Page 33 of Sacrificed to the Orc

The chefs, with great ceremony, unrushed despite what must be their own acidic hunger tending to the wafting meat, use their razor-sharp knives to dig into the backs of the mountain goats. They cut the juicy tenderloin from the back, place them on wooden plates, which Gorrim and Rakar take.

Gorrim and Rakar stride to us and as one, bow their heads, offering the meat to us. We take it, and I give Gorrim a nod of thanks, trying to play the role of graceful Queen when inside I feel ridiculous to be served first, and the juiciest piece, to boot.

The youngest orcs look on with wide eyes, their imaginations likely running wild with the promise of such feasts to come, while the elders, seasoned by hardships, seem to wrestle with the reality before them. This food, this promise, this taste of hope—it's as foreign as the rich, fatty meat they've been deprived of for so long.

Gorrim and Rakar stand behind us once more, hands always near their blades, even in the heart of our village.

“I feel guilty to eat,” I whisper to Askan.

“They will not eat until you take your first bite,” he says, through a mouthful of tenderloin. Every eye is on me. My mouth is already watering from the delicious smells, and I quickly chomp down. The meat itself is an explosion of flavor–tender and rich.

Orc men and women grab plates and rush to the roasting goats, practically jumping back and forth on their feet in anticipation. I’ve never tasted anything so good.

I blink a few times, in sudden shock. It all hits me at once. I’m sitting next to the warlord of this tribe, and I will have to help lead them.

I will be in charge of the future of a tribe of people who just yesterday were prepared to slit my throat upon the altar.

And yet…

I have no hate for them. If orcs had destroyed my village’s way of life, razing our fields, poisoning our wells, and hunting us down, and I thought the one way to save my people was to watch one captured orc die, I might not have attended the killing, but I wouldn’t have voted against it.

When you’re driven by hunger, when you’re hunted down for decades, you become jaded and cold.

Askan sniffs, smelling my doubt, and looks over at me. “What is it?”

“I…I just don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t. Look at the hope in their eyes. You’ve already brought this.”

I wince. I’ve just started to discover my powers, and I keep thinking it’s a fluke, that one day I’ll open my mouth and nothing will come out but a squeak.

“What if…what if my songs don’t work?”

“They will. And if something happens, we’ll find another way.” He puts his huge hand on mine, comforting. His green eyes sparkle in the light, the dark blood-red moon tattoo pulsing. “They all respect you. You walked into a hostile tribe, outnumbered. It’s not just the meat that made them follow us. They saw we were both willing to face death for their lives.”

He squeezes his hand tight against mine.

Chefs parade out with heaping mounds of frostberries, eliciting whoops and hollers from the children. Such sweetness, a luxury they hadn't tasted since the previous spring, sets their excitement alight. The berries are brought to us first, and I make sure to throw one into my mouth immediately, chomping down so the children don’t have to wait a second longer.

In the aftermath of the banquet, as orcs recline, the gentle thrum of satisfaction echoing through their heavy breaths, a single, commanding gesture from Askan commands immediate silence. The chefs, already poised for this exact moment, wheel forward pots big enough to bathe in. The goat carcasses, still dripping with juice, are dumped inside, and if I wasn’t so full, the scent of carrots, potatoes and chopped garlic that rise would make my mouth water.

Whispers travel amongst the families, the women giving subtle nods to each other, rounding up their young ones. The children, their faces still smeared with grease from the feast, are gently pulled away, their tired eyes fighting to stay open just a little longer.

More wood is added to the bonfire, making the flames surge higher and brighter. In this vivid illumination, I observe Askan. Every facet of him—the tilt of his head, the gestures of his hands, the set of his stance —oozes command. The air seems charged around him, every particle vibrating with the power he exudes. He leans back in his chair as if it is a massive throne, and every brute warrior stands as one.

Rakar moves decisively toward the roaring fire, each step confident and measured, as the chefs fade into the night's shadows. The air grows tense with the remaining presence of forty warriors, their skin etched with scars, eyes cold and intense. They are hard-eyed killers, and each accepts Askan as their warlord. A ripple of anticipation runs through them, a collective inhale, when Rakar scatters powder into the flames. With a burst, the fire surges skyward, taking on the precise shade of Askan's blood-moon tattoo. The gleaming ink on his chest reflects it and grows with it, pulsing with power.

The orc warriors stand tall and imposing, their silhouettes a formidable presence against the backdrop of the flickering flames, arrayed in a deliberate line before us. Huge, brutal creatures, who if I had seen them just a week ago, I would have screamed and ran from, now look at Askan and me with respect and awe.

Leading the formation is the experienced warrior with dark, knowing eyes, the first to acknowledge Askan on that fateful ridge and join our side against the shamans. He steps forward, kneeling with purpose. Askan is like a mountain. His face is set, hard, steel determination in his scent.

Askan, standing with authority, speaks a single word. The aged warrior rises, pride evident in his gaze.

I stare at Askan’s back, the huge, muscled dark green form of the beast who is mine, his black runic tattoos gleaming across his frame.

One by one, in the exact sequence they joined our cause, each warrior kneels, and with a nod from Askan, a bond is solidified.

The last is Nagrarl.

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