There was a beat of silence, then Hrul’s head tipped backward and he laughed aloud, a howling, disdainful laugh that told Zorvut with absolute certainty how futile his words would be.
“We both know that isn’t going to happen,” he finally answered, shaking his head incredulously when his laughter had faded away. “No, you’re both much more valuable to me dead than alive.”
Zorvut closed his eyes and took in a long, slow breath.
“Then you leave me no choice,” he said, and slowly he dismounted from Graksh’t. He could hear some of the orcs in the crowd surrounding them ready their weapons as he moved, but the warlord seemed unconcerned, and no one made a move toward him. “I challenge you, Hrul Bonebreaker, to single combat according to the ancient ways. I challenge you for your title of warlord.”
“Ha!” the orc spat, his incredulous grin somehow spreading even wider around his massive tusks. “I have to hand it to you, I was hoping you’d say that. A bold choice! Zorvut the Relentless, I accept your challenge.”
9
Taegan
Taegan’s heart began to pound in his chest anew at the words—though he still heard them in orcish, Zorvut’s understanding of them through the bond was enough for him to know what had been offered. When Zorvut had asked to end things without bloodshed, for one wild moment, he had hoped against hope that he might convince the warlord, that the orc might be moved by his words, that his heart might be made soft seeing the child he had raised.
But he should have known better. Hrul Bonebreaker had proved himself time and again to be a cruel man out for blood. As he spoke in acceptance of Zorvut’s challenge, he threw the chain binding Taegan to the ground—he took a few nervous steps backwards, the chain trailing behind him, but one of the orcs standing behind him stepped forward to pick it up, meeting his eyes with a glare.
From the bond he could feel Zorvut’s weary acceptance, his mounting fear and unbroken resolve all at once. As grim as his countenance was, there was a strange confidence to his stance that gave Taegan a glimmer of hope. Zorvut briefly met Taegan’s gaze and gave him a brief nod of acknowledgement, then drew his greatsword, moving into a waiting stance. He had told Taegan through the bond to trust him—he had to believe he knew what he was doing, that he had a plan.
A tense silence fell over the crowd as the orc and half-orc stood opposite each other, both with weapons drawn and circling the other, waiting for whoever would make the first move.
Finally, Hrul spat at Zorvut’s feet. “Enough of this,” he snarled, and he lunged at the smaller half-orc, swinging his battle axe down on him with a roar.
Zorvut dodged him deftly, leaping back so the battle axe landed uselessly on the ground and bounced back up with the force of the swing. Quickly he lunged forward to meet him again, swinging his greatsword as the warlord lifted his axe just in time to parry the strike, the sound of steel on steel breaking through the tense quiet.
What was he waiting for? Why was he not using his magic? Taegan frowned as he watched, unable to pull his eyes away from his husband as the two figures pulled away and circled each other again, weapons raised and waiting. He did not understand, but he had to trust Zorvut had a plan.
Part of him wanted to call out to him, to beg for him to end this, but he didn’t dare open his mouth. Every orc around him seemed just as focused and just as silent—whatever this one-on-one combat symbolized, it seemed they had no intention of interfering, at least not yet.
“Come on,” Zorvut goaded, and with a roar Hrul lunged at him once more. Zorvut raised his sword to parry but the force behind the axe knocked the sword back uselessly, and he was barely able to dodge the cruel strike. The edge of the axe just caught his upper arm, opening a thin wound. Zorvut winced, but otherwise seemed unfazed. He took a few steps back, and finally glanced down at his sword. Taegan recognized the look of concentration, and grinned as the sword burst into flame, eliciting several startled gasps from the orcs around them.
Hrul was silent, but hesitated for a brief moment, his eyes flicking between the sword and Zorvut’s face with furrowed brows. But Zorvut gave him no time to consider the revelation, lunging toward him again, swinging the sword up. Hrul met it with his axe, but the flames sent a shower of sparks and embers spraying into his face. He turned away with a shout, shaking his head, and Zorvut swung at him again, this time catching him in the shoulder. There was an audible sizzle as the sword burned his flesh and he stumbled back.
