(Morcster Chef Book 2) - Chapter 25 (Patreon)

“Were you ranked?” Ming asked, her eyes widening.

“D rank,” the man said proudly. “Had some fun, but I got too old for it. Now, was there anything else you wanted?”

“That’s it,” Arek said, picking up a second barrel. “Please excuse me for a moment.”

He set one down, pulled his amulet out, picked the barrel up again, and vanished. A few minutes later, the orc returned with two empty barrels.

“All watered,” Arek said happily.

Belmont and Malissa worked together to stuff the barrel into the tall woman’s extradimensional bag, which stretched just barely enough for it to fit.

“Thanks for your help,” Malissa said, smiling at the shopkeep. “We’ve got quite a ways to go, to Red Mount, and we’re on a bit of a schedule.”

“Of course,” the old man said. “Don’t let me keep you. Enjoy yourselves!”

They left the shop. Belmont studied the map as they walked, his face pensive. The sun wasn’t too low in the sky yet, so there was no point staying in the small town any longer. Now armed with supplies, the Happy Sunflowers set off once again.

“Are you going to tell us about your old group?” Ming asked once they’d been traveling for a few minutes.

“It’s probably for the best that I do,” Arek replied. To his surprise, the orc found that he wasn’t as reluctant to share as he’d expected. With every passing day, his past seemed to have less of a hold on him. It was becoming more of an old wound rather than a seeping gash.

“I’ll begin at the start, but I’ll be skipping the boring parts,” Arek said, cracking his neck and taking a sip of water from a flask to wet his throat. “I met Vell when I was no older than Ming…”

The young orc’s breath came out as small white puffs in the night air. He adjusted his grip on the jagged sword in his hands and bared his teeth. The desire to let loose a war cry surged through him, but the gaze of the Leader was upon him.

The Leader let out a series of low grunts before nodding in the direction of the small campfire burning in the clearing below them. The grunts meant the same thing they always did – kill quickly, show no mercy, and honor goes to the victor.

A large part of the young orc yearned to spit on the Leader’s face and take leadership of the small raiding party. The Leader was old – his green skin was wrinkled and yellowing. His eyes had lost some of the luster that they’d once had. It was time for new leadership.

One glance at the Leader’s cold eyes put an end, or at least a pause, to the young orc’s thoughts. He gave a jerky nod of agreement. The Leader bared his fangs in understanding.

The raid party started to creep towards the camp. It was small, with only four tents and a campfire that wouldn’t have seated more than a few people. The humans had left a single sentry to keep watch, but the fool had fallen asleep at the edge of camp.

If the Leader had bothered to bring more orcs, there would have been no need for this nighttime secrecy. They could have charged the camp like true warriors instead of sneaking through the night shadows like a filthy human. Of course, the young orc didn’t voice such thoughts. Old the Leader might have been, but deaf he was not.

They grew closer to the camp. The smell of ash and burnt meat from the human’s last meal filled the young orc’s nostrils. He repressed a grimace at the thought of putting food over the fire. It completely ruined the flavor of the blood.

The Leader took the head of the small, ten orc raiding party. It was a great honor to be at the front of the raid. The young orc hoped the Leader didn’t die. It would be harder to take control of the party if he couldn’t challenge the Leader honorably.

As they reached the tent line, the stray thoughts left his mind. His hair stood up on end as the battle grew eminent. The battle rage started to course through his veins, but still he waited. The young orc turned to the Leader, waiting for the signal.

Then the sentry shifted. The orcs snapped to look at the sentry as he rose. A straw hat pulled over his head hid the man’s face from view, but he was turned right towards them. With a single jerky movement, the human reached up and removed his hat.

There was no hair. There was no skin. There wasn’t even a face. There was just a smooth, expressionless wooden oval. It took another jerky step towards them. The young orc realized it wasn’t just the sentry’s face – the entire thing was wooden.

The Leader let out a war cry and hosted his axe into the air before charging towards the wooden sentry. The ruse was up, and the young orc was happier for it. He let out his own cry and bounded behind the Leader, eager to feel the blood of his enemies on his sword after they dealt with the strange wooden construct.

The construct caught the Leader’s strike on its arm. It slid backwards through the dirt at the force of the strike as the sword buried itself deep into the wood. The young orc stepped past the Leader and thrust his sword into their opponent’s stomach.

His strike only bit in a few inches before grinding to a halt. The construct moved forward with blinding speed, grabbing the Leader by the neck. The Leader was nearly two heads taller than the sentry.

It didn’t matter. The wooden construct hoisted the struggling orc into the air, not budging an inch. Then it slammed the Leader into the young orc like a fleshy club, sending him tumbling to the ground and tearing the sword from his grip. The young orc snarled and rolled over, preparing to lunge upwards and grab his sword once more.

Hot blood splashed across his face. The young orc froze. Did wood bleed? He wiped his eyes clean. They widened.

The Leader hung lifelessly in the air, held aloft by one of the wooden creature’s hands. The other hand protruded from the Leader’s back; the orc’s heart clutched within it. A flower of blood had bloomed from the Leader’s back, coloring the young orc and the ground beside him a deep red.