Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga) (4 page)

The orc—Bolthorn—rose up, his broad shoulders blocking the king from her sight. “Our women will tear your greatest knights apart while our children laugh, making toys of their broken bodies. But try it, fool-king. Try it, that I might see this castle of yours overrun, its stones nothing more than pebbles strewn across the field. Try it, and we will feast on your flesh as you dream of drinking our blood.”

She swallowed bile at the images, both from the king’s words and Bolthorn’s. And then her father’s whip cracked against flesh, causing her to flinch, but Bolthorn only grunted, the muscles of his shoulders rippling in response. He heaved and the king cursed. The whip landed at her feet, the metal tip throwing sparks against the stone. She did not dare even to breathe.

“Try it,” the orc dared him again. “And we will see who bends their knee first.”

“I’ll see you quartered,” the king said, and Arianna did not need to see his face to know he seethed with fury. “And your head mounted on a spike outside the gate.”

Bolthorn laughed. “And lose the chance that you might yet break me? Without me, you will not have any hope of learning the secrets of this mirror, and you’ll find no others of my kind, I promise you that.”

“If I have it done right, you’ll still be able to speak for some time. I expect you’ll tell me everything then, if only to end the torment of feeling your intestines torn from your body. That was my mistake with Signy, letting her die too quickly, and I have no intention of repeating the error. Though, either way, I’ll have your blood.” Arianna could hear the smile in his voice even if she could not see it. “I look forward to putting it to use.”

“So be it, then,” Bolthorn said, cool and dismissive. “If you dare.”

“Seven days,” the king hissed. “And I will hear you beg for death.”

The door slammed, echoing like thunder in the dank chamber, but Bolthorn stood a moment longer against the frame, his shoulders taut. Arianna let out a long breath, though there was no relief in it. Her fingers wrapped around the leather grip of the king’s whip. The king’s humiliation at the hands of his prisoner.

“You could have stopped him before now,” she said, her voice hoarse.

Bolthorn turned, his glowing eyes falling on the whip in her hand. “It was my duty to learn what I could. A little pain was nothing in exchange. A fair price for what was bought.”

She coiled it carefully, her mind racing. If he died, it would be for nothing. All his suffering would serve no one. And what the king had in mind for him—there was nothing fair about any of it. And he had saved her. He had saved her, in exchange for what? A bit of bread and honey?

He watched her coil the whip and waited. Surely she must realize the weapon was useless, even if she had not known it before now. Her fingers were loose around the grip, her thumb worrying the leather. And then she held it out to him.

Bolthorn narrowed his eyes, unmoving. A ruse, perhaps, to lure him forward, to distract him while she made her escape and left him to rot behind the glass, just as she had distracted him with the bread the day before. After a moment, a crease formed between her eyebrows. She dropped her arm and set the whip, coiled neatly, on the stone floor instead.

“Why did you save me?” she asked, her gaze still lowered.

He shifted, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to ignore the thought of her skin broken by the thin leather and its metal tip. He could not have watched it. Among his people, such a scar would be an honor. But the king was not her enemy and this woman, whatever else she was, was not orc. “He’s your father.”

She brushed her fingers against the fabric of her skirt. “Your name is Bolthorn.”

“And yours?”

“Arianna.” He had to step closer to hear her, the word softer than her heartbeat, steady now, though it had hammered in his ears while he faced the king, so loud he had worried the man would hear it. She cleared her throat. “Why do you think so?”

“Think what?”

She made a soft noise, her fingers flicking in some aborted gesture. “Why do you think I am the king’s daughter?”

He did not answer at once. Even if she had trusted him, it did not mean he could trust her. How the mirror had come into the king’s possession he did not know, but it was clear they did not understand the magic fully. Bolthorn did not mean to enlighten him, and strong as she was, this woman had a small girl’s fear for her father. No matter what intent lay in her heart, she was not orc to endure the tortures the man might inflict upon her if he realized she knew anything of value.

“You have his nose,” he lied.

“His nose?” She raised her hand to her face, touching it, and stared into the basket. Not seeing her eyes was starting to drive him mad. He had not realized how much of what she said he had judged by her eyes. “You won’t let me leave, will you? Now that I’m here.”

“That depends,” he said.

A tightness in his shoulders eased when her eyes finally met his again, open and thoughtful. “On?”

He nodded to the basket she still held. “How much bread do you have?”

“A full loaf.” Her forehead furrowed. “You can’t mean to let me go in exchange for just that.”

“I have only seven days left to me, Princess.” He bared his tusks. “If he means to tear my intestines from my body, let him regret the mess of it.”

Her face paled, her mouth a thin line. “I won’t let him.”

“Won’t you?” he growled, taking another step toward her. Her heart was racing with fear again, but the closer he came, the straighter she stood, her jaw tight. He traced the line of it with his eyes, down the column of her cream-colored throat. His hand rose to follow where his eyes led before he realized what he meant to do.

