For the first time in days, doubt and the tendency to over-analyze did not dominate Dorky’s mind. Although he certainly had no desire to cover the route between the Uurb camp and the capital once again—especially not on foot—the sight of the girls warmed him for the fight. He surrendered to their mood.

  Their oiled bodies, painted with war stripes, contrasted with their fitted armor, and weapons swayed on their hips and backs. They had fierce expressions and fire in their eyes. In a way, it was like observing wild animals in their natural habitat. He couldn't say he disliked it.

  During the march, they initially spoke in short, task-oriented bursts, but after a while — whether due to the pleasant weather or to kill time — they began to chat and even laugh. Their stoicism in the face of the coming battle was fascinating. They only became nervous when faced with the threat of a dishonorable death. In this case, however, they had no doubt they were fulfilling their duty, and it seemed to come quite naturally to them.

  At the same time, the general attitude of the clan sisters toward the boy had changed. Since he managed to drive the venom from Babeno's body and restore her to health, he had become something more than just a funny accessory or a favorite slave. They respected him. They protected him. Although the top of his head barely reached the nipples of most of them, and he would be pinned in a wrestling match in a fraction of a second, he did not feel, nor was he treated as, anyone inferior. He was even allowed to arm and equip himself with items from the tribal treasury. Picking through piles of ill-fitting, orc-male-scented armor pieces and weighing weapons in his hands, he remembered with a sentimental smile what he had carried into the wild during his famous escape from the camp. That was a distant past, separated from him by a true chasm of experience: fights with kobolds, slipping out of captivity, orgies and romances, avoiding death in an ambush, and exposing himself to magical powers.

  He now had a collection of events under his belt that a seasoned adventurer wouldn't be ashamed of. And yet, everything had happened so fast that he wasn't entirely able to accept it as reality.

  The first part of the journey passed with these and similar reflections. As soon as they stopped weaving through the brush and emerged onto the plateau where Marpala and Dorky had spent their memorable bivouac, Babeno turned to her Strong ones without breaking her stride.

  "Uurb Clan! Run!"

  The Orc-women shifted smoothly into a trot, stretching into a comfortable wedge formation. Dorky tried to keep pace, but weighted down by equipment, he felt himself falling behind. Babeno surprised him, suddenly running up, lifting him, and seating him on her shoulders like a child. He sat on her neck and didn't even have to hold on; the grip of her mighty hands on his ankles worked just as well as stirrups. Realizing they must look quite humorous, he let his emotions out and for a moment played an air drum right above her head, making an inspired face.

  Farme, glancing their way, snorted and shouted: "Look, Sisters! That’s the way to live!" Chechi approached with graceful leaps and gave him a hearty slap on the butt.

  The rest of the day was spent bantering, laughing, and easing the journey with various games, but when dusk fell and they reluctantly stopped to rest, nervousness crept into the atmosphere. Orc-women were not blessed with patience. Once the lust for battle and action was awakened, it did not leave their bodies or minds; they paced the camp, looking for tasks. Farme and Dorky, standing the first watch, observed them, trying to decipher if they would even sleep that night, as it seemed the tension-filled scurrying would never end—preparing more fuel than necessary, checking for the hundredth time if a weapon slid easily from its grip, practicing attacks and dodges. Finally, Babeno called them to order and commanded them to lie down. She herself, however, leaning against a large boulder, stared with an inscrutable gaze into the campfire, occasionally plucking a straw of dry grass, turning it between her fingers, and tossing it into the flames. When the second watch replaced the human duo, the elder Orc-woman was still awake and brooding.

  At dawn, she gave the signal to march. Dorky rubbed his eyes, stretched, and peed on the only tree in the vicinity.

  A frame forged of hardened iron, filled with tightly fitted wooden logs, braced the edge of the fortress wall. The Orc capital, Horimar, prepared to repel an attack, seemed an exceptionally tough nut to crack. In the last rays of the setting sun, Garba wrenched her weapon from the corpse of a scout and, smiling crookedly, raised her blood-dripping hammer over her head. She knew the defenders crowded on the walls could see her gesture. A pleasant tingling ran down her neck when she imagined the slaughter they would cause once they got inside.

  "Tshashka, Ogruhna, to me!" she shouted toward her Strong ones. The girls approached, shaking blood from their blades onto the ground and wiping them dry on their trouser legs. The Chieftain pointed to a nearby thicket. "Fell some trees and prepare a solid ladder. We’ll need to climb the walls. To work, or I’ll tear your arms off."

  The Orc-women of Horimar defended themselves fiercely, dropping whatever they could on the attackers, but everything that poured from the walls onto Garba, pressing in the front rank, was smashed by her hammer swings or taken on her forehead. The elder of the Krush clan climbed unhurriedly; this was her second attempt. First had ended with her falling from a significant height along with the ladder, which one of the defenders had simply lifted and pushed away from the wall.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  They could not afford to lose, so she reluctantly signaled her Strong ones to reach for dishonorable ranged weapons. After resetting the ladder, the first of the defenders was treated to a kobold poisoned dart straight to the throat; another tried to deflect a volley with an axe and several embedded themselves in her forearm. Now the victim vanished from sight, likely already staggering on their feet and foaming at the mouth. The rest tried to knock the attackers off the ladder while remaining hidden. Garba smiled to herself, feeling the rising bloodlust. She was only a few steps from the edge of the fortification when one of the royal guards suddenly emerged in a gap and rested her foot on the logs. She grinned and roared from behind her helmet:

  "Go back to hell, you cursed whore!"

