Becoming the Orc Chieftain

by E. M. Hardy

  On one hand, Isiah wanted his team to valiantly hold off the horde of other players all clustering around the objective while shooting each other to bits. On the other hand, he wanted them all to grow new holes on their virtual heads, wiping that smug satisfaction off their annoying faces.

  “Spacing! Hey, spacing! They’re moving in close for ‘nades! SPACING, YOU IJITS!”

  “Aaaand… boom.”

  “OH, THAT LUCKY PIECE OF SHIT!”

  “Language, young lady!” That was probably Olivia’s mom in the background, and Isiah chuckled as he imagined what she would have in mind for her young daughter’s foul mouth.

  After all, the senator’s youngest daughter—the valued princess that she is—couldn’t be caught dead mouthing off like that. Well, at least not by her mom’s party. Most of the politicians liked playing up the macho, tough-guy image by spouting cusses left and right. People lapped it up at first, but more and more people were starting to frown against the whole testosterone-pissing image. Olivia’s mom, Senator Winters, was one of those leading figures for the ‘return of decency’ in politics.

  Not that Isiah cared. He agreed with how his military parents steered clear of that messy stuff, choosing service in the military over holding up placards and finding someone to blame. It also gave him the added perk of not having to get drawn into those long-winded discussions on the future of the country. It was weird that his friends Eddy and Abigail couldn’t get enough, though. It was especially weird for Eddy, since he was a military brat just like him. All the talk about politics just glossed over Isiah’s mind, believing that it wouldn’t matter in the end.

  Isiah put all these thoughts aside, focusing back on the game. He and his gang had just spawned back, trash-talking each other for their almost-win in the last round. Leave politics for the grown-ups and stuck-ups, he thought to himself. It’s not as if that crap matters to a nobody like me.

  At least until Isiah went to bed that night, the invisible dust from the bone fetish settling into his mind, body, and most importantly… His soul.

  Chapter 02

  WHAT IN THE ABSOLUTE FU—

  Kurdan snapped to attention, drawing the dagger he kept hidden within his leafy bed. He quickly got to his feet, knees bent and ready to spring into action. He blinked away the sleep, willing his blood to pump through his body and invigorate him. His ascension to chiefhood was rocky enough, and he would not be surprised if some disgruntled traitor tried to plant a knife in his neck while he slept. Zurgha was a weak old he-orc, but he had enough loyalists left behind to worry Kurdan.

  Except there was nothing. Kurdan’s mud hut was quiet, the light from burned-out embers showing nothing but shadows. He breathed in deep, willing his riled blood to settle down even while he held his bone dagger firmly at his side.

  He shook the rest of the sleep out of his head, grunting as he ground his tusks against his teeth. “Just jumpy,” he whispered to himself, berating himself for his own cowardice. He was the new chieftain of the Boneseeker Tribe, formerly led by the weak, old Zurgha. He would be seen as weak too if he kept jumping at shadows, and so he resolved to bear himself with the strength that Zurgha could not display in his final moments.

  Kurdan stepped up to his weapons, belting on his dagger and club while strapping a large battleaxe to his back—all crafted from the skin and bones of the chieftain he had slain. Fresh orcbone weapons for a fresh orc chieftain. He inhaled deeply, popped the cricks in his neck, and strode out of his hut.

  Two rows of adult orcs stood in front of the hut, 97 in all. Their dull green skin shone with decorated war paint that accented the mottled patches of green-brown-black. The patches not only helped make it easier to identify who was who, but also helped them better hide within the foliage of the forests. The young orclings stood straight behind the rows, eyes focused intently on Kurdan as they mimicked the rigid posture of their brood mares and brood sires. 38 of the adult orcs looked at Kurdan with pride and respect, the supporters that had backed his challenge. 40 of the orcs stood still, wariness permeating their eyes and lips. These were the neutrals who would follow any orc that held the mantle of chieftain. And off to the end of the rows were 19 orcs, glaring at Kurdan as they gripped the hilts of their clubs and war-axes. These were what remained of Zurgha’s followers, those who had chosen to live on instead of following their chieftain into death.

