"The subway station is two blocks north," Cypress says, pointing in a direction that looks identical to every other direction in this maze of identical buildings and identical streets. "I can make it from here on my own."
"Unacceptable." The word comes out more forcefully than I intend, and I moderate my tone before continuing. "You were just the target of deliberate sabotage. The perpetrators may still be observing the building, waiting to confirm that their trap was successful. I will escort you to the transit station and ensure you board safely before I consider the evening's security perimeter complete."
She looks up at me, her face illuminated by the streetlights, and I find myself cataloging the details of her expression with an attention I do not usually devote to human physiognomy. The slight furrow of her brow suggests she is considering arguing with me, but the set of her jaw indicates that she recognizes the logic of my position, and after a moment she nods and begins walking north toward the subway station.
I fall into step beside her, matching my longer stride to her shorter one, and we walk in companionable silence through the evening streets. The city is busy around us, humans hurrying past on their own missions and errands, paying no attention to the unlikely pair of an Orc warchief in a tailored suit and a small human woman with tired eyes and ink stains on her fingers. We must look strange together, the disparity in our sizes making her appear almost childlike beside my bulk, but Cypress walks with her chin up and her shoulders back, radiating a confidence that I find deeply appealing.
We are halfway to the subway station when she stumbles slightly on an uneven section of pavement, and I reach outautomatically to steady her, my hand closing around her upper arm to prevent her from falling. The contact sends a jolt of awareness through me, a heightened consciousness of how fragile she is compared to me, how easily I could hurt her if I applied even a fraction of my strength without careful control.
"Thank you," she says, looking up at me with those dark eyes that seem to see more than they should. "I'm fine, just tired."
I release her arm but find myself reluctant to break the connection entirely. Instead, I offer her my hand, palm up, an invitation rather than a demand. "The terrain is treacherous. Allow me to provide stability for the remainder of the journey."
She hesitates for only a moment before placing her hand in mine, and the sensation is unlike anything I have experienced in my considerable years of warfare and conquest. Her fingers are so small compared to mine, delicate bones wrapped in soft skin, warm and alive against my palm. My hand could crush hers without effort, could close around it and grind those fragile bones to powder, and yet she trusts me to hold her gently, to guide her safely through the obstacles of the city streets. The trust implicit in that gesture affects me more than I care to examine.
We continue walking, her hand secure in mine, and I find myself hyperaware of every point of contact between us. The brush of her fingers against my palm penetrates even my thick Orc hide. I have held weapons that fit my hands perfectly, axes and swords and maces crafted specifically for my grip, but none of them have ever felt as right as this small human hand nestled in my own.
The subway entrance appears ahead of us, a concrete stairway descending into the earth, and I feel an unexpected reluctance to release her and send her on her way. The evening has been eventful, our alliance forged in the combat against financial adversaries and mysterious saboteurs, and theprospect of returning to my temporary lodgings alone holds less appeal than it did this morning.
But before we can reach the stairs, I sense movement in the alley to our left. My warrior's instincts, honed through decades of battle, register the threat before my conscious mind processes the details. Two figures emerging from the shadows, moving with the deliberate coordination of trained operatives, their attention fixed not on us but on the steel briefcase I carry in my free hand.
"Give us the case, Orc." The speaker is a human male, lean and sharp-featured, dressed in the dark clothing of someone who does not wish to be noticed. His companion is similarly attired, and both of them carry weapons that gleam in the dim light of the alley mouth. "Hand it over and we'll let you walk away."
Cypress tenses beside me, her hand tightening on mine, but I squeeze her fingers gently in reassurance before releasing her and stepping forward to place myself between her and the attackers. My briefcase contains the strategic plans I have been developing for the counterattack against the rival firm, documents that represent hours of careful analysis and tactical preparation, and more importantly, several contracts that could determine the fate of the company Cypress has worked so hard to salvage.
I will not surrender them.
