Page 26 of Sacrificed to the Orc

“I’ll get my ass whooped!”

“Aye. That’s why you have to be brave.”

He takes in a breath, steeling himself. “You can trust me. I won’t fail.”

“Wait until the sun is descending. Go, now, before anyone sees.”

He runs off, and I am wracked with guilt.

I’ve trusted my mate’s future in the hands of a child.

And if I succeed and get her free, I may be cursing that child to starvation.

I pace my home, wracked by thoughts of her, bound and trussed, her mouth gagged, trapped and helpless before the slaughter.

16

HAZEL

Thirst claws at me. The gag has turned my mouth to sandpaper. The coarse ropes cut into my ankles and wrists, every movement to try and find a comfortable position making them dig deeper into my skin.

But I can breathe. I thank Askan for that, for leaning down and pulling the gag down from my nose…

Yet for that kindness, I saw him led away by the wolf-tattooed orc. I keep revisiting that scene in my mind. His other friend, the one with the feather tattoos, heard me call out his name in my terror, calling out for comfort, not as a captive.

They know, they know, they know!

The mantra of doom infects me, the words ringing over and over in my mind.

Twilight settles, and the three orc guards, initially on edge, now ease into casual conversation. A blizzard of heavy snow tumbles down, but it forms a blanket above, on the sphere of whatever field protects the village and changes the weather, making it feel like the world ends at the edge of the orcs’ domain.

The guards look longingly at the village, where a bonfire roars to live, the shapes of orcs dancing around it in celebration of my death chilling me. The scent of burning wood wafts, tinged with the aromas of roasting meats, what must be the last of the orc stores brought out in the ecstasy of my coming sacrifice.

The guards are brought wooden plates of food. The smell should make me hunger, but my stomach roils at the sight of bloody meat. They grab tankards and argue with the orcs who brought their food, and one spills his tankard, water spilling out—furious they were not given something stronger, wishing they could drink and dance in the ecstasy of my coming death.

Echoes of laughter, loud, raucous songs, and the joyous chants make me close my hands so tight my nails bite into my palm. Each peal of celebration mocks me. The drums pound, heavy and rhythmic, finding a crescendo then stopping, and my eyes go wide as I imagine my own heart pounding in terror then stopping as my throat is slit.

The drums resume, but as they should crescendo, their rhythm falters, becoming slower, more hesitant. The once robust songs turn into muffled murmurs. An eerie stillness descends upon the village. Dancing orcs stagger in their steps, and the bonfire's glow casts elongated, eerie shadows on the walls.

The guards' relaxed stance shifts to one of heightened alertness, fingers tightening on the grips of their weapons. They converse in low, urgent tones. Then, two advance with drawn blades, the metal shimmering in the bonfire's glow. The remaining guard appears frantic, head darting side to side, scanning the shadows for threats.

A shadow morphs into a blur of green fury as Askan charges, slamming the flat of his axe at the back of the guard’s head. He crumples. Askan retrieves the keys, unlocks the door, and cuts my bindings, pulling the gag from my mouth. Blood rushes back into my limbs, and I savor the pain. He hefts me over his shoulder, sprinting towards the ridge. He presses me against the soft fur of his cloak, and I bounce with each step, dizzy and weak.

A warhorn sounds, weakly, and I look back as orcs are trying to give chase, moving as if in quicksand. One is seemingly untouched by the stillroot, drawing his blade and charging, but another orc, groggy, his movements sluggish, mistakes him for an enemy and tackles him to the ground.

We charge up the ridge, breaking through the shimmering veil, the warmth of the village instantly replaced by biting cold. A muffled thud and a pained grunt resonate as I feel the impact through Askan, and as he charges forward without stopping, I see the winded orc sentry gasping on the ground, clutching for his bow.

White and cold encases everything, but I can feel his heat against me, smell his scent in my nostrils, and Askan does not slow. He charges at a full sprint, gasping for air, and I try to summon a song to bolster him, but I’m so dizzy and tired, nothing comes out from my parched mouth. The icy winds lash at my face, but I cannot bury my face in his furs, too terrified, staring out with wide eyes for any movement of pursuers. Every gust sends snow swirling, each flurry morphing into the shadowy figure of a pursuing orc then dissipating to sprays of ice and flakes, keeping my heart racing and eyes scanning the white abyss.

My head thumps against his back, jolting with each determined step, and I give up, letting myself go limp, burying my face against his warmth, conscious of only his smell, his warmth, his powerful being. Through the blinding blizzard he navigates without hesitation, as if he has charged through these paths a thousand times before.

Jarringly, the icy onslaught of the blizzard is replaced by an enveloping stillness as he pulls me into a small cavern. The cave’s walls are rough and ancient, glistening with moisture and patches of frost. He gently places me down on a plush bed of furs that contrast starkly with the cave’s ruggedness. Without uttering a word, he moves to a corner where he pulls a fur cover off a pile of seasoned wood. Methodically, he places the logs into a stone hearth, and with a few expert strikes, a fire comes to life, casting a warm and inviting glow throughout the sanctuary.

The light glints off the cave wall, where a simple painting, rendered in bold, childlike strokes, portrays two figures. The larger one, a huge orc with strong features, stands protectively beside a smaller orc child. Something about the drawing makes me know deep in my bones that the orcish child is Askan.

“Are we safe here?” My voice is cracked and parched. He opens a chest, pulling out a goblet, which he fills with snow from outside and places by the fire, melting it.

“This was our secret,” Askan says in his low voice. “My father’s hunting cave, known only to us.” Avoiding my gaze, he offers me the now-warm goblet, and I gulp down the snowmelt, gasping and choking in my eagerness.

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