Owen wondered if it was some sort of a sick joke. Him? Being worshipped? An office worker with no accomplishments? His heartbeat quickened, sending prangs of pain through his still healing body.

“My L…Owen, are you feeling okay?” She asked with concern. “Do you need to return to your bed?”

Owen wiped the sweat forming on his forehead. “I’m okay. Just… just coming to grips with things.”

Fending off insanity, Owen descended the mouth of the mountain and met with the others. The System could wait. They all greeted him with enthusiasm, laughing, cheering, even clapping. Owen spoked to each and every one of them and asked how they were doing. Owen noted a visible change in how they reacted to him. If before it was one out of subservience. Now it was out of pure reverence. Honestly, it made Owen a little uncomfortable.

Once the greetings were over, Owen moved to business. There was a lot to do. And now with having prisoners of war, he had some decisions to make. He called the generals into the command centre within the castle. The fallen walls—the result of the war—were now restored and built back up.

Owen leaned against the table, took a breath, then said, “I’ve been out of commision for two weeks now. A lot has happened and a lot has to change. You’ve all done well with my absence. I have Balthus to thank for that.” Owen nodded at the demon in appreciation. He bowed with the high grace of a noble.

He continued, “As a result of the battle, we now have prisoners of war. We have to think of how to deal with them, and honestly, I don’t even know where to start. Balthus, how many are there?”

“32 in total.”

“And how many escaped?”

“None.”

“None?”

“None,” Balthus repeated with a wry smile. “Let’s just say that they were rather taken by your resilience. Or maybe they know they have a higher chance of surviving here. Thanks to Gorath, they also know his treatment was just a ploy. So, none decided to run away. They’ll get free food, a roof over their head, and a leader that can stand against their chief. Sounds like a good deal to me.”

“That is if I don’t kill them.”

“Would you?”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Owen said seriously. “But that does pose a problem. We can’t feed so many mouths. Giving them water will be even more difficult.”

“We could send them back to their land,” said Balthus, nudging his nose towards the valley.

“And give them the opportunity to rise up against us?” Rehan spoke up, arms and legs crossed. “It would take only one of them to challenge the pack, and then another leader would be elected. I can’t imagine whoever takes that position being worse than that Lord, but better safe than sorry.”

Owen tapped his finger against the stone table. He glanced at Pyris. “Pyris, what do you think?”

“Kill them all.”

Her words were simple, and god knows Owen knew they’d be effective. But Owen didn’t feel comfortable with that. They were ordered to attack. Many of them had lost their lives, some even from the hand of their own commander-in-chief.

Owen didn’t want to be a ruler with a throne built on the soil of blood and fertilised by fear.

“Sorry, but I can’t do that.”

Pyris shrugged.

“Or,” Draed added. “We quickly find enough water and food. Then we let them stay.”

“Let them stay,” Owen mumbled to himself. Honestly, he did like the sound of 30-odd strong warriors to add to his army. It would make fending off the horrors of the Cursed Lands that more feasible. Perhaps he needed them now more than ever. But—Owen closed his eyes. He saw the images of the orcs cutting down his men. Command or not. It was a picture impossible to remove.

His heart was yelling, screaming at him to cast them out. To cut them down in the name of his people. No-one would even bat an eye if he did. Yet his mind was telling him otherwise; that he needed them. They could be attacked by horror tomorrow. A monster wave could roll on through, leaving only bone in their wake. With the orcs, perhaps he could resist and live another day.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

As he was stuck in thought, scrutinising every detail, creating a pro’s and con’s list in his head, Gorath spoke up. “I believe they will be loyal to you, my Lord.”

“Loyal?” Rehan spat. “If our Lord ever lost a single battle, they’d cast him to the side the first chance they could to follow a stronger leader. No offence, Gorath.”

“None taken,” he replied nonchalantly. “If we can fuel them, we can move them into battle. The more victories they earn, the stronger our Lord becomes, the more powerful his kingdom turns.”

