Page 25 of Sacrificed to the Orc

“Poor bastards. They’ll miss the feast too,” I answer, trying to lighten the mood, to show that I accept their decrees without taking it personal, and that my anger is quelled.

Feeling the rift between us, Gorrim steps forward, trying to bridge it. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring them grub myself.”

I reach out and clap him on the shoulder, showing him there is no ill-will. “And don’t forget to bring me a double portion.”

“Done and done.”

I spread my hands. “If that is all…”

“That is all,” says Vorkar, and the four men take their leave.

When the bone staff’s thumping becomes a light tap, I cannot hold the fear at bay. It rushes through me, infecting my scent with a yellow stink that would have betrayed me in the presence of Draegon’s nose.

One more ounce of suspicion and they would have searched my home, found the stillroot, and thrown me in irons.

I trace the runes of stealth on my chest. In the dead of night, I feel as a wraith…

But for now, the suspicion is only that. Suspicion.

I slump down on my bed. Against a foe I can see, I do not shy from battle. I’ve plunged in against long odds, bullets whistling by as the King’s soldiers faltered at my berserk charge. Subterfuge and trickery were never my traits.

I stare at the wall, blankly, each second like grains of sand slipping down an hourglass.

A set of bright green eyes captures my attention. They meet mine in my oval window, then disappear.

The little orc boy, who I tousled the hair of earlier. I pull myself up heavily and walk to my door, sticking my head through and peering down.

Tigrit, if I remember his name, crouched, trying to make himself small. He looks up, shyly, caught.

“Do not fear, Tigrit. I’m not angry.”

He grins. “My dad says you’re the bravest cunt in the village. Then he slapped me when I said ‘cunt.’”

“You’re brave as well, young one. None of the other boys dared come close to the shamans.”

He shrugs. “I’m trying. But I’m not allowed to hunt yet, except squirrels.”

“Every squirrel is another fed mouth. You’ve done well. Your presence at my window is no mistake. It is fated by Alkian himself.”

His eyes go wide like saucers. “Fated by the God of the hunt?”

“Wait a moment,” I say, going to the bathroom and grabbing the pouch from the floor. I’ve got only moments—if anyone sees him at my window, they’ll get suspicious. Guarding an orc with the blood-moon honor would tarnish the elders' own red-tattooed prestige…and I have to hope they have not posted sentries, that my act convinced them I would wait, a docile prisoner.

“Quick, hide this,” I say, reaching through the window and pressing the pouch into his tiny hands. He’s clad in a brown tunic that hangs loose on his small frame, a hand-me-down from his older brother who I trained in archery a few moons back.

“What do you need to me to do?” There’s a seriousness in his little eyes, too young for this, but I have no other choice.

“You need stealth, like when you hunt squirrels. You’re going to sneak into the kitchen. There will be a huge cauldron, filled with red wine, brewing with spices and herbs for the feast. Dump the pouch into it. But don’t let anyone see what you’re doing.”

He nods, his mouth moving wordlessly, repeating my commands.

“What…what is it for?”

“Young soldier, when a warrior commands you for the survival of the tribe, you do not question. And you will not taste this powder. The fate of our tribe rests in your hands.” I let my voice get serious and low, and his eyes flash with regret. “Can I count on you, Tigrit?”

“Yes. You can.” He’s filled with pride that a blood-honored orc would choose him.

“And if anyone catches you, tell them you were trying to steal some dried honeyfruit.”

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