Page 19 of Alien Orc Warlord's Captive Bride

"And that means you have to spill our secrets, worm-lover? These weapons are cowardly."

"You only say that because you can't aim with one eye!" bursts out Silga, stepping in closer to me to keep me safe. It's the wrong thing to say. His one good eye darts to her, then back to me, and he snarls.

"They'll keep us alive." Tusk's voice is too calm, steady and slow, trying to defuse the situation. "I'd rather our tribe be live cowards than dead in the plains, like our old Chieftain would have wanted. We are more than mindless warriors, and there's no glory in a futile death."

The younger Orc grabs his mace from his belt, bringing it up, his lips drawn back to show his fangs. He stinks of sour sweat and gristle, and as he speaks, a fetid scent fills the room. Rotten meat mixed with strong alcohol. The Orc never went to sleep after the festivities. He's been drinking through the night. "You'll kill us all, feeding information to her."

"I'm sorry. I'll leave. I didn't want to cause any trouble," I say quickly, trying to calm him, but my voice only enrages him.

"Shut up, worm," snarls the Orc. He steps forward, swinging his mace. Tusk steps back, the blow whistling in front of him, and brings his hammer down hard on the young Orc's shoulder. There's a crunch of bone, and the weapon falls from his hand. The over-confident Orc collapses in a whimpering heap, and Silga rushes forward, grabbing a clean cloth and pressing it to his arm. He moans out in fear. Each gasping breath, spit and mucus drips down his mouth. "We need to get him to a healer," Silga says, her voice shaking. His arm is ruined, the bone turned to dust, and it hangs limply by his side.

Drawn to the commotion, other Orcs are running in, women hissing in anger, older men growling. "He raised his weapon against a woman under the Chieftain's protection," booms out Tusk, no longer looking old or weak. "Bring him to the healer. His fate will be in the hands of the Chieftain."

The wounded Orc is dragged away. leaving a trail of sickly, orange-brown blood that clings to the ground, staining it. I try to slow my breath, but I'm panting. I walk forward in a trance, out of the blacksmithy, and despite him trying to hurt me, I hope the young Orc will be okay. He must have been poisoned with hatred for humans from a young age, incapable of seeing us as anything but demons bent on eradicating his species.

When I think of men like Lord Ashbourne, he's right. As long as men like him hold power, the Orc species will never be safe.

The young Orc is whimpering as he is dragged into a long stone building that must be their hospital.

Most of the Orcs are staring at me and the trail of blood. Do they blame me for what happened? Some of their gazes go to the entrance of the village, and I follow their sight.

Ragnar. He stops at the top of the steps, standing tall as a giant, with a huge mountain goat over his shoulders. He drops it, the limp body falling as he races down the steps towards me. His long, muscular legs like tree trunks eat up the ground as he sprints towards me. Orcs gather around us while women rush their children inside their homes, not wanting them to see his vengeance. That young Orc went against his decrees, and the hammer slamming his bones to dust is only the start of his nightmare.

Ragnar is clad in a heavy fur coat, his green, stony skin slick with sweat, snow melt in his rough, tangled black hair. The waterfall of unruly curls goes down his neck, a bear's mane that frames his anvil of a jaw. He towers like a titan, but there is a hint of vulnerability on his powerful face, out of place. The green skin of his shoulders and chest is visible beneath the fur coat, impregnable jade skin that could stop a sword blow, but there's pain in his eyes.

"By the laws of my honor, I failed you. I told you that you were under my protection, and one of my own raised a weapon against you. I cannot hold you. You are free to leave," he says, his voice hard. Gasps come from the crowd. Just last night, they were celebrating that I would be the key to their survival, and now their Chieftain is letting me go.

That, I did not expect from the Chieftain, and neither did anyone else watching. They are shocked, but nod in understanding. This species has a code of honor I did not understand or expect. Orcs are shifting uncomfortably, waiting for my answer, and one rubs his belly as if remembering the long hunger of the last winter.

"The fate of the young one is yours to decide. Shall I take his head from his neck?"

I shake my head. "No. It'll just make your people hate humans more. He's been poisoned by..." I don't say his soldiers like Gorak, because I don't want to cause more trouble, not when I am free.

Ragnar turns to the hospital. An Orc woman in a white apron is looking at him, arms crossed. "Tend to his wounds, but give him no medicine to soothe his pain. Let him learn from what he has done." The woman nods and goes back into the hospital.

I look up at the mountain pass that will lead back to my home.

No.

Not to my home.

I'll be lead straight to Lord Ashbourne's castle, trapped behind the stone walls. The valley on either side of me looms up protectively, but in Ashbourne's castle, I'd feel like the walls were a cage.

I look at the small, poorly made gardens, the plants placed haphazardly, the stream where Orcs fish inefficiently. They do not have the tools to survive this winter. They are hunters, and my people destroyed their way of life. The only way they can live through the long winter is by trading my life for their tribe.

"I will stay. Trade me, that your tribe can survive this winter."

The collection of Orcs look at me, stunned. Then one woman, old, with long grey braids, gets to her knees. "Thank you," she says, and I have to look away, because I can't handle the praise.

Ragnar strides to me and wraps his huge arms around my body, pulling me tight against his broad chest. "We do not deserve you," he says, but there's pain in his voice.

I clear my throat, uncomfortable. I'd love to sink into his arms, to feel protected and cherished...

But it's all going to disappear. I pull away from Ragnar. "Well, Lord Ashbourne's only getting married once. You'll need new tactics to survive the next winter."

He nods. "We will...we will trade you for rations and cattle. I plan to start a herd that will provide for us for decades to come."

I cock my head. "Herds are good. A start. But one blight or disease, and you could lose it all."

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