Page 75 of The Orc Outcast's Mate

Govek stopped chewing as the words filtered through him, leaving him thunderstruck.

Had she not heard him? Was he not explaining the situation clearly? Pushing over a single shelf was nothing compared to destroying an entire camp.

But a lump had grown in his throat and a pang of uncertainty was growing in the back of his mind. His eyes slid to his father on his mighty platform next to his gilded throne, arguing with the warlord as if he had any right to do so.

Govek shook his head, trying to dislodge the unsettling thoughts. He met Miranda’s gaze again, soaked up her gentle smile, allowed himself a few moments to bask in her gracious judgment.

The comfort did not last long. Perhaps this transgression could be forgiven in her eyes, but there were many more. So many.

Confusion passed over her features. “Govek?—”

“My clan!”

The chief’s bellow instantly cut off Miranda’s response.

“My conjurers and communers, you who are set above with your prowess and gifted magic by the Great Rove Tree, it has been my privilege to lead this clan almost one hundred and forty wonderful seasons. Many trials have?—”

“For blast’s sake, Ergoth, get on with it,” Karthoc said, earning tense silence from the Rove Wood Clan and chuckles from his warriors, who now lined the far wall, clearly having been refused seating just as Govek.

Ergoth continued, though with a hint of tension in his tone. “The Great Rove Tree, conjured by the Fades themselves, imbued with their light and power, has given grand magic to us.

“We acknowledge Sythcol, our great conjurer, whose skills outmatch any other, Hovget, the best healer Rove Wood has ever known, Caveskil, who calls the rains as if they are his kin, Ravtogh...”

The list continued, on and on, sinking Govek into the ground. Down to where the Fades slept so they could mock him in their slumber. Never once had Govek been acknowledged in the list of those who were blessed by the Fades. Never once had his clan had reason to give him more notice than a glance of distrust.

When he was younger, hunters were called and praised for their prowess. Govek had been in awe of their strength and strived to uphold their mantle. But they were praised no longer. With so many blighted beasts, there was no honor in killing those that were healthy, even when those kills meant their clan did not starve. The hunters he’d admired had all abandoned the Rove Woods for the war or had taken up a more suitable role within the clan.

“Let us honor the Fades. Praise them for their gifts to us,” Chief Ergoth said, raising his wood goblet high, beginning a chant. Low calls rumbled as the whole clan spoke in unison. Even a few of the woman joined.

Govek remained silent. He’d never been taught this prayer.

“And now, my young nephew, Warlord Karthoc, would like to address us in good tiding.” Ergoth stepped to the side, but not away.

“I will not drivel on,” Karthoc said with a pointed look to Chief Ergoth as he took up the center of the platform. “The war is not going well. The Waking Order’s numbers seem to grow with each passing day, and they have razed four clans south of Hexlin. There were no survivors and no warning before these attacks.”

Govek went ice cold in an instant. Fuck! Four clans destroyed? Was the war going that badly?

Would... Karthoc’s forge even be safe for Miranda?

“They come over the Wyin Mountains in droves. Despite the perilous passage and the legions guarding the borders, they continue to break into our lands. It is only a matter of time before they come to Rove.”

A clamor rose from the clan, voices high and outraged. Chief Ergoth stepped forward.

“The edge of the Rove Woods is yet two full days of travel from here. Even if they breached the outer forest, they would not make it past the barriers that my conjurers have created.”

“They would,” Karthoc said, his voice flat. “It is foolhardy to believe they would not. The Waking Order is both cunning and growing. Their numbers outrank my own, three to one.”

Three to one? Bile rose in Govek’s throat.

“We will forge more defenses. Sythcol, come up, explain to the warlord what your plans are.”

Sythcol stood up from his place at the head of the conjurers’ table. He was only a little older than Govek but the deep-set lines in his face and his faded pale-green hair made him appear much older. His hands had long gone black from many seasons of endless conjuring. Creating magical healing remedies to send to Karthoc’s warriors to aid in the war.

A war that they were losing, despite all efforts.

“Sit down, conjurer. None of your words will sway me. My decision is final,” Karthoc said, waving Sythcol back. “And that decision...”

Karthoc trailed his eyes across the room until they met with Govek’s.

---