Page 38 of Sacrificed to the Orc

ASKAN

“I’m a whale,” she moans, in perfect orcish, looking down at her swollen belly in mock horror. She’s leaning back on the bed, topless, and her huge breasts are swollen thrice their normal size, laden with milk for our coming babe.

“As am I,” I say, smiling in happiness, patting my full belly, roasted mammoth meat on the table in front of me, with a sauce of dark red berries drizzled, and mashed potatoes, creamy from goat milk. Young Nagrarl turned his religious fascination for the shamanic order into an equal obsession with cooking.

I wash my hands and get the balm from the medicine chest, sitting down next to her on the bed, slowly rubbing her with the cream. Beneath my palm, the swell of her belly moves, kicking, and she bites back a groan. “He’ll be a quick runner, like his brother,” I say, grinning with pride.

“Easy for you to say. You don’t have to feel it,” she says, sighing back. “Would you go check on Toren?”

“Your wish is my command, my Queen,” I say, getting up before she can give me a slap. I leave our home, whistling, and Tigrit comes running out. He’s twelve, and he takes great pride in his status as my personal assistant.

“Warlord, what do you require?” No matter how many times I told him to call me Askan, he keeps up the same title, puffing his chest out in pride.

“Would you go to the kitchens and have Nagrarl whip up a heavy cream and berries for the Queen?”

“It’ll be done with haste,” he says, running off. I stride through the village, the sky bright blue above. Five long, happy years. Sentries dot the ridge, armed with rifles. We traded with the mountain tribes south of us, led by Warlord Ragnar and his Queen Dawn, offering medicines blessed by Hazel’s voice in return for the weapons, which they have found the way to produce.

Even our bitter rivals, the black-adder tribe, lead by Montarok, a huge, scarred orc who fought in the gladiator pits, has turned into an uneasy alliance. They viewed us with suspicion - until Hazel’s songs cured a young human boy named Thomas, who had been forced to walk with a cane due to an old broken leg that hadn’t healed right. There had been something in that healing that touched Montarok’s mate, making her eyes wet with relief and pride.

We had been driven back by the King’s men, but no longer. Now, we hold steady, the union of human and orc giving us power where before we dwindled.

I glance over at the stretching field by the pond. Toren, slightly shorter than the other orc boys his age, with skin of a lighter, less stony shade, is wrestling against two other boys. What he lacks in size, he makes up with an almost premonitory ability, holding his own. He’s under the watchful eyes of two orc mothers who have started up a close friendship with Hazel. They wave at me, and I give them a friendly smile back.

Tigrit is rushing back from the kitchens, balancing the bowl in front of him, his face a mask of concentration as he moves as fast as he can without tripping.

“Shall I deliver it to your home, warlord?” he says, his face serious, completely oblivious to the moustache of cream on his mouth. Nagrarl is fond of the boy and gives him treats often.

“You did your duty well,” I reply, and take the bowl from him, walking back into my home. Hazel looks up and smiles when she sees the dessert.

“How did you know?”

“Know what? This is all for me,” I say, taking a plump, juicy strawberry grown in the fields around the unused altar. I nearly pop it in my mouth as she gasps, then dip it in cream, sitting on the bed by her and feeding it to her.

She takes a few bites, then groans. “Something for the nausea?” I ask.

“No. I’m fine.” She bites her lip, as she always does when she’s worried, but there is only tendril of tension in her scent.

“What is it?”

“The King. How long until he thinks we are a threat to him?”

“The King has trouble enough with rebellions to quell among his own people. We have a strong alliance, Hazel. Chieftain Montarok and Chieftain Ragnar are on our side. Don’t worry. We’re protected, by our warriors, strong because of you, by our mountain homes, and by our tribal alliances.”

24

HAZEL

Ilook up at my mountain of a man. The five years have been good to him, his huge frame filling out, his lean, chiseled physique now burly and big. I pop another strawberry in my mouth, and reach out, grabbing his hand.

With a smile, he lies on the bed behind me, closing his huge arms around me, and pulling me gently against his chest. I breathe in, the familiar golden scents of love and adoration, and I know that if there is any threat to us, I will smell the steel determination on him as he leads his men to protect the future we’ve built.

He kisses me, softly, on the back of my head.

The door opens. Toren comes in, then looks at us lying together in an embrace. “Gross!” he says, his tiny fangs gleaming. Not yet five years old and already as tall as me, with a shock of copper hair so different from the other orc boys of his age.

“What is it, Toren?”

“They wanna play kickball, and mines the best,” he says, and scales the ladder easily, his arms flexing, already muscled. He has a bedroom of his own in the loft of our home, and he’s already made it very clear that he doesn’t want to share when his sibling is born.

---