Page 61 of The War God's Woman

A collective murmur of agreement follows. Weapons thump against shields in an orcish gesture of unity, a sign that the clan demands justice. Even the orcs who once aligned with Gaurbod or believed in illusions shudder, bowing heads in shame.

Gaurbod sneers, lip curling. “You’ll regret this. The clan needs strong blood— not half-human?—”

“Silence!” I bark, my tusks grinding. One of the warriors cuffs Gaurbod’s head to shut him up. The traitor staggers, hate still burning in his eyes, but he speaks no more.

“We can convene the clan council,” one elder suggests, voice stern. “For a crime so severe, orc tradition demands we weigh execution or exile.”

An undercurrent of tension flickers. In orcish culture, sabotage of this scale typically merits execution— especially if multiple orcs died. Yet Gaurbod is my cousin, which complicates matters. The crowd turns their gaze on me, waiting for a chieftain’s command.

I force my shoulders straight, ignoring the twinge of old wounds. Lirienne’s presence at my side steadies me, reminding me of the sacrifice I was willing to make. If Gaurbod had his way, she’d be dead. Innocent orcs died because of him; the memory of Rakan weighs on my heart.

“We will follow tradition,” I say clearly, voice echoing. “But no illusions of mercy shall overshadow Gaurbod’s guilt. Let the clan gather in the great hall. We’ll hold formal judgment there. If the verdict is execution, so be it. If any argue exile, we’ll see it done swiftly and without chance of return.”

A murmur of respect follows. Karzug and Harzug nod, gesturing to the watchers who hold Gaurbod’s chains. Lirienne’s hand brushes mine discreetly, as if acknowledging how heavy this decision weighs on me personally. I inhale, pushing aside the pang of familial betrayal. The clan must come first.

Within the hour, the entire clan crowds into the torchlit expanse of the great hall. Banners and trophies hang along the high walls, relics of past victories. Now, they bear witness to a different kind of conflict— the reckoning of a traitor who nearly toppled the clan from within.

I ascend the stone steps to the dais, where I once greeted Lirienne with forced composure amid the clan’s hostility. The irony strikes me: back then, she was the one under suspicion, and Gaurbod was a respected relative. Now, roles reverse. The dais looms large, an echo of old rivalries.

A hush envelops the hall as Karzug leads Gaurbod forward, shackles rattling. Orc warriors flank him, weapons in hand. The elders form a semicircle, joined by key advisors like Harzug, who represent the clan’s martial leadership, and Drahn, symbolizing the priests’ approval. Lirienne stands to my right, posture tense but resolute.

“Clan of Stormborn,” I call, voice resounding. “You know why we are gathered. Hear the charges against Gaurbod: sabotage of clan resources, orchestrating illusions and false omens, murder of Rakan, attempted murder of the chieftain’s bride, and defiling the War God’s temple with bloodshed.”

A ripple of anger and grief threads through the crowd. Orc mothers recall Rakan’s youth, fathers clench jaws at theorchard’s memory, warriors hiss at illusions that nearly cost them their sanity.

“What say you, Gaurbod?” I ask, though I suspect any response drips with venom.

He lifts his chin, sullen. “I acted for the clan’s future,” he mutters, half under his breath. “That human—” His gaze skitters to Lirienne, “—disgraces our blood.”

The crowd bristles, a few spitting insults. Harzug steps forward threateningly, but I raise a hand. “Enough,” I say, glaring. “You stand condemned by the War God’s sign. You cannot twist this further.”

Silence thickens. The orc elders exchange glances, each awaiting my decision. I exhale, mind racing with the weight of this moment. If I simply order him executed, it might be swift, but might leave a wound in the clan’s heart. He is my cousin. Exile might risk his returning for revenge. No easy answer.

At length, I turn to the elders. “We honor tradition,” I say, scanning their faces. “For sabotage this severe, the penalty is either the sword or banishment.”

An elder with braided grey hair steps forward. “Execution is standard for orcs who betray their own,” she says quietly, voice trembling. “But Gaurbod is your blood, Chieftain. Does that weigh on your judgment?”

A lump forms in my throat. Lirienne’s hand finds mine, a gentle squeeze. I steele myself. I must choose not as Gaurbod’s cousin, but as the clan’s chieftain.

“He spilled orc blood— Rakan’s,” I say, voice hoarse. “He nearly destroyed us. Family ties do not absolve murder. The clan must see justice done.”

A heavy hush follows, the gravity of my words sinking in. Gaurbod’s face twists, but he offers no defense. The elder who spoke closes her eyes, nodding grimly. “Then we abide by the old ways.”

“Yes,” I affirm, heart heavy. “Execution.”

A collective inhale ripples through the hall, some orcs pressing fists to chests in solemn acceptance. A few lower their heads, acknowledging the severity. This is how it must be, I remind myself. The sabotage was too great, the cost in lives irreparable. If he lives, the clan may never heal.

Gaurbod laughs bitterly, hollow. “So be it, cousin,” he spits. “Enjoy your half-breed future.”

Blood pounds in my ears, but I keep composure. “Take him to the courtyard,” I order, voice stiff. “It will be swift. The entire clan shall bear witness to the end of his treachery.”

Karzug and the guards seize Gaurbod’s arms. He doesn’t resist, possibly resigned or too battered in spirit to fight. The crowd parts in uneasy silence as we descend from the dais. My heart hammers, but I lead them, forging a path through anxious onlookers.

The orange glow of dusk fills the courtyard, long shadows stretching across the stone. Orc watchers join the throng, murmuring as they realize the clan’s final verdict. Lirienne sticks close, her expression pained. I feel a pang of guilt for the familial tie that forces my hand, but the clan demands justice beyond sentiment.

We form a ring in the courtyard’s center, the same place we first returned with Gaurbod in chains. A hush falls as Gaurbod is forced to his knees, arms locked behind his back. Karzug and Harzug stand to either side, swords drawn, silent sentinels.

I inhale, stepping forward. The entire clan, or those who live within these walls, press closer. Tension radiates, some orcs fidgeting, others stoically awaiting the blow. Gaurbod’s gaze flickers, a shadow of fear on his face. He knows there is no escape.

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