Page 8 of Sacrificed to the Orc

“We were thousands. Now we are little more than a hundred.”

The wind picks up, a howling gale that tries to push us back, and above us, the pregnant grey clouds release huge, thick flakes that dance in the wind. It is beautiful in a way I could not have appreciated days ago, a cold and hostile land with its own stories.

Each moment is one of my last. The colors are vivid, and I watch a huge snowflake flutter through the air, landing on his cheek and melting against his deep green skin. The sun is at its zenith, a blurry glow through the heavy clouds as the snow pours down. He slogs forward, relentless, fighting against the elements, his breath growing ragged. Sweat drips down his body, and his musk is in my nostrils, this heady, primal scent that should send me into a panic but strangely comforts me.

I don’t know why, but I start to sing, soft, under my breath, a dirge I never learned but which comes from deep inside me. He glances down at me but does not tell me to stop, his thick black mane of hair covered in snow, his arms flexed as he holds me. He pants with exertion, his ivory fangs gleaming as he crosses the plains. His steps become more certain, his strides longer, his breath becoming even as he surpasses his own limits.

Hour after hour, he pushes forward. The elevation increases as we approach the mountain, sharp-edged boulders splintering up around us. The winds shift, and we are protected from the biting gale by the mountain face.

He pauses in front of a boulder taller than the watch towers of my village and sets me down on a rock. It is dry, but chilled to the touch, and I wrap the heavy furs around me.

“Stay,” he pants. I look around at the icy wasteland of the mountain. There’s nowhere to run, even if my foot was healthy. We’re up against a cliffside, protected by a boulder, and dark caverns lead into the mountainside, beckoning ominously, like walking by a well and having the strangest urge to jump in.

Askan strides away, in nothing but his black loincloth and boots, his leg muscles flexing as he navigates the boulders, his war-axe bouncing at his waist as he moves down to an outcrop of hardy pines that fought to live on the mountainside, each twice my height but skinny.

I glance over at the leather satchel that he left behind.

Do I dare take the knife from it?

How long until he notices it gone? I bite my lip, not knowing if I’ll have another chance, but not trusting myself to be able to do anything with it against him, not when he’s awake.

He swings his axe, his biceps bulging with the exertion, until one of the trees falls with barely a sound as it lands in the snow. He hefts it over his shoulder, his neck flexing with exertion, his muscles tense as he trudges back to our camp.

He drops it with a resounding, echoing crash. Sweat is dripping down his body, rivulets running between his taut abs, exuding vitality as he sits down heavily on a rock and reaches into his satchel, grabbing his flask of water. He drinks gratefully and passes it to me. I take a small sip as he groans, getting up once more, and hacks the tree to bits with his axe with precise, brutal strikes.

All I can imagine is that it is I in the place of the log.

When he’s satisfied, he uses a flint on tinder from his satchel, nursing the flames, adding twigs and tiny branches first. I lean in towards the fire, craving the warmth. Within minutes he has turned a spark into a roaring bonfire, adding one of the huge logs. Heat washes over me.

He sits down on a boulder near me, our bodies just a few feet apart, both of us watching the fire silently. I watch an ember spark from a log, flying into the air and dying before it lands against the cold, barren rock.

Askan turns his head, watching me carefully with those burning green eyes that seem to stare through my soul. He sees the lands differently than me. The orcs are a savage and religious people, and they view nature as a living thing, ghosts and spirits flowing through nature.

I cannot imagine what thoughts are in the monster’s mind.

Finally, I can’t take his intense gaze any longer. “What? Why are you staring at me?”

“Your song. I was exhausted. When you sang, my energy was renewed.”

I snort. “Just my luck. Using my gift to bring myself to execution sooner.”

“Your gift?”

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I’ve always had a suspicion. My grandma said my songs had power.”

“She is gone. And your parents as well.”

“How did you know that?”

“I watched you for many days.”

I shiver. I didn’t imagine eyes on me those last few nights. I wish I had trusted my instincts. “Oh. I see. You picked someone who no one would miss.”

He looks away, finally, staring into the fire once more. “Dark magic. That is what the shamans would say. I should have silenced you…but your voice. It calmed me.”

“Well, I’m glad I could make you feel better,” I say, and there’s no venom in my voice. I’m just so tired, so beaten down, feeling like an animal at the end of a hunt, staring up at the spears and knowing there is no escape. I clear my throat awkwardly. “My foot feels better, at least. Thank you, Askan,” I say, and he glances back over at me, his emerald eyes glowing with a fire of their own.

The flames cast a flickering light over his body, making his runes glow. “Askan, I’m scared,” I whisper, and he scooches closer to me. I reach out my hand, hesitant, and to my surprise, he takes my hand in his, squeezing gently. I know he is my executioner, but feeling the touch of someone else calms me in the strangest way.

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