Page 35 of Sacrificed to the Orc

Then he looks into my eyes, a little more serious.

“Askan, what is it?”

“We are not yet wed, by the laws of my people. I am warlord, but you are not yet Queen.”

“Because I’m human?”

He shakes his head. “No. The mate of a warlord is Queen. That, we have known for eons, passed on in songs, of a time before the shamans rule.”

“They don’t accept that I am your mate?”

“They do. But each couple in this tribe must be witnessed.”

“Witnessed?”

“We must be joined in front of the tribe’s warriors. I will take you, in front of them, and seal us together for eternity. If you can accept.”

He waits for my answer. My heart pounds, imagining that line of forty brutal warriors, their hungry eyes watching as our most private coupling is exposed.

I take in a huge breath, steeling myself.

“If I am to lead, they need to accept me.” I bite my lip, then nod. “Okay. Where…where does it happen? And when?”

“I will take you on the altar, as the blood moon rises.”

21

HAZEL

Isit at the table, the furs draped over me, for I am clad in only a black loincloth under it, my breasts on display. It’s strange being in his home without him. On the wedding day of an orc, he is not allowed to see his bride until the tribe is present.

My skin tingles, and I bite my lip, looking out the oval window as the sky slowly darkens. This was the day I was meant to have my throat slit. I put my hand out, readying myself for the blade—Askan told me the details of the ceremony, and that our blood will mix together as we become mates in front of the entire tribe.

The gentle thud of a knock at the door sends an anticipatory shiver down my spine.

“Come in,” I say, speaking deliberately.

The door opens, revealing a young orcish woman, much taller than me, with pronounced fangs and a nervousness emanating from her. She is clad in a loincloth like mine, but her chest is flat and four-nippled, so unlike my own fertile curves that make the garment obscene on me. She closes the door behind her.

“Hazel,” she begins, “I’m Oria. I’ve come to prepare you for the Bonding…” She fights to find the word. “Ceremony.”

My skin tingles.

She stands awkwardly at the door, and I see shame on her face as she looks down at the ground. She’s got a satchel with her.

“Thank you,” I say, and she looks up, eyes wet.

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. She’s wrestling with the guilt. If Askan had not rescued me from my cage, she would have watched my blood spill on the altar this very night.

“You were doing what you thought you had to.” I keep my words simple, so she can understand. Most of the orcs speak a little of the Common tongue, but only those chosen by the shamans have a full grasp of the language. “Thank you,” I say, in the orcish tongue, and she looks up, with a slight smile—I must have barely pronounced the tones. I asked Askan to tell me as many words as he could yesterday. The orc tongue is so unfamiliar on my lips, but if I am to lead these people by his side, I need to be able to communicate with them.

“I would be lost without you. I don’t know how to prepare. Thank you,” I say, in Common, speaking slowly, and the room’s ambiance shifts, the tension ebbing away.

Oria places her satchel on the table, pulling out the paints. Askan told me that in the southern tribes, who they occasionally trade with, the women are painted year round. In his tribe, it is reserved only for a single day. I swallow, the furs wrapped tight around me, but if I’m going to face what happens tonight, then being topless with a single orc woman is nothing compared to how it will feel when so many sets of hungry, powerful eyes are staring at me as Askan breeds me in front of them. I slip the furs off, and sit up straight, steeling myself.

Oria’s fingers, large and rough, move with surprising grace as she uncaps the first paint. A poignant scent of jasmine mixed with clay wafts into the room. The symphony of colors is overwhelming, shades of reds, blues and golds, marking my imminent transformation.

I will walk to the altar a woman, chosen by the warlord.

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