Page 25 of Alien Orc Warlord's Captive Bride

Then he gets on one knee in front of me in the stone, drawing a sharp dagger from a pocket in his furs. He cuts his left hand, a long line, his brackish, reddish brown blood staining the stone. It is metallic like copper.

"Be my Queen, Aira. Be my queen, and let us face the storm together. Without you, I am nothing."

Tears pool in my eyes. I look down at him, and I gulp dryly. "Can you really fight them off? Don't lie to me, Ragnar. Will your tribe be safe?"

"They will. We will survive, with your knowledge. My men will follow me without question. They are eager for war, and our mountain home is fortified and protected. We could hold off a thousand men with only a dozen Orc, trained with rifles and surrounded by traps."

My eyes widen. I imagine it, so clearly it's like it is real. By his side in the great hall, a crown on my head.

"You wouldn't lie to me. Right? We'll be safe, truly safe. This isn’t some mad dream, Ragnar? Tell me this isn’t insanity."

"I want to put a son inside you, Aira. I want to fill you with my seed. You're everything. I would not bring a child into this world unless I knew I could protect him. I would not wed you, unless I knew I could keep you safe."

Tears stream down my cheeks. They are tears of tortured happiness, the possibility of a future with the one man who made me want more, the tears of fear for the war that our union will damn us to.

My hand shakes as I slowly bring it forward. "I won't cut you," Ragnar says.

"Is that the ritual of your people? When a man and woman are wed?"

He nods. "It is."

"If I'm going to become part of your tribe I must do it," I say.

He takes his blade and gently cuts my hand. The pain as the knife opens my flesh is sharp and biting, but I do not wince, cherishing it. It is us, this union that has been so tortured, this sharp pain that centers me, and I put my hand into his, feeling the blood mixing together. He stands and runs his hand through my hair, and kisses me, deep and tender, when the war horns blare out.

Rifle shots boom out, and he turns, his brows furrowed in tension, as three black shapes shoot through the sky like massive falcons.

They are like black triangular birds, huge and metallic, soundlessly screaming towards the village of the Orcs. One of them is hit by rifle fire and careens downwards, smashing against the rock, but the other two fly straight over the valley home of the Orc, and the bottoms of them open.

Fire streams down, a magma inferno, and I scream in horror as Ragnar sprints towards his mountain home, leaving me in the snow alone.

A red drop of my blood stains the virgin snow, and another follows it.

16

AIRA

I'm frozen in fear on the mountain, looking down at the castle.

The huge gates open and Lord Ashbourne's army, hidden in wait for the surprise attacks, streams out. They look like toy soldiers, but they are deadly, flanked by men on horseback with long spears, spears pointed upwards and displaying the black banners with the twin red eyes of Lord Ashbourne's insignia. Behind them, there is a shock troop of men with long rifles slung over their backs that look like toothpicks from this height, wearing the royal purple of the king, twenty elite warriors worth a dozen of Ashbourne's men each.

They move forward like a river that cannot be stopped.

The oxen were nothing more than a ruse, to get Ragnar's guard down. Or perhaps the messenger said that I was painted and by Ragnar's side, and Lord Ashbourne knew the Orc Warlord would never let me go.

I curse myself, curse Lord Ashbourne, and run, as fast as I can, back to the mountain pass that leads to the village. There are no guards. I squeeze through the tight entrance and stand, looking down at the carnage. There are swaths of fires burning, the bridge crossing the river a smoldering wreck, but the stone houses are protected, and from them, Orc children look out in fear. "Dragon!" yells one child in a high-pitched voice, repeating it over and over. He's pulled from the window, brought deeper into the stone home to safety.

The woman Orc doctor in the white vest is yelling, directing wounded Orc into the hospital, and Ragnar is in the field, directing a bucket line from the river, putting out the fires. The one-armed Tusk has a rifle in his hands, staring up with cold eyes, two other Orcs with fresh made weapons in their hands staring up for any sign of the killing birds. Two of the oxen have collapsed, but the other three have been led to the far right of the village, protected by the valley cliff face that looms over them. The stink of chemicals, burnt wood and grass, the burning flesh of oxen and Orc assaults my nostrils.

I recognize Gorak, his body smoldering, his eyes closed. He has his axe in his hand, useless against the enemies above, pulling himself up heavily, when I look up at the twin black shadows of the killing birds. Their bottoms open, and more fire streams down. Ragnar yells, grabbing an Orc teenager and pulling him into the safety of a building, yelling for everyone to shelter. Tusk fires up, and I can hear his curses as he misses, then one of the other Orcs tackles him into the safety of his blacksmithy just as fire scorches down where he was just standing a moment before.

No—he didn't miss!

The newly created weapons were rifled, and they struck true. One of the huge black birds careens downwards. It slams against the side of the valley, smoking as it lands in front of me. I step back into the shadows, staring at the mess of metal and oil of the massive thing. I've never seen anything like it before, some rare technology that only the King himself possesses.

Lord Ashbourne will wipe us off the face of the earth. He's got technology from the King himself, who usually ignored the Orcs, but cannot take the afront of them making a mockery of one of his lords.

I can almost feel the cold hate in Lord Ashbourne's heart. He would burn women, children, every last Orc to get his revenge. Ragnar is brave, but he can't stand up to this.

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