Page 15 of Sacrificed to the Orc
I try to convince myself that he is putting on an act for his war-brothers, as he called them, because the man I knew is gone.
He is transformed. A monster with bone-crushing might, fangs gleaming, his green hide dull and thick, adorned with the black, shining runes of power tattooed on him by the shamans who tainted his mind. I can no longer imagine the thoughts lurking in his alien mind—and perhaps I was lying to myself this entire time that I could understand him at all. He sees spirits and Gods all around him, every shift in the wind an omen, and now that he is with his own kind, I fear that the omens will speak to him clearly, telling him that he must bring me to the altar, that only my blood flowing can make life grow anew.
I plant my eyes on the snow straight in front of me, terrified to look at the three brutes, when the sloshing of liquid draws my attention. The orcs draw deeply from their flasks, brutish faces illuminated by the flickering firelight, gleaming off their fangs. Askan rises from his stone perch, striding towards me.
With my hands bound behind my back, I’m helpless, unable to do anything myself.
“You will drink.” He barks out the order and brusquely brings the flask to my mouth, his hand under my chin and forcing it upwards as he presses the lip of the flask against my lip and pours. I sputter, gulping it down, and the other two men laugh.
He stares into my eyes. His unyielding gaze locks into mine, and he pulls away the flask, wiping my chin with a callused finger. He does not say a word, but his protective power washes over me, and I sense the lingering ember of the protector I knew him to be.
He returns to the fire, and the three men sit in silence as the flames die. Askan reaches up to his head, ripping the bandage off and throwing it into the fire, where it catches. His friend, covered in wolf tattoos, gets up and soundlessly goes behind him, helping him pull off the bandages, throwing them into the fire. To my surprise, his deep green flesh is nearly healed on his back, nothing but a little bit of redness, and the swelling is nearly gone, his eye a little puffy. He was right. The orcs do heal quickly.
They wait a few more minutes, then the shorter orc kicks snow into the embers, dousing them, and the three men get up, stretching. The shorter orc starts to walk, slowly, while the one with the wolf tattoos glances at Askan, then at me.
Askan strides towards me, when the orc with the wolf tattoos says something to him, low and intense.
9
ASKAN
“How did you get gash on your back?” Rakar’s got a hard edge to his voice.
“A gift from the avalanche. The mountains resent a devilspawn on their peaks.”
“And you managed to get that bandage on your back?”
Without wavering, I fix my gaze on his, staring into his cold green eyes. “Made the girl do it. Had her pull out the stone fragments, then bind it. She’ll do anything I say, with just a glance at my axe to keep her in check.”
A heavy silence ensues. “Careful. They are weak and small, but they have enough devilish cunning to them to push us back. Even a worm like her could be our damnation.”
“No. She is our salvation,” I say, and finally, he nods in acceptance.
“Aye. It is fated,” he says, and turns to follow Gorrim.
I let out a hiss of breath, turning to Hazel. She is bound and terrified, the massive fur coat making her look like a tiny toy. All I can think of is throwing her over my shoulder and sprinting, rushing and tumbling down the mountain face, escaping…
But in Rakar’s bag is a horn. He’d sound it in a heartbeat, summoning the rest of our kin like bloodthirsty hounds. I don’t know how many hunting parties are deeper down the mountain face, how many would block my escape, pinning me in. Even if I rushed down to the plains, I would be harried at every moment, slowed by her weight over my shoulder while the hunting parties stalk us down.
He would give me to the shamans, to see if the dark magic of the demonic humans that twisted my mind could be exorcised, or if the tribe would have to end me.
The snow crunches under my boots, and I try to give Hazel a reassuring glance, but my mind twists and rebels as I sling her over my shoulder. We’re a day’s march from my tribe’s village, where they will celebrate my victorious return.
Our village, surrounded by sharp-eyed guards, where Hazel will be put in a cage, trapped until the blood moon.
I run my fingers over the wooden hilt of my axe, staring at the backs of my two war-brothers, men that I grew up with, men who I wrestled with as a child, men who I sat by the fires and listened to the stories with, our green eyes glowing with wonder at the hypnotic tales the shamans told us of a great future, of one day reclaiming the lands to our dominion.
I’m trapped. To draw iron against Rakar and Gorrim, my brothers-in-arms, churns my gut. I could cut down one from behind, perhaps, but outnumbered and facing both him and Gorrim…
My chances are slim.
With me cut down, there would be no one standing between Hazel and her dark destiny. No one to protect her soft, smooth throat, no one who would care when her pounding heart beat its last.
I hold her tight against my shoulder, wishing our mountain home was a farther trek away, willing myself to grip the moons in the heavens, to slow their ascents. I wish my war-brothers did not have such a deep loyalty to me, braving the treacherous snows of a new avalanche to track me down in case I was buried.
Their footfalls leave a crisp trail in the snow, leading me unerringly to destiny, the only sign of life in the profound stillness of the mountain peaks. No wind blows, no hawk cries, the silence as deep as death, as if the Gods themselves are holding their breath, watching my every move.
My blood flows, my heart pounds in a rhythm, my breath is steady, and I know my fate is my own.
