Page 18 of Sacrificed to the Orc

We pass by the training grounds where I spent years of my life honing my craft of war. Warriors pause in their sparring, briefly stopping their sweaty exertion to nod in my direction with respect.

The rhythmic clink of Vorkar’s bone staff is a hypnotic cadence as the stone path thins, winding towards the sheer mountain wall that forms the village’s rear barrier. The mountain rises above, the peak snow-covered, and a gust of wind blows ice downwards, hitting the invisible barrier that surrounds our village in a field and turning to a fine spray that dissipates above.

The mountain is cleaved by a chasm, the walls polished to an eerie smoothness, allowing just enough space for a single orc to pass. Vorkar, with his unmistakable authority, leads us, and I trail behind the elder shamans. As we move through the passageway, the ancient layers of the mountain are laid bare, mineral deposits and sediment accrued over the millennia exposed.

I've traversed this route only on two prior occasions: during the initiation rites for Lyrna and Nagrarl. Nagrarl's journey into the sanctuary is etched on my mind; instead of pride as she entered, I felt only grief.

Her transformation was marked by the shaman tattoo on her neck.

I glance at Draegon's matching mark, the image of an orc's face bisected by a skull—a testament to the eternal dance of life and death that every shaman reveres. When Nagrarl returned through the passage, the woman I had known was gone, the girl I had teased and chased growing up, the woman who I had shared my first kiss with replaced by a stranger.

The narrow passage opens into the shaman’s grand sanctuary, carved in the heart of the mountain itself, a perfect circle with mirrored, gleaming stone walls that rise upwards. The gaping chasm above frames the sky, the last, bloody dyes of dusk.

In the center of the clearing, the ancient stone monoliths rise, encircling the dark, polished obsidian altar. The altar is unblemished by time, but to one side, a stone pillar has fallen, shattered on the ground and sinking into the grass.

I shed my clothes along with the elders, my boots hitting the ground first, their bony fingers undoing their loincloths as they strip bare at the entrance. I place my axe down with reverence, and I am naked without it at my side.

On the stone benches by the altar, tools are laid precisely, bowls of inky black and red pigment and bone needles awaiting me.

Without a word, I stride to the altar, mounting it and reclining against the chill black stone. My gaze is captured by the blood-drenched sky. In three days, Hazel will stare up, her eyes wide with terror, flailing against the tight, cruel grip of three shamans while Vorkar slits her throat with the ceremonial blade. The last thing she sees will be the blood moon, the last thing she hears the screams of ecstasy and hope of my people.

I steady my breath, emptying my mind, not wanting the stink of my fear to enter my scent as Vorkar and Daegon flank me, their synchronized movements eerily in tune.

A rogue thought infiltrates my mind. Did Daegon smell betrayal in my scent? Will they slit my throat here and now, leaving me to gasp my last, choked, blood-filled breath on the sacred altar?

I exhale, and my mind goes as blank as before battle, where every movement is instinct.

Daegon moves behind me and puts his wrinkled, bony hands against my forehead, slowly sliding his digits downwards, smoothing the lids of my eyes and closing them.

The chant fills the air, low and deep, their raspy breaths melding in ancient harmony. The words elude me, crisp, high, with a nobility long lost to our tribe, but it sparks something deep within me, a blood memory of a time long gone.

The sudden sting grounds me to the present. Vorkar’s hands dancing is a practiced rhythm of sharp pain. It is he who has tattooed thousands of honors over the decades on warriors who earned them. He has watched babes grow from the belly of their mothers to deaths on the battlefield, he has watched our tribe’s numbers diminish, and I can smell the slightest hints of emotion from his usually unreadable odor, religious fervor in my nostrils as he works. The chant deepens in my mind, and I feel myself sinking into the black altar, my arms heavy. I could not open my eyes if I tried, movement impossible.

Hazel appears in my mind, as if directly in front of me, nude, her legs spread wide, the nectar of her pussy gleaming as she stares up at me, her cheeks flush with feverish need, and all I can see is the lips of her innocence, drawing me in. She is my future. She is my only need. She morphs in my mind, fracturing into a thousand versions of herself, mirror images, then converging into one, her breasts huge and laden with milk, her belly swelling up with my seed. I reach out to touch her, and the image disappears as the chants end.

The needle-biting sting ceases. Daegon slowly lifts my lids, and I gaze downward at the fresh tattoo, each fine puncture point outlined by my blood. Despite the dimming light of dusk, the ink gleams with its own power.

Between the mirror crescent arcs of my stealth tattoo is the blood-red moon, a flawless orb on my chest. The individual needle points merge intricately, leaving no space between them, an unblemished, pure crimson circle.

The greatest honor, one I never dared dream of aspiring to. Within the tribe's hierarchy, only the elders rank above. Lyrna and Nagrarl now stand in my shadow.

I push myself to a seated position. The elder shamans watch me, Daegon’s milky, blind eyes staring through me as he tests the air, drinking in my scent.

“You were meant to join our order.” Vorkar’s voice is low and resonant. It was he who picked me out to learn the human tongue, guiding me to the path of the shaman.

My fingers curl, instinctively craving the familiar grip of my axe, left at the precipice of the sanctuary. “I was meant for the axe.” I slide off the altar, my feet sinking into the lush, cool grass beneath, grounding me.

In the darkness of dusk, my gaze drifts to the far side of the sanctuary, across from the entrance, the black hole of the cave reserved solely for the elders.

“Your visions. They come to you, there.”

“Yes. And all without the red ink are smote if they dare trespass. Your honor grants you access,” rasps Daegon. His voice, now like dried bone, is so different than the deep, sonorous tones of when he was chanting. A shiver runs down my spine. I cannot remember a single syllable of that chant.

“Is the future engraved in stone?”

“There are many futures. Would you see for yourself?” Vorkar is watching me intently, his eyes like green ice.

I swallow. She is alive, so vital, her heart beating in her chest, and she needs me. She must be terrified, all alone, a captive in an unfamiliar, threatening environment. All I know is I need to be by her side…

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