Illustration by Chibavu

CAPTURED BY THE ORC

Chapter 24: Betrayal

 

Samson stumbled out of the hut and into a world on fire. Flames leaped from burning stalls; billowing plumes of thick smoke blotted out the sky. Coughing, his eyes streaming with tears, Samson surveyed the carnage in horror. Orc and human bodies sprawled across the ground, some still twitching in their death throes. Ahead, he spotted Vetu's tent — or what remained of it. The elderly merchant lay slumped beneath its smoldering ruins. Samson’s stomach lurched.

 

No. No, no, no. This can’t be—

 

A strong hand seized his shoulder and Samson spun around in fear. It was Dalthu. The orc pulled him into a crushing embrace. “Don’t look.”

 

"Dalthu . . . it’s—it’s Vetu . . . he—"

 

"I know," Dalthu murmured. 

 

Samson looked up. The orc’s face was smeared with soot and blood. "Why?” he asked, blinking back unshed tears. “Why?”

 

“We’ve been betrayed.” 

 

Samson flinched. “Betrayed?”

 

It couldn’t be . . . this can’t be what Hazel and Ragnuk were planning . . . 

 

“Someone must have made a deal with these bandits.” Dalthu’s voice shook with barely suppressed rage. “They led them straight to us. Practically opened the front gate.” 

 

Did . . . did I do this?

 

A knot tied itself behind his ribs and Samson inhaled quickly. 

 

Mistaking Samson’s expression, Dalthu gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

 

Samson shook his head, gasping. 

 

It’s not that. 

 

“Vetu and the others will be avenged,” Dalthu continued, his expression darkening. “We will hunt their killers down. Their teeth will line our necks. Their heads will decorate our gates and their hearts will feed our wolves.”

 

Hearts . . . heart. . . my heart . . . why is it beating so fast?

 

Samson put his hands over his ears, trying to shut out the screams of the dying as well as the horrible thought that this might all be his fault. 

 

Dalthu pulled Samson by the arm. "Come," he said, leading him along. "We need to go."

 

“Wait—” 

 

What about his parents, Rachelle and Kilug? Shakil and Adora? All the mates? And the orclings? Oh gods, the orclings—

 

An image of Ulam forced itself into Samson’s mind. The little orcling was lying motionless on the ground, still holding the wooden sword he was so proud of. The ground slid underneath him and Samson grabbed at Dalthu with trembling hands, trying to steady himself. 

 

I can’t breathe.

 

Dalthu was leaning in, telling him something. Samson could see the orc’s mouth moving, but couldn’t hear him over the whooshing sound in his head. His body felt ice cold. 

 

I’m dying.

 

Dalthu hugged Samson to his body and covered his eyes. In the blackness, Samson could feel the rise and fall of the orc’s broad chest behind him. 

 

“Breathe.”

 

Samson sucked in a breath, filling his lungs until there was no room to hold any more. 

 

“Out.”

 

Samson released all the air in a shuddering exhale.

 

“Good,” Dalthu said gently, his warm breath tickling Samson’s ear. “Again. In . . . and out.”

 

Samson obeyed. He took a breath through his nose, then another. Gradually, the roaring in his ears began to subside and each breath became slower and calmer. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Samson licked his dry lips, “I didn’t—I don’t know why—”

 

“Look at me.” Dalthu brushed Samson’s hair back out of his face. "Are you alright?” he asked, looking Samson over for any sign of injury.

 

Samson gripped the orc’s hands and shook his head. “We can’t leave,” he said. “Not without the others.”

 

Dalthu’s expression hardened. “You are my priority, Samson.”

 

“We have to help—”

 

“We can’t help if we’re killed,” Dalthu said. He pinched his eyes shut and sighed. “There was always a chance that this could happen. We were prepared. The horde will engage the enemy, allowing the mates and orclings to escape. So, please.” The golden-eyed warrior held out his hand. “Getting you to safety is my only concern.”

 

A shriek in the distance caused Samson to take an involuntary step backward. “But, Ulam . . . what if—”

 

“He’ll be fine.” Dalthu’s voice was calm, but something else flickered behind his eyes. “Ulam’s a smart boy. I’m sure he’s already waiting for you at the meeting point.” He took Samson’s hand and started leading him away from the marketplace. As they maneuvered through the wreckage, an unpleasant question niggled at the back of Samson’s brain.

 

If all the orc warriors are off fighting right now, then . . .

 

“What about you?” Samson whispered. 

 

Dalthu was silent. Samson asked again, louder.

 

“What about you, Dalthu?”

 

“Shhh.”

 

That’s not an answer.

 

The unpleasant question blossomed into full-blown suspicion. “You’ll stay with me, won’t you?”

 

Dalthu squeezed Samson’s hand. “Once I deliver you to safety,” he murmured, “I will return and join those still fighting, but right now we need to be silen—”

 

Samson ripped his hand out of Dalthu’s grasp. “No!”

 

Dalthu hissed a warning. “Samson—” 

 

“No, you can’t go.”

 

“Quiet.”