  Garba grimaced, held the ladder with one hand, and swung her two-handed hammer nonchalantly with the other. The weight of the mallet passed through the helmet with a splash, burying itself deep in the guard's torso. A slight tug toward Garba wedged the dead body against the battlements, and the attacker braced herself and climbed up over it. She raised her arms above her head and howled like a demon of vengeance. Outside the walls, a battle cry erupted—the Strong of the Krush clan knew they had successfully breached the fortress.

  Garba headed straight for the nearby watchtower, not looking back. She needed to get to the winch and open the gate. On her way, a strike team of three tall Orc-women emerged, determined to prevent the opening of the city gates at all costs. The brown-skinned warrior swept the legs of the first with a mighty kick; she ripped the shield from the falling woman and, with a throw straight into the next one's face, caused her to fall from the walls. In the next step, she stood on the head of the one lying down and twisted her hips hard, crushing vertebrae and bones. The third defender, somewhat pale, attacked her with a typical, wide axe cut to the jaw. Garba knew this technique like the back of her hand. She lunged towards danger in a lightning-fast leap, closing the distance instantly and blocking the arm movement. She grabbed her opponent by the hair and laughed in her face, up close. As she sank her tusks into the woman's mouth and tore out a hunk of flesh in streams of blood, she felt a knife at her ribs. She dropped the hammer, grabbed the hand with the weapon, and easily snapped the weakening opponent's wrist. Then she struck her with the captured blade a dozen times in the collarbone. She lifted the corpse over her head and threw it from the wall toward the buildings. Let it herald the massacre. Let them have no doubt about what awaits them.

  Borba Glau functioned on the edge of wakefulness and sleep. By day, he was filled with ambition, the lust for power, and the desire to stamp his boot upon the face of the known lands. He wanted to dominate, enslave, and crush everyone. This was a reflection of his fantasies from before the ritual. Now, all the most dangerous, impulsive urges were highlighted and had taken complete control. When night fell, he first felt a slightly itchy numbness in his fingertips and where his gums met his teeth; then, anxiety began to flood him in waves, tugging at his lungs, bulging his eyes, and dilating his nostrils. After a moment, he effectively couldn't breathe and transitioned into a silent roar. And then a beastly, ungodly power entered all his limbs, including his member. He stopped feeling the weight of gravity. He moved like gusts of wind, unfurling and coiling like a tongue of flame. Never did he sleep, covering vast stretches of land without fatigue. He lost his companions and forgot to eat.

  He craved blood.

  That evening, just before the transformation, he tried to remember the details of the ritual in the Wastelands. Despite the effort he put into it, no convincing, chronological whole emerged from the scraps of images. He heard whispers, the clinking of goblets, shifting gold and jewels. Some senile gray head reveals a secret, for which he pays a true fortune. He doesn't like the cunning expression on the kobold's face who arranged the information; he remembers promising him torture if he felt cheated. The drunk kobold cackles, shaking his head, assuring him of friendship and honesty, then cackles again. The next day, he disappears without warning. A bad sign? Bad signs are for the weak.

  The memories move to the Wastelands, where on his knees for hours he digs up a sand-covered gravestone. A family of short humanoids held on a leash struggles fiercely as he slits their throats and offers their blood to the figure lying in the grave. He loses consciousness. Clouds are moving quickly across the desert sky. Night without sleep, sleep without night. Sand on his tongue, a metallic aftertaste, trembling hair on his neck. Being naked. He has no idea how much time passes. The moving clouds are now only darker shadows in the inky gloom. A total lunar eclipse, an icy breeze, a spasm of fear in his brave body. It is so terribly cold, it is wrong, like when he almost bled to death from his wounds. The image stretches and pulls, the remains of the previous one overlaying in the corners of his eyes; a headache thumps as if he were dying of thirst. Ambition mixed with a mind screaming and begging for him to flee, to run as far as he can, because what is coming exceeds the limits of his understanding.

  It is too late.

  A death shroud falls over his face in an infinitely terrifying, slow movement. The chieftain's consciousness finds itself in a tall room with walls lined with red cloth. His lover leads him by the hand across a satin floor to a small altar. Everything is sticky with blood. He copulates with an icy, burning, glowing being without gender or race—actually, he is being possessed. Eyes, mouth, ears, and all orifices in his body fill with a boiling gurgle of blood, soot, the odor of death, and a stifling heat. His soul screams, sucked into nothingness.

  He wakes in his new form but remembers nothing of that. Yet he is ready to challenge the King.

  Before the night passed, Surovizga, who accepted a duel, stood to fight him and fell, unable to compete with sorcerous powers. Although his reliable axes and one-of-a-kind discipline allowed him to deal mortal wounds, the demon did not let its vessel lose. The pretender's wounds regenerated, allowing him to deal with the rightful leader, weakened after the long duel. Now, nothing stood in the way of seizing power over the entire Orc empire. Carried by the pleasure of victory, Borba Glau, dragging the former king's head by the hair, drifted like a ghost over the plateau when morning surprised him. He approached a lone tree to have something to lean against. The transformation from night to day form always cost him a lot. The wounds he had sustained could partially reopen, and he felt terrible pain, hunger, and exhaustion that only subsided after several hours. He cast aside the weapon and the head, pulled the hood of his cloak over his forehead. The sun struck with its first rays.

  And then he felt that something more than usual was... wrong.

  Hey there Greenskin Lovers!

  It's been hell of a ride and

  THE NOVEL IS FINISHED

  After much thought and appreciated feedback from readers, I decided to publish it on Amazon to reach as broad audience as possible.

  There will also be free episodes on Reddit, Ao3, RoyalRoad and Wattpad, but in order to read the whole story, you need to support me by buying the book.

  It will be priced reasonably low at $6,95Planned release: Mid-march 2026

  Love you all, this wouldn't be possible without your continued support and active reading!