Her skin was softer than anything he’d ever known, smooth as water washing over his fingertips. At his touch, her lips parted, the barest, trembling breath escaping, in fear or... or what else, he did not know. She was so still, her eyes liquid pools of warmth in the cold. Everything about her was so warm, even in this dank place. She caught his hand, her grip too tight, too hard, just like the beat of her heart.

“Take me with you,” she breathed. “I’ll help you, I’ll let you out, but I beg you not to leave me here.”

He shook his head, his throat too thick for speech. She was so warm. Too warm for the mountains, even if his people would accept her, after all of this. “It isn’t safe.”

“It isn’t safe for me to stay.” Her eyes swam with unshed tears. “If he finds out it was me, that I was here instead of—instead of where I was supposed to be…” She blinked back the moisture and lifted her chin high and proud. “I’d rather die on the road.”

“Whatever punishment the king devises, you will survive it. You’re strong for a human.”

“Not strong enough to fight him,” she said. He tried to pull his hand free, but she only held him more tightly. “Not alone. You said you would owe me a debt if I freed you. Would you forswear yourself? Leave me behind to face the torture you escaped?”

He snarled, tearing his hand from hers. “I will not lead you to your death.”

“Don’t you see?” She held his eyes with hers, her expression as fierce as her hold on his hand had been. “You already have.”

CHAPTER THREE

Bolthorn grabbed her by the arm and dragged her, tripping to the glass. “Go.”

“No!” She struggled to break his hold, but his hands were like iron.

He bared his teeth. “And the next time your father comes, intent on retrieving his whip and reminding me of my place, where will you hide? I will not have you stand frozen in the dark and watch while he has me beaten!”

“And I will not stand by and let you suffer this way!” she glared up at him. “Not after what you did for me today. You deserve better. You deserve to be freed!”

“Free yourself, Princess. Then perhaps I will believe you can provide me the same service.” He thrust her through the glass, basket and all.

“What difference does it make to you if I die on the journey?” she demanded, stung. He turned his back on her the moment she stumbled clear of the mirror but if he thought the sight of his scars would make her rethink her plans, he was wrong. He knew the truth of the mirror. Knew the secrets her mother had kept, she was sure of it, and she could not go back to a life of resignation and fear. Could not stand to be her father’s tool when she saw so clearly a way out, now, an escape she’d never dreamed possible.

It had come to her between one breath and the next, the moment his fingers had brushed her cheek, tracing the line of her jaw as if it were delicate glasswork. Her heart had leapt, her face flushing red-hot. Since the queen’s death, no one but Isabel had ever touched her so kindly and the thought of losing that moment, of never feeling his warmth again, made her whole body lurch. But if he slipped away into the night, why could she not go with him? Had he meant to harm her, surely he would have done so already. Surely he would not press his palm to her cheek, as though afraid even that small touch might break her?

His hands balled into fists at his sides. “I gave you my word I would not harm you.”

“But you’ll let the king do it?” She stared at his back, willing him to turn, to face her. “Why did you bother hiding me then, if you care so little what becomes of me by another’s hand?”

He muttered something about the moon and dragon’s blood that she didn’t catch, but it was clearly a curse by his tone. “I would not leave so much as a rat to the mercy of your king, girl.”

“You’ll leave me to his mercy in this, Bolthorn. It will only be a matter of time before he learns the truth. Lord Alviss will complain, and his suspicion will fall on me soon after.”

“What complaint could a lord make against a Princess?”

She swallowed, wishing she had not mentioned it, but he faced her again at least, even if his eyes were narrowed and glowing. “The king has rewarded him with my companionship, promising my obedience to his desires. I should have met him at the morning meal, but after last night, knowing what he would have of me—this was the best place to hide from both of them.”

“He touched you.” His wide nostrils flared. “Without your consent.”

“What need did he have of my consent when he had the king’s promise?”

Bolthorn’s broken lip curled. “Bring him here and I will break his neck.”

“And then what?” Hope burned white-hot in the pit of her stomach, though she could not sentence Alviss to death for trusting in the king. Not like this. But if Bolthorn wanted to protect her, if it was more than just a debt owed… “The king will kill you and the next man he chooses for me will be far worse in punishment. At least Alviss only wants my body. He would not dare to truly beat me until after we were wed, and the king has not agreed to a marriage.”

“Beat you,” the orc growled. “Would he not then be sworn to provide for you? Is that not part of your human vows?” She nodded once and he began to pace inside the mirror like a caged bear. “I will kill them both. The king and this man.”

“You said you suffered all this for knowledge, to bring it back to your people, to protect them. You cannot trade your life now, or it is all for nothing.”

He grunted, his jaw tight. “The king must die, all the same. I dare not risk leaving him alive to hunt us.”

Us.
Her breath caught, but then he stopped and when he looked at her, his yellow eyes seemed to hold her soul, searching. For what, she did not know.

