly.
The orcs howled and beat their chests. On the starting signal, Serckor was the first to attack. He was close to Farigoth in size and weight, and the inches and pounds he fell short, he made up in speed.
Farigoth let him rush forward, determined to take the initial onslaught, letting Serckor wear himself out.
Serckor’s fist hit his chest, forcing a grunt from him.
Farigoth absorbed the impact, gritting his teeth.
A flurry of blows rained down on him; some he blocked, others landing expertly on places Serckor had struck before.
He was a better fighter than Farigoth had expected, driving him to dodge and duck.
It was seconds before Farigoth delivered his first hit, ramming his fist into Serckor’s stomach. The orc staggered, gasping for air. He caught himself. Pounced on Farigoth. Serckor roared as he smashed his knuckles into his temple.
Farigoth’s vision flickered. Pain shot through his skull. Blindly, he struck out, hitting air.
A punch from behind drove the air from his lungs, front teeth slicing into his tongue. Blood filled his mouth. He spat and whirled around, hitting Serckor in the shoulder, sending him stumbling.
Serckor fought well. He struck lightning fast. Fierce and filled with rage, he beat at Farigoth, who blocked half the blows, taking the rest. Fire blazing in Serckor’s eyes, he reminded Farigoth of a younger version of himself.
Indeed, Serckor had the advantage of youth.
What he did not have was the experience of dethroning so many chiefs that he didn’t even remember them all.
Serckor’s fist flew toward him. The orc was fuming, dumb enough to have thought he could win against an aging chief fifteen years his senior. Against Farigoth the Ravager.
Farigoth jumped, slamming his fist into Serckor’s unprotected right. The sharp crunch of breaking ribs cracked in the air. The horde flinched. Serckor stumbled.
A quick end to combat would drive the point home that Farigoth was not to be challenged. That every contender for the title of chief would die at his hands.
One hit to Serckor’s stomach, one to his chest, and he was on the ground. He tried to get up, but Farigoth was ready to put an end to it. He stomped on Serckor’s leg, the orc howling as bones snapped like twigs.
Eyes large with fear, he stared up at Farigoth. The realization that he shouldn’t have challenged him was written all over his panicked face.
Farigoth drew back his fist. Pale with terror, Serckor tried to crawl back. His broken body failed him.
“Please! Please don’t kill me! I surrender! I will not challenge you! I won’t even—”
CRUSH.
Serckor’s skull shattered under Farigoth’s fist. He hit the mess of blood and bone again. And again. It was unbecoming of an orc to beg for his life. If death came, one faced it with cold acceptance.
His end served Serckor right. No one challenged Farigoth and lived to tell the tale.
The frenzy of combat was replaced by the euphoric rush of victory. Farigoth turned to the hollering, cheering crowd, fist raised in triumph. His eyes swept over the ecstatic orcs, raw pleasure whirling through him.
Until he spotted Andre. He was standing among the horde, face drained of color, a hand pressed to his mouth, eyes wide with horror as he took in Farigoth and the bloody corpse at his feet.