Page 11 of The Orc Chief's Baker
“Yes, but no men of the Waking Order.”
“Just regular men. And women friendly enough to give Brovdirfood.”
“It’s not poisoned, is it?” Hendr, a surly, gruff male with a mossy green hide, moved toward Brovdir as if he were going to inspect the bag. Brovdir’s snarl had the bright green male backing off in an instant.
“Don’t smell poisoned.”
“How could the conjurer orcs not tell us of this?”
“Did you know of this, Warlord?”
“Shut it!” Karthoc roared with such volume it shook the soil beneath their feet. “The lot of you.”
The orcs fell into a somewhat tense silence.
Karthoc let out a low, fury laced growl before slowly saying, “Are you defying mydirectorders?”
Brovdir could feel the shift of energy under his skin. A command from their warlord, especially among these maleswho were his most elite warriors, took precedence over nearlyeverything.
Nearly.
“Brovdir.”
A slither of prickling fear ran down the column of his spine as Warlord Karthoc turned his violent gaze on him. The venom exuding from every one of his brothers’ muscles had Brovdir briefly regretting his choice to defy the powerful male’s command.
And then Trinia’s face flashed in his mind’s eye. Her smile. The low sound of her laughter was so clear in his memory it made him feel light.
As if he could sense the defiance in him, Karthoc’s claws extended with ashlink.The ice dripping down his spine crystallized, and he froze, eyes wide on those claws.
“You have defied me, Brovdir. You will fight in a challenge.Now.”
Fuck.
He barely had time to catch a breath before Karthoc struck. He crashed into Brovdir’s chest and took him down.
On instinct alone, Brovdir fought, though his mind quailed. There was no winning this fight. But it was win ordie.
And he did not want to die. Not yet.
Not with Trinia waiting.
He swung his legs out for leverage and thrusted Karthoc’s weight off his chest and to the left.
His brother was too quick and strong. He regained his footing before Brovdir had even gotten to his feet and shot forward again. Brovdir barely dodged the male’s wrath. The wind whistled next to his ear as Karthoc struck at his face.
The other males scrambled back as Brovdir leaped to dodge the warlord’s next attack. He evaded the claws, but Karthoc’s foot connected to his gut with a searing crunch.
Brovdir kept his footing, though his vision blurred, and his skin grew clammy. Each breath felt like clanging rocks were in his lungs and his head grew hazy from the lack of air.
Karthoc swung again. This time with a balled fist to the side of Brovdir’s head and his vision blackened. The hit to the ground jerked his mind back to the present just as Karthoc swung him onto his stomach. His head burned as the warlord grabbed his hair, yanked him back until he thought his spine would break, and displayed his neck.
The prickle of Karthoc’s claw against the scar on his neck brought true terror. The line was perfect and stark against his dark skin, a path for any to trace with their weapon. To slice open the wound and finish the job that sneaky human had started so long ago.
But Brovdir did not feel the slice of his skin. Instead, his brother hesitated. Pain bloomed as the panic died out. His body shivered and convulsed for air. Blackness bled around the corners of his eyes.
He could feel the eyes of his brethren on him. None would help him. None would want to defy their warlord, knowing their fate would be to die in the muck, gasping for air with tears streaming from their blackening eyes.
“Give me her sweets.”
