Page 17 of Sacrificed to the Orc

I turn, looking pleadingly at Askan, but he is a stranger once more.

11

ASKAN

“You are relieved of your post.” I bark out the order to Silm, the young guard who has yet to earn his first mark. He can’t even meet my gaze, staring at the tattoos on my chest, confused and anxious, his eyes flicking over to the others, seeking clarification.

“I was told I’m to be at this post until—”

"It was I who was entrusted with her capture. I, who was anointed to uphold our tribe's salvation. Do you challenge my authority, fledgling?"

Gorrim intercedes. “Ease off, Askan. Where’s she going to run to?” He cocks his head at Hazel, who recoils from the bars, her eyes wide in fear as she scans her captors.

Rage fills me. I step forward and grab the young orc by the throat, pressing him against the bars. “You are relieved,” I snarl, his pulse pounding against my fingers, but even with my hand wrapped around his neck, he dares not do anything to defend himself against me.

He glances past me, and I release my grip, turning to follow his gaze.

Approaching in formation are the four shamans, the two eldest in the middle, flanked by the one my age and the fledgling apprentice. Their hair, coarse and thin from malnutrition, stands in stark contrast with their emaciated figures, the skin on their faces so gaunt they are skeletal. Two seem as old as the mountains themselves, the elder shaman Vorkar, nearly a century of age, supporting himself with a staff made of a bear’s bone. The other three match his glacial pace. Draegon is nearly as old, his eyes milky with blindness, his nose always twitching as he tastes the air. Nagrarl stares forward with wide eyes, pure religious intoxication in every step, with only three black tattoos of spiders above his heart. Lyrna, near my age, who once confessed her love to me, the woman I shared my first kiss with what seems like a lifetime ago before she joined the religious order, is at the left, her flat, four-nippled chest adorned with spiraling tattoos of herbs and potions.

All four are lean to the bone, their rib cages jutting out, refusing to eat more than thin broth while the tribe hungers. The two eldest are covered in black ink from scalp to toe, and as the elders, only they have the blood-red ink of suns and predators, gleaming as if fresh cut, rippling over their bodies as if the animals are alive with their every movement. They are anointed by the Gods, earning the sacred ink.

The four of them halt, then Draegon steps forward, reaching up with his gnarled hand. I let him touch my face, and his nostrils flare, but it is not my scent that he is searching.

“Pure as snow,” he states, in a voice like desiccated bone. “You have done what must be done, honored warrior. Ease yourself. The journey is done. Silm will guard the offering.”

“I had a vision in my dreams, brought by the Gods. Jagrun himself whispered to me, that I alone must guard her,” I state, drawing on the holy name of the Seer-God himself. I cringe at the blasphemy, of lying about a sacred vision, but it must be done.

Draegon’s inhale is slow, deliberate. His milky eyes stare through me, unseeing. “Then you will guard her, tonight, after the celebration. But now, you must come with us.”

“Why?”

The other orcs look at me warily. No one questions the Shamans.

Draegon smiles, showing his yellowed, worn fangs. “You have earned our highest honor, Askan.” He steps back, and Gorrim claps me on the back, beaming up at me with pride. Even cold Rakar looks at me with new respect, bowing his head slightly to me. “Well earned, Askan. Well earned.”

“Tonight, we empty the stores. Every last crumb of bread, every piece of dried meat, every ounce of fish and preserved root. We show our trust in the Gods, that we do as they ask, and they provide. We will feast each night until the blood-moons rise and our stores will be replenished anew,” says Lyrna, her voice filled with holy anticipation.

“It is fated,” Nagrarl says, his voice full and rich.

My heart quickens. I need time. I need to plan, and the distraction of the feast might be my only chance to make an escape. Little food remains, but wine is plenty, rationed out by the shamans who know that it too strongly affects the weakened constitution of hungry orcs.

“Honored shamans. Let tonight be a somber one. Our offering is a gift, yes, but she is a life. Let her be the only one to eat tonight, and our bellies be empty, to show our respect.”

The four shamans pause, tension thick in the air, then Vorkar nods. “Yes. This is right. Tonight we taste hunger. Tomorrow, hope.”

“It is fated,” Nagrarl repeats.

“Come, Nagrarl. Lorgath’s bullet wounds need attention,” says Lyrna. The acolyte heads into the village alongside her, leaving me with the two elder shamans. They turn wordlessly, Vorkar’s bone staff tapping rhythmically against the stone as we walk. I hand off my satchel to Gorrim, who nods, telling me wordlessly he will bring my things to my home.

I cast one last look at Hazel. Her eyes are wide with fear through the bars of the prison as she backs away, distancing herself from the orc guard who stands tall and proud, bursting with the responsibility of guarding the salvation of our tribe.

The sight of my village should be a welcome one after braving the storms. Instead, the nostalgia is bitter, my fondest memories twisted by the thought of Hazel’s throat being slit, her blood flowing to restore the life of the village. Memories of simple days flood me. I glance to the right, seeing the pathway that I sprinted through with Gorrim and Rakar, the two of them lifting me up to scale the smooth walls of one of the homes, throwing a goat’s bladder filled with stinkweed into the smoke funnel of grumpy old Barag’s home and running away while he shouted after us. Gorrim was caught, but he didn’t rat us out, bearing a triple punishment himself.

Barag died two years ago, an aged man of near eighty, refusing to eat the thinning stores, saying that his usefulness to the tribe was over.

There is a haunting quiet. The last decade was the leanest, each season worse, each hunt less successful as we lost ground to the King’s soldiers. Few orcs start families now, the spirit of the village drained. The mountain’s protective walls, which once bolstered me, now feel like prison barriers closing in around me.

Yet, today, there’s a palpable sense of hope, hope that twists like a knife in my heart. Faces peer out of windows, villagers and hunters standing at doorways, all eyes on me. A group of young orcs, dripping from a dip in the pond, dart in. One, bolder than the rest, steps forward, while the others keep a cautious eye on the shamans. I ruffle the brave one's wet hair, prompting a proud giggle before he dashes back to his friends. Their mothers chide them, but their eyes meet mine with faint, hopeful smiles.

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