Page 44 of Shackled to the Orc

27

KHAN

Iwake as if from death, coughing, choking, unable to breathe, and the deerskin pouch flies out of my throat. I reach down to my chest. Coagulated blood coats my body. I’m in total darkness, the iron stink of my wounds filling my nostrils, the bitter taste of the stillroot in my mouth. I kick, hard, banging against the metal door, and my long slab in the morgue creaks out.

I pull myself up with a pained groan, my muscles barely registering my commands, each movement a battle as I adjust to the pale, artificial light of the morgue. I’m deep below Shug’s estate, and the other compartments are filled with the fresh dead from the battle, to be sold off to medical schools for organs. It’s icy cold.

I spit, the greyness of the stillroot in my saliva. I trusted her completely, the dosage that would put me into a sleep like death, so deep the drunken doctor would proclaim me dead.

Then it was all up to me. I crushed the mixture in my mouth as I swung, and the last thing I saw was Lorenzo’s head flying from his shoulders, the last thing I felt was his blade cutting into my chest, and I did not know if he had pierced my heart or missed it, not knowing if I would ever wake again, thinking only of her in my final moments.

She has done her part.

Now I must have the strength to do mine. I’m light-headed from blood loss, lightning pain from the dozen cuts, but I stumble forward, ready to take Shug’s men by surprise, when my right leg gives out.

I hit the ground hard, groaning, but I can’t give up. I grab the medical gurney and pull myself up.

On it are iron tools. I grab the wooden handled surgeon’s knife, like a toy in my huge hand. I slap my thighs, avoiding the wounds, getting blood flowing back in them. My cuts are covered in sticky, ruddy blood, my skin knitting together, but each step I take makes thick blood drip down my legs.

I only need to be strong a little longer.

A strange smile comes to my lips, a smile I haven’t had since I felt the rush of a true battle, snowy winds slapping against my skin, biting shards of ice melting against my body as I prepared for war, leading my tribe against all who threatened us.

I limp to the door and turn the handle. Unlocked. No one expects someone to come back from the dead. No guards outside, just a long, dimly lit hallway. Something makes me look back into the chilled morgue, my slow thoughts clearing. There is a small metal chest in the corner. It clicks open, and the vials filled with white seed are inside, three slightly darker from the herbs, half filled, the other still intact and to the brim. I grab them and throw them against the walls, shattering them. Even if I don’t make it out of here alive, no son of mine will be forced into the pits.

I don’t know these underground tunnels, but the plan is set. I trust Garvin with my life, and he has the men ready to scale the walls, every man knowing what he must do.

But it will be up to me to take Shug by surprise. He’s got the vast bulk of his guards patrolling the gladiator’s quarters, and he won’t be expecting me.

And those guards were set up to watch me. With his financial disaster betting a fortune on the match, the hope is that he’s already fired the bulk of his men.

I drag my leg down the hallway, each step, my sluggish muscles growing stronger, when I sniff, smelling her familiar scent. I wasn’t sure if Shug would throw her into a jail cell or keep her in the gladiators’ quarters until he decided what to do with her–but the one thing I knew is he wouldn’t harm her, not when he’s lost his fortune and he’ll need to sell off the baby in her belly.

A stairwell is ahead of me, but I pause, sniffing the air, and turn right down another hallway.

The guard is sitting slumped on a stool, a little wooden table in front of him covered in cards, playing solitaire. He looks up in shock, reaching for his sword, when I fling my knife. It lands in his throat, cutting off his shout to raise the alarm. I finish him off and take the keys from a ring in his belt, and open the cell door.

Maya’s sitting on a small cot. She jumps up when she sees me, and runs to me, but stops before she hugs me, looking at my myriad of wounds. “Oh Gods, Montarok, it must hurt so much.”

“Stay here,” I say, my voice a rasp. “No matter what you hear, don’t come out. I will be back for you.”

“You’re hurt, I can get something to–”

I raise my hand up. “You did all you needed to. Trust me. I will get us out of here.”

She’s already ripping up the sheet from her bed. I let her wrap white cloth around my deepest cuts, around my chest, and they stain a dull red as I pull myself out of the cell and close the door behind me. I loot the sword from the guard, the weight of it certain in my grip.

This is what I was made for. This is what I was destined to be.

I climb the stairs, holding onto the railing, and push open the trapdoor, launching myself up into the estate. The manor is asleep, and I walk softly through the hallways, waiting for any guard to challenge me, until I get to the corner. Around it is the master bedroom.

I grip the sword, turn the corner, and charge.

I cut down the first guard in a single strike, then drive my blade forward, stopping an inch from the second’s throat.

It is Robert, the red-bearded guard who always treated me fairly. He pants in fear, wide eyed, then drops his sword with a clatter. I throw him against the doors, bowling them open, and stride in.

Shug is in his bed, waking up, shirtless and flabby.

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