  Kurdan wanted to call them cowards, but the simple truth was that he needed them. After all, 20 of Zurgha’s supporters had already followed him in death—cutting down the Boneseeker tribe’s strength by a substantial amount. He could have used their bodies to help beat back the bigger tribes when they came raiding, but what was done was done; he would have to make do with what he had.

  Kurdan nodded to the assembled orcs, and they all nodded back. Today was the first day of his chiefhood, and it was a time to rebuild its broken foundations before the other tribes sniffed out his weakness.

  “Gnadug, kneel before me.”

  A heavily-scarred orc broke away from the rows of orcs lining the chieftain’s hut, striding through the assemblage and walking right up to Kurdan. The orc stood half a head taller than Kurdan, but Kurdan didn’t look up. He kept his eyes leveled forward, waiting. A moment later, Gnadug snorted and knelt—a supreme act of humility that few orcs would suffer willingly.

  “Stand, Gnadug, and come to me. You are my Axe. Next to my weapons, your weapons stand strong, powerful, above all else in the tribe. You will lead my warriors, beat the ways of battle into their bodies.”

  The orc grunted once and rose to stand at Kurdan’s right, all while trying and failing to suppress a smile. Gnadug had coveted the position of Axe since Kurdan knew him as a young orcling, and he had both the brawn and the savagery to keep it. This was the reason he had supported his claim as chieftain, and stood by Kurdan when he had finally challenged Zurgha for the position.

  “Urul, kneel before me.”

  Another orc separated itself from the rows. This one was even taller than Gnadug, a full head above Kurdan, except he was lankier than most other orcs. What really stood out though, was the assortment of tattoos that lined his entire body. He wore his tattoos like others would wear clothes, covering even his dangling genitals—an impressive feat, considering what Kurdan heard about the pain involved in such procedures. Like Gnadug, Urul knelt before Kurdan as a sign of supreme obedience to him.

  “Stand, Urul, and come to me. You are my Blood. Next to my blood, your blood stands strong, supreme, above all else in the tribe. You will lead our tributes to our god, Cagros the Bloodletter, so that he may grant us the strength we will need to honor him.

  “Yes, chieftain,” replied the shaman, kneeling for a moment more before getting up. The lanky shaman flicked his nails into his palm, drawing blood in honor of Cagros as he walked to Kurdan’s left.

  Kurdan inhaled once more as he called his final subordinate. “Shelur, kneel before me.”

  A madly-grinning orc walked up to Kurdan with a swagger in her step. She stopped and knelt in front of him, beating her bare chest with an arm in a salute. The chieftain smiled at her eagerness, glad for her support. She was only slightly less muscled than Gnadug, but Kurdan knew from experience that she could deal some serious damage if she wanted to.

  “Stand, Shelur, and come to me. You are my Fist. Next to my fists, your fists will stand strong, supreme, above all else in the tribe. You will keep all in line, orc and slave alike, to ensure that our tribe has all it needs.”

  “Yes, chieftain!” Shelur barked as she shot up to a stand, her smile so broad that the points of her tusks reached all the way up to her cheekbones. She assumed her place beside Gnadug, who finally cracked a wide smile of his own as Shelur leered at him, the promise of a later rutting burning in her eyes. Kurdan didn’t miss that little detail and grunted in satisfaction. Their offspring would be a big boon to the tribe, especially after the death of Zurgha’s loyalists.

  Offspring. K
urdan’s chest tightened at the thought of finally being powerful enough, prominent enough, to bear offspring that he knew would be his own. Orcs were free to mingle among one another, to rut as liberally as they wanted to, so that only the strongest seed would take root. Being chieftain gave Kurdan the right to rut exclusively with the tribe’s best breeders—and he had one particularly haughty, arrogant, and extremely fecund she-orc in mind to bed.

  The newly-ascended chieftain finished announcing his chosen lieutenants, and it was time to reunite the tribe in a common purpose.

  “BONESEEKERS!” The tribe stood straighter, their chieftain’s sudden shout pulling their attention to him. “Gather your weapons! Prepare your supplies! Tonight, we go a-raiding for slaves!”

