My hand reaches down. My fingers, deft and silent, close over the cold, heavy ring. The metal clinks softly, a tiny, sharp sound in the thick silence.
Tars grunts in his sleep, his body rolling, his hand swatting at his belt as if at a fly.
I freeze. I am a mountain of stone, my other hand ready to close on his throat and crush his windpipe if he wakes. He just snores, louder this time, a wet, gurgling sound, and settles.
I lift the ring, painfully slowly, from the leather hook. I have it.
I glide back from the slaver, the heavy keys cold in my fist. I move to the wagon cage. The air here is thick with the smell of raw, human fear. The women are awake, huddled in the back, their eyes wide, white moons in the darkness, tracking my every move. They are looking at me like I am their death.
I put the key in the heavy, rusty lock. The sound of the iron grating as I turn it is deafening, as loud as a gunshot in the silent barn.
Jax groans by the fire and rolls over.
I hold my breath. He settles.
The lockclicksopen. I pull the heavy iron pin and slowly, silently, swing the cage door open. The creak of the hinges is a scream in the night. The women shrink back, a mass of pale, terrified faces.
Gods, move!
I point at the sleeping slavers. Then I point to the pile of weapons. "Take them," I whisper, my voice a guttural rumble.
They stare, paralyzed. I see Aurora in the loft, her hands pressed to her mouth. I am out of time.
I reach into the cage, grab the arm of the older woman—the one from the well—andpullher out. She stumbles. I shove the hilt of a rusted broadsword from the pile into her hand.
Her face breaks. The fear is replaced by that same black rage. She nods. She turns to the other women. "Now!" she hisses.
Then another woman moves. And another. They are armed. Eight women, their hands shaking, holding rusted swords and clubs. They look pathetic. They look terrifying. They are a pack of starving worgs that have just cornered their prey. They look to me. The monster. Their leader.
They are ready.
I look at the two by the fire. I look at Tars and Jax. I will not let this be a quiet assassination. This is a release. This is vengeance.
I fill my lungs, my healed shoulders broad and strong.
Iroar.
It is a full-bodied, terrifying sound of orcish rage, a sound I have not used since the shipwreck. It is the loyal sound of my clan, of my blood, of my stolen pride.
The slavers jolt awake. They sit up, their eyes wild and unfocused, completely disoriented, blinded by the darkness, reaching for weapons that are no longer there.
"NOW!" Aurora shrieks from the hayloft.
The slavers by the fire do not even have time to stand. The freed women are on them. The barn erupts into a symphony of screams and steel.
18
AURORA
The roar Othic unleashes is not the sound of a man. It is a physical force, a blast of sound so primal and full of rage it shakes the dust from the rafters. It is the sound of a god of war, and it splits the night.
I am in the hayloft, peering over the edge, my heart trying to escape my chest.
Below, the slavers jolt awake. They sit up, their eyes wild and unfocused, completely disoriented, blinded by the darkness, their hands fumbling for weapons that are no longer there.
"NOW!" I shriek, my voice a thin, useless echo under his roar.
The two slavers by the fire do not even have time to stand. The freed women are on them. The older woman, the one Othic spoke to, is in the lead. She does not scream. She just raises the rusted broadsword over her head with both hands and brings it down on the neck of the man closest to her.
