Binch sat, silent and motionless, in the undergrowth, listening carefully to the distant commotion. A light spring drizzle fell steadily, but he was drenched now in any case. There was nothing much to see—twigs, leaves, dripping water, his own long, heavily muscled arms disappearing into the mud. He idly gripped a branch with a three-fingered hand and squeezed slowly, silently pulverising the wet wood. He had already sat for an hour, waiting patiently for the time to act.
With nothing to see, Binch was wholly reliant upon his ears. Slowly he began to pick out some distinct sounds that were getting louder. He heard the sound of orcs screaming and crashing through the undergrowth. As the noises came even closer, he heard cursing, rocks being thrown, and finally the noise of lighter, fleeter footsteps, followed by the unmistakable shriek of a terrified animal, desperately fleeing its pursuers.
At last the noises were upon him. Binch counted his heartbeats. Five, four, three…no. Now! Binch leapt up, bursting through the undergrowth. He saw the animal was a large stag, just a few yards away and heading straight for him. Binch closed in instinctively, crouching low, pushing and leaping towards the terrified animal, arms outstretched. However, as he leapt, the muddy earth gave way beneath him, and his feet failed to find the purchase they needed. Rather than dive into the stag’s flank, shoulder first, as intended, Binch found himself sprawled in the mud at the stag’s feet. Then there was a crack and pain, and the world went black.
Binch sat up and looked around. The blood rushed to his head, and he instinctively put his head between his knees until his senses cleared. He put his hand up to the side of his face, finding dried blood and a huge swollen bruise from the kick the fleeing stag had given him. The eye on that side of his face refused to open. The other orcs had left him where he was and stood around grumbling and cursing, readying for the trip back to camp. Binch’s movement caught their eyes.
‘Shit. Binchy’s still alive. Looks like we ain’t taking that much meat back to camp after all.’
‘Perhaps we should have made sure he was dead. Is it too late?’
‘Doubt the boss would have been impressed with us bringing that scrawny git back anyway.’
Binch did not know who had spoken, but he got swiftly to his feet. The blood raced to his head again, and he swayed dizzily, the pain sharp across his gashed face. This time he hid his discomfort. It was a very bad idea to give the impression you were injured and defenceless in orc society. I am lucky they didn’t snap my neck while I was unconscious.
‘I’m all right. Just letting you maggots do your fair share of the work!’ Binch wheeled past a half-hearted cuff and dodged away to avoid any further confrontation. He went to inspect what they had caught. Just a few rabbits and a tangle of bones and feathers that looked like it may have once been a magpie. A magpie? How did anyone catch that? And why bother? We may as well go back with nothing. The boss will not be pleased.
The trip back to camp was not a happy one. Binch’s wound continued to swell, and his eye was still firmly shut. It hurt like fuck too. The rain became much heavier; sheets of water were now falling from the sky. It will keep the wound clean at least, I suppose, thought Binch. The track they were following was muddy, and there was a long way to go, with big trouble likely at the end of it. All of them knew it. But then there was a shout from the front of the group.
‘Don’t worry, Binchy, me old cock. I will make sure the boss knows it was a very, very big deer that gotcha, and you’re really not to be blamed for letting it get away and leaving the tribe hungry.’
It was Argat the hunting party leader, a big, scarred brute, teeth missing, a veteran orc almost sixteen years old. Binch scowled in response but kept his gaze firmly on the floor. Argat dropped back to walk beside Binch and stooped a little, bringing his head level with Binch’s ear.
‘Not much of a hunter, are you, Binchy? Or a fighter. Are you good for anything?’ Binch still made no reply. ‘Oh, I know you’re a sneaky git. I’m surprised that’s kept you alive for so long. You are a waste of skin. I’ll be well pleased to get rid of you, so watch yourself.’ With that, the hunt leader quickened his pace and headed back to the front of the party.
The dressing down had done nothing for Binch’s spirits, but the mood of the other orcs was now beginning to lighten, sensing they might not be in quite so much trouble after all with a scapegoat around. A grin spread across the features of one of the younger and louder orcs.
