Page 1 of Sacrificed to the Orc

1

ASKAN

My belly twists into knots of hunger as the icy winter gales surge down from my mountain home towards the village, where townsfolk labor in harsh terrains. The gnawing hunger makes me one with the animals fighting for existence as winter falls upon the lands.

The screeching winds speak to me, whispers of scents, a wolf stalking a rabbit, ash from a fire, stories whistling over my skin. The townspeople are a hardy folk, survivors like my tribe. They have tamed the lands, corrupted it, and they will stop at nothing to destroy my people.

The three moon sisters cast their glow against the ghostly white blanket of snow that smothers the land, muffling all sound as I sit on my haunches and wait. The silence will be broken by a scream, and I will be gone like a wraith before their men can react. They will see huge, booted footprints, they will curse my species, but they will not dare into the wild, untamed lands to follow me. Their dominion is a blight. They know that if they stray from their village into the wilderness that the rhythms of nature will punish them for their arrogance.

When I close my eyes, I see the herds slaughtered. The lifeblood of our people, piled high, flesh rotting, flies buzzing on the wasted meat of the elk that nourish us. The artificial thunder of guns as soldiers fire their infernal rifles, cutting down the herds before they can flee, not to harvest, but to starve us out. My people watched from the peaks, too far to stop them, as Chieftain Targok, of the southern mountains, charged into the plains, his brave warriors cut down by rifle fire before they could even use their swords and axes. We had a long rivalry with his people over hunting grounds, but the blows to his tribe were a blow to us all. No warrior deserves such a death.

That night we sang the wailing song of grief, echoing against the cold rock faces of the mountains. Our songs were corrupted by black hatred, keening out and echoing as we envisioned revenge.

Humans will do anything to eradicate us from these lands.

We have been here longer than they have, and we will be here when they are gone.

The herds will come again. It is fated. The shamans entrusted me, tattooing the runes of stealth and silence over my body.

It is I who will steal the virgin sacrifice from the town. It is I who will bring her back, so that her blood will coat the altar, that the starving children of our village will have full bellies once more. Meat will roast above the fires, and my tribe will survive the long winter. My stomach rumbles, imagining dripping, sizzling fat, and I reach into my cloak, pulling out my last piece of dried elk rations my tribe could spare. Our storehouse was bare, a few measly fish that should have been used as nothing more than bait, gnarled roots and wilted tubers that would have been tossed out a year hence.

When the three moons are full again, her throat will be slit, and her death will renew the herds. I chew slowly as I crouch, never taking my eyes off the small home on the outskirts of the town.

The home has a pen with pigs, and they squeal, waking, as they smell my scent, and I run my hand over the runes of stealth, opening my heavy fur cloak so that the three sisters may glow upon them.

The winds turn, the smell of baking bread and smoky air of a dying fire carrying to me, the pigs quieting. The village is small, the people hidden away in their homes, the silence broken only by the occasional call of a rooster in the evening twilight. I’ve been sitting for two hours on my haunches, hidden from view in the boulders, watching as fresh guards relieved the old watch in the two wooden outposts. The houses at the edge of the village are simple, built of stones and wood, with thatched roofs that sag from the weight of snow.

Smoke billows from the chimney of the closest home, the one I have been watching for days, biding my time, learning the rhythms of the humans.

It is the home of a single woman.

I should not care what pain I inflict on these demons, but even humans mourn, and I would rather snatch one away who does not have a family to miss her.

Her routine this night was the same as the last two. Drawing water from her well, feeding her pigs, gathering wood from her pile to stoke her fire. My mouth drips as I imagine stealing one of her pigs, and I can almost taste the bacon and fat. Drool drips down from my fangs to my chin, freezing against my skin. I do not move to wipe it, still as a statue, counting my heartbeats.

The door creaks open. My heart quickens as I see her once more, in her simple tunic, a heavy cloak wrapped tight around her to ward off the cold, her hair done up in a bun. She is so unlike the orc women of my tribe, their bodies covered in tattoos, flat chests and hard, lithe muscle suited for a harsh existence in the mountains. There is a soft beauty to her that fills me with self-loathing, cursing myself for the unholy thoughts. Breeding between our two species only leads to half-breed outcasts, bringing ruin to us all. Only the pure blood of the orc is strong enough to live in these lands eternally.

This woman would not even come up to my chest, standing in front of me. By the old Gods, even with her heavy cloak, I’m fixated by the feminine, fertile curves of her body. As the winds blow her scent to me, I taste her.

I clench my fist. My war-axe is embedded in the snow. I will not need it, not to capture a single woman. The winds blow stronger, and as she pulls her cloak tighter around her, her scent torments me. The sweet smell of her virginity, the heat of life, and something else, something raw and primal andrightthat makes my cock surge. My balls become heavy and hot, and I am powerless to control my reaction to the devilish woman, this hunger deeper than any in my belly, an aching starvation that consumes me roaring up in my being. All I can think of is ripping her clothes off, running my tongue over her soft, feminine body, driving my cock into her and linking her to me forever while she screams in ecstasy.

I grab a handful of snow and press it to my face, trying to control myself. Sweat drips from my brow despite the cold gales, and I cannot will my body to move towards her, to do what must be done. I’m frozen in indecision.

I will take a different woman, one that does not have some sorcerer’s hold upon my body. I still have time to scout for another, because taking her captive would lead to my ruin, and my tribe’s damnation.

I am too weak, too consumed by primal need. I could not bring her back the three-day journey without touching her, without claiming her, without spoiling her and cursing my tribe to a long, slow death by starvation. The Gods demand a virgin sacrifice. My tribe trusted me. But my body is weak, my cock a thick, throbbing rod, my heart pounding at the thought of impaling her, of spreading her legs wide and driving myself into her in a beastly rage.

I step back, but before I can disappear into the shadows, her head jerks up, alerted by my movement. She stares up at me, brown eyes wide in panic, and we are both petrified by each other, and I know I have no time.

The blood moon approaches, and if she alerts her village, I’ll have no chance to snatch another from their grasp.

If I don’t movenow, my tribe will starve.

I force down the unholy lust, snarl, and charge forward, my booted feet eating up the snowy ground as I chase my prey.

2

HAZEL

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