  Every single orc in the tribe hollered their approval. If there was anything an orc liked more than raiding one another, it was raiding in the ever-warring lands of the humans. The weaklings only lasted a few weeks under the torments of the orcs, but a few weeks was all they needed for their soft flesh to part and their brittle bones to break. The tribe enjoyed watching the pain of the humans, especially when they smacked them around and bled them to see how long it would take for them to die. Once they inevitably expired from the pains inflicted upon them, the used toys would be discarded and the orcs would capture more slaves. It was a tradition as old as any orc could recall, one that every orc took pride in. They were the superior race—stronger, faster, tougher than the weak humans bordering their forests—and they loved lording it over the weaklings that cowered behind their walls and their magic.

  Wow. You a whole different kind of crazy, you know that?

  Kurdan whipped his head around, searching for the voice that had just mocked him in his thoughts. It sounded a lot like the squeaking that humans made, especially the young ones, and it lacked the deep, gravely rumbling of the orcish throat. Remembering where he was, Kurdan turned back to his tribe, unsheathed his heavy battleaxe, raised it to the sky, and howled with every ounce of his strength. Every single orc howled along with him, unsheathing their own weapons and beating their breasts, eager for the raid at hand.

  ***

  Kurdan swung his battleaxe around him, cleaving the air with intense power. It slammed violently into a tree-trunk, shaking leaves down to the ground. All the insects had already vacated the tree, as it had been subjected to Kurdan’s various battle-blows through the night. He switched his grip, pushing the axe away as he rolled with the momentum of the blow. The jagged orcbone edge flew free from the trunk, and Kurdan once again reversed his grip, pushing with all his might as he brought the axe in for another strike in the opposite side of the trunk. This blow landed even harder than the previous one. A few more strikes like those, and he would be able to topple the big old tree with nothing but a hefty kick.

  “Chieftain.”

  Kurdan halted his battleaxe midswing, sweat evaporating off his hot muscles and forming mist in the cool evening air. A twinge of annoyance shot through his body, his concentration broken in the middle of sharpening his battle blows. That annoyance quickly morphed into pleasure though, as he realized the voice came from Borba. She stepped out of the shadows, wearing nothing but a smile.

  “So… here we are,” rumbled Kurdan, drinking in her naked figure while delight played in his eyes.

  “Indeed. Here we are.”

  “I take it you are here to fulfill the promise you made all those years ago?”

  “Yes… chieftain.” He enjoyed the defeat and resignation in her voice, smiling a cruel smile while doing so.

  He had wanted Borba as far back as when he was a young orcling himself. The she-orc had been adamant against rutting with him when he came of age, especially since she had the pick of choosing other higher-ranking he-orcs in the tribe. Yet this did not stop Kurdan from desiring her. She had given birth to many strong orclings, some of whom were as old as himself by now. Back then, he held so little value in her eye that she sneered at him, claiming she would only mate him if he donned the mantle of chieftain.

  She had meant it to spite him, yet she only ended up igniting the spark that lit up Kurdan’s ambitions. He had been so absorbed in his pursuit of chiefdom, so single-minded about it, that he never had the time to pursue other she-orcs despite his desire for offspring. None came to him of their own volition, as he ranked low in the tribe, nor did he go chasing them. He was never really driven by the same lusts that drove the other he-orcs. They bragged and boasted about their virility, about how they would lose all sense once the desire to rut took over. Kurdan never felt such an overpowering physical desire, though that did not stop him from dreaming of the orclings he would sire.

  Time, patience, and endless desire had fueled that dream. He had quietly collected allies of his own, played his rivals against each other, and ultimately secured the position of chieftain for himself. Now that he had obtained his goal, she would be his first conquest as the new chieftain of his tribe, the Boneseekers. And now that he had it, he was determined to never allow himself to age and decay the way Zurgha did.