‘That’s a right nasty wound you got there, Binchy. I don’t think anyone will believe you got that from a deer.’
‘I don’t think anyone will believe Binch was brave enough to be anywhere near a deer.’
‘I think we’d best say it was the rabbits.’ There was raucous laughter from the other orcs, but Binch did not respond. He trudged on glumly through the rain and the mud, eye still closed and pain shooting through his face with every step.
As they neared the camp, Binch heard a shout.
‘Look! There he is again!’ Binch followed the gestures towards a cluster of trees, where he saw a small figure hunched observing them in the undergrowth. He wore clothes of grey and brown and had a large hood that cast a deep shadow over his features. The diminutive stature and the long, brown beard marked the figure to be a dwarf, a hated foe of the orcs. One of the more youthful members of the hunting party was already charging towards him, battle scream upon his lips, bare, huge hands raised in challenge. However, no sooner had the dwarf realised he was spotted than he was gone. There was a commotion in the undergrowth. Birds and small mammals fled in a flurry of squawks and feathers, and leaves drifted slowly to the floor. After a few minutes of searching and swearing, the orc stomped back to his comrades in disgust.
‘Wasting your time chasing him, Uzhul. He’s as sneaky as a snake.’
‘I always wanted to try dwarf. They don’t come out of their holes much.’
‘What’s he doing round here anyway? He’s always hiding around our camp.’
‘Dunno.’
‘Weird. Just watching all the time.’
‘Maybe he’s heard about my famous shagging skills, and knowing dwarfs, he’s wanting to try out my techniques on his mates!’
‘Maybe lusting over Dul from the safety of the bushes like you, more like!’
The group burst out laughing again, shaking their heads at the inscrutable dwarf. They indulged themselves in a few minutes of pushing and shoving until honour had reached equilibrium once again and then carried on their way.
By the time they reached the encampment, Binch was not feeling quite so bad. The rain had stopped. His eye still refused to open, but it was probably only due to the swelling. The wound is definitely next to the eye, not in it. It should be fine. Anyway, an eye is the least of my worries just now. But Binch found himself pushed aside as the other orcs ran the last few hundred yards to the encampment. He cursed and swore before wondering what all the excitement was about.
Ahead of him lay the orc encampment, a sprawling village of ramshackle shelters that housed about a hundred adult orcs and a veritable legion of orc cubs. A large fire blazed in the centre, and the sounds of celebration drifted across the field to where Binch stood. Orcs danced and leapt about the fire, naked as always, hooting and shouting. He could also smell fresh meat, so others must have had rather more success at the hunt than they had had.
In fact, it was most definitely party time in the orc camp. Carcasses of sheep were piled high and were being busily devoured or fought over. No serious fighting, just the usual scrapping, more to determine rank and to show off to the females rather than trying to kill or maim. Three-fingered orc hands were not nimble enough for the making of a weapon any more sophisticated than a rock or a club, a factor that kept casualties quite low. But Binch noticed one orc body with the rest of the meat even so.
Some lucky orcs were busy mating with their females, whilst cubs ran amok everywhere, shouting and pushing, pinching and punching, making jokes about their rutting elders. A whirl of arms and legs, snot and shit, forever underfoot and being kicked out of the way.
If there is one thing that orcs do best, Binch thought jealously, watching, it’s mating. The lifespan of an orc was nasty, brutish and short, but a female orc could have a litter of cubs every three months, and the cubs could all reach maturity in just two years. Binch was rueful, as he thus far had done precisely none of the mating. In orc society, the only males accepted by the females were the biggest and most aggressive. It was never just one male per tribe, as there were only so many females one male could look after, but most male orcs led a life of frustration, waiting at the sidelines of society for their chance. Binch was most definitely one of those orcs. He was small, the sort of orc who normally never made it to maturity, but famously, Binch was just a little bit clever.
