Page 2 of The Princess and the Orc

Amalia laughed as the wind tore through her hair, the ribbons that had tied it back drifting behind her as they raced through the open field. Shergar had needed the run more than she had anticipated and they had outrun their guards and lost sight of the castle in short order. She pulled up on the reins to slow him down and he snorted, tossing his head up and in down in protest, but he stopped, stamping his hooves.

She looked around at the clearing and the trees that surrounded them. She knew every inch of the area around their castle. She had traveled much further than she’d thought. The castle was no longer in sight and she had even passed some of the villages. She glimpsed the pond through the trees where she used to spend time with her nanny. She had broken the rules. She had ridden too far, and now she could barely hear the shouts from her guards.

She tugged the reins to turn Shergar around and saw a horrible sight. A band of men on horses emerged from the trees in the distance behind her. They split into two groups; one headed for her and the other for the guards frantically riding to protect her, but they were too far. She froze for a moment, Shergar bellowing a challenge, his head tossing and his hoof pawing the ground.

“Run!” The word tore from her throat as she kicked Shergar into motion. The warhorse needed no encouragement, launching forward with powerful strides that ate up the ground beneath them. Behind her, she could hear the thunder of hooves and the cruel laughter of men who thought they had cornered easy prey.

Her heart pounded against her ribs as Shergar carried her toward the treeline. The forest. It wasn't safe. Her father's warnings about orc raiding parties echoed in her mind. But neither was staying in the open field where the attackers could surround her. At least in the woods, Shergar's agility might give them an advantage.

Branches whipped at her face as they plunged into the shadows beneath the ancient trees. Shergar wove between trunks with the precision of a dancer, but their pursuers were gaining. These weren't common bandits. They rode like military men, and their coordination spoke of years of training together.

An arrow whistled past her ear, and Amalia ducked low over Shergar's neck. "Please," she whispered, her fingers white-knuckled on the reins. “Please, faster.”

But even Shergar's legendary stamina had limits, and she had been riding him hard before the pursuit. His breathing grew labored, his stride less sure as they went deeper into unfamiliar territory. The sounds of the chase grew closer, and Amalia's eyes stung with helpless tears. She had been so foolish, so reckless.

A fallen tree loomed before them. Shergar gathered himself to jump, but his tired legs betrayed him. He stumbled on the landing, and Amalia was thrown forward. She hit the ground, stunned by the impact, and her horse took off, still gripped by fear. The thunder of hooves came closer now, shaking the ground, and rough voices called out in triumph.

“Nowhere left to run, Princess!”

“The client wants her alive, but he said nothing about unspoiled!” A mocking laugh accompanied the words, and her stomach clenched.

Amalia's mind raced, and her heart pounded in her chest. She could surrender, hope they truly meant to take her alive and not hurt her, or she could run on foot, though she knew that would only delay the inevitable. Her skirts would hinder her movement and there were too many men. They could easily change their mind and wound her to capture her.

Before she could decide, an inhuman roar shattered the forest's tension.

A massive shape erupted from the underbrush, a green figure of muscle and fury. Amalia's eyes widened in terror as she recognized the deep green skin, the massive tusks, the rippling arms thick as tree trunks. An orc warrior, easily eight feet tall, burst between her and the men, wielding a massive battle-axe as though it weighed nothing at all.

The first soldier barely had time to turn before the axe cleaved through his armor like parchment. The orc moved with shocking speed for something so large, spinning to catch another rider with a shoulder check that sent both horse and man flying into a tree with a sickening crunch.

“Orc!” One soldier screamed. “Fall back! Fall—” His words ended in a gurgle as the axe found his throat.

The remaining attackers tried to flee, but the orc was everywhere at once, a whirlwind of calculated violence. In mere moments, what had been an organized attack force was reduced to broken bodies and terrified horses fleeing into the woods. One rider escaped, galloping in the distance.

Then there was silence, broken only by the orc's heavy breathing.

