Page 10 of Promised To the Orc
In all the times I’ve thought of Tor over the years, these dark thoughts have never entered my mind. What is it about seeing him in the flesh that’s causing me to mistrust? My gut instinct has never led me wrong before, and I’m not about to challenge it now.
“Then don’t trust me,” he says firmly. “But don’t be the fool who refuses to sit at my father’s table and hopes of making a deal. You must play his games, Alta, or you’ll get nowhere with him.”
“I don’t play games and I won’t bend to someone’s will just to get what I want.”
The corners of his soulful eyes crinkle. “I bet you don’t. Perhaps you’ll humor me instead. I killed the anthaler being served for tonight’s meal and I’d like you to have some. No games involved.”
Games of the heart, maybe. My stomach rumbles at the phantom smell of roasted anthaler. The meat is so tender and juicy and takes on the smokey flavor of the fire. My last meal was a few thin slices of Conna’s bread when we stopped earlier today, and my body craves something more.
“Fine. I’ll go with you. But my weapons stay with me.”
The weight of the golden sword reminds me I forged each inch of the blade for the orc looking at me with such tenderness. Ripping my eyes from him, I motion him to lead the way. Keeping a few feet between us, I follow him from the throne room to a long hallway where the magical overhead lights once again grab my attention. The scent of perfectly roasted meat wafts from up ahead.
A guard opens the doors to a lofty dining room. A long table in the center could easily seat fifty orcs, but only the king occupies the space. Glimpsing the grandeur of the room, I redirect my focus on the table and the man sitting at the head. I can’t afford to be distracted by pretty décor or I might not see an attack coming.
Tor leads me to the seat on his father’s right and pulls a chair out of me. The king eyes my weapons but says nothing. Tor sits across from me, his back rigid and shoulders squared as if he, too, is expecting something to happen. A servant sets several small plates in front of me filled with various foods, some I don’t recognize and others I simply don’t enjoy.
She does the same for Tor, then retreats to the side of the room.
Tor doesn’t acknowledge the food. Taking his cue, I don’t either. The king picks up a chunk of meat with his hands and rips it with his teeth. Only then does Tor dig into his food. I don’t.
They could have poisoned the food for all I know. My insides gnaw hungrily, but I’m an expert at ignoring it. The man beside me fisting food into his face withheld nourishment from me so many times, it became second nature to always feel the empty pain of hunger.
Sitting stiffly in my chair, I listen to the sound of the king re-kill his food with each sloppy bite. Tor glances at me, but I don’t meet his eyes. Every time I look at him, old feelings rush me and threaten to cloud my mind. I must stay strong and focused, despite the hunger and the fatigue and my desire for the man across the table.
Tor leans forward and spears a vegetable off my plate and slides it into his mouth. Lifting a brow, he takes a piece of meat next.
“You’re not eating it,” he says lazily and takes another piece.
He’s showing me that my food is safe. Warmth rushes through me at his caring gesture. My face heats and I glance at my plate so he doesn’t see me blush. The silver fork is heavy in my hand as I poke a chunk of anthaler, look at it hesitantly, then pop it in my mouth. My eyes flutter closed with the rich taste on my tongue. It’s salted and seasoned perfectly. Forcing myself to chew slowly, I take another piece and then another. My body rejoices at the nourishment, and I’m about to take more when the servant suddenly appears and takes my plates away.
Tor’s eyes narrow. Setting down his fork, he sits back, though he’s clearly not done eating. The king looks at him curiously.
“Eat. Our guest has important business to discuss with me and you know I despise listening to someone eat while they’re talking.”
I keep my hands on the table as I rise and shrug the straps of my weapons bag from my shoulders. Reaching for it, I methodically take the bag and set it on my seat, then remove the scabbard and sword. The king’s eyes light up as the golden hilt gleams in the lights and his lips press into a greedy line.
“I will show you the throwing knives you requested now.”
Setting the sword out of his reach, I remove the box from the bag and set it before the king. Tor stands to watch as his father opens the box. Silence hangs in the air as the knives are revealed and the king looks at them for a long time.
Nervous now, I shift my weight while trying to appear impassive. Doesn’t he like the weapons? If not, my entire plan is ruined.
Finally, he lifts one from the box and holds it across his palms. “Orichalcum,” he breathes and turns the blade side to side. The greediness on his face grows as he lifts the second blade and hands it to his son.
“Ritka has harbored mines rich in orichalcum all this time.” The king looks at me for confirmation.
“No. There isn’t a mine, only a vein containing a small amount of the raw material. We have extracted all of it. There is no more.”
“There is always more.”
A sneer works onto my face. “That’s what King Vol thought about hyacorum and look how that turned out.”
Tor moves to my side and stands between his father and me. The king doesn’t reply to my jab, but Tor must have feared he would retaliate.
“There is no more orichalcum. I possess all that of it, and weapons made from it are one of a kind, and truly the strongest weapons on this planet. The knife you’re holding can be thrown with stunning accuracy while also making quick work of killing in hand-to-hand combat. The blade never goes dull and the weight will always be perfectly balanced in your hand.”
The king is envisioning an entire arsenal of orichalcum weapons. It plays across his face clearly. Jerking the knife side to side, he gives a few jabs into the air, then slices downward before whipping it across the room. It spears into a tapestry and pins it to the wall.