“A party trick,” Hrul snarled, stepping back to glance at his wound before looking back up at Zorvut. His face had transformed into a hideous glare, his nose wrinkled with tension and his lips pulled taught around his tusks. “Meaningless now.”
“Of course,” Zorvut answered wryly, but he swung again and this time Hrul dodged rather than parried. But Zorvut was smaller, faster, and he swung again and again in rapid succession until Hrul could not jump back quickly enough, the sword piercing his side. He grabbed the sword where it pierced him instinctually, his face twisting in pain as he pulled Zorvut closer, raising his axe in one hand and swinging it down with a crash.
Pain exploded through the bond as Zorvut was knocked to the ground, though he kept his grip on his sword that remained alight. Taegan winced but clamped down the cry of pain in his throat before it could escape. Hrul looked down at his hand, visibly burnt and glistening red, before glaring down at Zorvut at his feet with the wind knocked out of him.
“Get up,” he growled, and kicked Zorvut in the ribs. Taegan felt it as sharply as if he were the one being kicked and could not stop a gasp of pain from escaping him, but Zorvut stumbled to his feet anyway, wiping blood from his mouth as he stood. He swung the sword back up into a ready stance, still burning with flame, and silently met Hrul’s gaze. Even from this distance Taegan could see Hrul all but glowering in rage, seeming to finally take Zorvut’s challenge seriously. Something about his demeanor, his stance, had changed entirely.
With a roar, Hrul leapt at him, hammering him with blows that seemed impossibly fast for how large the battle axe was. Zorvut parried more than a few, showering the warlord with embers with each strike, but many still struck him, slicing open his arms and torso with shallow, bleeding wounds. After a flurry of attacks the warlord kicked him again, shoving him backward—Zorvut stumbled, but did not fall. Taegan could see his chest heaving as he panted for breath, the red of his warpaint becoming indistinguishable from the blood that coursed over his body, and for a moment the hope he had felt was snuffed out like a candle.
His own body tingled with the remnants of pain that made it through the bond. More than ever, he was suddenly sure he was going to watch his husband die in front of him, and he bit his lip to keep himself from crying aloud.
From a distance he could see Zorvut’s eyes flick toward him for only an instant before looking back toward the warlord. It was fainter this time, but again he felt from the bond—trust me.Taegan swallowed his tears and nodded, keeping his eyes trained on Zorvut.
“Yield,” the warlord growled. His voice was low, dangerous, but in the heavy silence around them it projected as much as if he had shouted the command.
“Never,” Zorvut spat, and leapt toward him with a heavy slash. The warlord dodged, stepping back—and instead of lunging for him again, Zorvut jumped back as well, creating distance between them. Hrul hesitated, uncertain, and as Taegan watched, Zorvut glanced up at the sky for a brief moment, his brows furrowing in concentration.
But before anything could happen, the warlord roared something in orcish that Taegan did not understand, and terror erupted from the bond as Zorvut shouted something in reply, swiveling his head toward Taegan.
Taegan froze, uncertain, but before he could react the chain that bound his hands was yanked hard by the orc holding him and he stumbled backward into the taller figure. With a gasp that was quickly cut off, he was lifted off the ground by his neck, the orc’s powerful arm coming around him to pin him into a chokehold. Instinctively he kicked as hard as he could, writhing against the guard, but the figure seemed to barely even flinch.
The pressure around his throat was so strong he thought his neck might snap before he suffocated. Even as he kicked uselessly all he could feel was the tight pressure building in his lungs and his face, his mouth open and straining to bring in any air at all, mouthing silent words to cry out and beg for help, for mercy—was this really how he was going to die?
His vision was quickly going dark. Distantly he could feel fear and rage pouring through the bond, but it felt muted and faraway, slipping away from his focus.
