Page 22 of Bound to the Orc Renegade

“Okay, maybe not friends.” I backpedal. “But we’re all… quest mates, and quest mates have each other’s backs. It’s a rule.”

“Whose rule?” Storm’s horn seems extra pointy when he’s mad. “I know of none such.”

“Uh.” Think fast, Taylor! “It’s a rule decreed by the High Mage of the Swordhold Seven.” It’s not even a lie, since I’m that mage and just made up the rule based on how gaming guilds work.

Krivoth shoots me a sideways glance—he clearly remembers that’s the way I introduced myself to him—but he doesn’t call me out for declaring myself an expert. And it’s not a lie, not when it comes to quests and games. My guild really did name me their “High” Mage.

“Let me up,” Storm snaps. “No one needs to watch over me. I’m a great warrior!”

Oh, boy. Someone’s feeling vulnerable.

“That deathsleep is nasty stuff,” I say. “It’s so amazing that you shook it off.”

“You’re right. I am amazing.” He stretches his front legs out and rolls onto his stomach, shaking his head as if clearing away cobwebs. Then he surges up onto his feet and locks one back leg, canting that hip.

Krivoth packs away the furs and takes the tent down in record time. Then he digs into the ashes of last night’s fire, fishes out the “potatoes,” and kicks dirt over the whole area to smother any lingering embers.

“Let’s go to the creek.” He attaches the saddlebags to the saddle and lifts the entire thing onto one shoulder.

For all the unicorn’s protests of being fine, he doesn’t demand to carry the saddle, let alone any of us.

We head out. Krivoth goes first, followed by Storm, then me, with Mist bringing up the rear.

We pass one of the blue birch trees, and it makes a papery rasp when I touch the silver curls of its bark. The leaves wave overhead in the pure blue of a clear summer sky. It’s beautiful and magical all rolled into one.

Bright-yellow birds dart from branch to branch, singing warbling songs.

“What do you call those?” I point at one and glance back over my shoulder at Mist.

“Barely a mouthful.” She grins, wide and fangy.

I laugh. “No, really.”

“They’re golden larks. Quite tasty, but far too small.”

“I don’t think we have those on Earth, but we do have turkeys.” I shoot her a playful smile. “They’re a bird that can grow to thirty pounds.”

“I want to hear more of these turkeys.”

“Mom bought a thirty-pound bird last Christmas because one of the grocery stores had this mega sale. Only, once she got it home, it was too big to fit in the oven.”

Mist snorts. “This obsession with cooking meat. I don’t get it.”

Before I can mount a proper defense of Aunt Marge’s impromptu barbeque pit, we arrive at the creek.

Krivoth moves out of the way and sets down the saddle. He stands near Storm’s side, not saying a word but clearly ready to… what? Catch the unicorn if he topples? The orc’s seriously strong, but Storm’s built like the largest of horses. He must weigh well over a thousand pounds.

Still, I like that Krivoth’s willing to try.

Storm spreads his front legs and lowers his head. As soon as his mouth touches the water, he sucks in great gulps, clearly very thirsty.

I feel bad, like I should have had a bowl of water ready for him or something, but no bowl would have been big enough. And Krivoth realized that and made sure we got to a viable solution as quickly as possible.

Mist pads over to the creek and crouches to drink, her tongue a pink blur as she laps at the water. When they’re both done, Krivoth refills the waterskins and offers one to me with the cleaning cloth.

“Thanks!” I snatch them up and turn away, heading into the woods to take care of business and wash up. The cleaning cloth is amazing! I’m even able to run it over my lacy undies and give them a freshening up.

When I return to the creek and the others, Krivoth disappears into the trees for his own bathroom break, and I refill my waterskin.

---