Page 29 of Wed to the Orc Captive

“You can say that, till she places a knife in your ribs.”

Ronnel laughed, too loud, too long. I had the cooking knife in my hand, stirring the soup. He bared his teeth in a grin. “I’ll have to avoid that. You’ll spare me some soup, Miss?”

I kept my voice neutral. “I don’t have enough bowls. Do you have your own?”

“Of course.” He produced one. As I reached to take it he pulled back, just an inch. “So how does a girl like you end up following an orc camp?”

Not a girl, I wanted to say, but I swallowed it, “It’s a living.”

“Oh, I’m sure it is.” He released his bowl to me, and I retreated back. “Dewan, Stephan, give the girl your dishes. We’re eating like orc guests.” While they found their accoutrement he said to Vrathgar, “That’s a nasty cut you have there. That the reason they left you with the girl?”

“Just a scratch.” The line of his shoulders was tense.

“No offense meant, none meant.” He sat back. “So how many strong are your party? I’d hate to take up all this food.”

“Only five more,” Vrathgar lied.

“Five. A good size for a party of stealth. Minus the girl.”

“The Gol Droth seldom need stealth, do we?”

“Fair, fair.” He was smiling.

The other two handed me their bowls. Dewen, the large one, held his too close to his body, so I had to reach. Too close. His eyes fastened on me, hooded.

Every piece of me said these men were dangerous.

“Thank you,” I got out. He said nothing, only watched.

Something brushed my ear, and I dodged back. Ronnel was still smiling, his hand outstretched. “Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”

Vrathgar’s voice was harsh. “You wear out your welcome, human.”

His smile didn’t slip. “I didn't know the Droth were touchy about such things. Isn’t it common for you to share women?”

“There is nothing in common here to share.”

I moved back to the cauldron, putting the fire between me and their leader. The third one, Stephan, was moving into the trees, maybe to relieve himself. Maybe to grab me from the back.

“Apologies.” This Ronnel should have been afraid. He didn’t look afraid. “I’d hate to overstep, especially with the rest of your party returning. There were…six of them, weren’t there?”

“Do you tire of living? Because I tire of your questions.” Vrathgar snarled.

“Alright. No more questions.” He sat forward, utterly at ease. Something about him was wrong, off. “One thing I always liked about you Droth is your sense of tradition. Hate rituals lasting centuries? Relatable. Admirable, even.” He was smiling, too wide. The knife was tight in my hand. “As a piece of that tradition, they told me, every woman they take in, they take the top of her ear. Cut it right off.” Vrathgar tensed as he said, “Funny. Your little friend, she has all her bits on her.”

The world was so bright, over-bright, and everything in me was freezing.

“You think those friends are coming back to camp? The five or the seven of them?” Our enemy grinned, feral. “Because I don’t think the Gol Droth give a rat’s ass what happens to you.”

Vrathgar didn’t wait for them to move. He threw the blanket at the man’s face, the sword in his right hand aimed through as he lunged. It should have been a kill. He’d been so brutally fast back in the cell, but that was before he’d lost so much blood, before these woods had cut so deep.

They brought him down. I heard him cry out as a boot came down on his wrist, watched him reach for the other blade before a knee slammed on his neck. And I…I had a knife in my hand. There were three of them. He was on the ground.

I was my mother’s daughter. I was the one making cowardly, pragmatic choices, over and over until everything worth keeping in my life was bled dry. Perhaps this was always my fate, binding myself to one monster or another, till I sacrificed the last of my humanity on that altar.

When the orc I’d spent the night beside cried out in anguish, when the husband who'd faced beasts and defied his kinfolk to defend me was being crushed into the ground, I didn't strike, didn't scream or beg, didn't move. He looked up at me, from the ground, shouted “Annora, run!”

And I dropped my knife into the pot. “Why would I run?” I said, and my voice sounded like someone dead, like someone who'd already given up on whatever made them alive. “I'm human.” And, as one of them burst out laughing, and horror congealed in my husband’s eyes, “...and we haven’t had the soup yet.”