Page 39 of The War God's Woman

My chest constricts at the reminder of my father—once a proud chieftain who led the clan through bloody skirmishes, only to die too soon. “I aim to do better,” I say quietly. “No more pointless bloodshed, if we can help it.”

Karzug sets a hand on my arm in silent solidarity, then turns away, footsteps echoing down the rampart steps. I remain there a while longer, letting the cold wind whip at my hair. Tomorrow, the clan will witness the War God’s priests performing their pomp, demanding we embark on a pilgrimage that might prove or disprove Lirienne’s worthiness.

Beneath my frustration, an uneasy flicker of hope stirs. If this pilgrimage goes well—if we survive the mountains and the War God’s temple doesn’t condemn her—maybe we can finally unify the clan around the truth. Or, if sabotage intervenes, or the War God remains silent, the clan might tear itself apart. Gaurbod’s ambitions loom like a stormcloud on the horizon, threatening to overshadow everything.

I find myself unable to sleep that night, pacing the corridors like a restless spirit. Thoughts of Lirienne’s anxious expression haunt me—her question, “Can you truly protect me?” echoing in my mind. I can’t guarantee anything in this precarious environment, but I’ll fight tooth and nail to shield her from harm.

Eventually, I make my way to the dimly lit main hall. A single torch burns near the far wall, illuminating a massive tapestry depicting the War God in stylized battle. The woven scene shows him wielding a great blade, standing triumphant over monstrous foes. The sight is meant to inspire strength, reminding orcs that victory comes through courage and unity.

Standing before that tapestry, I let the flicker of flames dance over its threads, thinking of all the times I prayed for the War God’s guidance.Where are you now?I wonder silently.Do you truly demand we cast out Lirienne, or is this chaos born of mortal hatred and fear?

No answer comes, of course. The War God never speaks plainly. Perhaps that’s the reason for the pilgrimage: orcs need outward signs, rituals, dramatic gestures to quell their doubts. My hope lies in making it through the journey unscathed, proving sabotage rather than divine wrath behind our misfortunes.Then maybe the clan can begin to heal, I allow myself to think.

Exhaustion presses in. I leave the hall, returning to my quarters for a few hours of restless sleep, fully aware that thenext dawn will herald the official decree: We depart for the War God’s temple—and Lirienne’s fate hangs in the balance.

11

LIRIENNE

If dawn marks the clan’s anxious anticipation, then dusk brings something far darker. Late evening shadows stretch across the fortress courtyard, the torches sputtering as though reflecting the clan’s collective dread. I stand near the main gates, arms crossed tightly over my chest, feeling the chill in my very bones. The hush in the air carries a strange weight—like every orc has paused, waiting for some sign of hope… or doom.

We are supposed to depart at first light, traveling toward the place the War God claims as His sanctum in a last-ditch effort to dispel the swirling accusations of curses and sabotage. I’ve spent the day gathering the few belongings I’d dare bring on a perilous journey. Yet no one approaches my tent with final instructions. Instead, an eerie stillness has settled upon the fortress, broken only by tense whispers in the corridors.

I spot Karzug hurrying across the yard, his broad shoulders hunched. He looks haunted, eyes darting around as if searching for someone to share terrible news. My pulse quickens. Something’s wrong.

When our gazes meet, Karzug beckons me over, expression etched in concern. “Lirienne,” he says quietly, voice oddly muted. “Come with me. There’s been… an incident.”

A knot forms in my chest. “What kind of incident?”

He swallows hard, hesitating. “An orc youth is found near the western watchtower—dead.”

My heart drops as though a pit yawns beneath my feet. Dead? That single word pounds in my skull, stoking dread. Orc youths might see their share of bruises or training injuries, but dead under suspicious circumstances is practically an invitation for the clan to scream curses. “Who—who was it?”

Karzug grimaces. “A young warrior-in-training, name was Rakan. Some claim they saw him alive only an hour before. Then he turned up with no visible wounds, foam at the mouth… People are saying it’s poison. Or a curse.” His voice trails off.

Poison. My stomach clenches, recalling the sabotage we’ve been battling: fouled water, livestock dying. The clan already sees me as a harbinger of ill fortune. This only adds fuel to the blaze. “Where is he now?”

“In the training yard, near the eastern rampart,” Karzug says, dark eyes flicking to the ground. “Many have gathered. Tensions are high. Ghorzag’s trying to keep order, but… they’re calling for your blood, Lirienne.”

I follow Karzug at a brisk pace, my heart hammering an erratic rhythm. As we near the training yard, the crowd’s angry buzz reaches my ears—low and ominous, like a swarm of hornets stirred from their nest. Torchlight dances on the fortress walls, illuminating grim-faced warriors, elders, and onlookers. An undercurrent of panic stokes their voices.

They part slightly when Karzug and I approach, though not out of respect—more out of shock, as if they can’t believe I’d dare show my face. I brace myself, scanning the throng until I spotGhorzag standing in the midst of it, tension evident in the rigid set of his shoulders.

At his feet lies a small, shrouded shape. The orc youth, Rakan, presumably. My stomach twists at the sight, heartbreak mingling with fear. Orc children and teens have been the only ones to offer me curiosity without unbridled hostility; the notion that one so young is dead under suspicious circumstances is a blow that feels deeply personal.

Ghorzag lifts his head as I arrive. Our eyes meet, and something in his expression makes my chest tighten. Anguish, anger, and—worse—an undercurrent of disappointment I can’t decipher.Is he disappointed in me, or the clan, or this entire tragic situation?

Several orcs shift, revealing the shrouded body. A few of the watchers hold torches, their flames casting flickering shadows on the youth’s pale face. Foam still crusts at the corners of his lips, telling a silent story of a quick, brutal end. My throat constricts.

One of the elders—an older orc woman with deep grooves etched in her cheeks—rounds on me, eyes blazing. “You!” she hisses, voice thick with rage. “Another death, right before you leave with our chieftain. Is this your doing?”

A wave of murmurs sweeps the crowd, carrying the hateful refrain:Witchcraft. Curse. Human meddling.My pulse thunders. I force my voice to steady. “I have nothing to do with Rakan’s death. I—I’m as shocked as any of you.”

A warrior with a braided beard snarls, “Lies! The War God curses us for harboring you. Rakan’s blood is on your hands.”

Shock pulses through me, fierce and bitter. “That’s not—” But my protest is drowned out by the chorus of angry voices.

The throng presses closer, an oppressive ring of bodies. Torchlight reflects off sharpened tusks and glinting metal. Overthe chaos, Ghorzag’s voice rings out, harsh and commanding. “Enough!”

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