Page 3 of Wed to the Orc Captive

Tenithin messed about with his key ring while he shouted to a man outside, who came to stand by the bars, for all the good it would do. His short sword wouldn’t reach the back of the cell, but this was my foolishness; if the orcs decided to kill me I wasn’t going to expect help. Tenithin was scolding “Now not one wrong move from you, do you understand? I’m doing you a kindness. I expect that to be respected.” The orc murmured some assent and moved back, and the door to the cell creaked open.

The other orc was lying still on the earth floor by the back wall. My heart lurched for a moment, remembering the last time I’d seen a corpse, but his side moved: breath. The problem was glaring. Dark purple bruising, even through the olive green of their skin, stained across his ribs, blood spreading under the surface.

“Hello, Sir Orc,” I said, moving slowly. Surprising an injured man could be as dangerous as approaching a cornered beast, and I wasn’t sure which activity my current gambit was closer to. “I’m going to look at your injuries, if you’ll let me.”

I pressed my fingers, feather-light, over the bone, and he flinched, but didn’t attack, didn’t bite. “I think you’ve broken a rib. Maybe two,” I said, pretending this was normal, touching an orc was normal. “The good news is that all of them are still in their places instead of in your lungs or your guts, so you’ll recover, if nothing worse happens to you.”

His face was turned away from me, black and purple staining along his cheek, his temple. He didn’t respond.

I looked up at the other orc. “Was he injured somewhere else? They didn’t stab him?”

The one with the forehead scar shrugged. “I haven’t gotten him to talk.”

I leaned in. “Are you otherwise hurt, sir?”

The scarred one sighed, and rumbled out something in their language, harsh and hissing with consonants we didn’t have.

The one on the ground was quiet, then answered, all shushing sounds punctuated with the hard sounds, “gawk” and “thrak.”

The scarred one's eyes hardened. “He’s not otherwise injured,” he said, and then muttered, “Rutting humans.”

“Hey!” the one guard squawked. His sword pommel clunked against the bars. “Keep your mouth clean before the maid.”

I fumbled through my basket, realizing I had nothing for bruising, no liniments and nothing for pain. He needed the kinds of tinctures Bogdana made, and here I was clinging to life by my fingernails, not even able to offer him thyme and chamomile.

“Does the Overseer want them whole?” I asked, willing my voice not to waver. I needed them to think of me as someone who solved problems, not someone who petted some ribs and told them Bogdana would fix it.

Tenithin cleared his throat. “Whatever the plans, I’m sure it wouldn’t do harm.”

Quit stalling, Annora.

“I’ll sing for him,” I said, bile in my mouth. No one was going to care about the level of medicine given to an orc. I nodded while Tenithin assured me the Overseer would pay me a few copper, and maybe it was better that Bogdana wouldn’t come in here; I’d spare her sitting in a cage with monsters. The town really couldn’t risk Bogdana.

“Sir Orc?” I murmured. “I don’t have any medicine for you. Is a song alright?”

He choked out a word, barking and short. I looked back at the scarred one.

“He says to go ahead.” His gaze was cold.

I spread my hands over the blackening bruise, breathing deep, opening that well inside to start my foolish song. I couldn’t mend bone, but I could lessen the heat in the area to relax the pain. I could prove I was more solution than problem.

The first syllables shook on the air, and a hand slammed over my mouth as the first orc dragged me against the wall. His other arm pinned me close. Tenithin and the guard were yelling, looking for the key, but it was the orc’s voice I heard, so close to my ear. “You sing a different song, pale-haired witch.”

He could break my neck. He could end everything, my hopes and my troubles, before the two men even found the key. His hand loosened on my mouth, fingers still on my lips, as if muffling the magic would stop it. “Explain yourself.”

I croaked, “It’s always a different song.”

“You lie.”

“He’s differently injured. Why…would a broken rib be the same as a blade cut?”

His grip tightened. “You want me to believe that? You sing one thing for your friend and another for mine, and you want to play the innocent?”

Did he just want someone to punish? Did it matter? “Think what you want,” I got out, bracing for the next pain. “You can kill me and see if they still want you alive. But I won't help him if I’m dead.”

The mottled side of the orc on the ground rose and fell, shallow, pained breaths.

The orc released me, and I fell back to the ground, to my stinging knees. “If you hurt him, you will die before your body hits the floor.”