  That’s the thing about orcs: they only ever grow old when they want to. Not that it was a major problem, for orcs rarely lived enough for it to be a problem. The former chieftain, Zurgha, had been one such orc. He had been strong once, and perhaps lucky. So strong and lucky, in fact, that he had grown fat and lazy from his prolonged hold on power. Kurdan had noticed the signs of decay a long time ago, and he had positioned himself to strike first before others could.

  Borba was a she-orc whose ambitions ran just as deep as Kurdan’s. She was not only strong and capable in a brawl, but she was a mother among mothers—one of the tribe’s best breeders. Many of her spawn had grown up strong and healthy, as evidenced by Kurdan’s Axe, Gnadug.

  And now, as chieftain, Kurdan proved that he had both the strength and the ambition to match Borba’s wants. When he was finished with Borba, he would give his Axe a few new screaming siblings to deal with.

  Dude. That’s… that’s really messed up.

  Kurdan growled, shoving the voice away. He ignored what trickster had chosen to harass him this way, but he would not give it the satisfaction of unnerving him. He just needed to put up with it until after the raid was done. The entire clan was busy preparing right now, gathering supplies and sharpening their weapons for the raid. Once the raid was over, he could get his Bloodletter shaman, Urul, to find and kill the prattling sprite or spirit responsible for haunting him.

  Borba, however, interpreted his growl quite differently.

  “My chieftain. Have I displeased you somehow?” Rather than be intimidated, Borba looked quite annoyed by Kurdan’s reaction. It reminded him of how she had scorned him so many times in the past—something that Kurdan did not have to put up with anymore.

  Kurdan did not dignify her with an answer. He simply walked up to her, grabbed her by the shoulder, turned her around, and pushed her to the ground. He flipped his loincloth open, undid the knot holding it in place, took his stiff member in his hand, and plunged into her before she could throw another word out.

  Borba got the message that the time for words was over, that the rutting would commence, and she reciprocated in kind.

  And there they wound up, grunting all the way. It took quite a while for Kurdan to spill his seed, though he persevered until the fluids gushed out from his member. By the time he finished, Borba was a panting mess sprawled bow-legged on the ground. He pushed Borba away from him and refastened his loincloth. He grunted in satisfaction before proceeding to the nearby stream to wash himself up—leaving Borba to clean up on her own.

  It was not as satisfying as he had expected. The other orcs, they boasted of how they rammed themselves into their rutting mates, with the ultimate pleasure coming from the moment they spilled their seed. Kurdan, however, did not feel as satisfied as the other orcs made it out to be—not even at the moment of release. Just a spasm of muscle, a spilling of seed, and then… nothing. It also took far longer th
an just a few moments. The other orcs said the whole rutting was brief and quick. By the time Kurdan was finished, the moon had shifted greatly from its position when he first started rutting Borba.

  The length of the rutting and the lack of expected satisfaction did not matter, though. The simple fact was that he rutted Borba, the tribe’s foremost breeder, and she would thus bear his offspring for him. The fact that she came to him of her own free will, seeking to ingratiate herself to the new chieftain, would further solidify his position in the tribe. He expected the other she-orcs to do the same, given time.

  It was a good sign that his offspring would grow better, stronger, if the she-orcs approached him with their backs bent and ready to take in his seed.

  No lying: you’re a grade-A dick. Did anyone tell you that you are a grade-A dick? Well, I’m telling you right now that you’re a massive, self-absorbed dick.

  Kurdan continued to ignore the voice as he splashed water over himself, washing the dust and grit from his now-flaccid member. All he needed to do now was conduct a successful raid and bring back enough slaves to cement his position as a chieftain to be feared and respected.

  The moon hung high in the night sky as Kurdan returned to the village. Everyone had their supplies packed, weapons ready, and raiding rituals accomplished. Seeing this, Kurdan strode confidently in the middle of the village, unsheathed his battleaxe, and raised it high into the air.

  “BONESEEKERS!!” A chorus of jubilant howls and beating breasts answered his call. “WE GO A-RAIDING FOR SLAVES TO TORMENT! WITH ME!!!”

  ***

  “Are you… panting… Glurguk?”

  “No… I… am… not. Are you sure… it’s not… your own… stinking breath… that’s… clogging… your ears?”