Page 16 of Sacrificed to the Orc

That is the silence of the mountains. That is the emptiness of the omens. It is the mute testament of the mountain.

My destiny is mine to shape.

The avalanche they hurled, the violence and danger flung down was designed to push me closer to her, to bind us together, but now it will be our actions that determine the survival of my tribe.

The future of our tribe is not in her death, but her life.

The words resound from the deepest recesses of my mind, flowing up my spine, felt in every bone, knowledge from the source itself. With each step, I write the threads of fate, no longer lifted by a marionette’s strings, dancing to the whims of the Gods.

I have been chosen. She has been chosen.

With each breath, I smell her, tasting her scent, her terror muted, and I run my fingers over her back. Her warmth seeps through, grounding me like a tether to this present.

We descend the mountain, not resting, not stopping for a moment, all three of us silent in our march as we climb the next peak, the sheer face a natural fortress against the King’s men.

As the sky turns blood red and the sun sets, the protective embrace of our village’s ridge beckons.

That ridge used to be a guardian to me.

Now it looks like a prison.

In the shadows of a rocky craig, two orcs with bows stand, their keen eyes watching us like hawks.

They yell out a greeting, and Rakar raises his fist.

“He is alive, and with the chosen sacrifice!”

They throw back their heads, roaring in victory, fangs glistening, and the roar is answered by the tribe in the village onward, screams of rage and defiance reaching a savage crescendo.

I had thought of this movement a hundred times, how I would be filled with purpose and power, knowing that I had saved my tribe, that the children would grow to be strong, that generation after generation would owe themselves to my actions.

Now my eyes narrow, cold and intense, and Hazel’s terror curdles in my nostrils.

10

HAZEL

The roars of the orcs chill me, making me shut my eyes tight in primal terror, nearly pissing myself in fear. They echo endlessly, deep screams of violence rushing over me.

Askan shifts, letting me down, and I plant my feet on the cold, hard snow as two more orcs, wielding bows, approach. The sky is crimson, the sun setting and casting bloody hues, and I look down into the orc village, shocked.

I had pictured primitive huts. Instead, in the valley below, there are hundreds of rows of perfectly symmetrical oval homes. You could fit a thousand families in the village, yet Askan told me that they number barely a hundred, their population diminished, a once great race worn down by time and the onslaught of the King’s army. In addition to the smaller houses, towering, circular stone domes rise up against the mountain faces, constructed so perfectly that I cannot see a single line between the stones used to construct them. It is as though the mountain itself bent to the will of the orcs, forming itself into domiciles.

It takes me a moment to realize what is so wrong about the orc village.

There is no snow blanketing the village. Stone pathways weave between the homes. A serene park, centered around a tranquil pond, is in the center of the village. Orcish children are frozen, their play interrupted by the roars of anticipation at the news of my arrival.

Askan puts his arm heavily on my shoulder, guiding me, a captor rather than a protector, as we walk over the ridge. The air shimmers, and I get a strange, ticklish sensation as we walk over the last of the ice and onto a wide road, the craftsmanship surpassing anything I’ve ever seen. The moment we step from snow to the road, the temperature rises, unnaturally spring-like, cool but not freezing. My hands are tied behind my back, but despite the warmth of the village, I am glad for the huge fur coat draped over me like a shield.

Faces emerge from the homes, green eyes peering from oval windows, orcs opening the doors and standing at the entrance of their homes, staring out with unsettling intensity. Their faces are gaunt and drawn, their huge bodies lean. They stare with hunger, with religious fervor, and in their alien eyes, my humanity is erased. I have no personhood to them.

I am brought by the will of their Gods, and my blood is all they want.

Flanked by the guards with bows and Askan’s two companions, I am brought into the village. No one speaks. The silence is unsettling, the only sound the faint echo of our boots on the stone. Our path leads to the mountainside, where a young orc with no tattoos is standing next to a simple stool set before the forbidding iron bars of a prison cave.

He is clad in nothing more than a loincloth, and he reaches to his rope belt, taking out a key and turning it in the lock. The bars creak open, the iron bent and unevenly driven into the stone of the cave, primitive compared to the homes.

I am led inside, and the door is shut and locked behind me.

---