Page 13 of The War God's Woman

Druzh, the High Priest, is there, along with two acolytes who busy themselves arranging bowls of incense and offerings. Druzh wears crimson robes adorned with bone charms, his posture rigid as he surveys the final touches for tonight’s rite. When he senses my presence, he turns slowly, his weathered face creased in an unreadable expression.

“Chieftain Ghorzag,” he greets, inclining his head. “Have you come to ensure everything is in order for the War God’s reading tonight?”

I let my gaze sweep across the chamber. “I want to understand how you plan to interpret these so-called signs. My clan is on the brink. If your performance tonight stokes their fear further, we risk a riot.”

He bristles, the bone charms clattering softly. “My performance? The War God’s message is not a carnival spectacle, Chieftain. I will read the bones. If they reveal ill tidings, I will speak them plainly.”

My tusks flex. “I’m not asking you to lie, Priest. I’m reminding you that with the clan’s mood so volatile, your words hold power to shape their beliefs.”

“I know my duty,” Druzh says curtly. “The War God’s will is paramount. If he is displeased with your arrangement”—his lip curls slightly—“then it must be addressed.”

My pulse throbs, but I keep my tone steady. “Very well. But if these signs are questionable or inconclusive, do not rush to condemnation.”

Druzh stares back at me, eyes narrowed, as if sizing up my resolve. “I serve the clan and the War God,” he says at length. “Not fear, and not you.” Then he turns away, robes swishing, dismissing the conversation.

A low growl rumbles in my chest, but I stop myself from pressing further. If I antagonize Druzh too much, it might push him to fan the flames of orcish paranoia. I need to remain measured, to let him see I’m not cowering—nor am I blindly defiant. It’s a precarious balance, one I wish I didn’t have to maintain.

Dusk arrives with a blood-red sky, the sun dipping below the horizon as if retreating from the fortress’s mounting tension. Fires crackle in the Great Hall, where the clan has begun gathering. Orcs stand in clusters, speaking in low tones. Shadows waver across the walls, giving the impression that monstrous shapes lurk just beyond the torchlight.

I take my place near the front, where a makeshift dais has been set. The clan’s elders occupy seats on one side, while warriors and watchers crowd the hall’s perimeter. At the dais’s center stands a stone bowl filled with sanctified water, prepared by the acolytes. Beside it lies a small pile of bones—likely from a sacrificial goat or lamb. Druzh and his assistants hover nearby, serious and solemn.

A hush falls as Karzug enters with Lirienne in tow. She wears the orcish leathers we provided, the dark material hugging her arms and waist. Though sized for her frame, it’s still clearly designed for orcs—heavy, rough-hewn, and practical. Her hair, a shade like burnished copper, is tied back in a low braid. Despite the flush on her cheeks, she carries herself with quiet dignity.

Every orc eye locks onto her. A wave of muttering ripples through the hall—sneers, scowls, the occasional hiss of disapproval. I notice some glancing at me for a reaction, waiting to see if I’ll regret my choice. I stand taller, crossing my arms, letting them see I have no doubts. Even if part of me feels uneasy, I refuse to show it.

Lirienne’s gaze finds mine across the dais, and there’s a moment of startled relief in her eyes, as though seeing me givesher a flicker of hope. We haven’t spoken since the day before, but some unspoken understanding passes between us. I dip my chin in acknowledgment, beckoning her to join me near the front. Karzug escorts her the rest of the way, ignoring the clan’s hostile stares.

An elder’s staff thumps against the floor, signaling the official start of the rite. Druzh steps onto the dais, arms extended, the bone charms on his robes tinkling. “Gather, children of the War God,” he intones, his voice resonating off the walls. “We come to seek clarity amid these troubling signs. The War God alone knows whether the curses be real or contrived.”

He turns to me, beckoning me forward with a crooked finger. “Chieftain Ghorzag Stormborn, present your cause.”

I advance, Lirienne following close behind, her posture taut. I can feel the clan’s collective stare drilling into us both.

“I stand here,” I declare, voice echoing, “to reaffirm my commitment to forging peace between our clan and the human settlement. Lirienne Marshfield is my chosen mate, that we might spare further bloodshed.”

A chorus of grumbles and mutters rises. Lirienne stiffens at my side, but I sense her determination. She lifts her chin, scanning the crowd with cautious resolve. Good. She won’t cower.

Druzh nods slowly, turning to her. “And you, human—do you vow to uphold this alliance with sincerity and faith, respecting our traditions?” The question practically drips with suspicion.

Her voice, while softer than an orc’s, carries a surprising steadiness. “I came here willingly, to protect my people and yours from needless conflict. I don’t claim to know your ways fully, but I’m willing to learn and respect them.”

A faint hush spreads, some orcs blink at her willingness to speak so plainly. Others look unconvinced, arms crossed in scorn.

Druzh approaches the stone bowl and beckons an acolyte. The younger orc places three small bones into Druzh’s outstretched hand. “We ask the War God to guide us,” Druzh proclaims, lifting the bones high. “If ill omens plague us, may the bones reveal the truth. If sabotage or mortal trickery is at work, let it also be shown.”

He scatters the bones into the bowl of water, where they float and bob. I suppress a scoff; the “reading” is always ambiguous, reliant on how the High Priest chooses to interpret the final arrangement. The entire clan holds its breath.

Druzh peers over the bowl, lips moving in silent incantation. A hush so absolute falls that I hear the crackling of distant torches. Lirienne stands rigid at my side, tension in every line of her body.

Then Druzh’s shoulders stiffen. “The bones… speak of conflict,” he pronounces, voice heavy. “A crossroads. Two paths entwine—one leads to renewal, the other to devastation.”

A surge of murmurs ripples through the hall. Even the elders lean forward, expressions grim.

“Is the War God angered by Lirienne’s presence?” barks Gorath from the crowd. His voice carries menace. “Do these ill omens come from the human?”

Druzh stares into the water a moment longer, swishing it with his fingers until the bones drift into a new pattern. “There is darkness in the shadows,” he says, eyes narrowing. “But I do not see a direct condemnation of the human woman. The bones show choice—a precarious one, teetering between blessing and curse.”

Confusion blossoms among the onlookers. Some scowl, perhaps disappointed not to hear a final decree of Lirienne’s guilt. Others exchange baffled glances, uncertain how to interpret a reading that promises no immediate scapegoat.

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