Page 3 of Shackled to the Orc

“I stay here.”

Shug cocks his head. One of his guards unlocks the barred door and opens it, the hinges squeaking in protest.

I stand up, and I can’t suppress a groan as my knee rings out in agony, and I hobble out. There’s no use fighting it. He’ll take me where he wants, whether he has to beat me first or I go willingly.

I hurl myself awkwardly into the prison wagon, and the guards lock my chains to the bars as I sit on the floor, looking out at the dying evening light that filters through the smog of the city. Shug goes to the front with the driver and two of his guards, the other staying to escort the other fighters to his estate.

He looks back at me through the bars. “You want to know what you’re getting?”

I ignore him, looking straight forward.

“Four, five, a dozen women, however many you want. And not just for the night. You’ll have a personal harem. You’ve earned it, Khan.”

My mind churns. He has paraded women past my cell before, walking them naked past me. The stink of their terror revolted me. They see nothing but a brute monster when they look at me, a savage beast they fear would tear them to pieces.

When I don’t answer, he yells at the driver to get us going. The horses trot out eagerly, wanting to be out of the packed hub and into the air.

I lean back against the bars, thinking already of my next fight.

3

MAYA

Iskulk forward, when the clink of metal and the sound of horses makes me dive to the side, the marshy ground under my knees as I crouch in the thick bush. Thorns prick my neck as I calm myself, getting low to the ground as the horse-drawn wagon rounds the bend.

It’s not Corwin’s men. It’s a prison wagon, three men in the driver’s bench, controlling the reins as the metal cage rattles along behind. One of them has a crossbow across his legs, gazing out for any sign of danger. There is only one man behind the bars.

No, not a man.

An orc.

His hands, legs and neck are cuffed, long chains leading to the bars. His dull, stony green skin is covered in black tattoos, the markings of the north mountain tribes inked on his brutal muscles. On his right bicep is the twisting black serpent proclaiming him as a warlord, but if he led men into battle before, now he is a captive. His skin is like jade, smooth as stone, and he looks like he was chiseled out of the granite of his mountain home.

As the moonlight washes over him, I am enthralled by his brutality, his strength, his strange almost-beauty, a body created for war. Clad in a black loincloth and sitting back against the bars, his taut body is marred by scars and old wounds. His neck is thicker than my legs, and his face is weathered, grizzled by time and stress. He must be nearing forty, an old lion fighting each day to survive, endless battles wearing him down but never ending him. Caged, but not helpless, his form coiled power.

I know where they are taking him. At midnight, the auction opens for the long weekend.

The three men in the wagon are oblivious to me, but the orc’s green eyes flicker as he turns his head, twin emeralds staring straight at my hiding spot. His nostrils flare. He’s upwind of me, and I know he can taste my terror. The orc species can taste their prey.

I stare at him in horror, waiting for him to roar out that there is a skulking human, my only hope that he hates his captors and will not give me up to them, even if it would gain him a reward.

The three moons bathe his body, his eyes glowing as he stares, his short fangs glinting, then he is gone as quickly as he came, the wagon trundling along the path through my village to Corrigan.

I let out the breath I was holding in. With frayed nerves, knowing I can’t go back yet imagining the warm hearth and my bed, I continue on the road for a half hour until I find the tiny little path. It winds between the long grass as I sneak into the marshes. I can still feel those burning green eyes on me.

I need them to be the only set that spots me tonight.

My moccasins squelch and crunch against the frosty marshland as I enter the woods, each step a cautious negotiation with the spongy ground as croaking frogs and chirping insects surround me, hushing at my presence.

They are my alarm system.

The bare trees are like bones around me, the mire treacherous. I know the route well, but I haven’t traveled it in months. Even with the frogs croaking behind me, I sneak from shadow to shadow. A branch creaks under my foot, and I freeze, petrified, slowly pulling my foot back before it snaps. I doubt any of Corwin’s men are this deep in the marshland, but his patrols must get a juicy bonus for each poacher or thief they snag in the night.

The gurgling brook tells me I am close, and I pass through the treeline into a clearing with a pond. The three moons illuminate the pond, the blue lotuses floating serenely. A year ago, the pond was covered with them, but only a few dozen remain. Corwin has been harvesting this spot of the rare plant for his medicines, taking more than the pond can sustain. Three of them are open, the white, gleaming center marking them ready for harvesting. I’ve always been enthralled by them, the deep blue of their petals the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

I might have set Thomas’ leg expertly, and he’ll be able to walk again—but I can’t take any chances with the boy. The ground up petals, when consumed as soon as possible after a bone break, helps the cartilage and bone restore.

I step towards the pond, when something wraps around my foot, and before I can react, I’m flipped over and pulled up towards the closest tree. The knife falls from my boot, landing on the ground as I sway in the air from a rope I would have seen if I wasn’t staring at the lotuses like a fool. A bell jingles as I sway, a cacophony after my silent travel. I reach out, groaning as I try to get the knife, but it’s just out of reach. I wiggle my foot, trying to get free, and grunt as I do a sit-up, my abs straining as I grab at the rope, but it’s firmly around my ankle, rubbing painfully against my skin. I’m stuck tight, and all I am doing is making more noise, the bell jingling, and another one, farther away, like an echo.

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