Last winter when meat had been scarce, the incumbent boss, an enormous but slow fellow named Cruz, had decided Binch could be of best use to the tribe by providing its leader with a good meal. Binch, however, had had plenty of practice at avoiding being eaten and had used his smaller stature to dodge, weave, and generally evade the bigger orc. Cruz became enraged, charging and flailing in a mad frenzy. Binch had leapt aside at the last moment to leave the hapless boss to plough head first into a tree. Orcs are famous for their thick skulls, but Cruz never recovered from the heavy blow and ended up being the one eaten by the tribe.
The next most powerful orc had then stepped forward, given a clumsy mock bow towards Binch, and asked, with a face full of orcish glee, ‘So you’re the new boss now, Binchy?’
In response, Binch backed away and raised his raise face up to the sky, a traditional orcish gesture of submission, the exposure of the soft and vulnerable throat.
It had been a rhetorical question in any case; no one in the tribe would accept a small and female-less orc like Binch as their leader. But over time the tribe had learned that Binch was no pushover, and it was best to leave him alone, even if that was firmly outside the tribal power structure.
Binch grabbed some of the spoils from the successful raiding party and began to feed on raw flesh and fur, red with blood still, torn from the bone. From the conversations around him, he learned Bolka had led another hunting party out and had daringly attacked a small human village, carrying away much of its livestock. Trouble and yet more trouble, Binch thought to himself. Now that the humans knew there were orcs in the area, the village would not be so lightly defended again. Worse still, knights would come hunting the tribe. An orc—strong and predatory—was more than a match for any number of human farmers, but the knights with their polished armour, lances, and warhorses were another matter altogether. It would soon be time to move on from here.
Crazy, thought Binch. Most humans slave away in the fields all day, weak and defenceless with nothing. Others spend all their time fighting. Why do the strong not just take everything for themselves? And all of them serve a few, who do nothing but eat and grow fat. Slaves, he spat. It’s not right that this race of slaves dominates the orc.
However, for now, the party continued unabashed. The fighting was getting a bit out of hand and Binch moved away from it, towards the edges of the encampment, still clutching the remains of his meal.
Suddenly Binch staggered. Someone had given him a sharp, painful jab in the small of the back. He whirled around instinctively, senses heightened, adrenalin pumping. Only to find no one. Then from the corner of his eye, he saw his assailant. Zear, a very young female was watching him and laughing.
‘I thought I would test the skills of our great rabbit slayer. I hear you got quite a kick from one!’
Binch scowled, standing down. The danger was of ridicule rather than anything physical. But Zear was Binch’s favourite female in the tribe at the moment. Very young, not particularly desirable, perhaps not yet clever enough to know to leave a loser like me alone. A fine round face, strong thick limbs. Beautiful enough, though. Binch felt his desire grow within him.
‘Come on, Zear. Enough of this nonsense. I have meat in my belly and am burning for you. Bend over, and let’s get at it!’
Zear snorted with derision. ‘A fine male you’d make for me. Your tricks wouldn’t be any help if another decided they were taking me, would they?’ It was the response Binch had expected; he had plenty of experience of female rejection. She was still laughing, at least.
‘Come on, Binchy baby; tell me all about this rabbit.’
Binch coughed up a pellet of bone and fur and spat it out noisily. He laughed too. ‘He was very fierce!’ He advanced upon her, clearly with only one intention, but she fled, still laughing. Grumbling, Binch abandoned his advances and went back towards the fire to see if there was more food.
The most powerful male of the tribe was having rather a better time of it. Exhausted from his exertions, he left his females and moved back to the fire and the carcasses there. Binch shifted away uneasily as the big orc moved towards him. Haj was the tribe’s leader, a hugely muscled orc with a stooped back and mighty hands with thick, fat fingers capable of crushing a human’s skull. But punishing failed hunting parties was not on his mind. There was plenty of food at the moment anyway, and his blood flowed fast from the meat in his belly and the fire in his loins.
To be the head of the tribe was a very delicate balancing act. Every male wanted the position, and keeping the position required keeping the others in their place. Too much of that, though, could leave a tribe critically short of warriors. Haj had the strength required to rule a much bigger tribe but was prone to frequently getting the second part of the equation all wrong.
