Page 5 of Sacrificed to the Orc

5

ASKAN

Acrack of a branch breaking, and I am awake, grabbing my war-axe and pulling myself up stiffly from my nook in the gnarled roots of the fir. The sun is rising above the land, and I squeeze my weapon tight, getting blood flowing black into my joints, my breath steaming. The fire I had to risk last night is nothing but cold embers now.

I peer out into the clearing and see what made the sound.

A deer. Pregnant, stomach full, even as winter approaches. It is out of rhythm with the seasons. The winter will be dark and long, and it has only the slimmest chance to survive, but I cannot harvest it, not with fauns in its belly. To do so would contravene the laws of the Gods who have guided us for millennia.

I stand, my muscles stiff from the cold, and it looks over at me. My mouth waters at the thought of venison, but the fauns must be given the slim chance to survive the colds. Perhaps the deer was chosen by the Gods, compelled to breed even as the snows fell around it, led to instinct by destiny.

It does not fear me. I walk to it, slowly, and it simply stares at me, not even tensing up as I stand beside it. I run my hand over the soft hide, and wonder if it was sent to me, to nourish me and my captive for the treacherous journey ahead. Instead of cutting its neck open, I trace runes of protection into its fur with my fingers.

As if waking from a spell, it jolts, bounding away into the forest.

I glance over at the boulder. Down, beneath the earth, she awaits. My temptation, my ruin, my tribe’s salvation.

I could push that boulder aside and leave. Let her run back to her village. There is another town a day south. If I ran, I could make it in time, but there’s no guarantee I’d find a woman in time, one with the fresh scent of innocence. I would have to move instantly, without days of surveillance, finding the perfect angle of attack, learning the blind spots of their watch.

I grind my molars together, my jaw clenching in anger. Why do the Gods test me so? I brush the snow from my hair. My makeshift tent was not much more than a blanket across the low hanging branches of the fir. It is laden with the snow of last night, which thankfully stopped in the early hours of the morning.

I check my traps. Three are empty, but one has a squirrel. I thank it for its life and snap its neck, bringing it back to my camp, where I start up the fire again and fill my cauldron with snowmelt, hanging it over the fire. Then I forage, letting the forest guide me, trusting it to lead me. I scrape snow away, finding a few pieces of garlic, but nothing else. I add it to the low boil of the water along with the lean meat of the squirrel. A light meal, but one I am grateful for. I run my hand over my chest. I’ve lost too much weight, every muscle of my body defined as if I was chiseled out of rock, not an ounce of fat on my frame, but my strength has remained. My body is strong, but it is my mind that is weak, tortured by the thought of her.

Delaying this only makes it harder. We have a long day of travel ahead. I steel myself, knowing I will have to carry her again, her body touching mine, her scent filling my nostrils, and position myself in front of the boulder. My biceps flex as I grunt and push, moving it aside.

6

HAZEL

The boulder shifts, and I hear his grunts of exertion. I’ve been awake for two hours now, and I should be thinking of escape, how I’m going to get the element of surprise on him, and survival in general…

But all I can think of is that I really, really need to pee.

I rush out into the sunlight of the dawn, blinking as my eyes adjust to the light. I’m practically dancing from one foot to the other. “I need to pee,” I say, rushing to the forest, but he grabs me, his huge hand wrapping around my wrist.

“There,” he grunts, pointing to a nearby tree.

“Are you serious?”

He says nothing but releases my hand. I was planning to go deep into the forest, but I can’t hold it, and I rush around the tree ten feet away, pulling down my pants. The tree is about three feet wide, barely covering me, and I resist the urge to duck my head around it, because I don’t want to know if he’s staring. It’s humiliating knowing he can hear me, and my cheeks flush red, all dignity lost. I finish, pulling up my pants, and I can’t help but hate him for taking everything from me.

I cinch my belt, and my stomach grumbles as I smell breakfast.

The orc’s sitting on a rock in front of a roaring fire, smoke billowing upwards, completely unworried of my village coming after him. He’s probably right. There’s thick new powdery snow, and our tracks are erased under it. My mouth waters as I smell meat.

He uses a wooden ladle to fill a bowl, his movements careful, not wanting to waste a drop as he places it on a rock across from him. Stringy meat is floating in the thin broth, but when you’re hungry, anything looks good. He pours the rest into his own bowl, putting the empty cauldron in the snow to cool. It hisses against the snow.

“Sit,” he commands. I take the bowl and sit across from him, looking at it suspiciously. Would he poison me? Knock me out with stillroot to make me easier to transport?

“Why are you feeding me? I’ll last the journey back without food. I thought your kind hated waste?” I test him, purposefully choosing words to irritate him and get him talking. Every word out of his mouth could hold the key to my freedom.

“I will not starve you.” He holds his bowl up, blowing, and takes a sip. “I bear you no ill will. This must be done. It is fated.”

“Bullshit. You hate all humans. You blame us for what Lord Ashburne did. My village hadnothingto do with massacring the herds. I heard about it…so much wasted life.”

The orc is silent. He chews his meat, his jaw muscles working away at the tough fare, staring past me as if I don’t exist. When I first laid eyes on him, I thought he was older than me, but now, seeing him in the morning light, I’d put him to be in his mid to late twenties. His deep green face has a thick layer of stubble, and his features are gaunt. He’s lived a hard life, his fur-lined cloak opened, showing his lean, lithe power and the black runic tattoos inscribed over him. He doesn’t seem to feel the cold like I do, pulling my own coat tighter around me.

I need a new angle. Something, anything to get a reaction out of him.

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