Kneeling, Adam watched the orc patrol rush toward him on their bulky, scaled beasts. Fifteen, including the two wounded and the three about to jump at his throat, he counted.
His gaze fell on the one leading them. Long dark hair tied overhead in a ponytail, more blade scars than intact skin, and rings pierced through his tusks. At his hip, an axe so disproportionate, with broad decorative rings clanging against the spiked flat side with the rise and fall of his mount's march, that marked him as anything but a common patroller.
The leader dismounted, eyes sweeping across the dead orc, then the two wounded. Finally, he scowled when he saw Adam's copper skin.
One of the three orcs who had watched the battle stepped forward, his mouth opening to form an explanation—
But the leader lifted his gloved hand, interrupting him. He squatted before the kneeling Adam, snarling his tusks out. "You killed one and incapacitated two of my best men. Where do you come from?"
