Page 60 of The War God's Woman

Karzug approaches with a grin, nodding to me. “Seems the War God truly parted the clouds for us. Not a single sign of illusions.”

Harzug grunts agreement. “We might actually make it back without another ambush.”

Ghorzag, overhearing, gives a wry chuckle. “After all we’ve faced, a quiet journey home is well-deserved.”

18

GHORZAG

The high walls of our fortress loom in the light, familiar stone battlements rising against a marbled sky. The sun has not yet dipped below the horizon, but the crimson wash across the clouds speaks of day’s end—and, I hope, the end of the clan’s dark chapter.

I lead the procession toward our home, mindful of the stares from orcs who gather to see us. Their expressions range from guarded curiosity to outright shock at the sight of our prisoners. Bound and sullen, Gaurbod trudges in the middle of the group, irons clamped around his wrists. He refuses to meet anyone’s eyes, but I sense his smoldering resentment all the same.

Lirienne walks near me, posture straight despite exhaustion, her expression equally resolute and wary. Where once I worried the clan’s scorn would settle on her shoulders, now I feel an unexpected calm. The War God has granted a sign so unmistakable no rumor or sabotage can deny it. She’s safe here now—by his decree, and mine.

A hush spreads among the gathered orcs as I raise a hand for quiet. We halt in the broad courtyard, the same place where Lirienne first arrived to a throng of hostile stares. How differentit feels now—many of those same orcs part to give us space, eyes flicking from me to her with a kind of tentative respect. I exhale, letting my gaze travel the ring of watchers. Time to expose Gaurbod’s conspiracy and reclaim the unity he nearly destroyed.

Karzug moves ahead, speaking in sharp tones to the gate guards. They open the iron-bound doors wide, allowing the last of our procession to enter fully. Horses snort in relief, newly minted orcish allies from the War God’s journey pat down the animals’ flanks. A few weary priests, robes torn and dusty from the road, cluster at the fringes, sharing quiet words of final blessings.

Gaurbod stumbles as the guard holding his chain gives it a yank, forcing him into the courtyard’s stone floor. Lirienne’s gaze flicks to him, an uneasy tension in her eyes. I let my hand brush her arm, a silent reassurance. He can’t harm you now.

I scan the crowd, noting some orcs wear expressions of disbelief. Others point openly at Gaurbod, whispering among themselves. They see the iron shackles, the battered face. They sense the shift in power. The rumor mill has churned ceaselessly in our absence, and now the truth is about to be laid bare.

“Gather,” I command, voice carrying through the courtyard. Orcs jostle closer, forming a wide circle. My own loyal warriors fan out behind me, forming a symbolic ring of steel. “Bring the elders, bring those who care to know how we survive the War God’s domain.”

A ripple of motion follows, orcs scurrying to fetch senior clan figures—advisors, cooks, blacksmiths, all manner of folk. Within minutes, the courtyard fills. Torches flare along the walls, chasing away the purple hues of twilight. Lirienne stands near me, her shoulders squared, not flinching beneath the many eyes upon her. My chest tightens with pride. So different from the frightened tribute who arrived weeks ago.

At last, silence descends, broken only by the uneasy shuffle of boots on stone. The clan recognizes this as a formal reckoning, a turning point. I catch the eye of Ragzuk, the old shaman’s apprentice, who gives me a slight nod—an assurance that the spiritual side of the clan is ready to hear the truth.

“Listen well,” I begin, voice echoing. Show no hesitation. “We have returned from the War God’s sanctum. We sought his judgment regarding my bride, Lirienne, whose presence many believed a curse.” I pause, letting the memory of that suspicion hang in the hush. “But we discover who truly cursed us.”

A collective murmur rises. All eyes flick to Gaurbod, who stands bound and sullen, flanked by orcs with drawn weapons. His hair, once neatly braided, hangs in disarray. Blood crusts on his temple from the temple scuffle. He glares, but speaks nothing.

“Gaurbod,” I continue, forcing my voice to remain steady, “stoked fear among the clan, orchestrating floods, poisoned wells, illusions—and even murder—to unseat me as chieftain. He used every tragedy to blame Lirienne, fueling your suspicion. With your fear, he nearly seized control of the clan.”

A wave of outrage and shock ripples through the crowd. Some orcs gasp; others let out snarls of anger. I see a blacksmith’s jaw drop, a cook’s eyes glisten with fury. They remember Rakan, the young warrior whose death was pinned on Lirienne— Rakan was one of us, their faces seem to say, and Gaurbod killed him.

“He singled out Lirienne as the clan’s scapegoat,” I go on, “because she was new, vulnerable, and easy to blame for misfortunes. The illusions, the sabotage— they were all part of Gaurbod’s plan to turn you against her, and, in turn, against me.”

Anger flares in the crowd, whispered curses directed not at Lirienne, but at Gaurbod. The tide has turned, I think grimly, scanning their reactions. Finally.

At my side, Lirienne tenses. I cast her a reassuring glance. She exhales softly, relief coloring her face as she realizes they no longer stare at her with hatred. A few elders push forward— wizened orcs who once condemned Lirienne as a curse. One, a stooped figure with braided grey hair, fixes Gaurbod with a furious glare.

“You caused Rakan’s death?” the elder demands, voice quivering. “A youth barely old enough to face real battle?”

Gaurbod refuses to answer, grimacing in sullen silence. Another elder spits, fists trembling. “Your sabotage nearly destroyed our orchard. You forced us to fear every omen. How dare you claim to serve the War God!”

Gaurbod raises his head, eyes flicking with the last embers of defiance. “I did what was necessary,” he mutters. “To preserve our bloodline from contamination. But you’re too blind to see.”

A surge of hatred flashes in the crowd. Harzug, standing guard near Gaurbod, snarls. “Contamination? You murdered your own kin, fed illusions to terrify us. That’s no protection— that’s betrayal!”

The elders exchange fierce nods, unity forming behind the condemnation. Fear once aimed at Lirienne now crystallizes into rage at Gaurbod’s betrayal. “Traitor,” an orc hisses from the crowd. Another spits, echoing the sentiment.

In that heated moment, Drahn—leading priest from the pilgrimage—steps forward, staff tapping on the courtyard stones. “I witnessed the War God’s sign myself,” he says, voice resonant. “Lirienne was spared by a pillar of flame in the temple. Gaurbod tried to kill her there, but the War God intervened. Is that not proof of who truly stands cursed in the War God’s eyes?”

Orcs shift, solemn nods affirming the priest’s words. Even those who once spat at Lirienne listen. They cannot deny a direct sign from the War God. My chest loosens with relief, seeing how swiftly the clan now recognizes Lirienne’s innocence.

“The War God has judged us,” I declare, raising my voice once more. “Lirienne stands not as our curse, but under his protection. Our clan sees the truth: sabotage, illusions, and fear were Gaurbod’s doing.” I gesture to the ring of orcs. “We must hold him accountable for every life lost, every wound inflicted. That is the clan’s law.”

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