“Alright,” Owen spoke up. “Let’s say I did welcome them, and I’m not saying that I am just yet. The major issue we have is food and water. Bimpnottin is doing an amazing job, but he’s on his own right now. The cacti—although engineered to produce clean water—just isn’t enough to sustain us, nor is it feasible in the long term. Like the orcs had, we need a well. That’s something I can do once I’ve fully recovered, but that will take time. That leads us to food. I have a lot of meat from the Sand Hounds stored, but with orcs that triple our number, that won’t last long at all.”

Draed leaned against the table on the far side with a thoughtful expression. “The only monsters we’ve encountered are those scarlet crabs and they are tough, dangerous prey. Even with all of us working together, the risk of grievous injury—or death—is high. Worse yet, more of them are travelling together these past few days. We can defeat one, maybe two, but never three. Catastrophic losses would be a result if we were caught out in the open against those numbers.”

Owen clicked his tongue. “And that means we need the orcs even more.” Owen sighed. “Alright, I’ve made up my mind; we’ll take in the orcs. Balthus, vet them carefully with Lome and Thorin to support you. If any seem hostile, so much as a flicker of violence in their eyes, then I don’t want them here. We’ll be forced to exile them. Anyone got anything to add?”

“Oh, we do, we do!” Bimpnottin thrust his arm in the air, waving it around madly.

Owen smiled. “Yes, Bimpnottin?”

“Rizael and we have smelt a strange smell coming from a crack in the mountain, we have!”

“A crack in the mountain?”

Bron stepped forwards. “During mining, we discovered a large cavern. We didn’t dare explore it further than a few feet in fear of the dangers. But there is indeed a herb-like smell coming from deeper within. Rizael and Bimpnottin believe it’s a rare type of herb.”

“Rare, rare!” Bimpnottin jumped up and down while Rizael nodded along.

Owen stroked his chin. “A herb in a mountain? Strange. I’ll check it out with Rehan and Pyris after I’ve recovered. For now, Balthus, place two Warriors at the location. I don’t want anything popping out without us knowing.”

“Your will is my command, my Lord,” Balthus said.

“For now,” Owen said, “gather the orcs. I’ll speak to them. You’re all free to go.”

Everyone bowed and left the room. Soon, it was only Owen, Pyris, and Rizael left. Rizael approached, his keen eyes trained on his scars. “How are the wounds coming, my Lord?”

“Good.” Owen flexed his forearm, feeling strength. “What did you use? I thought I was gone.”

“You did in fact almost bite the pestle,” Rizael said, shivering at the memory. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so wounded in all my healing years. Not that I can recall, anyway. Most of your ribs were broken. Managed to stick them back together, for the most part. Is it uncomfortable?”

Owen shifted on the spot and felt slight pain. He nodded.

“I’ll have to go through another round of healing then,” Rizael continued.

“And what were the cactus leaves all about?”

“Ah, that? Bimpnottin’s idea. He altered some of the cacti with help of my healing abilities. They act like natural bandages that secrete a healing slime over time. I’m still new to their properties, but they last a lot longer than regular bandages, and there’s no need to change them much, if at all. The little man’s a genius.”

Owen smiled. “That he is.” A sudden realisation popped into his head. “What of the Orcen Lord’s body? Is it still here?”

Rizael nodded. “It’s in one of the mountain rooms, safe for your utilisation, my Lord.”

Owen sighed a breath of relief. That was good. He was worried the body had gone missing. It was too great of a resource to let go.

But utilisation? Could he make it sound any weirder?

After speaking for an hour about what had happened over the course of two weeks, Owen left the castle.

Standing in the middle of the land, the orcs were bound by their hands and feet by engineered cacti fibres. It was incredible to see not only how practical Bimpnottin’s farming Skills were, but the versatility it held was amazing. He had hit the lottery with the gnome, that was for certain.

Owen spoke up, asking if the orcs wanted to fight for him. If not, they were free to leave into the vast desert, or where they had come from. All of them stayed, even the coveted Sand Mage. Owen didn’t expect it. He was sure that at least half of them would leave given the choice. Owen had even offered to give them the bells, so they could cross safely back to their home. Yet they all still decided to remain here.

The Sand Mage orc gave him a nod. Was it his doing? Owen shook his head. He’d find out soon enough. But for now, his main priority was to regain his strength, and plunder to his heart's content.

His first objective: the orcen Lord. His skills, Titles, Emblem… are all his for the taking.