Page 6 of Bound to the Orc Ranger

Rovann

The grunts of an ogre come from just ahead. I leap from Hurtle’s back. “Check the area for others.”

“I know what to do,” he grumbles and trots off so quickly I barely catch a glimpse of one silvery white flank before he’s swallowed by trees.

I race forward. An unknown standing stone dominates the middle of a small clearing, and a thrill sets my blood racing. What powers will it offer my clan?

But it’s what’s on top that’s truly precious. A woman, small and delicate, with tan skin and hair the color of dark honey. She’s no orc—she must be an elf.

The moment my eyes meet the hazel of hers, I know she is the gift the Moon Goddess summoned me to collect. The woman on top of the standing stone ismine. My moon bound mate. My bride.

“Get away from my moon bound!” I roar, my sword singing through the air in accompaniment.

I slice across the back of the ogre’s thigh, the moon-blessed steel of my sword one of the only things strong enough to cut their tough hide. Black blood darkens his skin.

He snarls but keeps climbing, too focused on keeping his filthy hands on my bride. The ogre grips her in a meaty paw, hauling her roughly forward. Hedaresto touch her at all, let alone with violence.

The world washes red, my heart pounding a battle drum in my ears.

No. By the goddess, no.

I strike again, burying the tip deep in the meat of his calf and sawing from side to side to maximize the damage. No surface cut this—this one will bleed. Yet I don’t like hacking at him like chopping a piece of wood. There’s no honor in such. “Get down here and fight me like a warrior, ogre filth!”

“Orc bastard.” The ogre lets go of her and drops to the ground with a deep thump. He spins to face me, pulling the mace from his back. The heavy spherical head bristles with dull-gray spikes. They’re not the strong moon steel of my sword, but they’ll do damage enough.

He’s got a foot on me and an additional hundred pounds of muscle, but as powerful as ogres are, they’re undisciplined fighters.

And I am a warrior of the Moon Blade Clan.

We meet in a clash of metal and muscle, my downward strike knocked aside by the mace. His other fist pounds into my side in a bright flare of pain.

A gasp sounds above me, my moon bound bride already worried for me.

I bare my tusks in a feral grin and slash, feinting with my sword to make an opening. My fist cracks into the ogre’s jaw in a vicious uppercut that snaps his head back, his jaws slamming together with a clack. This is a fight truly worthy of a warrior! I will battle to the ends of my days for my bride.

He staggers backward, his shoulders hitting the stone. Shaking his head, he trains his beady black eyes on me and bellows. The ogre leaps. His mace slams into my shoulder, the spikes puncturing so deep, instead of pain my arm goes numb.

I drop my sword, and he grins, thinking he’s won.

In one swift move, my good hand palms a dagger and buries it in his gut.

The ogre cries out, his hands clasping for the knife’s hilt. He yanks it free and hurls it to the side, freezing when I press another dagger to his neck, ready for the killing slice.

Another gasp flicks my eyes upward. My bride looks at me, horror in her eyes. Where could she be from that a fight such as this is so shocking? Ogres and orcs are old enemies, and we’ve battled across most of the continent. It’s hard to imagine a place without conflict, but if such a soft place exists, I’m glad my moon bound bride lived there.

“He would have hurt you,” I say. “Why do you want mercy?”

She shakes her head. “Aye kant un dur stan yoo.” Her words mean nothing, but one thing is crystal clear—the fear doesn’t leave her eyes as she looks at me.

A battle wages in my chest. I want to end the ogre for daring to touch her. Yet that very desire will make her seemeas the monster.

“You live this day only by her mercy.” I bare my tusks at him. “If you so much as look at her again, I will end you.”

“Fine. Have the female,” he spits, his sour breath hot on my face, his rough features twisting into a sneer. “She’s scrawny and weak. Not much good for eating or fucking.”

His words are nothing but bluster. Elves have magic, the kind of magic orcs and ogres lack. The woman is a prize.

It doesn’t matter that he lies. Rage flashes through me, pounding through my blood with every beat of my heart. I press the blade harder, slicing the tough hide until black blood flows. The ogre grunts in pain, and I relish the sound. I will make him whine in agony for speaking of her so.

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