Trouble, Binch thought, watching him. I can tell from the swagger he is looking for a fight right now. Binch moved to a spot well away from Haj, yet with a clear view so he could watch.
Haj swaggered towards the meat, pushing aside a female and kicking at—but missing—some squabbling cubs, who were entirely oblivious to the danger they were in. As Haj strode on, a feeding orc looked up, sensing a change in the camp’s atmosphere. It was Blit, not yet fully grown, but already of formidable size, big enough certainly to be a potential successor to Haj. Blit watched, transfixed but unafraid, as Haj knelt in the mud next to him.
There was a brief moment as the two males glared at one another before Haj snatched at the meat in Blit’s hands. Blit was too fast, though. He threw the meat to the floor with a snarl, and both males leapt to their feet, their foreheads pressed together. The tribe had gone silent. Thoughts of food and sex were put aside as they gathered around to watch.
‘Submit.’
It was Haj who spoke, but Blit did not flinch, and the two orcs remained squared up against each other, just an inch apart, eyes glaring and unblinking.
The tension of the tribe fed into the very air itself. A challenge between two large males was nothing new; indeed, it was rare for any one male to be able to hold on to top dog status for more than a couple of years, but it was nevertheless a key event in every orc’s life. A new boss could lead the tribe to good eating and dominance over other tribes or to complete destruction.
The tension mounted even further as the two orcs remained locked together, forehead to forehead, each daring the other to act first. It seemed like an eternity. Pulses raced around the camp, and time slowed to a trickle.
It was Haj who made the first move. He swung his huge hand into the face of Blit from close range. Blit rolled away from the punch and fell to the ground before leaping back to his feet, roaring and wide-eyed with aggression. The tribe roared with him, their excitement hardly contained as the fight began in earnest.
Haj roared too and leapt forward, only for Blit to sidestep and bring his knee heavily into Haj’s side as he passed. It was Haj’s turn to roll away, clutching his side, breath rasping already. More cautious now, Haj circled Blit carefully, looking for an opening. But it was not long before impatience once again got the better of him, and he launched himself at his rival. Blit swiftly moved aside again, timing a punch into Haj’s ribs as he passed. A tiny trickle of blood seeped from the claw marks left in Haj’s bare chest. Repeatedly the fight followed the same pattern, and slowly Haj was beginning to tire. A desperate expression formed upon his face. Blit was not yet as strong, but the younger orc was much too fast for him. The tribe was agog at the prospect of a new leader.
Sensing his opportunity, Blit finally made his move, feinting and then sending a mighty right hook into the tribe leader’s jaw. But instead of dodging or blocking, Haj moved in closer, too close for the punch to find the momentum it needed. He grabbed at Blit and hung on tightly. Blit could no longer use his speed, and the fight changed dramatically.
Bellowing angrily, Blit staggered under the pressing weight of the bigger orc. They grappled for some minutes before Blit’s legs finally gave way, and the pair fell to the floor. Still they writhed together on the ground, each seeking to get on top to end the bout. It was Haj who succeeded. He manoeuvred his bulk onto his opponent, crushing and pinning him beneath, ignoring his piteous moans and shuddering breaths.
‘Submit,’ said Haj once again, and this time Blit moved his head back as best he could to expose his throat. Haj forced the head back still further, his giant paw over Blit’s nose and eyes, pressing and suffocating.
Haj grinned in triumph and roared maniacally. Then he bit down, deep into the exposed throat, tearing and ripping.
He stood up to face the tribe, chest puffed up, face dripping with gore. Arterial blood still pumped from Blit’s body behind him.
The tribe was shocked. Haj had won, but not at all convincingly. To not accept a rival’s submission…this was a weakness indeed; it was something only done when a rival would certainly best you next time.
There was no question who was master of the tribe, though.
‘Anyone else?’ Haj roared. The tribe was silent, uneasy. ‘Come on, then. Let’s get back on with the party. I‘ve got us some more meat!’ With that he flung the fresh corpse over with the rest of the hunting spoils.