 

“I said no!” Samson slapped the orc’s proffered hand away. Dalthu moved so quickly, Samson only saw a blur of green before he was lifted off the ground and into the orc’s arms. “No, let me go! Put mmmph—” 

 

Dalthu clapped a hand over Samson's mouth. “I said,” he growled, “Be. Quiet.” 

 

A flash of reflected light was the only warning before a sword cut through the air. Dalthu twisted away, shielding Samson with his body. There was a fleshy thud and Dalthu grunted.

 

“Dalthu?!”

 

The orc continued to spin as he dodged a rain of counter-blows from their zealous attacker. The bandit roared in frustration, chopping his weapon side to side, each time barely missing Dalthu. One swing went wide and the mercenary’s sword lodged itself into a wooden beam. As the bandit struggled to free his weapon, Dalthu set Samson on the ground.

 

“Get behind me. Now!”

 

Samson jumped back. He could now see that Dalthu’s shoulder had been ripped open by the mercenary’s sword and a river of blood was flowing down. Undeterred, the orc roared, launching himself at their attacker with terrifying speed.

 

Desperate, the mercenary abandoned his trapped sword and pulled a knife from his belt. He lunged forward, aiming for Dalthu’s chest. Too slow. Dalthu kicked the bandit to the ground and, in one easy movement, pulled the stuck sword from the wooden post and ran it through the mercenary.

 

Stepping over the lifeless body, Dalthu hurried back to Samson. “Are you alright?” he asked, breathless. Samson nodded, earning a proud smile from his orc mate. “That’s my little tiger. Come, let’s—”

 

There was a quick, high-pitched buzz, like an insect, followed by a dull thud. Dalthu stumbled to the side. An arrow was sticking out of his arm. Dalthu reached over and snapped the wooden shaft. More buzzing. Two more arrows replaced the first, this time embedding themselves in the orc’s back. Dalthu grabbed Samson and dragged him behind an overturned wagon. Shouts of “over here” and “we found one” echoed amongst the wreckage of the village. 

 

“Run.”

 

Samson looked up at the orc’s face. Dalthu was gritting his teeth so hard it looked like he was grinning, his pupils blown wide. “You’re injured, let me—”

 

“When I give the command,” the orc rasped, pointing toward the mountain, “run to Luthic. Follow the light.”

 

“No, I’m not leaving—”

 

“Please?” Dalthu reached out, cupping Samson’s face in his hands. His fingers were gentle as they brushed away the tears that spilled down Samson’s cheeks.

 

That one word. That one small word left Samson at a loss. The orc's golden eyes were full of emotion and something else, something that made Samson’s heart ache. A wave of conflicting emotions crashed over him. Fear, love, and longing all converged within him at once. He felt Dalthu pulling him closer until their lips met in a passionate kiss. He clung desperately to Dalthu, not knowing whether he wanted to stay in his embrace forever or push him away for good.

 

Dalthu broke away first. “When the fighting is done, I will find you.” The golden-eyed warrior smiled at him one last time and then got into position, crouching near the edge of the wagon. “Ready?”

 

No.

 

Samson nodded.

 

“Now!”

 

Samson ran as fast as he could. Behind him, he could hear Dalthu roaring and the screaming and crashing of metal and wood. As he darted between huts and debris, the adrenaline made his heart feel like it was tearing apart. 

 

At least that’s what he wanted to believe.

 

***

 

“Run to Luthic.” That’s what the big green idiot said, so that’s what I’m doing. 

 

And doing it as quickly as possible. Abandoning stealth for speed, Samson was now nearly at the base of the mountain. There he knew he would find the entrance to the cavern where the mating ritual had taken place. Once inside, he would follow the glowing rocks to meet the rest of the village. He was only a few yards away when a figure stepped out from behind some wreckage, blocking his path.

 

“Gotcha, ya cockered dog whore.”

 

Samson dodged left, barely avoiding the bandit's sword strike, feeling the whoosh of the blade as it narrowly missed his face. Panic set in as he stumbled backward. 

 

Anything. Find anything.

 

“Anything” happened to be a fist-sized rock; Samson scooped it up and threw it as hard as he could. The mercenary tried to bat it away but missed, and it hit his helmet with a clang. The bandit staggered back with a curse. Samson's heart raced as he searched for another weapon. This time his eyes fell on a broken piece of wood, and he grabbed it (and another rock), holding the plank up as a makeshift shield.

 

Recovering all too quickly, the now-furious bandit charged toward Samson. Screaming obscenities, he raised his sword high and Samson braced himself for impact. 

 

Thud!

 

The sword hit the wooden shield, shaking Samson's arm. “Ya filthy son of a mongrel bitch,” he spat, his breath strangely sweet. “Ya bloody canker, you’re nothing but a worthless hole for beast filth!”

 

Taking advantage of the moment, Samson brought the rock down on the mercenary’s nose with a sickening crunch. The bandit howled in pain and dropped his sword, clutching his face. 

 

“I’m goin’ ta fucking kill ya, ya orc slag!” 

 

Samson threw his shield and ran. The bandit’s curses chased him as he dodged and weaved through the village huts.

 

I can’t lead him to the cave. I have to lose him. 

