Othic does not answer. He does not wait. He does not just defend. Heattacks. He is Iron Tusk. He presses forward, his movements economical and brutal. He smashes Tars's guard wide with a powerful parry that sends the slaver stumbling back.
Tars, mad with zhisk and seeing his men dead, overextends. He lunges, a sloppy, desperate stab aimed at Othic’s gut.
Othic does not dodge. He simply turns his hip, letting the blade scrape harmlessly past his leather-bound side, and in that same instant, he brings his own sword around in a devastating, two-handed arc.
It is not a swing. It is an execution. The heavy blade, backed by all of Othic’s strength, cleaves straight through the slaver's neck.
Tars freezes, his eyes wide with a final, stupid surprise. His head topples. His body drops like a stone.
The barn is suddenly, shockingly silent.
The singular sound is the soft, hysterical weeping of the freed women, huddled by their empty cage. The smell of fresh, human blood is thick in the air, mingling with the hay.
Othic stands over Tars's body for a long second, his massive chest heaving. Then he slumps, the adrenaline leaving him. The borrowed sword falls from his nerveless fingers and thuds into the dirt. He staggers, leaning heavily against the wagon cage, his head bowed.
I scramble down the ladder, my knees so weak I almost fall. I run to him, my hands flying to his face, to his chest. "Othic. Othic, you are... you are..."
He is alive.
He covers my small, shaking hands with his own. They are hot, slick with Tars's blood.
The other women—eight of them, their faces streaked with blood and tears—stay back, huddled by the cage, staring at us. They are staring at the orc, at the four dead slavers, at me.
One of them, the older woman, whispers, her voice trembling. "The... the monster. He saved us."
I look up at them, my face streaked with dirt and the blood of the man I killed. I am shaking, but I am not afraid.
"No," I say, my voice clear and strong in the quiet barn. "We saved ourselves."
I look back at Othic, my hands on his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart. "And his name is Othic."
19
OTHIC
The adrenaline fades, leaving a cold, sharp ache in my muscles. The barn is silent, save for the soft, hysterical weeping of the freed women. The air is ripe with the iron-and-copper smell of cooling blood. I am whole. I am healed. But my axe is gone.
I look at the clumsy, human-made broadsword in my hand, still slick with Tars's life. It is heavy, ill-balanced, and ugly. It is a tool, not a weapon. I wipe it clean on the dead slaver's tunic and slide it into the sheath at my hip. It does not fit. It wobbles. I hate it.
I stalk out of the barn, away from the weeping, and into the pre-dawn light. The air is cold and clean. I need air. I need to think.
I sit on the steps of the small farmhouse, the bloodied sword across my knees. The sun begins to rise, painting the sky in shades of red and gold that mock the carnage behind me. I expected to feel triumph. I expected the quiet satisfaction of a clean kill. I feel... empty. I have failed to find my brothers. I have become the guardian of a small, human flock, trapped in this ruined farmstead.
The weeping from the barn stops. The silence that follows is almost worse. I am a warrior. I know what comes after a battle. Guard duty. Tending the wounded. Burying the dead. I scan the perimeter, waiting for the howl of worgs drawn by the smell of slaughter.
A sound cuts through the morning quiet. It is not a howl.
It is a laugh.
A high, giddy,hystericallaugh, coming from inside the farmhouse. My head snaps up. What is this? Are they mad? Did the fight break their minds? This is not how warriors behave. This is not howpreybehaves.
Then a new smell cuts through the morning air. It is not the stink of the slavers or the reek of blood. It is... bread? Roasting suru meat. And... kaffa beans.
I am completely lost. I expected silence. I expected weeping. I did not expect afeast.
I stand, my body tense, the human sword heavy in my hand. I am a seven-foot, rumpled orc, my tunic stiff with dried blood. I am ready for a siege, for a worg attack, for the Guild to descend.
I am not ready for this.