The party continued through to dawn, but Binch crept away long before the end, his belly and his balls both full, fully dissatisfied with his lot in life.
With nothing to see, Binch was wholly reliant upon his ears. Slowly he began to pick out some distinct sounds that were getting louder. He heard the sound of orcs screaming and crashing through the undergrowth. As the noises came even closer, he heard cursing, rocks being thrown, and finally the noise of lighter, fleeter footsteps, followed by the unmistakable shriek of a terrified animal, desperately fleeing its pursuers.
At last the noises were upon him. Binch counted his heartbeats. Five, four, three…no. Now! Binch leapt up, bursting through the undergrowth. He saw the animal was a large stag, just a few yards away and heading straight for him. Binch closed in instinctively, crouching low, pushing and leaping towards the terrified animal, arms outstretched. However, as he leapt, the muddy earth gave way beneath him, and his feet failed to find the purchase they needed. Rather than dive into the stag’s flank, shoulder first, as intended, Binch found himself sprawled in the mud at the stag’s feet. Then there was a crack and pain, and the world went black.
Binch sat up and looked around. The blood rushed to his head, and he instinctively put his head between his knees until his senses cleared. He put his hand up to the side of his face, finding dried blood and a huge swollen bruise from the kick the fleeing stag had given him. The eye on that side of his face refused to open. The other orcs had left him where he was and stood around grumbling and cursing, readying for the trip back to camp. Binch’s movement caught their eyes.
‘Shit. Binchy’s still alive. Looks like we ain’t taking that much meat back to camp after all.’
‘Perhaps we should have made sure he was dead. Is it too late?’
‘Doubt the boss would have been impressed with us bringing that scrawny git back anyway.’
Binch did not know who had spoken, but he got swiftly to his feet. The blood raced to his head again, and he swayed dizzily, the pain sharp across his gashed face. This time he hid his discomfort. It was a very bad idea to give the impression you were injured and defenceless in orc society. I am lucky they didn’t snap my neck while I was unconscious.
‘I’m all right. Just letting you maggots do your fair share of the work!’ Binch wheeled past a half-hearted cuff and dodged away to avoid any further confrontation. He went to inspect what they had caught. Just a few rabbits and a tangle of bones and feathers that looked like it may have once been a magpie. A magpie? How did anyone catch that? And why bother? We may as well go back with nothing. The boss will not be pleased.
The trip back to camp was not a happy one. Binch’s wound continued to swell, and his eye was still firmly shut. It hurt like fuck too. The rain became much heavier; sheets of water were now falling from the sky. It will keep the wound clean at least, I suppose, thought Binch. The track they were following was muddy, and there was a long way to go, with big trouble likely at the end of it. All of them knew it. But then there was a shout from the front of the group.
‘Don’t worry, Binchy, me old cock. I will make sure the boss knows it was a very, very big deer that gotcha, and you’re really not to be blamed for letting it get away and leaving the tribe hungry.’
It was Argat the hunting party leader, a big, scarred brute, teeth missing, a veteran orc almost sixteen years old. Binch scowled in response but kept his gaze firmly on the floor. Argat dropped back to walk beside Binch and stooped a little, bringing his head level with Binch’s ear.
‘Not much of a hunter, are you, Binchy? Or a fighter. Are you good for anything?’ Binch still made no reply. ‘Oh, I know you’re a sneaky git. I’m surprised that’s kept you alive for so long. You are a waste of skin. I’ll be well pleased to get rid of you, so watch yourself.’ With that, the hunt leader quickened his pace and headed back to the front of the party.
The dressing down had done nothing for Binch’s spirits, but the mood of the other orcs was now beginning to lighten, sensing they might not be in quite so much trouble after all with a scapegoat around. A grin spread across the features of one of the younger and louder orcs.
‘That’s a right nasty wound you got there, Binchy. I don’t think anyone will believe you got that from a deer.’
‘I don’t think anyone will believe Binch was brave enough to be anywhere near a deer.’