“You are strong, Arianna, and if I am to succeed, I must have your help.”

The flame of hope flickered and failed, smothered by his words. She turned her face away, that he might not see the pain of its loss. He had not been speaking of her, then. And what he spoke of now... She was not so great a fool that she did not see what help he needed from her.

She touched her nose again. He saw the king’s face in her own. How was it even possible? But if she was the king’s daughter after all, did it matter? Did it matter if he was her father, when he would never believe it was so? Isabel would always be his daughter now, and she would never know the truth. She could never prove the truth, no matter what Bolthorn saw. And the king—the king was not a good man.

“I—I need time to think on it.”

“We have only seven days, Princess.” But his voice was gentle and kind for all its gravel. “I fear you must think quickly.”

It was cruel of him to ask it of her, he knew, but what choice did he have? The king would notice his own daughter missing, and notice, too, that his prisoner was gone. If they were caught on the road, she would be worse off than when she began. With the king dead, there would be no one to give cry to their absence. The guards would waste time searching for Gunnar instead of his daughter and the orc.

He and Arianna would have a much better chance of making it to the mountains in the confusion that would follow, and once there, he could block the passage he’d discovered from the other side. No human would find the orcs to wage war then, or turn them into slaves as the king had dreamed, not if they faced a hard journey over the mountains instead of through.

He did not dare take Arianna up over their peaks. Another choice she must make, then, for once the passage was blocked, there would be no return for her. But perhaps he assumed too much. Perhaps she did not mean to go with him so far, only to another human settlement where she might lose herself among people who would not know her for what she was.

The thought left a strange hollowness in his chest as he watched her slip back out of the tower, empty basket held tight against her hip. She had left him all her bread and even a bit of honey, reaching through the glass to place it in his hand, wrapped neatly in a cloth bundle. She closed his fingers around it with her own, the warmth of her hand reminding him of the chill. And then she had risen to her toes and pressed a kiss against his cheek before turning to go.

He had not felt the cold at all after that.

Bolthorn paced his cage in her absence, unable to keep himself from concern. Because he had sworn she would not be harmed, he told himself. His honor was the only reason he worried. She was strong and intelligent, almost orc in her quick understanding. Her mother must have been a fine woman, for he could not see how she had come by her wit otherwise. A shame, then, that she was dead. A queen of that caliber might have kept Gunnar from such foolish abuses. A queen of that caliber might have protected Arianna without asking her to aid in the murder of her father.

But it was left to him, and he had given her his word. Having done so, he saw no other way to keep it without betraying his people. And it had been Arianna who had reminded him of that duty, too, when all he could think of was wrapping his fingers around the soft throat of the man who would abuse her. Among the Hrimthursar, an assault of that kind would result in exile and life as an outlaw for the offender. These people believed him a beast, a monster, and perhaps it was true, but even orcs treated each other with honor and respect, male or female.

Let us be only stories to frighten their children with at night
, he thought. At least with the death of the king, the knowledge of his people might fade back into myth and legend. Safer for everyone, that way. And he was within his rights to act, to save his people from Gunnar’s madness. He would not allow his people to be turned into an army under the command of men. He would not allow orc blood to be spilled for Gunnar’s dreams of conquest and destruction. The humans were weak, but his people did not have the resources to defend themselves against an army after so long left alone in the mountains, safe and protected.

Oh, there was ore enough to arm themselves, but no wood for war machines or stockades. Carving stone into blocks to build walls would take too much time and Gunnar would not wait, if he lived, to strike against them. Orcs did not run when faced with an enemy. They did not believe in retreat. Instead of fading into the heart and veins of the mountains, they would fight. Those who did not die would be taken prisoner, shackled and made into slaves to march at the front of Gunnar’s army when he waged war against the other kings.

All of it could be averted, if Bolthorn escaped. If Arianna had the strength and courage to take her father’s life. He prayed to his Ancestors that she might forgive him, one day, for staining her soul in such a way. For her, there was no honor in it. She was not orc, and she would be leaving her people to confusion at best, if not war. After helping to murder her father, she would have no place among them, even if they never learned the truth. Blood of that kind never washed clean, no matter how virtuous the reasons for spilling it.

He must be sure she knew what she faced. Perhaps he might yet convince her to stay behind, for alone, he could move much more quickly, disappearing into the night and threading through the earth to the safety of the mountains with all that he had learned. It would be enough to save his people from the worst of it, though the knowledge of their existence would spread.

But would it be enough to save her? Not knowing would haunt him for the rest of his days.

He wasn’t certain it was something he could live with, though he could not quite say why.

She couldn’t miss the evening meal without drawing the king’s notice, though she would have preferred to spend it anywhere but with Lord Alviss. She waited until the absolute last moment all the same, in the hopes that she might avoid Alviss’ importunities before the meal, if not after.