Page 30 of Sacrificed to the Orc

He licks his fangs, eyes narrow, suspicious.

“Rakar. Lower your blade,” pleads Gorrim. “Killing him changes nothing.”

I’ve never seen Rakar cry. But now, his green eyes are wet with emotion, fear and confusion. His hand shakes, and slowly, he lowers his weapon. He reaches into the pocket of his coat, pulling out two clumps of wax, plugging his ears. “If this is a trick, Askan…”

“There is no trick.” I turn, putting my back to him, that he could cut me down if he wanted. Hazel is trembling in fear. “It’s okay, Hazel. They aren’t going to hurt us. I need you to show them your song, if you’re strong enough.”

She bites her lip, then nods, standing and pulling the furs closer around her body, covering herself completely.

With her at my side, we walk to the cave’s edge. I know that Rakar’s hand is on his blade, that one ounce of suspicion will be my end.

Then her song starts, a song that makes my fear disappear.

Vines pulse to her rhythm, stretching and embracing the newfound energy. With each note, berries burgeon, deepening to a rich purple before dropping, only to regrow in a heartbeat. The grass rises, covered in mounds of vibrant, plump berries.

From the distance, the silhouettes of four mountain goats approach. Drawn to her melody, their steps align with the tempo, a dance of nature in its purest form. The largest among them, a majestic creature with a grand beard and spiraling horns, strides to me, and kneels, offering its life to me.

They are enough to feed my entire tribe for a week.

The twang of a bowstring, and the arrow pierces its heart. The other three goats sway with the song as Gorrim rushes forward with the bowl of snowmelt, slits the goat’s throat, and puts the bowl under the fountain of blood. He drinks deep, his mouth stained, and brings the bowl to Rakar.

Tears stream down Rakar’s eyes. He removes the plugs, throwing them aside, and drinks of the fresh blood, then hands the bowl to me. As if completing a ritual, I finish it, my hungry belly filling with the gift.

Without speaking, Gorrim guts and cleans the goat.

Rakar turns, walking towards Hazel. My haunches rise, but Hazel gives me a look as her song dies, telling me it’s okay.

Rakar gets on his knee in front of her. “My Queen,” he says, in broken common tongue.

“Stand, warrior,” says Hazel, accepting his fealty.

I exchange glances with my two war-brothers. We’re all deep in thought.

“The shamans will not accept this,” says Gorrim.

“We bring the bounty to the people. We let them decide,” I say, in common, so Hazel can understand.

“They’ll kill us all for blasphemy,” says Rakar.

“You were the man who hated humans most. If you can accept her as Queen, then they will bend the knee.”

“I had no choice. It is either this or see my tribe die out.”

“They have that same choice. And they will make the same decision.” I turn to Hazel. “You will stay here, while we return.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not staying here. You risked everything for me. I’m going to be by your side.”

“My common is weak. What did she say?” asks Rakar.

“She said she’s coming with us.”

There’s respect in Rakar’s eyes. “A true Queen.”

18

HAZEL

Gorrim’s feet crunch in the snow, each step marked by the rhythmic thud of the mountain goat’s weight on his back. We follow, my hand enveloped in Askan’s.

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