Page 4 of Promised To the Orc
“Jeluca’s tribe only hates those who wish to take her land or harm her people, but her Ritka village is a place of refuge. Believe me or don’t, but if you stay here, you’re dead.”
The male goes silent again. The longer he delays, the bigger the risk.
“Please. Please take Alta to safety.”
There’s too much longing and despair in my voice. His eyes search for me again, as if he suspects something.
“You know my daughter’s name?”
I’m losing my patience. “You must go. I will watch over her while you gather the others.”
Hesitating, he touches his daughter’s head and mumbles something, a small prayer perhaps, and hurries back down the tunnel. Moving from the shadows, I drop to my knees beside my Alta and smooth the hair from her face. My heart stumbles at the feeling of her body beneath my hands. All these years, the bars prevented us from connecting more than joining our hands through the cold metal.
She’s cold. Tremors course through her thin body. Taking off my cloak, I drape it over her body and tuck it around her. A soft sigh puffs from her lips and she stirs. Pressing my lips to the top of her head, I blink back tears and rip myself away.
Frantic footfalls scuffle down the hall. The humans heard to the exit like beasts, wary and nervous. A few of them hold rudimentary torches. They combine them to shine on the gate, and a rumble of shocked words flow through the group when they realize the gate is open.
Alta’s father scoops her up in his arms and goes through first. The others follow in a steady stream. My heart pounds with the sound of their footsteps and a little of me dies inside as the last human leaves. Alta and her father have exited the remaining length of the tunnel by now. They’re free outside with the touch of fresh air on their faces.
Clenching my eyes, I close and lock the gate, then sit on the ground and hang my head. She’s gone.
How can it feel good and agonizing at the same time? By the time anyone knows they are gone, the guards will be drunk and unable to hunt them until morning.
With luck, most of them will have made it to Ritka by then.
Swallowing my anguish, I suddenly realize someone is moving outside. Standing, I slink into the shadows, but I’m too late.
“What did you do?”
The dark, furious voice feels like hands around my throat.
The orc comes closer. Sharp pain bisects my skull and suddenly, everything goes black.
Chapter One
TheorckingZalcomrequests a set of throwing knives forged in orichalcum by the fabled Ritka blacksmith to be delivered in person at the Great Feast.
The note hangs beside my forge as it has for the better part of a year, while I considered if I would fulfill the request or not. The Great Feast is soon and I’m out of time. It’s unclear what will happen if I don’t deliver, but I’m in no great hurry to step outside the boundaries of this village. I’m protected here. The new King signed a decree stating that orcs couldn’t hunt humans anymore as they did after escaping the ice mines under the rule of King Vol. Yet there is no recourse when they do. We’re stalked, taunted, and assaulted when we leave our safety net. Many humans have left to trade in other orc villages and never made it home.
There are five orc villages in this kingdom and only one has it out for humans that I know of. Those who served under the former King Vol feel immune to the new law and do as they please. The lack of consequences only makes them bolder. The king must think I’m an idiot to feel comfortable traveling to the palace to hand-deliver him a pair of throwing knives.
I don’t know a lot about what is happening at the palace, only that King Zalcom came into rule after overthrowing King Vol in a challenge. Zalcom is not a name that’s familiar to me and I don’t care who he is. I might give him the time of day once he enforces punishments for killing my people.
Perhaps he is trying to draw me out. The orcs mistakenly assume that humans are weak and stupid and don’t know when we’re being duped or fooled. In the almost eleven years since I gained my freedom from the ice caves, I’ve become nothing but hypervigilant and protective of my safety. Traveling alone to the palace is a death sentence.
The forge is extra blistering today. The heat outside is sweltering, but it never bothers me. Sweat dripping down my spine and plastering my thick red hair to my head is a byproduct of the luxury of having constant warmth. I wouldn’t change my fate for anything. Everything that I experience is dear to me—from the sun overhead to the dirt and grass beneath my feet. I step outside of my hut each morning to the sweet, dew-filled air. Food is plentiful and I eat as much as I wish. I made my clothing from thick, soft, thread and when something gets worn out, I either mend it or purchase something new.
I remember a little of the day we escaped from the ice caves. The last thing I recall is being dragged down the death tunnel toward the pits and my next awareness was looking up at a clear, blue sky. It was so spectacular and shocking that I figured it was a fever dream or maybe even death. My father had described the sky to me when I was younger. How it could be crystal blue with a radiating golden sun, or gray and stormy when the rains came. In fourteen years, I’d only ever imagined what the sky would look like.
And now, as my twenty-fifth birthday approaches, I can’t imagine anyone ripping me away from this life. If only my father had survived long enough to enjoy our refuge in Ritka as I have.
Glancing at the note again, I swallow down the burn of distaste in my throat and turn my attention to the sword blade heating in the forge. For all those years, King Vol forced us to mine what he thought was the most precious, strongest metal in the kingdom. His unwillingness to play nice with the other villages and share resources kept him in the dark with just how wrong he was. Orichalcum is stronger than horakyum, more malleable in the forge once it has been tempered, and invincible once cooled in salted water.
Its rich, golden color makes it easy to recognize as the strongest metal in the land. And I’ve learned to tame it into some of the strongest weapons any orc or human will hold in their hands. Orichalcum isn’t just minerals, though. It has an inner spirit that gives it life and only the most skilled metalsmith can create anything functional from it. The sword I’m creating now resisted being melted and formed, often turning into small balls and spilling onto the ground and rolling away. It took patience and finesse to coax the metal into the form. It took several years to learn how to do this, and with my mentor Beyri succumbed to old age, I am the only one left who knows how.
The sword I’m making is special. There will never be another like it, just as the individual I wish to gift it to is one-of-a-kind. I don’t know if he still lives, but there isn’t a day I rise from my bed without thinking of Tor. Our years of friendship kept me alive in those ice caves. If not for his kindness, the small trinkets, and bites of food he would bring, I would have succumbed to the depression of my circumstance long before we were ever set free. I’ve never spoken to anyone about him, never inquired about him or if he lives. But when I first began working the forge with Beyri, I promised myself that one day I would be skilled enough to make a sword worthy of Tor’s kindness, and I would gift it to him as a thank you.
I’ve made many swords over the years, but none were good enough for Tor. Until now. This isn’t just a deadly weapon. It does something no other sword on the planet can do.
