Strikemaster:

  The gates of Urgnash?Yal loomed high, weathered and scarred from years of raids. Smoke curled from the watchtowers, and the air carried the musk of sweat, spikes, and beasts penned within. Rocka slowed his stride, knuckles tightening around his knapsack strap.

  A shadow moved across the threshold. Malokr Gren?Lok stepped forward, broad?shouldered, tusks gleaming in the torchlight. His armor was battered but polished, each dent a story, each scar a reminder. He carried himself like a man who owned the ground beneath his boots.

  Rocka felt the familiar knot in his stomach. From childhood, he had known Malokr’s gaze—the predator’s stare that weighed boys like meat. He remembered training yards where Malokr’s laughter rang out as he knocked fledglings into the dirt, his axe whistling through the air in endless arcs. Rocka remembered the Six Raids, when Malokr’s axes rose and fell until the enemy line broke. The elders had named him Strikemaster then, and the title clung to him like hounds to men.

  Now he stood at the gates, flanked by guards, wives and concubines who lingered in the shadows, their eyes sharp with pride. Malokr’s presence was more than muscle; it was power, a hunger that had already carved him a place among the stronghold’s rulers.

  “Rocka,” Malokr’s voice boomed, dripping disdain. “Back from the human filth? Still swimming with fish heads?”

  Rocka swallowed hard, forcing his tone steady. “I work at the docks, Strikemaster. I’ve brought tribute, as always.”

  Malokr’s grin widened, cruel and knowing. He stepped closer, the air thick with his dominance. “You know how to address me.”

  Before Rocka could bow, Malokr’s fist slammed into his gut. Pain exploded through him, forcing him to double over. The bottle of mead slipped from his knapsack, clinking against the stone.

  “Gahh!” Rocka grunted, clutching his abdomen.

  Malokr sneered, stooping to sniff the fallen bottle. “Liquor? Rocka… you haven’t earned the right to drink. Why bring it here?”

  Rocka’s eyes narrowed as Malokr reached for it. With a deft kick, he slid the bottle out of reach.

  “Malokr!” Rocka’s voice carried a flicker of defiance. “Do not take what belongs to me.”

  Enraged, Malokr crushed the bottle beneath his heel. Glass splintered, mead spilling into the dust. He lunged forward, delivering a brutal headbutt that sent Rocka sprawling.

  “Arrgh!” Rocka groaned, struggling to rise.

  “You know the rules,” Malokr snarled, looming over him. “Abstain until you come of age—blood spilled, scars earned, and your first wife taken. And you will address me as Strikemaster, you bladdering boob.”

  Rocka gritted his teeth, swallowing his fury. Malokr’s voice dropped to a growl. “Lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood. Master Kraken would not be pleased if I harmed his son—even if you’re no orc worth a damn. But the council will demand satisfaction for this insolence. Double your tribute, and you may pass.”

  With a resigned sigh, Rocka pulled coin from his pouch and handed it over. “Of course… Strikemaster.”

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  He scurried away, the sting of humiliation burning fresh in his chest.

  Behind him, Malokr barked to his men. “Clean this mess!”

  Rocka’s thoughts seethed as he walked deeper into the stronghold. Cocky, greedy bastard. Must be nice to be captain… ‘Strikemaster.’ Pff. Give me a break.

  Rocka pressed deeper into Urgnash?Yal, Malokr’s scorn still burning in his chest. His hand drifted to the pouch at his belt, fingers brushing the few coins that clinked inside. The sound was pitiful against the roar of the stronghold.

  He glanced at the raiders passing by, their arms laden with bounty—fresh elk slung across shoulders, boars dragged by tusks, oxen driven toward the feasting halls. Their laughter was coarse and triumphant, the smell of blood and smoke clinging to them like a second skin.

  Rocka’s jaw tightened. Envy gnawed at him as he watched them swagger past, their spoils proof of glory earned. His own pouch felt lighter than ever, a hollow echo of what he lacked.

  He entered the power ward, where the smithy roared with fire. Sparks leapt as hammer struck anvil, ringing like war drums. Orc smiths, arms corded with muscle, bent steel into blades and armor destined for raids. The clangor was relentless, every breath in Urgnash?Yal a preparation for war. Rocka slowed, watching the molten glow, wishing he had a mighty weapon instead of the old Norseman’s axe he carried.

  Rocka left the clangor of the smithy behind, smoke clinging to his clothes, and entered the plunder ward where laughter and blood mingled. More raiders returned from battle, bloodied but laughing, dragging loot and coin, barrels of booze, and women clinging to their arms. “Move it, you filth!” barked a warden, lashing slaves as they hauled stone for fortifications.

  At the worg pens, the mighty beast were kept and fed. The warriors lounged and the women flocked to them—wives of fighters, concubines of captains. Their laughter rang like chimes, but their eyes slid past Rocka as if he were invisible. The ache of exclusion gnawed at him. He was unblooded, unproven, forbidden to claim a wife. Desire twisted into bitterness, a reminder of all he could not have.

  One raider spat as Rocka passed. “Worthless puke.”

  “Easy,” his comrade muttered. “That’s the Battle Master’s middle son.”

  Rocka kept walking, pretending not to hear. Better not to push his luck.

  At last he found Tosk Dreknesh, the worg master. Tall and scarred, his body bore the marks of bite and claw. He sat with a steaming cup in hand.

  “Is that mead?” Rocka asked, eyeing the drink.

  Tosk raised a brow, grunting. “You’re not of right, pudgy one. But if you must know—it’s kvass. Slavic brew, taken in a raid you weren’t part of.”

  Rocka tried to soften his tone. “Tosk, come now. I always compensate.”

  Tosk set the cup aside. “What do you want, Rocka?”

  Rocka placed the last of his coin on the table. “A bounty. Whatever this buys, I ask humbly, worg master.”

  Tosk studied the coin, his lip curling. “I care not if an orc chooses the path of flowers instead of glory. But you are a disgrace to Urgnash?Yal. Your actions dishonor your father’s legacy.”

  “I understand your principle,” Rocka said quickly, “but I just need bounty.”

  Tosk shook his head, disappearing into the back. He returned with a goose.

  “That’s it?” Rocka muttered.

  “You get what you put in,” Tosk replied flatly. “Train, grow stronger, join raids—you’ll earn better game.”

  Rocka bristled. “Nay, it is cunning to exploit, to do easier work and earn more.”

  Tosk’s eyes narrowed. “Earn more? By your age most orcs have slain their first beast. You have poultry. Your father conquered Fogwood, carved prosperity from chaos, became Battle Master again and again. Your brothers already proven themselves—Traken, young yet, slew a horde of barbarians. Goram, wise and mighty, a reflection of Kraken himself. And you? Shorter than most, fat and slow.” He jabbed Rocka’s belly.

  “Hey!” Rocka snapped.

  “A keg belly where scars should be.” Tosk spat. “Indulgence without right. You spend human coin on poultry. One day this degeneracy will consume you. Mau?Lak gave us tenets, and you’ve broken more than a few. If Kraken were not Battle Master, you’d be long dead.”

  Rocka shifted uncomfortably. “Is that all?”

  Tosk’s voice softened, almost pitying. “Such a waste. May Tengshe have mercy on you.”

  Rocka picked up the goose, muttering, “And to you too, worg master.” He turned away, the sting of Tosk’s words heavy as iron, and walked home with bitterness gnawing at his gut.

  He carried the goose home, its weight light in his hands but heavy in his heart. Every step echoed with Tosk’s words, each one a chain binding him to shame.