Slowly, deliberately, the massive warrior turned to face her. Amalia struggled to her feet, swaying a little from the shock and impact. She stared at him, unsure of what he would do to her. Blood dripped from his axe and spattered his leather armor and skin, but his movements were controlled, almost graceful. His features were harsh, strange, yet somehow handsome. High cheekbones, a powerful jaw, distinctive tusks capped with studded metal. His eyes, when they met hers, were a startling black obsidian, intelligence burning in their depths.

“You are far from your castle walls, little princess,” he rumbled, his voice deep as thunder, yet surprisingly articulate. He took a step forward, and Amalia flinched back. The orc stopped, and though his expression was hard to read, she thought she caught a flicker of something, possibly amusement. But why would he be amused? “I am Drogath, of the Broken Claw clan. And you are either very brave or very foolish to ride alone in these woods.”

Amalia's heart raced for entirely different reasons now. Everything she knew, everything she'd been taught, told her that orcs were monsters, mindless savages who lived only to raid and destroy. Yet this one had saved her life and now regarded her with an intelligence that defied all her preconceptions. His presence radiated power and danger, yes, but also something else. Something that made her pulse quicken and her cheeks flush.

“Thank you,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper. “For saving my life. Though I don't understand why.”

Drogath's tusked mouth curved in what might have been a smile. “Perhaps, princess, there is much about my people you do not understand.” He stepped closer again, and this time Amalia held her ground, mesmerized despite her fear. “Though if you wish to learn, these woods are my territory. And I would not be opposed to teaching you.”

* * *

Drogath glided through the forest, his footsteps silent despite his massive frame. The morning's frustration still simmered beneath his skin. Three days he'd waited for an audience with King Henrik, and for three days the human guards had turned him away with increasingly flimsy excuses. As if he couldn't smell their fear, their instinctive revulsion at the sight of an orc approaching their precious gates. He couldn’t afford to be away from his clan much longer, yet he also couldn’t afford to fail in his plan, either. His people needed him to succeed. They couldn’t fight a war on two fronts. Not alone.

The crack of branches and thunder of hooves pulled him from his brooding. His hand found the shaft of his axe as he moved toward the sound, keeping to the shadows of the ancient trees. As the shouting grew closer, he crouched behind a fallen tree and assessed the situation. The scents hit him first—horse sweat, human fear, and the acrid tang of malice that always accompanied those who enjoyed causing terror in others. Rage filled him and he moved out from the trees, hoping he was in time to help the poor soul who was under attack.

He crested a small rise and took in the scene at a glance. Six mounted soldiers pursued a lone rider on a black horse, a woman, judging by the skirt and hair flowing behind her. Their uniforms weren't those of either Henrik’s guard or Drogath’s enemy, yet the way they moved spoke of professional training. Mercenaries, then, or someone's private army. He feared for her if they caught her. While orcs were often touted as vile creatures, he knew all too well that humans often caused the most harm to their own.

Drogath didn't hesitate. Whatever game these humans played, it wasn't a fair hunt. He raced through the forest, hoping to intercept the action. The woman’s horse leapt over a fallen log and stumbled, with the woman going over the horse’s head and onto the ground. The horse took off, leaving the woman huddled on the ground. He burst from the cover with a roar that shook leaves from the branches, letting battle-rage fill him even as he kept his mind clear and tactical. The first two humans died before they could even turn their horses, toppling from them, dead before they hit the ground. The third managed to raise his sword before Drogath's axe separated his head from his shoulders.

The remaining soldiers broke and scattered, as humans so often did when faced with an orc warrior's fury. But Drogath was too quick, cutting them down before they could escape, save one who had turned tail like the coward he was as soon as Drogath had revealed himself.

He turned to the woman, expecting the usual reaction—screaming, fainting, or trying to flee. Instead, she met his gaze evenly, chin raised despite the fear that radiated from her in waves. Her features were delicate, aristocratic, and startlingly familiar from the coins that bore her image. Princess Amalia herself. Well. This complicated matters.

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