Page 10 of Sacrificed to the Orc

As we dash from the boulder to the caves, I glance upwards, my heart caught in my throat as the vast sheet of ice and snow, larger than my entire village, cascades towards us. I feel like a bug about to be crushed, but Askan leaps to the craigs, pulling me up into the rocks despite his wounds as the avalanche slams against the boulder that was our safety. In a blink, the protective boulder that overshadowed our deep conversation around the fire is swept along with the torrent, obliterating the spot where we sat just moments ago.

The moment we dodge the avalanche, the pain in my ankle comes back with a fury, drawing a whimper from my lips. I grip onto Askan’s hand tightly, resting against his huge bulk for balance, finding a strange solace in the shadow of the towering orc.

“We have to go deeper,” he barks out, when a chunk of rock the size of an apple careens in, spiraling as it skips against the craigs and hits him above his right eye. He falters, his hand going limp around mind, and collapses with a meaty thud. His intense green eyes remain open, but they’re vacant, unseeing. A rivulet of blood trails from the gash on his temple.

I don’t hesitate.

The monstrous orc is a titan, and though he is out cold, I know he will regain consciousness soon, and I’ll lose my chance.

I upend the leather satchel, the kettle and cauldron clanking, the leather medicine bag spilling out herbs. The knife tumbles, clinking against the ground, and he groans. I snatch it, straddling him, my legs on either side of his broad chest as I hold the razor-sharp blade against his throat.

His eyes focus, flicking to me, then down his nose towards the knife, then back to me again. He swallows, hard, his throat bobbing, and the fine edge of the blade cuts against his deep green flesh, a single drop of rich ruby blood blooming.

He breathes out, slowly, his body relaxing despite the blade at his throat.

The orc is preparing for death.

My hand trembles, the knife shaking, and as I stare into the emerald orbs of his eyes, I know I cannot. He is so alive, so vital, a force of nature that I cannot end.

The knife drops from my hand, clattering to the ground. He weakly raises his arm, feeling the cut on his throat, his right eye only able to open halfway as the cut on his temple swells. I snatch the medical kit, gathering up the herbs that tumbled out, my hands shaking so hard I can barely take three dried leaves of the soothing blue lotus flower he gave me after I twisted my ankle.

I gently open his mouth, placing the petals in, using my hand to help him chew. He tries to swallow, and starts to cough, so I snatch his flask, tilting it slightly to let water trickle out, helping him swallow. He pushes himself up, coming to like a boxer after a knockout blow.

“On your side,” I say, softly, grabbing his arm and trying to turn him, using all my strength against his massive bulk as he shifts painfully. His broad, muscled back has a long gash running from his shoulder downwards. It’s not deep, but it is filled with dirt and pebbles, blood dripping from the scrape, the ruby red strangely beautiful against his deep green skin.

I clench my hand into a fist, my knuckles whitening, before consciously forcing my fingers to relax. Slowly, I regulate my breathing, steadying my racing heart. The snow is piled up nearly to the top of the cave entrance, and what little sunlight seeps in is filtered through the thick clouds.

I locate the white, ground herbs and spare water from one of his flasks, making a paste on the stone ground like he used to wrap my ankle. As gently as I can, I clean his head wound, still dripping blood, then plaster the paste on his head and wrap a white cloth around it.

I wince as I take stock of his back. My abductor, my captor, who saved my life. The shard of ice had slammed against his broad, wide back, bouncing off. If he didn’t dive in front of it, I would have been crushed.

The skin on the right side of his back is flayed and scraped, filled with rock splinters and dirt. “This is going to hurt,” I murmur, reaching forward to pick out a piece of rock as long as my index finger that is wedged under his shoulder blade.

“Stillroot,” groans Askan, gritting his teeth against the pain.

I search through the belongings upended on the cave floor, finding the root, reminiscent of ginger but with a lighter gray hue. My grip is steady around the knife as I slice off a piece four times larger than the one he gave me for my pain. He outweighs me by hundreds of pounds of bulging green muscle, and he needs a dose fit for a horse. I hand the piece to him, and he chews it without hesitation, reaching up to rub it against his gums before swallowing. I gently pick the biggest splinter out, and he only grunts in response, fighting down the pain. I run my hand over his huge, powerful bicep, hoping my touch can soothe him.

The chill air whistles in, but I keep my focus. Using a damp, clean cloth, I slowly clean the wound. It is stained red by the time I’m finished, painted by his pain. I coat his back with the white paste, as gentle as I can, massaging it into his cut. Then I press white bandages against his back. He pulls himself up, regaining his strength, his back straight so it doesn’t touch the cave wall behind him.

“Why?” he rasps, his voice grating like stones being ground.

My hand stills. I glance to the abandoned blade glinting on the ground. “Because I knew you weren’t going to bring me to the blade.”

“You don’t know that.” His voice is low and growly, his right eye shut from the swelling, his left eye low and lidded from the stillroot.

“I do. When you kissed me, I knew.”

He tenses. That kiss went against every rule of his tribe.

“That kiss…that was forbidden. Once the snow settles, I will take you back to your village,” he murmurs, looking out at the aftermath of the avalanche, which groans and cracks intermittently. “You will not see me again.”

“You’re too injured to carry me.”

“My people heal fast. Tomorrow, I will be able to carry you. You weigh very little.”

It is still the afternoon, but with the raging storm, it might as well be the dead of night. I imagine the trek tomorrow. Thrown over his shoulder, him trudging through the heavy snows until he returns me near to the village.

Then he would disappear, a wraith, and it would be like he never existed. I’d look for him every day for the rest of my life. I know that, deep down, instinctively. He’s left his mark on me. His smell, masculine and right, his broad, powerful features, his huge, muscled bulk. I reach out, taking his hand, squeezing it.

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