The Dark Sire Issue 3 (Spring 2020) | Page 67

as he reached the tree line of the Malgaard, the forest bordering the Sotus, and then turned into an all-out sprint as he disappeared among the trees. Wank was no fool and fear fired his legs faster than any orc could run. But not any worg. Wank watched, in hiding, as the hunting party readied. He had been freed and given a head start just after dusk, before the orc warriors were to mount their worg steeds. A long, eventful hunt was desired. The orcs wanted no easy kill, and their expectations drove them to uncharacteristic toothy smiles of anticipation. The death of the orc-that-was-mostly-human would mean great honor for his slayer. After having circled out through the forest and back around toward the caves, Wank had donned his cloak of shadow. Thus cloaked, he climbed up an outcropping some fifty feet above the orcs and, judiciously upwind, watched tensely from his rocky perch. The gray fur stood bristling like a thousand pin- points on the backs of the pony-sized wolves. They howled hungrily at the bars of their cages, chewing and digging to escape and be after the quarry their animal hearts and minds knew was out there. If not for the worgs’ preoccupation with the hunt, their handlers would not have been able to beat the frenzied beasts enough to 65