Page 15 of The War God's Woman

“I’m relieved you did not interpret the bones as condemning Lirienne,” I say quietly. “It would have made things… complicated.”

He gives me a long, contemplative look. “Do not thank me yet, Chieftain. The War God’s will is far from settled. If these calamities continue, and if we find no proof of mortal sabotage, the clan will demand a heavier sacrifice.”

My jaw tenses. “We will find the saboteur.”

He dips his head, an ambiguous gesture that might mean agreement or doubt. “Let us hope so.”

Much later, the hall stands empty, its torches burned low. The fortress corridors echo with a quieter hush, broken only by the occasional footsteps of guards on patrol. My mind whirls from the evening’s events—the half-victory of not condemning Lirienne, the knowledge that sabotage still festers within our walls, and the question of how quickly I can expose it.

I pause in a shadowed alcove, leaning against the cold stone. A memory tugs: my father, battered and bleeding on thebattlefield against the dark elves, his final words urging me to keep the clan strong. I remember my own vow not to waste orcish lives chasing futile conquests. This alliance, unorthodox as it is, feels like the only path that might halt the endless cycle of war—if I can keep Lirienne safe and the clan from devouring itself.

I straighten, exhaling a long breath that reverberates in the still corridor. My path is clear, if treacherous: find whoever is manufacturing these omens, expose them before they goad the clan into turning on me—and on her. And, the God of War is watching, let him see that orcish strength isn’t always about blind aggression. Sometimes it’s the courage to break from old patterns and fight for a different future.

5

LIRIENNE

The new day’s light filters through the thin canvas walls of the tent, sending dappled shadows across my face. I stir, blinking awake to the realization that my bedding is too coarse to ever be mistaken for the soft straw mattress of my home. I can’t pretend I’m anywhere else but here—in the midst of an orc fortress, an outsider precariously balanced on the edge of acceptance and hostility.

I exhale a shaky breath and sit up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My mind swirls with lingering tension from the previous night’s rite. The High Priest’s ambiguous reading of the bones spared me from outright condemnation, but it leaves the clan teetering on a knife’s edge. “A crossroads,” he called it—one that could tip into catastrophe with the slightest nudge.

As I stretch, the tent flap rustles. Nagra’s familiar silhouette appears, blocking the early morning sun. “You’re awake,” she greets, her tone gentler than the typical orc gruffness.

I press a hand to my chest to quell my startled heartbeat. “I am.” A rueful smile graces my lips. “Not much chance for deep sleep under these circumstances.”

Nagra steps inside, letting the canvas fall behind her. She carries a small bundle of cloth that smells faintly of roasted grains and something sweet. “I brought breakfast,” she says, handing it over. “Figured you’d need your strength today.”

My mouth waters at the scent. Gingerly, I unwrap the cloth to find a piece of dense, nutty bread drizzled with a bit of honey, and a small wedge of dried fruit. A wave of gratitude washes over me. “Thank you.”

She shrugs, as if to brush off any notion of kindness. “Eat. Then, if you’re feeling up to it, Ragzuk wants to see you.”

I recall the older apprentice, though he seems more like a half-shaman in his own right. My heart gives a faint lurch. “Why does he want to see me?”

Nagra folds her arms. “You’ve been asking how you can help. He thinks he has a task for you—something about gathering herbs for a wounded warrior. The official clan shaman is too old to traipse around the outskirts, and Ragzuk’s knees won’t carry him far these days.” She pauses, then adds, “It’s not a trick, if that’s what you’re wondering. This warrior’s been complaining of an infected cut that the usual salves can’t fully fix. Ragzuk believes some local plants might help. Your knowledge could prove useful.”

I take a bite of bread, the taste brightening my mood for a moment. “I’d be happy to help,” I say, swallowing carefully. “I do know a bit about herbs—back in my village, I used to gather them for our local healer. She taught me which ones can disinfect wounds.”

Nagra’s lips curve into a small smile. “Then maybe you can do some good here, show the clan you’re not just a burden. Finish eating. I’ll wait outside, and we can head to Ragzuk together.”

I step out of the tent to find the fortress courtyard already bustling with morning activity. Orc warriors lug crates ofsupplies, blacksmiths stoke their forges, and a few younger orcs spar in a makeshift ring. Each clang of metal sets my nerves on edge, but I remind myself that not everything here revolves around me. Orcs have daily lives and chores, too.

Still, I feel stares prickling my back as Nagra leads me along a winding path between tents. Some orcs openly glower, others mutter under their breath. A few merely regard me with guarded curiosity, as though unsure if I might sprout fangs any moment.

We soon reach a low stone structure attached to the fortress’s eastern wall, near a small herb garden enclosed by crude wooden fencing. Inside, the building is dimly lit, smelling of dried flowers and pungent spices. Bundles of leaves dangle from the rafters, swaying gently in the draft. Earthy mortar and pestle sets line a wooden workbench.

Ragzuk sits on a three-legged stool in the center of the room, poring over a stack of thin, tattered parchments. He glances up at our approach, his wizened face creasing into something like a smile. “Ah, Lirienne, good to see you in one piece.”

I muster a wry grin. “I can say the same to you.”

He chuckles, a raspy sound. “I heard you endured quite the spectacle last night. Druzh can be dramatic when invoking the War God’s will.”

Nagra casts me a sidelong glance, then slips away, presumably to handle other tasks. I step closer to Ragzuk, eyeing the parchments. They are covered in scrawls—orcish runes, maybe notes on different healing techniques. “Nagra said you needed my help with an injured warrior?”

He nods, setting the parchments aside. “Yes. One of our scouts has a nasty gash in his calf. He claims the standard poultices aren’t helping, that the wound remains hot and inflamed.” Ragzuk shrugs. “I suspect it’s infected more seriously than we realized. The official shaman can recite plenty ofincantations, but his knowledge of practical treatments is… lacking nowadays.”

An unexpected surge of purpose threads through me. “I’ll do what I can. But I might need specific herbs—ones that help draw out infection. In my village, we used goldenseal or something similar.”

Ragzuk taps a crooked finger against his chin. “Goldenseal… I’ve heard of that. Don’t think we have it in the fortress garden. You’ll likely need to search outside the walls. There’s a glen to the east where the soil is damp and warm. Suitable for such plants.”

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