Page 31 of Sacrificed to the Orc
Rakar is behind, keeping a watchful eye as the three entranced mountain goats follow, their hooves barely making a sound. They are big billy goats, each over three hundred pounds, huge horns spiraling from their skulls, but they do not even think to use their weapons against us.
I’m still in awe of the power that flowed from my lungs. It is not the plants that grew, or the goats that gave themselves to us that made me feel hope.
Rakar had plugs in his ears, and no note changed his feelings for me. He watched my power, and he pledged his fealty.
He had been filled with hatred and fear of me, thinking me a creature of dark magic and evil.
Now he sees me as the hope of his tribe, and he bent his knee, asking me, as his Queen, to accept him. That’s what made me certain I had to make this journey. That if even Rakar could accept me, the tribe will follow.
Askan senses my nervousness and squeezes my hand tight in his. He wanted me to stay back, but I know I have to do this. That either the tribe will accept us as their King and Queen…
Or we’ll die together.
The snow thickens, the heavy blanket of it up to my knees. Askan stops, crouching in front of me so that I can mount him. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he lifts me easily, as if I am weightless. I’m wrapped in his thick fur coat, and I squeeze myself against his power and strength. Despite his only covering being the loincloth, he does not seem to feel the cold, the sun warm against us as we travel.
I put my face in his thick mane of black hair, breathing in his scent. Red-gold bravery, the rich golden hues of hope, the steely, iron-grey determination that is most prominent in his scent.
Hour after hour we walk, until we near the village, towering boulders shielding us from sight.
As we near, Askan slows. “Are you sure, Hazel?”
“I’m sure.”
As we approach the ridge, he sets me down.
I look up at my fierce warrior, my King, my mate, and I steel myself for what’s to come. Breathing in, I taste his steely-grey determination. It centers me.
“No turning back from here,” grunts out Rakar in a low whisper.
“I know,” I say, and as four, we walk out from the boulder and traverse through the icy expanse of open field in front of the ridge that serves as a natural barrier to the orc village.
Perched on the ridge, two sentries clutching bows stare down at us, confusion etched on their broad faces. They can’t comprehend what they are seeing— the two prisoners, not in shackles, but walking freely, and a fresh killed goat on Gorrim’s back.
When they see the three goats walking forward entranced, their mouths open, gaping in shock, not raising their bows in their confusion.
As if breaking out of a spell, one of them barks out an order, and the four of us freeze. The sentry on the left, his skin weathered and covered in battle scars, brings his horn to his lips. The deep, resonant call echoes through the land.
The younger orc sentry is clutching his bow, but he can’t keep his gaze off the sight before him. He rubs his eyes, as if this is an illusion, and Gorrim drops the huge mountain goat heavily into the snow.
“A gift, from the Queen.” Gorrim’s accent makes the words nearly incomprehensible, and he repeats it again, in orcish. Seeing that none of my orcs draw their weapons, the sentry remains immobile, bow still lowered, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. As he stares at the huge goat in the snows, spittle drips from his fangs, wetting his chin, and even from this far, I can hear the heavy rumble of his famished belly. The orc might be huge, but the stark outlines of his ribs are visible against his skin. His cheeks are hollowed out, and his leather armor hangs loose on his frame.
He cannot take his sunken eyes off the fresh kill, even as the thud of boots echoes and more orcs appear on the ridgetop. They are heavily armed, swords and axes gleaming in the sunlight, fanning out.
Every one of them is silent, warriors called by the horn ready to do battle, and facing prisoners returning unshackled with the gift of enough meat to fill their bellies for a week.
19
ASKAN
Istep forward, feeling the weight of every bow aimed at my chest. Forty of my tribe's warriors stand poised on the ridge, their uncertainty evident in the rustle of their hastily donned armor. The last successful hunt, even for a single mountain goat, feels like a distant memory.
“I declare myself Warlord of this tribe. I have seen the vision of the future in the cave!” The chill wind carries my voice across the hushed landscape. Every gaze is fixated on me, the uncertain shuffle of feet and the rustle of armor put on hastily echoing the uncertainty of the men before me.
“You’ve felt the bitter taste of loss. Brothers. Sons. None of us have been untouched. Hunger drives us into the King’s rifles. We are cut down before we can draw a sword. No longer!” My voice roars out.
I put my hand against the blood-moon on my chest. “I have seen our numbers grow anew, led by me and my Queen. Follow me, and we will multiply, restore ourselves to our former numbers, and prosper! Her song brought you fresh meat. Her song brought us life!”
Whispers ripple through the gathered orcs, their eyes darting between each other, seeking guidance.
