Later, the celebration still roaring, Xylon is pulled into a conversation with a group of older warriors. He gives my hand a final squeeze, a silent promise to return, before he moves away. I take the opportunity to slip away from the high table, my head spinning from the noise and the single horn of ale Iwas persuaded to drink. I find a quieter alcove near the edge of the hall, partly hidden by a great, carved pillar, just needing a moment to breathe.
It is from here that I overhear them.
Their voices are low, guttural rumbles, but in the relative quiet of the alcove, the words are sharp, clear as crystal. I recognize the one speaking—a great, brutish Orc with a cruel twist to his mouth. Grak. The rival Xylon had told me about.
“He is not the same,” Grak says, his voice thick with contempt. “The Dark Elf’s magic tainted him. Weakened him.”
“He seems strong enough,” another warrior grunts. “He looks as he did before.”
“His body, perhaps,” Grak scoffs. “But his spirit? To be brought low by a curse is one thing. To besavedby a soft, helpless human? It is a shame upon his lineage. How can a true Orc warrior, a son of Borin, be rescued by a creature with no honor, no strength?”
The words are a splash of ice water, a sickening jolt that sobers me instantly. My stomach plummets.
“She is why he is weak,” Grak continues, his voice dripping with venom. “He looks at her like she is the sun itself. A human. A worthless, fragile thing. He has brought a sickness into our stronghold.”
I feel my blood run cold. I should move. I should slip away before they see me. But I am frozen to the spot, pinned by the sheer, casual hatred in their voices.
And then it is too late. The one called Grak turns his head, and his dark, malevolent eyes lock onto mine. A slow, cruel smile spreads across his face. He sees not a person, but an opportunity. He pushes himself away from his companions and stalks toward me, his movements a predator’s deliberate, intimidating stride.
He stops near me, his massive frame blocking out the light from the fires, casting me in his shadow. His eyes are full of a cold, calculating malice.
“Well, well,” he sneers, his voice loud enough for the Orcs at the nearest tables to turn and watch. “The little human hero.” He leans down, his foul, ale-soaked breath washing over me. “Tell me, witch,” he says in a dangerous growl. “What price did you demand for your magic? What did our chieftain’s son have to promise you to buy his life back?”
26
XYLON
The warmth of the ale and the joyous, roaring energy of the great hall is a balm on a soul that has been cold for a decade. I am speaking with one of my father’s oldest war leaders, a grizzled veteran named Korgath, and his laughter is a familiar, welcome sound. But even as I laugh with him, my eyes scan the hall, always returning to her. Dina. She stands near a great pillar, a small, quiet island in the chaotic sea of my people, and the sight of her, safe and warm in the colors of my clan, fills a place in my chest I did not know was empty.
My gaze sweeps the crowd, and then it freezes. The joy in my veins turns to ice.
Grak. My old rival, his face a blazing mask of contempt, is bearing down on her. He is a great, brutish Orc, built for brawling, not for thought, and his ambition has always been a poison in his blood. He corners her, his hulking form trapping her against the stone, and his followers flank him like wolves circling their prey.
I see the malice in his eyes, even from across the hall. I see the way his lips curl as he sneers down at her. I see the flicker of fear and confusion on her face. And a cold, controlled fury, athing far more dangerous than the Urog’s mindless rage, settles over me.
“Excuse me, Korgath,” my voice becoming a low, flat thing. I set my horn of ale down on the table with a quiet click.
I do not run. I move through the crowd with a calm, predatory purpose that has the other Orcs falling back before me, their joyous shouts dying on their lips as they see the look on my face. The path clears. The drums seem to falter. A pocket of silence grows around me as I approach.
Grak is leaning in, his voice a low, menacing growl, but I hear his final words clearly. “What did our chieftain’s son have to promise you to buy his life back?”
I do not speak. I simply arrive. I place myself between them, my back to Dina, facing him. I am taller than Grak, my body leaner from my ordeal but no less powerful. I look down at him, and the heat of the great fires feels like a distant thing compared to the ice in my gaze.
“You will step away from her, Grak,” my voice is not loud. It is cold steel. “You will do it now.”
Grak straightens up, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but it is quickly replaced by a belligerent smirk. “Xylon. I was merely welcoming your… guest.” The word is an insult.
“I heard your welcome,” I say, my voice dropping even lower. “And I will not hear it again. You forget your place.”
“My place?” Grak scoffs, raising his voice for the benefit of the watching crowd. “My place is to be concerned for the future of this clan. My place is to wonder if our chieftain’s heir has returned with his mind as whole as his body.” He gestures toward me, his expression a mask of false concern. “You were a beast. A mindless, raging thing. We all heard the stories. And now you return, not with an Orc’s honor, but leaning on the magic of a… human.” He spits the word like a curse.
A low, collective murmur ripples through the hall. He is a clumsy politician, but his poison is potent. He is sowing dissent.
“Her name is Dina,” I say, voice a deadly, quiet warning. “And her honor is greater than yours will ever be. She did what you and your warriors could not. She saved the son of your chieftain. Any insult to her is an insult to me. And an insult to the house of Borin.”
“An insult?” Grak throws his hands wide, playing to the crowd. “It is a question, not an insult! The clan has a right to know if their future leader’s judgment has been clouded. If his spirit has been weakened by a human witch’s influence!”
“That is enough, Grak!” The voice of my father booms through the hall, and the crowd falls silent. Chief Borin strides toward us, his face a mask of grim authority.
