Page 45 of The Orc's Princess Bride
“But I have the key. I have the knowledge and the power to unlock the curse and reshape it to my will.”
The priest shook their head, their face still hidden in shadow. “You are playing with forces beyond your comprehension.”
“My comprehension is greater than yours,” Lasseran snapped. “I am not bound by your petty fears and superstitions. Now begin the ritual.”
“No.” The word seemed to echo in the dark room.
Her uncle’s face contorted with fury. “You defy me?”
“We do. We will provide no assistance in this matter.”
The hooded figure faded back into the darkness as Lasseran swore. For a moment she dared to hope for a reprieve, but then Lasseran regained his composure and turned back to her.
“No matter. I will conduct the ritual myself. Bring her to me, Khorrek. Quickly.”
Lasseran took his place at the head of the altar and began to chant in a language that made her skin crawl. The words seemed to slither through the air, heavy with malice. The flames in the braziers flickered, turning a sickly green.
Her mind raced, searching for a way to save herself. She couldn’t overpower the guards. She couldn’t outrun them. But the timing of the ritual seemed to be important. Perhaps she could disrupt it long enough for…for what? For a reprieve? For a miracle?
The rusty dagger hidden in the folds of her dress pressed against her thigh, and a desperate plan formed in her mind.
She began to scream—not a dignified protest, but a raw, animal sound of terror. She thrashed wildly in Khorrek’s grip, her movements so sudden and violent that another guard came to assist him, disrupting the solemn rhythm of the ritual.
“Hold her still!” Lasseran snapped, his perfect composure fracturing.
Jessamin continued her performance, sobbing and pleading incoherently. She let her knees buckle, forcing the guards to half-carry her. Khorrek’s face was a study in growing discomfort.
“You are an embarrassment to your bloodline,” Lasseran hissed, stepping away from the altar. “Control yourself or?—”
The floor beneath them shuddered. A distant boom echoed through the stone, followed by another, closer this time. The braziers swayed, sending shadows dancing across the walls.
Alarms began to wail throughout the fortress.
“What is happening?” Lasseran demanded as a messenger burst through the doors.
“An attack, Your Majesty! The lower levels—explosions—intruders?—”
Chaos erupted. Several of the guards started towards the door, then hesitated, clearly unsure whether to stay or go. Lasseranstarted barking orders, and she saw her chance in the confusion. She stomped hard on the foot of the guard to her left. As he stumbled, cursing, she twisted in Khorrek’s slackened grip and drew the rusty dagger from her skirts.
She slashed wildly at the cursing guard, catching him across the forearm. It was a clumsy, desperate attack, but it bought her precious seconds. She spun away, putting distance between herself and her captors.
“Seize her!” Lasseran roared, his face contorted with fury. “The ritual cannot be interrupted!”
Khorrek hesitated, his hand on his sword hilt, conflict raging in his eyes.
She backed away from him, the dagger held before her as her heart hammered against her ribs. She would not go meekly to that altar. She would not be a sacrifice to Lasseran’s evil.
Another explosion rocked the chamber, closer this time. Dust sifted down from the ceiling.
Lasseran strode toward her, his perfect features twisted into something inhuman. “You will not ruin this, girl. Your blood is the key to controlling the Beast Curse. With it, I will have an army that cannot be defeated.”
“You’ll have to take it from me,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
He laughed, the sound like breaking glass. “Gladly.”
He reached for her just as the far wall of the chamber exploded inward in a shower of stone and dust. A massive figure stepped through the choking cloud, silhouetted against the destruction.
The dust settled enough for her to see him clearly. Ulric stood in the breach—Ulric, but not Ulric. His huge body was even larger than normal, his muscles straining against his skin, his eyes completely black. His tusks were longer and sharper, his claws fully extended, and his face was a mask of primal fury. She could see the marks of battle on his flesh, but he showed no signs of pain or exhaustion. He looked like a god of war, a primal force of destruction unleashed.
