Page 1 of His Noble Savior

Prologue

Lilian

The menacing beat of the drums boomed through the air. Lilian threw an anxious glance at the opposite bank of the Great River. Nothing moved except the thundering torrent of whitewater and the fog drifting above it. The river was imbued with the Lady’s magic, or so the humans said, ripping away anyone who dared to enter it, protecting the Kingdom of Vale from intruders. Lilian was safe from the dangers lurking on the other side. So why was he shuddering at the sinister rhythm of the drums?

“We should hurry,” Lilian said, shoveling clay from the river bank with his bare hands. He dumped lumps of the damp soil in his basket, his thin, pale hands working frantically.

“Are the orcs getting to you?” Flora asked, a mocking undertone lacing her words. She was filling the other basket without hurry. “They can drum all they want; they’ll never cross the river.”

She was right, of course, but that didn’t quiet the uneasy churning in Lilian’s stomach. He didn’t like coming to the Great River to collect clay, but he had no choice if he wanted to eat. Nowhere was the ground better than here, where magic-infused water wet the soil, producing the best clay in Vale. Dishes and vases crafted from Great River clay were smoother and more beautiful than any other, fetching six silver pennies a piece—enough to keep Lilian’s stomach full for a week or two.

This was his last chance to collect the clay before the human world fell into winter’s merciless grip. Soon, the soil wouldfreeze, making gathering clay impossible until the thaw set in months later. Thankfully, Lilian and Flora were going to return to the eternal spring of their home in the faerie realm, but the Spring Court’s best soil didn’t measure up to the quality found here.

The wind picked up, and the icy gale drove into the thin tatters of Lilian’s clothes, pricking his skin like needles. If he crafted pottery from Great River clay, he’d earn enough to visit a dressmaker in Verdell and buy a new set of garments. It was overdue, the fraying holes of his shirt and trousers growing by the day. Lilian shivered, envying the fox that scuttled past, its winter coat thick and warm.

Across the river, the drums escalated into a crescendo. A low, rumbling chant set in, sending goosebumps over his skin.

“I’m not liking this,” Lilian said. “We should go.”

“And return with our baskets half-empty? No.”

“We can collect clay a quarter mile downstream.”

Flora shook her head, her ice blonde locks swaying. All spring fae had flaxen hair, blue eyes and a fair complexion, but her coloring was particularly cool. “We’ll finish, and then we go home. The orcs can’t get to us no matter how chilling their ritual sounds.”

Lilian wasn’t so sure. Humans told blood-curdling tales about the orcs. A century ago, the Turian Empire, the greatest civilization known to humankind, had expanded across the sea into Xaustra, the southern continent. Finding nothing but uninhabitable desert, they pressed on, penetrating the lush jungles of Oordoon. There they stirred a force better left alone: the orcs.

Seven feet tall and packing three hundred pounds of muscle, they outmatched the humans with ease, driving them back across the sea. It should’ve ended there had it not been for one unfortunate turn of events: the orcs took a liking to men,ravishing them wherever they found them. Matters got worse when female orcs mysteriously vanished, and the remaining males discovered they could procreate with human men. They set after them, invading the Turian homeland and bringing the centuries-old empire to its knees. The Turians dispersed, fleeing to neighboring kingdoms where they erected great walls to keep the orcs out.

Vale, separated from the Turian Empire by the Great River, was safe. The orcs had never managed to cross. But something nagged at Lilian. Because once, so many centuries ago that not even the oldest fae remembered, the Turians had tamed the river’s magic and conquered Vale, turning it into its vassal.

“I don’t feel good about this,” Lilian said as the orcs’ chant pattered on.

“You can go with your half-full basket. I want mine filled to the brim. I need all the silver I can get.”

Flora’s words cut like a knife. The last two times they’d gone to the Greater River, Flora had kept both their baskets’ worth of clay.

“I thought it was my turn to keep both baskets,” Lilian mumbled.

“What was that?” Flora snapped.

Lilian knew better than to answer. They’d agreed on fetching clay just for him this time, but like all fae, Flora, unable to lie or make false promises, must’ve twisted her words. Perhaps she’d said “weshouldget clay just for you” or “it’s your turn to get clay,” but neither statement was a promise. Lilian should’ve pressed her for one, but he hadn’t, like he wasn’t pressing her now. He couldn’t afford to. Flora was his only friend. In the faerie realm, where making enemies was easy and finding allies hard, beggars couldn’t be choosers.

More than once, Lilian had leaned on her for food when he was sick, and favors had to be repaid. If Lilian insisted onkeeping both baskets, Flora might get nasty, and Lilian couldn’t risk that. Not when he might depend on her again. He had to stay on her good side. Swallowing his words was easy, but the disappointment thickening his throat and stinging his eyes was another story.

The orcs’ chant surged. Their drumming rushed onto him. They were closer than before. Black smoke rose between the trees on the other bank, and the scent of burning wood drifted over. And that rhythm… It grew faster and faster. The noise getting closer and closer. A hair-raising roar tore through the air, and cold sweat collected on Lilian’s brow. He longed for his home, a hollow tree in the forest with a rug for a door where he made pottery during the day and curled up with his favorite blanket at night. Lilian was a lesser fae, the lowest class in the hierarchy of the faerie courts, but he’d carved out a meager living.

The drums beat out of control as if struck by the fury of evil gods. Lilian shouldn’t be here. Everything in his bones screamed at him to run, but Flora would react badly if he did, and thus he worked as quickly as possible, filling his basket to the brim and then helping Flora with hers, not caring if she was laughing at his fear.

Lilian was depositing a final fistful of clay when Flora stilled. His eyes lifted to hers, finding them wide with alarm. A chill crept down his back. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Lilian didn’t want to turn, but he was unable to resist the pull of horror.

On the opposite bank, an army of orcs stood on the river’s shore, and more of the beasts were filing out from between the trees.

Even from across the breadth of the river, the orcs were giants, looming at the edge of the raging torrent, the water whitewith churning rapids.

Olive-green skin clad their bodies. Muscles bulged with menace. Thighs as thick as tree trunks. Necklaces of bones. Belts adorned with skulls.

---