‘I think we’d best say it was the rabbits.’ There was raucous laughter from the other orcs, but Binch did not respond. He trudged on glumly through the rain and the mud, eye still closed and pain shooting through his face with every step.
As they neared the camp, Binch heard a shout.
‘Look! There he is again!’ Binch followed the gestures towards a cluster of trees, where he saw a small figure hunched observing them in the undergrowth. He wore clothes of grey and brown and had a large hood that cast a deep shadow over his features. The diminutive stature and the long, brown beard marked the figure to be a dwarf, a hated foe of the orcs. One of the more youthful members of the hunting party was already charging towards him, battle scream upon his lips, bare, huge hands raised in challenge. However, no sooner had the dwarf realised he was spotted than he was gone. There was a commotion in the undergrowth. Birds and small mammals fled in a flurry of squawks and feathers, and leaves drifted slowly to the floor. After a few minutes of searching and swearing, the orc stomped back to his comrades in disgust.
‘Wasting your time chasing him, Uzhul. He’s as sneaky as a snake.’
‘I always wanted to try dwarf. They don’t come out of their holes much.’
‘What’s he doing round here anyway? He’s always hiding around our camp.’
‘Dunno.’
‘Weird. Just watching all the time.’
‘Maybe he’s heard about my famous shagging skills, and knowing dwarfs, he’s wanting to try out my techniques on his mates!’
‘Maybe lusting over Dul from the safety of the bushes like you, more like!’
The group burst out laughing again, shaking their heads at the inscrutable dwarf. They indulged themselves in a few minutes of pushing and shoving until honour had reached equilibrium once again and then carried on their way.
By the time they reached the encampment, Binch was not feeling quite so bad. The rain had stopped. His eye still refused to open, but it was probably only due to the swelling. The wound is definitely next to the eye, not in it. It should be fine. Anyway, an eye is the least of my worries just now. But Binch found himself pushed aside as the other orcs ran the last few hundred yards to the encampment. He cursed and swore before wondering what all the excitement was about.
Ahead of him lay the orc encampment, a sprawling village of ramshackle shelters that housed about a hundred adult orcs and a veritable legion of orc cubs. A large fire blazed in the centre, and the sounds of celebration drifted across the field to where Binch stood. Orcs danced and leapt about the fire, naked as always, hooting and shouting. He could also smell fresh meat, so others must have had rather more success at the hunt than they had had.
In fact, it was most definitely party time in the orc camp. Carcasses of sheep were piled high and were being busily devoured or fought over. No serious fighting, just the usual scrapping, more to determine rank and to show off to the females rather than trying to kill or maim. Three-fingered orc hands were not nimble enough for the making of a weapon any more sophisticated than a rock or a club, a factor that kept casualties quite low. But Binch noticed one orc body with the rest of the meat even so.
Some lucky orcs were busy mating with their females, whilst cubs ran amok everywhere, shouting and pushing, pinching and punching, making jokes about their rutting elders. A whirl of arms and legs, snot and shit, forever underfoot and being kicked out of the way.
If there is one thing that orcs do best, Binch thought jealously, watching, it’s mating. The lifespan of an orc was nasty, brutish and short, but a female orc could have a litter of cubs every three months, and the cubs could all reach maturity in just two years. Binch was rueful, as he thus far had done precisely none of the mating. In orc society, the only males accepted by the females were the biggest and most aggressive. It was never just one male per tribe, as there were only so many females one male could look after, but most male orcs led a life of frustration, waiting at the sidelines of society for their chance. Binch was most definitely one of those orcs. He was small, the sort of orc who normally never made it to maturity, but famously, Binch was just a little bit clever.
Last winter when meat had been scarce, the incumbent boss, an enormous but slow fellow named Cruz, had decided Binch could be of best use to the tribe by providing its leader with a good meal. Binch, however, had had plenty of practice at avoiding being eaten and had used his smaller stature to dodge, weave, and generally evade the bigger orc. Cruz became enraged, charging and flailing in a mad frenzy. Binch had leapt aside at the last moment to leave the hapless boss to plough head first into a tree. Orcs are famous for their thick skulls, but Cruz never recovered from the heavy blow and ended up being the one eaten by the tribe.
