Page 14 of Sacrificed to the Orc

"You're wounded," says Gorrim. He glances over at Hazel, who is tied face down, her head against the fur, then up to me. His gaze lingered a little too long on her ass, the curves of her body, the femininity of her that drives me insane, and though he is one of my closest friends, I have to suppress the roar building in my chest.

"Nothing but a flesh wound."

My fingers twitch. I grew up with these two. And yet, the dark, twisted thought of drawing my axe and fending them off slips into my mind. They could never understand. If I told them that we cannot sacrifice her, that we must let her free, they would think me under her spell, twisted by her demonic forces.

After the initial joviality of meeting, I can sense a tension in them. "What news?" I ask.

Gorrim sighs. "We lost Thorgrum and Kronzar. There is little game. They went out hunting in the King's land."

Rakar snarls, anger twisting his expression. "Lorgoth got away. He was helpless, he could only watch. They strung up Thorgrum and Kronzar on posts and used them for target practice."

My stomach grumbles, loudly, and Gorrim reaches into the bag slung over his shoulder. He tosses me a small, wrapped bundle, which I catch easily.

"Caught a hare a few miles back," Gorrim grunts, his expression suggesting that the hunt had not been easy, frustrated that he is reduced to chasing after small game.

I unwrap the bundle, revealing the red, juicy meat, and my mouth waters.

I shove it in my mouth, biting it off and chewing, but secretly keep a third of it tucked in my palm, pretending to swallow it all quickly.

"That all? Gorrim, the great hunter, finding only a little rabbit? I expect at least a mountain goat."

"Aye, well, there will be what feast we can when you return, to celebrate. This is the first good news we have had in too long. Once her blood flows, the lands will return to bounty. It is fated," states Rakar, his voice taking on a strange incantation.

"It is fated," I reply, my voice intertwining with Gorrim's as we echo the sentiment in unison.

I push Hazel off the furs, wishing I could gently move her, and she rolls, whimpering in fear that is not feigned, her scent filled with terror. I pull my cloak on, and grab my leather satchel, slinging it over my arm, putting my war-axe back in the ring of my belt.

"You do not gag her?" asks Rakar, glancing down at Hazel.

"She stopped screaming after the first day," I say, chuckling darkly. "Well? Then let's get going, you lazy bastards," I say, cocking my head at the entrance.

They turn to leave, and I crouch to pick Hazel up, surreptitiously slipping the meat into her mouth. She quickly takes it, chewing silently, then I lift her and put her over my shoulder. She weighs so little, so fragile and small.

Gorrim and Rakar duck under the cave entrance and stride out onto the snows. I follow them, staring down the mountain face. The air has cleared, and the morning sunlight is bright and warm, making each step treacherous as we climb upwards on the packed snow, the upper crust of it sodden from the new warmth and threatening to roll your ankle with an uncertain step.

I have Hazel clamped down tight over my shoulder, and I give her a reassuring, gentle squeeze, but the terror in her aura remains unchanged, the stink of fear that makes my blood boil.

Rakar sniffs, turning to face me. "What's got you so pissed?"

I snarl, baring my teeth. "Thorgum and Kronzar deserved a funeral pyre. When we are strong, when the great herds return and we multiply, one day, we will come down on them and smash the King's walls."

"Aye, I only hope I am not too old to lift my axe when that day comes," replies Rakar, darkly, and we set off up the mountain face.

8

HAZEL

The guttural cadence of the orcish tongue terrifies me. The Askan who held me tight against his chest, comforting me and running his hands through my hair is gone, replaced by a brutal alien warrior among his massive friends. Trapped in the cave with my hands tied behind my back, I could only catch glances of them from the side of my vision when Askan roughly pushed me onto my side, and they are monstrous, huge, hulking creatures in furs with black, menacing tattoos over their dark green hides. The smell of them is revolting, this deep, sickly animal scent like the bear, and now that I am over Askan’s shoulder, my head bouncing against his back, I breathe in his scent to find the slightest shreds of reassurance.

He squeezes me softly, reassuringly, as I bounce over his shoulder like a sack, but that touch does nothing to comfort me.

Trapped over his broad shoulder, I can only look back the way we came, at the mountain face erased by snow, the plains covered in a blanket, every footstep that marked our travels obscured. The heavy forests are snow covered, the trees small as matchsticks from our vantage, and the tiny curl of smoke from beyond the pines is the last whisper of my previous life, like a dream impossible to remember no matter how hard you try, slipping out of your mind the more you try to focus on it. I remember my cozy couch, my warm fire, the laughter of the villagers even in times of strife, and my eyes get wet.

We travel for hours, until we reach the top of the peak, and the orcs stop to rest. Askan sets me down leaning against a boulder. Beyond the first peak, more dark mountains rise, and I scan them for any hint of civilization, finding nothing. The orcs start a small fire, but we’re above the treeline, and they use only a few logs that one of them had in their leather bag. His two companions are in heavy fur coats, but Askan wrapped his around me, making a joke that the other two laughed at–and I can only guess he made some quip about how humans are so weak I would freeze to death if he didn’t, hiding his care for me in cruelty. Their coats are opened, one, near as tall as Askan, covered in ferocious wolfhead designs, the other in feather tattoos that ripple with every movement.

The three men sit around the, talking, sometimes laughing, and every once in a while, one of his companions glances over me with a dark, intense gaze. The sun is reaching its zenith, a winter sun with only a slight warmth, not enough to melt the snows and ice this high up.

Askan positions himself strategically around the fire, so that he is closest to me while able to keep a watch. When he glances over at me, the warmth I once saw in his gaze is replaced with a chilling, detached intensity. Desperately, I try to find any hint of compassion, but there is nothing in his cold gaze.

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