A lot had happened in Dorky's mind, and he was a little disoriented. The sun's position indicated the passage of time. Though it was still hot, the valley they were moving through was increasingly shadowed by a nearby, undulating rock face with a mostly flat top. He had never gone so far in his life. These lands were unknown to him.
During the journey, he involuntarily observed the few interactions between the Whiplash and the Black Strawberry. He had never seen such teamwork among the women of his settlement. His captors had known each other for a long time, acted similarly, and communicated mostly through gestures and glances. Without a word, they shared food they expertly found along the way from the fruits available at this time of year: prickly pears, wild, bitter oranges, here and there white and appetizing gurara tubers. They offered nothing to their prisoner, so he had to make do with just the sight. The Orc-women, on this otherwise arduous journey, became a strangely pleasant sight for him. If not for the differences in their clothing and jewelry, and the styling of their shiny, thick, jet-black hair, they would have been like two drops of water. The same feminine-muscular physique, the long stride of a seasoned traveler, the softness and elegance of their movements, which only once transformed into a blood-curdling, sudden halt. He had no idea why they froze, but expected only bad things. He also immediately stood still. During these difficult moments, one of them unceremoniously covered his face with her whole hand and stood beside him with an absent gaze, listening to the sounds of the surroundings. Her hand smelled of untanned leather, from which her familiar, reliable whip was twisted. He briefly reveled in this soothing-yet-irritating scent. After making sure there was no danger, she shifted her gaze to him and, removing her hand from his face, casually flicked his nose with her thumb.
"Don't shit yourself, Little Fox."
He tried to catch her eye and offer a timid smile, but she turned away and immediately set off. He hurried after her, limping slightly. Far ahead, on a flat stretch of land in a bend of a partially dried-up river, a fortified camp bristled into view.
***
To say he felt uneasy was an understatement.
"You kneel before the Strong. The land belongs to the Uurb clan. You belong to us. The word of the Strong is now your only law. Do you understand?" It was spoken emphatically in short, raspy sentences by the strongest being he had ever seen. He nodded, not rising from his knees. Even among the group of Orc-women who called themselves the Strong, this imposing female towered over the others, emanating an almost palpable stench of dominance. Beautifully sculpted muscles shifted beneath her skin, and her leather half-armor parted under the pressure of her large breasts. Babeno, as the others addressed her, was the Elder of the tribe. She made the decisions here. If measured in human years, she might have been in her early forties. Below her armor, she wore tight black leather pants, a decorative leopard skin around her hips, and numerous, heavy pieces of bone, gold, and coral jewelry, mixed haphazardly, ominously suggesting they were simply taken from defeated enemies. She pointed her index finger at him, armed with a long, shiny black painted fingernail, and explained further:
"Here you will live and here you will die. With us for a hundred days, and then we will bid you farewell. You belong to us, and it is our decision to use you as a tool. It is your decision whether you keep your dignity or whine like a beaten dog. You are not the first. We've had those who served eagerly and with honor, and those who preferred to lie and beg for mercy. Remember. You will find no mercy here. The word of the Strong is law." She paused for a longer time, squeezing her chin and lower lip several times with her fingers, observing him with interest. Then she continued. "You look like one who will keep his dignity. And don't even think about escaping," she said, making a quick gesture with both hands, and from the ranks of the Strong, the huntresses Narma and Darma, previously called Black Strawberry and Whiplash by him, stepped forward half a pace.
Besides the presented trio, the ranks of the Strong also included Advisor Marpala, an elegantly dressed Orc-woman with glasses and tall riding boots, and the temporarily absent Farme, only mentioned by name. He was also introduced to Chechi, standing at a distance, barely entering adulthood, Babeno's petite favorite, apparently destined to join the group but not yet sufficiently deserving. The other inhabitants of the camp formed a circle around them, commenting in hushed tones, whistling, and rejoicing at the arrival of a new slave.