The next most powerful orc had then stepped forward, given a clumsy mock bow towards Binch, and asked, with a face full of orcish glee, ‘So you’re the new boss now, Binchy?’
In response, Binch backed away and raised his raise face up to the sky, a traditional orcish gesture of submission, the exposure of the soft and vulnerable throat.
It had been a rhetorical question in any case; no one in the tribe would accept a small and female-less orc like Binch as their leader. But over time the tribe had learned that Binch was no pushover, and it was best to leave him alone, even if that was firmly outside the tribal power structure.
Binch grabbed some of the spoils from the successful raiding party and began to feed on raw flesh and fur, red with blood still, torn from the bone. From the conversations around him, he learned Bolka had led another hunting party out and had daringly attacked a small human village, carrying away much of its livestock. Trouble and yet more trouble, Binch thought to himself. Now that the humans knew there were orcs in the area, the village would not be so lightly defended again. Worse still, knights would come hunting the tribe. An orc—strong and predatory—was more than a match for any number of human farmers, but the knights with their polished armour, lances, and warhorses were another matter altogether. It would soon be time to move on from here.
Crazy, thought Binch. Most humans slave away in the fields all day, weak and defenceless with nothing. Others spend all their time fighting. Why do the strong not just take everything for themselves? And all of them serve a few, who do nothing but eat and grow fat. Slaves, he spat. It’s not right that this race of slaves dominates the orc.
However, for now, the party continued unabashed. The fighting was getting a bit out of hand and Binch moved away from it, towards the edges of the encampment, still clutching the remains of his meal.
Suddenly Binch staggered. Someone had given him a sharp, painful jab in the small of the back. He whirled around instinctively, senses heightened, adrenalin pumping. Only to find no one. Then from the corner of his eye, he saw his assailant. Zear, a very young female was watching him and laughing.
‘I thought I would test the skills of our great rabbit slayer. I hear you got quite a kick from one!’
Binch scowled, standing down. The danger was of ridicule rather than anything physical. But Zear was Binch’s favourite female in the tribe at the moment. Very young, not particularly desirable, perhaps not yet clever enough to know to leave a loser like me alone. A fine round face, strong thick limbs. Beautiful enough, though. Binch felt his desire grow within him.
‘Come on, Zear. Enough of this nonsense. I have meat in my belly and am burning for you. Bend over, and let’s get at it!’
Zear snorted with derision. ‘A fine male you’d make for me. Your tricks wouldn’t be any help if another decided they were taking me, would they?’ It was the response Binch had expected; he had plenty of experience of female rejection. She was still laughing, at least.
‘Come on, Binchy baby; tell me all about this rabbit.’
Binch coughed up a pellet of bone and fur and spat it out noisily. He laughed too. ‘He was very fierce!’ He advanced upon her, clearly with only one intention, but she fled, still laughing. Grumbling, Binch abandoned his advances and went back towards the fire to see if there was more food.
The most powerful male of the tribe was having rather a better time of it. Exhausted from his exertions, he left his females and moved back to the fire and the carcasses there. Binch shifted away uneasily as the big orc moved towards him. Haj was the tribe’s leader, a hugely muscled orc with a stooped back and mighty hands with thick, fat fingers capable of crushing a human’s skull. But punishing failed hunting parties was not on his mind. There was plenty of food at the moment anyway, and his blood flowed fast from the meat in his belly and the fire in his loins.
To be the head of the tribe was a very delicate balancing act. Every male wanted the position, and keeping the position required keeping the others in their place. Too much of that, though, could leave a tribe critically short of warriors. Haj had the strength required to rule a much bigger tribe but was prone to frequently getting the second part of the equation all wrong.
Trouble, Binch thought, watching him. I can tell from the swagger he is looking for a fight right now. Binch moved to a spot well away from Haj, yet with a clear view so he could watch.
