Page 73 of Wed to the Orc Captive

I’d tell him that I didn’t want his oath any longer. That he didn’t have to pretend to make a wife of me. And we’d wait till his leg recovered, and he could help me get to Mereborough, and he’d be free. I made myself move, one foot in front of the other, walking again.

That’s when someone grabbed my arms.

I’d never been a fighter. Even with frenzied terror sending power to my limbs, light wheeling in front of my eyes, I wasn’t strong enough. With a rag over my mouth, muffling my screams, I heard the sorcery twist meaning into a woman’s voice. “Careful! She’s going to hurt herself. What if she dislocates her own arm or something?”

“The humans don’t do that,” someone grunted. “She’s like a twitchy little bird.”

“What if her heart stops or something? That happens with small animals.”

“She’s not an animal.”

“She’s afraid.”

“Were you not afraid? We’ve all done this. Don’t coddle her. Do you have the draught? She’s not supposed to know the way.”

Someone unstoppered a bottle, a smell sickly-sweet on the air.

“This is a bad idea. If you break her⁠—"

“Stop being a mother hen and rutting help us. This is for her own good.”

There were faces, some familiar, green skin, necklaces, hair. I was still trying to fight, trying to struggle, but someone knelt on my back, and I couldn’t move.

“Little birds don’t make it in this world. She’ll have to be a woman.” The wet rag went over my mouth.

There was so little light.

That was my first thought, as my eyes opened, my head pounding. My hands were still bound. There was a pocket of sky, far, far above, and the darkness seemed like rock walls, like the bottom of a giant hole.

“You're too worried. It isn't even raining,” someone was saying, huffed out a laugh. “When we did this the rock was slick.”

“Her arms are like twigs. Can she even climb?”

“She's weak; she's not a child. She's a married woman. She'll climb.”

I tried to get my bearings, to find the sources of the voices in the dim light. How much of the day had passed? A cloud moved, and the weak sunlight poured down. Feet stopped in front of me.

“Wake up, birdy.” A woman’s voice again. I should have been more afraid. I knew women could also kill. I just wasn’t used to fearing them, which was insane, with my arms still bound and my head aching from a drug.

“Can she understand us? Is the magic still working?”

“If it isn’t she’s about to have a hard day.”

“Sareet!”

I caught my breath. That slithering wrongness was still on my tongue. “I understand,” I grated out. Someone laughed.

“See? We picked the right time.” A figure squatted in front of me, tilted up my chin. I winced. My head hurt. But I didn’t want to cause trouble before it would help. A wide, grinning face smiled down at me, that long scar down her neck. “Wakey wakey. Welcome back.” Behind her waited others, including one, smaller figure.

“The council are wavering on letting you in, so we’re going to give you a little chance to show everyone that you belong,” the one touching my face said sweetly. There was a menace under her words. “The trial is simple. We’re in a hole. You have to get out of it. You start at the bottom of the crucible. You reach the top.” She called over me, to someone on the other side. “Keesah, how old were you when you passed the trial? Thirteen?”

“Twelve.”

“See? Our children do this.” She leaned close. “We’re not asking more of you than we’d ask of a weakling child.”

“Come on, Sareet.” Larrakh, Khal’s cousin, shifted behind her. “Just tell her what to do and let’s go.”

The scarred one ignored her. “You humans keep your women weak. It’s why our lesser men are drawn to you. You make them feel so strong with your little, breakable bones, don’t you? You’re so used to bowing and scraping.” She switched to a high, mocking falsetto. “‘Oh orc, please don’t hurt me! I’ll do all the dirty work. Just be a big strong man and keep me safe from the other big, mean men.’” Her pretty mouth sneered. “You come here and quiver and whimper and make more little babies and teach them to be good little criers. And people are so kind. They don’t want to throw out the little victim, not when you remind them of an awful past. They say what’s the harm? It’s a choice. Maybe some men like that. The humans have trade. The humans have potions. And we trade and we trade and we push our warriors into smaller arenas and the men go out and they come back with women like you, raise little babies like you, and eventually the ways are dead and our girls learn scut work instead of war, simpering instead of the hunt, and our granddaughters’ daughters don’t know to hate us for what we let go.”