Page 19 of Shackled to the Orc

He growls, a deep, rumbling sound that makes me feel like a prey animal. He covers the length of the room in two long strides, grabs me by the collar, and lifts me out of my chair.

I’m trapped, staring up at the monstrous brute as he towers over me. His face is an inch from mine, his fangs gleaming, his breath hot against me. “You will not speak of my tribe again. Understand?”

I swallow. Hard. There’s electric energy between us, and instead of only feeling terror, there’s something else, this frisson that rushes down my spine as he manhandles me so easily, the sheer power of the beast overpowering me. His deep, masculine musk is in my nostrils, his eyes seeming to glow like gems as he fixes me with his full attention. “I understand,” I say, and he releases his grip. I breathe out, shook, smoothing my vestment slowly against my body. My skin is hyper-sensitive, the rough material grating against me.

He steps back, and my eyes dart down past his muscled chest, past his lines of abs and power, where his huge cock is stirring under his black loincloth, this massive thing that throbs when he has his hands on me, our bodies reacting to each other in a way neither of us can control.

With a snarl, he stomps to the hallway, slamming the door behind him.

I’m terrified of the orc. His sheer size, his strength, the anger and violence ready to explode at any second…

But there’s another image, stuck in my mind, that I can’t get out.

If instead of letting me go, he threw me into the bed, his huge bulk pressing me down. A single hand holding me down easily while the other rips my clothes off, exposing my tight, hard nipples, his nostrils flaring as he tastes the scent of my lust that would boil up in me no matter how hard I tried to fight it. How helpless I would be as he gives in to his beastly rage and lust, all of it focused on me as I stare up into his burning green eyes, unable to do anything to stop him from claiming my innocence as his own.

My nipples harden, and feverish lusts fills me, all my hate and anger replaced by something else, something I’ve never felt before, and my pussy tingles between my legs. I’m uncomfortably wet as I rush to the bathroom, turning the cold water tap and splashing my face as I get a hold over myself.

When I stormed into the room, I’d planned to yell at him, to convince him to go easy on the two poor recruits. Now I see it’s no sadistic hazing. He’s got a plan for the two newcomers, using his limited time to mold them into gladiators with a fighting chance of surviving their first bout, no matter how hopeless Garvin thinks it is. I bet he said the same of Peter, and I can remember the look in his eyes last night, drunk as he danced a jig, the gloriousness of being alive overflowing from him.

Still, no matter why he’s doing it, I can’t watch. Seeing those two men covered in bruises and welts holding the spears in shaking arms is sickening. I sit down at the table, and eat slowly, as I think of my future.

I’ve got no chance of getting out of here alone. Unless I can convince Khan, I’ll be trapped here, in this room, for the rest of my life. I force myself to chew, to swallow, to take another bite, my hand steady as I force down the tremors. All I want to do is lie in bed and sob, but that won’t help anything.

When I am done eating, I place my fork neatly next to the empty bowl and start my daily stretches. I need to keep with the routines I’ve developed to help with anxiety. But as I’m doing bodyweight squats, instead of relief, it’s like the stone walls are closing in on me, the light that streams in from outside a mockery, the ashes in the fire growing larger and larger in my vision as intense pressure forms in my head.

I take a huge breath in, hold it, and exhale, centering myself, when a scream of pain makes me jolt upright.

It came from the training grounds.

11

MAYA

Itake off at a run, all my tension relieved by action, rushing through the corridor and into the training grounds. The gladiators have stopped fighting, all ringing a fallen figure. Through the gaps of muscles and armor, I see a burly man lying back, clutching at his throat. Blood is dripping down the wooden spear driven straight up through his jaw, going out through his cheek. Another gladiator crouches, about to pull the spear out.

“Don’t touch that!” I yell, sprinting as fast as I can, my feet pounding in the sand. “Move back,” I say, and to my surprise, the gladiators step back, giving me room around the wounded man. The blood is streaming from his jaw, but not in the pulsing, pumping spurts of a cut artery. I crouch next to him, pressing my hand against the base of the wound, putting pressure that makes him groan, raising his arm to push my hand away, and Khan squats, his hands on his shoulders and keeping him down. The wounded man’s eyes are opened wide in panic. He tries to speak, and blood drips from his cheek, and he coughs. I glance to his lips. No blood coming out with his breath. The spear missed his lungs. It looks bad, but as long as no one does anything stupid, he’ll make it.

“You. Fresh, clean towels. You, boil water. Don’t rush it. Full boil and bring it to me. You, tweezer, needle, thread,” I say, directing my words at three different men standing and watching, making sure to make eye contact with each of them as I speak. In an emergency, everyone thinks you’re talking to someone else if you aren’t careful.

Khan is impassive, his face clear of any emotion as he holds the moaning man down, unaffected by the blood dripping on his huge hands.

“What’s his name?”

“Brenn,” states Khan.

“Brenn, you’re going to be fine. The spear missed the artery. You’re going to be okay.” My voice is like a stranger to me. I always use the same tone to speak to wounded people, the one Mariel taught me. It’s the same voice you use on a skittish horse.

Men become like animals when they panic. I look up, to the balcony of the estate, where Shug is watching with obvious interest. “Hey! Shug, get us a doctor!” I yell.

If he hears me, he doesn’t show it, just leaning out on the balcony and looking down at us like we are ants.

“No doctors allowed in. We have to carry him out,” states Khan. He is calm and measured, no words wasted.

I suppress a hiss of frustration. “You two. Half-orcs. Get the fur blanket from Khan’s bed, ropes, and the two biggest spears you can find.”

They don’t move, looking at each other first, then at Khan. “Go,” says the orc, and they sprint away. They weren’t willing to go into his room without permission, not even to save the life of a wounded man.

We do not speak, the wounded man gasping, Khan impassive, me holding my hands against where the spear drove into him. Even a blunted spear can drive through soft skin and flesh. Brenn is looking up at me, fear in his eyes, pleading soundlessly for me to save his life as his blood drips out on my hands. I look back at the entrance. The first men are coming back, holding the things I need, one with a kettle that is still steaming.

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