Haj swaggered towards the meat, pushing aside a female and kicking at—but missing—some squabbling cubs, who were entirely oblivious to the danger they were in. As Haj strode on, a feeding orc looked up, sensing a change in the camp’s atmosphere. It was Blit, not yet fully grown, but already of formidable size, big enough certainly to be a potential successor to Haj. Blit watched, transfixed but unafraid, as Haj knelt in the mud next to him.
There was a brief moment as the two males glared at one another before Haj snatched at the meat in Blit’s hands. Blit was too fast, though. He threw the meat to the floor with a snarl, and both males leapt to their feet, their foreheads pressed together. The tribe had gone silent. Thoughts of food and sex were put aside as they gathered around to watch.
‘Submit.’
It was Haj who spoke, but Blit did not flinch, and the two orcs remained squared up against each other, just an inch apart, eyes glaring and unblinking.
The tension of the tribe fed into the very air itself. A challenge between two large males was nothing new; indeed, it was rare for any one male to be able to hold on to top dog status for more than a couple of years, but it was nevertheless a key event in every orc’s life. A new boss could lead the tribe to good eating and dominance over other tribes or to complete destruction.
The tension mounted even further as the two orcs remained locked together, forehead to forehead, each daring the other to act first. It seemed like an eternity. Pulses raced around the camp, and time slowed to a trickle.
It was Haj who made the first move. He swung his huge hand into the face of Blit from close range. Blit rolled away from the punch and fell to the ground before leaping back to his feet, roaring and wide-eyed with aggression. The tribe roared with him, their excitement hardly contained as the fight began in earnest.
Haj roared too and leapt forward, only for Blit to sidestep and bring his knee heavily into Haj’s side as he passed. It was Haj’s turn to roll away, clutching his side, breath rasping already. More cautious now, Haj circled Blit carefully, looking for an opening. But it was not long before impatience once again got the better of him, and he launched himself at his rival. Blit swiftly moved aside again, timing a punch into Haj’s ribs as he passed. A tiny trickle of blood seeped from the claw marks left in Haj’s bare chest. Repeatedly the fight followed the same pattern, and slowly Haj was beginning to tire. A desperate expression formed upon his face. Blit was not yet as strong, but the younger orc was much too fast for him. The tribe was agog at the prospect of a new leader.
Sensing his opportunity, Blit finally made his move, feinting and then sending a mighty right hook into the tribe leader’s jaw. But instead of dodging or blocking, Haj moved in closer, too close for the punch to find the momentum it needed. He grabbed at Blit and hung on tightly. Blit could no longer use his speed, and the fight changed dramatically.
Bellowing angrily, Blit staggered under the pressing weight of the bigger orc. They grappled for some minutes before Blit’s legs finally gave way, and the pair fell to the floor. Still they writhed together on the ground, each seeking to get on top to end the bout. It was Haj who succeeded. He manoeuvred his bulk onto his opponent, crushing and pinning him beneath, ignoring his piteous moans and shuddering breaths.
‘Submit,’ said Haj once again, and this time Blit moved his head back as best he could to expose his throat. Haj forced the head back still further, his giant paw over Blit’s nose and eyes, pressing and suffocating.
Haj grinned in triumph and roared maniacally. Then he bit down, deep into the exposed throat, tearing and ripping.
He stood up to face the tribe, chest puffed up, face dripping with gore. Arterial blood still pumped from Blit’s body behind him.
The tribe was shocked. Haj had won, but not at all convincingly. To not accept a rival’s submission…this was a weakness indeed; it was something only done when a rival would certainly best you next time.
There was no question who was master of the tribe, though.
‘Anyone else?’ Haj roared. The tribe was silent, uneasy. ‘Come on, then. Let’s get back on with the party. I‘ve got us some more meat!’ With that he flung the fresh corpse over with the rest of the hunting spoils.
The party continued through to dawn, but Binch crept away long before the end, his belly and his balls both full, fully dissatisfied with his lot in life.
