Page 159 of Halfling
With a scream of her own, Sorcha met the orc with blade and hoof.
Terror gripped Orek tighter than a fist, more painful than the myriad of wounds scoring his body.
She’s here. My mate is here—in danger!
The thought pounded his head, horrible and wonderful all at once.
If he could have stared at her, a warrior goddess of old come to life, he would have. If he could have lingered on her powerful figure in the saddle and her brave visage as she met her enemy and crushed them beneath her mount, he would have.
But—
Another vicious hiss stung his ears, and he watched as Krul, eyes gone wide and crazed, picked himself up and lurched for the retreating flank of Sorcha’s horse.
The sword wasn’t Orek’s preferred weapon, the hilt feeling foreign in his hand, but that didn’t matter. His legs nearly buckled when he got them under him again, and his arm was almost too weak to bear the sword, but that didn’t fucking matter.
Not my mate.
Orek ran.
Ran faster than he ever had.
Ran harder than he thought possible.
Those crimson eyes, like bloody rubies in the firelight, lashed toward him as he charged.
A roar raked through Orek’s ears. Tusks as long and sharp as daggers slashed at him.
The sword trembled in his hands, and blood gushed hot between Orek’s fingers. A tusk dug into his shoulder, Krul’s hands gripping hard at his arm and neck as Orek pushed the sword in further, past the resistance of muscle and ribs.
Krul’s great body shuddered, a horrid, bloody gurgle bubbling from his throat. Those crimson eyes turned disbelieving as his body went slack, hands clutching uselessly at Orek as Krul slumped to his knees. And then to the ground.
Orek watched, just as disbelieving, as Krul wrapped a hand around the sword stuck in his abdomen. He hadn’t the strength to pull it out, but Orek had to make sure.
Stomping a boot on the orc chieftain’s chest, he flattened him on his back and drove the sword down, through organs and spine, into the ground. Pinning him.
Krul’s mouth cracked wide in a silent scream.
When Orek knelt beside him, he bared his tusks in one last snarl.
Orek bared his fangs right back. “She’smy mate,” he hissed. And nothing in this world was as vicious or determined as a bonded orc protecting their mate.
Krul Stone-Skin died with his lips twisted in disgust and red eyes seething. Even as the light left his eyes, his face frozen in a rictus of rage.
Get up. She’s still in danger.
Orek pushed to his feet and his body beyond its limits, staggering for his mate.
His heart throbbed a rapid beat to find her still in the saddle, dancing around a felled Merk. The orc lay writhing on the ground, a spear pinning him there by the shoulder.
He’d nearly made it to his mate when a shout went out in orcish.
“The chief is down!”
The riverplain echoed with the sudden cease of fighting as those orcs left standing looked on in shock to see Orek walking away from the body of Krul, sword buried nearly to the hilt in his chest.
“Lay down your weapons,” called Lord Darrow, who Orek was shocked to see. “We need not shed more blood tonight.”
Unsure if those remaining would understand, Orek repeated the order in orcish.