"You have chosen your targets poorly. I am Knox Bloodaxe, Warchief of the Bloodaxe Clan, Conqueror of the Northern Markets, and Vanquisher of the Quarterly Report. I do not yield to threats from common footpads and corporate spies."
The two humans exchange glances, and I can see the calculation in their eyes, the reassessment of the situation based on my response. They did not expect resistance, anticipated that the prospect of violence would be sufficient to secure their prizewithout actual conflict. They have clearly never faced an Orc in combat.
"Last chance, big guy." The spokesman raises his weapon, something sleek and modern that I do not recognize but understand perfectly well. "The case or your life."
I let the briefcase fall from my hand, the steel container hitting the pavement with a heavy clang that echoes off the alley walls. The attackers' eyes track the movement, momentarily diverted from me by the promise of their prize, and in that instant of distraction I feel the familiar surge of battle-joy rising in my blood, the ancient fire that has sustained my kind through millennia of warfare and conquest.
I throw back my head and let out the war cry of my ancestors, a sound that begins deep in me and erupts from my throat with the force of an avalanche, a primal scream of challenge and rage that bounces off the buildings around us and sends pigeons exploding from their roosts in startled flight. The humans freeze, their civilized minds unable to process the atavistic terror that cry is designed to invoke, their weapons wavering as every instinct they possess screams at them to flee from the predator that has just revealed itself.
I do not give them time to recover.
My legs drive me forward with explosive force, covering the distance between us in two bounding strides, my hands reaching for the nearest attacker with fingers curved into claws and tusks bared in a snarl of pure predatory aggression. The battle has been joined, and I intend to end it quickly and decisively, because somewhere behind me stands a small human woman with ink-stained fingers and tired eyes, and I will allow nothing in this world to harm her.
5
CYPRESS
The fight—if I can even call it that—lasts approximately three seconds.
Knox moves like a freight train given legs and a vendetta, his green form blurring across the alley with a speed that defies every law of physics I remember from high school. The first attacker doesn't even have time to raise his weapon before Knox's hand closes around his wrist and twists, sending the gun clattering across the pavement with a metallic skitter that echoes off the brick walls. The second spy backpedals frantically, his boots scraping against the concrete as he tries to put distance between himself and seven feet of enraged Orc, but Knox simply reaches out with his other hand and grabs the man by the front of his tactical jacket, lifting him completely off the ground like he weighs nothing more than an empty briefcase.
I watch as Knox holds both men suspended in the air—one by the wrist, one by the collar.
"You will tell your masters," Knox snarls, "that the Bloodaxe Clan does not negotiate with cowards and thieves. You will tell them that Knox Bloodaxe remembers every slight and repays every insult tenfold. You will tell them that this company isunder my protection, and any further attempts at interference will be met with the full fury of Orcish vengeance."
He releases them simultaneously, and both men hit the ground in undignified heaps of limbs and tactical gear, scrambling over each other in their desperate haste to flee. They don't even pause to retrieve their fallen weapons—they simply run, their footsteps echoing through the alley and fading into the distance with a rapidity that would be comical if my heart weren't still trying to beat its way out of my ribcage and make a break for the subway on its own.
Knox watches them go, he's heaving with each breath, his hands still curled into fists at his sides and the tendons in his forearms standing out like cables beneath his green skin. The streetlight catches his tusks, and I notice for the first time that they're slightly chipped at the tips, small imperfections that speak to a lifetime of conflict and conquest, and something about those tiny flaws makes him seem suddenly more real than he did a moment ago—less like a force of nature and more like a person who has weathered his share of battles and carries the scars to prove it.
"That was..." I trail off, pushing my glasses up my nose with trembling fingers and trying to find words adequate to describe what I just witnessed. My vocabulary, usually so reliable in moments of corporate crisis, has apparently fled for the hills along with the would-be muggers, leaving me with nothing but inarticulate amazement and a sudden, overwhelming awareness of how very small I am standing next to him. "That was really something."
