Page 5 of The War God's Woman

I lift a hand, palm out. The hall falls silent once more. “I do not make this decision lightly. But we cannot hold onto old hatreds forever if we are to survive.” My words echo, stirring memories of battles fought for no real gain.

At that moment, an imposing figure steps forward from the crowd—Druzh the High Priest, his rich crimson robes draping over a wiry, muscled frame. Age has streaked his hair with silver, and intricate markings denoting service to the War God twist around his forearms. He never minces words.

“Chieftain,” he says, voice resonating like a deep drum, “have you considered the omens? The floods in the eastern pastures? The livestock falling ill without reason?”

A ripple of foreboding passes through the hall. I notice Lirienne’s brows knit together as she glances nervously at me. The talk of omens has been surging for days.

“Speak, Priest,” I say tersely.

Druzh’s sharp gaze darts to Lirienne, then returns to me. “The War God is not pleased. Our watchers by the river say the waters are rising beyond any seasonal norm. Crops have rotted overnight, and last evening a calf was found dead—no visible wounds, but blood spattered around its muzzle as if it coughed life away.” He pauses, letting the weight of his words hang in thetorchlit space. “We have read the signs, and they are dire indeed. The War God’s disfavor hangs upon us. You bring a human woman to our midst under a vow of peace, yet the cost may be our clan’s ruin.”

The hall erupts in a low, collective growl. Fear laced with anger. Some orcs demand to know how to appease the War God, others curse in savage frustration.

I refuse to be rattled. I step toward Druzh, fists clenched. “You interpret these events as the War God’s condemnation of Lirienne?”

Druzh meets my stare without wavering. “The War God demands strength and victory. He scorns weakness. This arrangement could be viewed as a concession… or a betrayal of our proud tradition.”

I feel Lirienne stiffen beside me.Betrayal, he says. The word cuts like a blade because I know that’s how many orcs perceive it: forging an alliance with humans after centuries of conflict.

I draw in a measured breath. “We do not yet know if these misfortunes are truly the War God’s doing or simply cruel turns of fate.” My voice thunders through the hall, tamping down the rising chaos. “But heed me: I do not ignore your fears. We will seek clarity. We will consult the shaman further, investigate the matter thoroughly.”

“But should the God of War truly be angry,” comes a trembling voice from somewhere in the crowd, “then no mortal can stand in his way. Chieftain, do not doom us because of a misguided plan!”

Resentment churns in my gut. Do they truly believe I would doom the clan I’ve sacrificed so much to protect? I glower at them, letting the old discipline from countless battles reassert itself. “I have fought for this clan’s future since I was old enough to wield a blade. I will not make reckless choices.”

Druzh’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “We must perform the rites to ascertain the War God’s will. And soon.”

A heavy silence follows, thick with tension. The crowd waits, hungry for a definitive answer, an act of appeasement, or a scapegoat. My eyes flicks to Lirienne. Her pulse seems to flutter at her throat, but she stands firmly, refusing to appear cowed. Our eyes lock, and for a heartbeat, the roar of the hall recedes.

“You have my word,” I say finally, lifting my chin. “I will not turn a blind eye to these omens. But nor will I abandon our chance at peace because of rumors and fear.”

That is my decree. It hangs in the air, unchallenged yet bitterly received by many. One by one, orcs begin to back away, muttering under their breath, unsure whether to stand by me or add their voices to the chorus of anger.

I raise my hand again, beckoning my second-in-command, Karzug, forward. He, too, wears the clan’s lightning insignia, though less ornate than mine. Tall and lean, Karzug has a sharpness to his features—keen eyes, a confident stance. He once told me he’d follow me through any storm, no matter how fierce.

“Escort Lirienne from the hall,” I murmur under the fading clamor. “Ensure she isn’t harassed. I’ll remain to address the rest.”

Karzug gives a curt nod. “Yes, Chieftain.”

Lirienne turns to me, voice hushed. “Ghorzag… is there anything I—” She trails off, uncertainty flickering in her gaze.

The fact she uses my name—without flinching at its guttural sound—surprises me. A quick hush falls around us as a few onlookers realize she dares speak to me directly. I tense, prepared to quell another eruption of protest. But the hall has mostly dissolved into pockets of orcs who are too busy complaining among themselves to focus on her.

“Stay in your chambers,” I say quietly, though not unkindly. “Let the priests and me sort this out. If we’re to have peace, you can help more by… ensuring you’re not the target of their fury right now.”

A shadow crosses her features, perhaps disappointment or relief. Maybe both. She simply nods, her expression unreadable. Then she allows Karzug to guide her through the parting throng. As she passes, a few warriors step aside stiffly, their eyes dark with suspicion. I catch sight of Gorath spitting near her feet again, and anger flares in my chest. One sideways glare from me silences him, though, reminding him that defiance can have dire consequences.

Once Lirienne is out of sight, I face Druzh again. “Speak your mind, Priest. We cannot let fear tear the clan apart.”

His gaze is solemn, but not wholly unkind. “Times are shifting like desert sands, Ghorzag. The War God’s signs cannot be dismissed. We have the floods, the rotting crops, the sudden sickness among the livestock… All these in the span of a few short weeks.” He lowers his voice. “Our temple watchers claim these are warnings. The God of War doesn’t want our blood mingled with humans’.”

My tusks grind against each other. “You and I both know the War God values strength. This alliance could strengthen us if it means fewer wasted battles. Or do you think the War God demands endless warfare until our clan is whittled away to nothing?”

“That is not for me to decide,” Druzh retorts. “I only interpret. But many in the clan see the timing of these calamities as no coincidence. The day you announce an alliance with the Marshfield village is the day we find half our eastern pastures flooded. Tell me that doesn’t weigh on your mind.”

I rub at the scar on my chin, remembering old battles with dark elves, the hours I’d spent tending wounded orcs, buryingmy father’s battered body. That bitterness still lingers, fueling my desire to spare my clan from more pointless bloodshed. “It does weigh on me,” I admit quietly. “But I won’t be ruled by superstition alone.”

Druzh nods slowly, as if he recognizes at least the sincerity of my conviction. He steps back, letting me address the lingering crowd.

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