The situation was incomprehensible to Dorky. A mixture of relief that he wouldn't be immediately eaten, with a crushing sense of the irreversibility of his fate. What did she mean: he only had a hundred days left? Thoughts of escape mingled with burgeoning questions, about everything really. Why were there only females here? Why exactly a hundred days, not two hundred? Why had no one ever told him that Orcs spoke perfectly good common tongue? How did all this work, where did other clans live, and were they also made up of such colorful and exciting characters? Did Chechi wear a boned shirt, or did her small breasts sit so wonderfully on their own?
He wanted to be thrown into a dungeon somewhere, so that, deprived of company and curious gazes, he could finally relieve himself. Whatever else, his member had received so many stimuli that day that it concentrated almost all the attention and energy he had left. Eat. Rest. Jerk off.
"Take him to the slave stables," Babeno ordered.
***
His new dwelling place wasn't all that different from the stables where he often slept when he was free. It was an elongated, single-story building made of uneven, brown-orange bricks haphazardly laid on a wooden beam frame. The walls didn't reach the gabled roof everywhere, leaving drafts, room for swallows' nests, and enough sounds from outside to maintain a feeling of being exposed and observed. Instead of a door, a wooden grate on three sturdy hinges was installed in the shorter side of this structure. The interior was divided into several separate pens. The one he was led into was about chest-high from the passage and not very densely barred. It wasn't necessary. Escape was secured, instead, by a long chain with heavy links, passed through a ceiling beam and attached to a collar placed on him and locked with a padlock. Enough for him to move, lie on the uncomfortable straw mattress, or relieve himself into one of the buckets, evidently already used for that purpose. The boy sighed. The last rays of sun barely illuminated the interior. He was alone with his hunger and desires.
After a short while, the flickering flame of a torch approached the grate. He got up from the straw mattress and leaned out, curious. Chechi carried a wooden trough pressed to her hip, full of something that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a mixture of half-eaten bread, remnants of sheep and goat cheeses, not-so-fresh vegetables, all doused with beer or some other weak alcohol. He ate greedily, and she watched him assessingly.
"You eat like a pig," she remarked. "Better eat your fill, because from tomorrow your scrawny body will be accompanying me at work. Each of you thinks you can handle it, even though you're as weak as reeds. You must. Eat." She said with conviction, then took a handful of the mush from the trough, rubbed it in some sauce, and pushed it into his mouth. She wasn't afraid of him at all. She watched his moving jaw for a moment, and he watched the expression on her youthful face. She had a slightly flattened nose and wider nostrils than a human's. Her eyes were large and curious, though he had noticed earlier that they tended to narrow when she smiled. Some of her teeth were sharply pointed, and her lower lip grew in such a way that her tiny lower fangs were always exposed. Her skin was smooth, green in a way that was impossible to confuse with any other race in this world. She smelled intensely, a mixture of a bloody piece of meat, young girl's sweat, and something else… almonds? He shook off this and other thoughts. Exhaustion overcame him.
The young Orc-woman stood up from her crouch, turned, and left without a word, taking the torch with her. Gloom fell, and the meal was finished. Dorky lightly kicked at the straw mattress and stretched out as comfortably as he could. He carefully wiped his hands on the straw, then slowly lowered his pants and began to move his hand over his member. After a moment, he grabbed his scrotum with the other hand. And then he heard laughter; he realized he was being watched.
The door crashed open, and the entire group entered the barn, consisting of Chechi leading the way, the Twins Narma and Darma, Marpala, Babeno, and a figure unknown to him yet, whom he recognized with astonishment as… a powerfully built human woman. He didn't have time to wonder, however. As he swiftly pulled up his pants, the group stopped by his pen and lined up. Babeno clicked her tongue in disapproval.
"You're not allowed to do that. Do you understand?" she said.
"I'm sorry!" he exclaimed, hastily adjusting his clothing.
"Sorry isn't enough. We need to make sure you understand well. You'll come with us now for a small punishment!" She smiled under her breath, gesturing impatiently for them to unchain him. Taken by the arms, he didn't protest as they practically dragged him across the dirt floor towards the last pen. Only just before it, when he saw what awaited him, did he begin to dig in his heels, but to no avail.