Page 11 of Sacrificed to the Orc

His fingers, rough and warm, curl around mine. That thread of heat in the cold, crisp air is a tiny universe of comfort.

His nostrils flare. “Why do I not smell black malice in your scent?”

“Because I see you,” I whisper. “You’re driven by duty. By love of your people. Not cruelty.”

A grimace paints his face as he shifts, pain evident on every line of his expression. “Rest,” I urge, tightening my fingers around his. “You need to recover.”

His eyelid flutters, the weight of the stillroot and exhaustion slowing him. He reaches for more of the plant and uses his fang to shear off a piece, chewing it as his lip curls back in agony. Crimson is seeping through the white bandages, a stark contrast to snow outside. “How bad?” he mumbles, his voice slurring slightly.

I hesitate, choosing my words. “Surface deep, but it’s a nasty gash.”

We sit in silence, broken only by the creaking of ice settling and our synchronized breathing. I shiver as I remember how that huge boulder was pushed down the mountain like a toy, how close we came to obliteration. “You’re the master of signs. Was the mountain trying to crush us for daring to kiss, or bring us closer?”

His lips curl back in something that is almost a smile. “I don’t know what anything means anymore. Ever since I smelled you.”

I glance deeper into the cave. It extends into impenetrable gloom. “Earlier, when we camped outside, why didn’t we light the fire here, in the cave?”

His brows furrow, and he groans in pain as it makes his goose-egg wound rub against the bandage. His one good eye is cloudy, and he blinks slowly, trying to process my question.

The echoing roar answers me.

Claws dragging against stone and the fetid animal stink precedes the looming silhouette emerging from the inky darkness. Matted fur, huge claws, and dull, dead brown eyes. None of my village dares go past the forest. You can stick a dozen arrows into the giant beasts, and they keep coming, the apex predators of the mountains.

The bear shuffles forward, snout snuffling, wary and cunning despite its huge heft. It smells orc. The one creature that could stand up to it. The one thing that could give it pause.

Askan reaches down for his war-axe, pulling it from the loop in his belt and using the wooden handle to push himself upwards, swaying as he tries to keep his balance. He grips the weapon as if he was born to it, raising it in front of him and keeping it centered on the threat even as he wobbles from side to side. His blade tracks the bear as it lumbers towards us. I am frozen, like when I first saw Askan.

The bear rears up on its back legs, its massive chest heaving. As it roars, a spray of spittle flies from its gaping maw, rows of fangs glistening in the dim light. The roar is deafening, each bellow echoing and amplifying, the cave resonating with its fury.

It charges.

Out of nowhere, the melody stirs in me, haunting notes pouring from my lips, piercing the atmosphere. The song envelops the cavern, and the cave bear falters in its charge, stopping a foot away from Askan. It sways, entranced, and Askan raises his axe high…

Then he lowers his weapon, slowly, placing his axe on the ground. The colossal creature retreats into the shadows.

The last ethereal note escapes my lips, and a stunned silence wraps itself around me. The power that flowed through me felt like it came from another world.

Askan slowly rotates to face me. His one good eye, usually so fierce, shines with wonder and astonishment.

“You…you spared it,” I whisper.

“It no longer wished to hurt us. Its scent changed,” his deep voice rumbles in response.

“You can smell what animals are thinking?”

Askan twirls his axe, planting the butt of it on the cavern floor, and uses it to hobble to the entrance of the cave where the fur dropped in our haste, deep in thought. He places the huge fur down on the ground and lowers himself painfully, lying on his front, so that his injured back won’t rest against the ground.

“Not thoughts, exactly. Emotions. Intent. With creatures, it’s primal, raw. When it came, it saw us as intruders in its territory.”

“And after my song?”

He looks up at me, his right eye lidded but slowly opening as the swelling subsides. “You did not twist its emotions. You simply spoke to it in a way it understood.”

His gaze is too intense, and I avoid his scrutiny by turning my attention to the scattered belongings. Each item I retrieve and carefully replace into his oversized leather satchel is a distraction, working with my hands helping to ground me. In the pile, I find a linen tunic.

“Can I…” I begin, holding up the shirt.

“Of course,” he replies, a hint of warmth in his voice.

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