Page 2 of The Orc's Stolen Bride

“They will be the first. If this works, there will be more.”

“You can tell them that.” Wulf gestured to the door and the Hall beyond. “Let them distract themselves with the idea of achieving glory in the Trials and thoughts of females as a reward. But we both know it won’t be enough.”

“And what do you propose? Fight our way through the army Lasseran has stationed at the Fanged Gate?” The Fanged Gate was the only major pass into the rest of the Kingdoms and the High King had gradually increased the forces stationed there over the years until it represented a formidable obstacle. “Then fight our way across the Kingdoms alone and defeat him?”

“Del would support us,” Wulf said with a confidence he did not feel. The Kingdom of Del had as little love for Lasseran as Norhaven did but they preferred to keep to their Plains and their horses and ignore the politics of the more central lands.

“Would they?” Ulric arched a brow. “Even if they did, it wouldn’t be enough. The Old Kingdom grows more farmers than warriors, and the warriors they do raise fight in Lasseran’s army. The Makurrans will side with Lasseran because he is their King as well as the High King. The best we can hope for with Almohad is that they will remain neutral. They argue that he has kept to the letter of the agreement. He sends females.”

“Prostitutes, you mean.” Wulf muttered. “Barren prostitutes.”

“I’ve noticed,” Ulric said grimly.

Wulf wondered how many others had. None of the token number of females that Lasseran allowed to enter the kingdom had ever given birth. Some had married, apparently happily despite their background, and some had chosen to continue their former profession, but not one had produced a child.

The silence was broken by a log falling in the fireplace. Ulric sighed. “Are you really advocating civil war, Wulf?”

“No.” He stood up, driven to pacing once more. “But there must be an answer. Something other than bringing in a shipload of slaves – of females – for our men to fight over. It goes against every tradition we have. How can you do this?”

“Because I don’t have a choice, Wulf.” Ulric’s temper finally snapped. He stood and faced him, the familiar signs of the Curse appearing as his eyes turned completely black. “We must have brides and we must have children. Unless you have another answer, I expect you to keep your doubts to yourself and support me. I am your king.”

Wulf felt the Curse rising inside him in answer to the challenge. The two men stood face to face, their breathing harsh in the quiet room. They had fought before in training and he knew they were evenly matched. For a single moment Wulf considered it before shaking his head and using all of the discipline he learned to push down his anger. Even if Ulric had not been his friend, the last thing he wanted was to become king. He was content with his small holding and his position as advisor.

“Yes, sire.” Fighting his impulses, he forced his eyes to drop.

After a tense moment, the king laughed ruefully and clapped him on the shoulder, a friendly blow that would have dropped a lesser man.

“Come, my friend, let us return to the Hall. Such a serious conversation is best followed by large quantities of ale.” Ulric picked up his furs and turned to leave. Hand on the door, he hesitated. “You could enter the Trials, you know.”

Wulf fought down a confusing surge of desire and disgust and forced himself to answer quietly. “No. You were right, I had my chance.”

With a nod, the king accepted his words and opened the door.

I will never fight to take a slave, he thought as he followed his king into the raucous gathering, but does that mean I am condemned to loneliness forever?

CHAPTER TWO

The last rays of sunlight illuminated the mountain peaks above them as Wulf and his brothers made the final climb to the Sacred Stones. Dedicated to Wold, the Father God, the ancient site dominated the hill next to a small lake, the water dark and forbidding in the shadow of the setting sun. Still carrying the chill from the last hints of winter, the wind whispered around the stones and ruffled the dark surface of the lake. No other sound disturbed the silence.

Pausing outside the outer ring of stones, Wulf placed his pack on the ground and began removing his clothes. Lothar and Egon stopped beside him and watched silently. They had spent most of the trip arguing with him, or at least Lothar had. Egon was a man of few words although his disapproval was equally obvious. Lothar opened his mouth but at a look from Wulf, decided against speaking. Wulf knew his brothers disapproved. Prayers to the Gods were a dangerous business. If he could see another alternative he would gladly take it; however, he had spent the winter thinking about the situation and Ulric’s plans. Unless something changed, the orcs of Norhaven would die out within a few generations. A few shiploads of women could not prevent it.

Naked, he knelt beside the pack and carefully removed and unwrapped the ceremonial knife handed down in his family for more generations that he could count. It had not been used in over a hundred years but it still gleamed softly in the fading light and the edge was honed to razor sharpness. In addition to the knife, he pulled out candles, a small bag of spices, and a flask of wine. When he stood up, both brothers were watching him with expressions of doom.

“Don’t look so grim.” He started to reassure them and then stopped. If half the tales were true, their concern was justified but a warrior did not shrink from danger. “I don’t know how long this will take-“

“We’ll wait,” Egon interrupted.

Wulf studied the usually silent scarred warrior, then nodded. Lothar pulled out a pair of dice and attempted his usual cheerful grin.

“I’ll use the time to win Egon’s share of the ale. Again.”

"Just save some for me."

He forced a smile and entered the outer ring. As he did, a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze shivered down his spine. A heavy silence surrounded him and he could no longer hear his brothers' voices but he didn't look back. He entered the inner ring, took a deep breath and started arranging the candles on the altar stone. When he finished, he poured the wine onto the stone and watched the dark red liquid seep into the ancient stone.

He paused for a long moment, listening to the silence, and then set the empty flask aside, struck the flint and lit the first candle. The flame burned straight and true. He lit the others, then added a pinch of spice to each flame, the exotic odors making his head spin.

He raised the knife, his hand steady. This was not a night for hesitation. His fingers closed around the carved bone handle and the long narrow blade sliced neatly across his palm. As the blood ran down onto the altar stone, he started chanting. The language was one that few modern orcs understood but it was still part of their heritage. He called for his ancestors and prayed for wisdom. He begged the Gods to hear him, and offered himself as sacrifice.

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