Page 22 of Sacrificed to the Orc

I let my eyes close. Sleep feels impossible, but I tell myself that soon, I will need every ounce of energy, running with her at my side, arrows flying above, and I force my breathing to slow as I let myself slip into unconsciousness.

I wake with the dawn and rise up from my thin bedroll. Hazel is still deep in sleep, her body finally quieted, no longer tossing and turning.

I’m torn in two. If there’s any chance for my plan to work, I need to get to my home, and pray my supplies are enough.

But it’s torture to leave her, to stop guarding her for a moment.

I pat Gorrim on the back.

“I must wash up in my home. I will be back.”

14

HAZEL

My eyes open as the dawn light rouses me, terror all I know as the cold iron bars of my prison close me in. I reach out, desperate for his warm, reassuring shape, my nails scraping against the rough stone floor of the prison. Blinking blearily, I see his green silhouette on the stool. “Askan,” I call out, weakly, needing the comfort of the man who tears me in two, my hatred and anger forgotten in my fear. I need to touch his hand, see his face, more than anything.

He turns, just as I realize that the orc sitting there has a slighter frame. It is one of the two orcs who came to the cave, the one with tattoos of birds of prey and feathers over his lean, muscled frame.

And he just heard me call out Askan’s name, not in fear, but in desperate longing.

His green eyes, darker than Askan’s, observe me, sharp and calculating.

Askan is striding from the village, clad in a fresh brown loincloth, his hair wet and matted. The crimson moon of his tattoo reflects the morning light, glistening like fresh blood. He speaks in a low, quick voice to the other orc, who pauses, then nods, leaving, with a last, calculating glance back at me.

Askan drags the stool closer to me, sitting with his back resting against the iron bars.

“Askan,” I begin, trying to whisper and keep the panic of my urgent voice.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “The tribe wakes. Speak low.”

“Askan, I thought you were sitting out here. I called out your name. He heard.”

He turns his head, facing me, alarm painted on his features. “I could tell he was suspicious.” He runs his tongue over his fangs, unsettled.

“Do you think he knows?”

“He knows you recognized me, that you called to me. He’s no fool.”

“And what will he do?”

A shadow crosses over his face, and he turns, his back to me once more, staring out at the village as orcs rise, stretching awake and leaving their homes. Seven orcs, bows slung on their backs and knives at their belts, jog out at a steady pace for a hunt.

Askan stays in silence until they are over the ridge. “I don’t know. But I know what we’re going to do.”

“What? Tell me.” I clamp my lips shut after I speak, unable to contain the rise in my voice.

“Your voice. Your songs. I ground up every ounce of stillroot from my medicine chest. It’s enough to knock out a few orcs. You’re going to enhance it with your song, and I will sneak it into the communal wine.”

A shaky breath escapes my lips. “Askan, I can’t control my songs.”

He reaches back, looking left and right, and I run my hand over his fingers, craving his touch, before he quickly pulls them away. “They come to you when you need them most. Trust yourself. Trust me.”

He reaches into his loincloth, grunting as if he is rearranging his cock, and flicks a pouch back. It has the heavy, masculine scent of his balls, and I open it, seeing the fine, ground grey powder of the root.

I hum, softly, trying to find the right pitch, then stop, looking down at the bag. “Askan, I think I have to sing. Like, really sing.”

“Do it.”

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