Page 32 of Sacrificed to the Orc

The heavy thunk of the bone staff breaks in the silence. The orcs turn, and a path between them opens, as shaman Vorkar, ancient and skeletal, takes his place at the center of the tribe on the top of the ridge. Draegon, eyes unseeing, stands at his side, his nose twitching as he tastes the mingling scents of hope, defiance and hunger in the air.

Nagrarl is practically trembling with anger, his mouth wide, fangs gleaming, as he stares out with hatred. He reaches to his belt, clutching the bone-white knife, a knife like the one meant to cut Hazel’s throat. The black spider tattoos above his heart move with every thunderous beat. Lyrna’s eyes are wide and confused, looking at me as if I am a stranger.

With a great effort, Vorkar raises his bear staff and points it straight at me. “Kill the blasphemers,” he rasps.

I do not let my hand move to my sword. I stand, straight-backed, staring at the men before me, men I fought by the side of, men I have hunted with for over a decade.

The orcs hesitate, looking down at the gift of fresh meat, then to the shamans.

Finally, one moves. Arlog, the father of the boy I sent to fill the wine with stillroot. His green eyes are so dark they are nearly black, and they search me. He draws his sword and steps forward, striding towards me. I do not draw my blade. I could cut him down, but forty more will take his place.

He stops five paces in front of me and nods. Then, without a word, he stands by my side.

His elder son, Olgar, who I taught to fire a bow, follows, his knuckles white on his bow as he stands beside me and his father. I can smell the stink of his nervousness, but he stands tall beside us, fighting down his fear.

Two more young orcs follow, orcs who were born in the lean times, who have watched our tribe suffer more each year, then more come in a flood, until the four shamans are standing with only a dozen men by their sides, hard, cold-eyed fighters.

Nagrarl draws his knife. “Charge!” he yells, unable to contain himself, the religious fury overtaking him. He sprints forward, but none follow. I do not draw my sword, but stride forward, grabbing his wrist before he can stab me and placing my other hand on his chest, lifting him high into the air and slamming him down into the snow. He drops his weapon, gasping, and tries to rise once more, and two of my new followers grab him, putting their blades to his throat.

“Your command, warlord?”

“His mind has festered from the shamans. Spare his life.” They kick his weapon aside. Nagrarl slumps, not getting up, blinking in confusion. He had thought himself a martyr for his Gods, and now he is nothing.

“Join us. Follow them and you will only starve,” I beseech the remaining loyalists. They are men I’ve known my whole life.

“Death is better than following the ways of demons,” snarls Vorkar. “Come, all who are holy. We will not waste your lives against our own brothers. They will see what ruin this human brings, and they will come to us.” He slams his bonestaff three times against the ground.

Defeated, the three shamans start to walk, the dozen remaining orcs following them, out towards the snow. While the shamans walk at a steady pace, the orcs with them look back, their eyes uncertain, flickering between their old leaders and the rest of the tribe.

One by one, the orcs break off from them, joining my ranks, until only the three shamans are left.

Nagrarl stands, to join them. “There’s nothing out there but death, Nagrarl .”

His eyes are filled with fear, but he walks towards them…

Until he reaches the three goats. His stomach growls, and with tears in his eyes, he stops, unable to walk into the white death of nature.

The shamans disappear towards the vast expanse of snow, when Draegon, a small green shape against the endless white turns, his milky eyes staring straight at me.

“There is no future with us. Lead the tribe well, blood-moon warlord.”His mouth moves, but no one else hears his words, as if they come straight into my eyes, and I understand.

He alone saw the second vision in the cave. And for him, the vision must have been different. He must have seen that if he lives, our tribe dies.

He walks into icy death knowing his fate, a sacrifice for our tribe.

20

HAZEL

The bonfire roars as orc chefs rotate the goats on skewers, with fat sizzling and dripping into the fire. The heat washes over me, and I let the furs open slightly. There was no time to relax. Askan called the feast immediately, explaining to me that it was important not only to give the tribes our gifts, but to have every warrior present to swear fealty. I’m sticky, sweaty, and hungry, and all I want to do is hide away with Askan and forget the world, but I know this is important.

I suspect the only chair small enough for me was designed for a child, but I’m glad to be able to plant my feet on the ground. Askan sits beside me, and whenever the foreignness of the feast makes me nervous, I look up at him, breathe in his scent, and I am instantly calmed.

The orcs are spread out around the bonfire, captivated by the smells and sights of the roasting meat. Warriors, wives, and children occasionally glance at me, perched on a massive wooden chair next to Askan, their eyes still filled with disbelief. A little boy rubs his belly, complaining to his mother, who gently chides him. I can't hear the words, but I sense she is urging him to be patient, although I can't blame him as his mouth waters and his small fangs glisten with anticipation. Every so often, a growling stomach punctuates the silence.

Last night’s “feast” must have paled in comparison to this, consisting only of sparse meats, roots, and plenty of wine.

One of the chefs raises his hand, signaling Gorrim and Rakar, who have taken on the role of our royal guards. They step out from behind our wooden seats, moving to opposite sides of the bonfire.

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