 

A farming scythe propped up against a hut caught his eye and he slowed down to grab it, testing its heft in his hands.

 

Lose him or . . . 

 

“Psst, over here,” a voice whispered.

 

Samson jerked around. A small, hawk-nosed woman was crouched next to the fence and waving frantically at Samson, beckoning him over. It was Hazel. 

 

Swiveling his head around like an albatross, on the lookout for more bandits, Samson crept over. As he got closer he noticed two things: one, that Hazel’s skirt was covered with blood, and two, that she was holding a knife. 

 

Hazel smiled widely at his arrival. “There you are,” she said. Her dark eyes flickered to the scythe in Samson’s hand. “I was waiting for you. Where’s Dalthu?”

 

“Shhhhh,” Samson looked around for any injured or survivors, but saw none. “Hazel? Are you . . . whose blood is—actually no, wait, Dalthu is fighting back that way, we have to go—”

 

“Yes, yes, you’re right, we have to go.” Hazel held out her free hand and Samson had a strange suspicion that she wasn’t asking to hold his hand. She was asking for the scythe. 

 

A small warning sounded in the back of Samson’s brain. He didn’t want to hand over the weapon. When Samson made no move to surrender the scythe, Hazel shrugged and marched off, following the fence line away from the mountain and . . .

 

Back toward Dalthu.

 

After a moment’s hesitation, Samson followed along after her. “Do you know another way to the meeting place?”

 

Ignoring the question, Hazel chattered on happily. “You know, I was starting to worry you wouldn’t make it. Didn’t you recognize the signal?”

 

Signal?

 

“No, Dalthu and I—”

 

“Ah, I knew it,” Hazel crowed. “I told Ragnuk. I told him that our plan needed him—”

 

Wait . . .

 

“Plan?” Samson stopped walking. “You . . . you planned this?”

 

Realizing Samson was no longer right behind her, Hazel turned around. “Hm?” 

 

“This . . .” With his worst fears now confirmed, white-hot anger quickly replaced shock. Samson tried to control his volume as he waved at the destruction around them. “You planned all this?”

 

“Mm, and let me tell you, it wasn’t easy.”

 

“Easy?” Samson thought of all the nights he’d spent talking and laughing with the other mates. He pictured Adora gleefully telling a bawdy joke and making Cece blush. Now he didn’t even know if they were still alive. “You betrayed them. You betrayed them all! Your family!”

 

Hazel laughed. It wasn’t friendly. “My family is dead.”

 

Something in her voice made Samson grip the scythe close to his chest. “We’re not going to the meeting point, are we?”

 

Hazel sighed. “Ah, well, I suppose here is fine. Although,” her head bowed, she was speaking more to the knife in her hands than to Samson, “I didn’t want to do it this way. I wanted him to watch.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Samson took a step back.

 

“Your stupid mate,” Hazel spat out each word, “took everything from me . . .” She lifted her head and dropped the veil of friendliness, staring at Samson with pure, unabashed hatred. “So I will take everything from him.”

 

Samson was late getting his scythe up against the sudden attack, and Hazel’s knife sliced across his chest. Samson looked down in disbelief. His tunic was torn open and he could see a deep red scratch on his skin where the blade had grazed him. Samson put a hand up, “Wait—”

 

Hazel didn’t wait. Her strikes came one after another, frighteningly fast. Samson was barely keeping up. More and more cuts appeared over his body, and his tunic became a patchwork of red. 

 

If this keeps up, I’m going to pass out.

 

Then, he saw it. A slow attack. Samson tried to take advantage, anticipating where the knife would be so he could use the scythe to knock it from her hands. This was his mistake. Hazel feinted and shifted the knife to her other hand. Samson was caught completely off balance, his weapon far away from where it needed to be to protect him. The knife plunged into his arm. Samson dropped the scythe, screaming in pain. Hazel threw her hip against him, checking him hard.

 

As Samson crashed to the ground, his tunic flew up and Hazel’s eyes widened when she saw his belly. “Oh my,” she gave a breathy laugh. “Two for the price of one. What a shame Dalthu couldn’t be here. Still, maybe he’ll find your body later. One can hope.”

 

Samson squeezed his eyes shut as Hazel raised her knife high. 

 

“Guh—” 

 

There was a sharp intake of breath. Samson peeked out. A sword point was sticking out of Hazel’s chest. Wide-eyed, her arms went rigid and she stabbed wildly in the air like a marionette with tangled strings. Open-mouthed, Hazel snarled her last gasps at Samson as blood filled her throat and spilled out. Her strength quickly left then, and Hazel collapsed to the ground, revealing her killer. The human soldier pulled his sword free and locked eyes with Samson.

 

“S—stay back,” Samson desperately searched for anything that could be used as a weapon. “I’m warning you . . . “

 

Ignoring Samson’s warning, the mercenary advanced quickly until he was on top of him. Then, much to Samson’s surprise, the soldier dropped to his knees, throwing his arms around him, holding him in a rocking embrace.

 

“It’s you . . . It’s really . . . I found you . . .”

 

The soldier threw off his helmet and Samson was greeted by a mop of curly brown hair, dimpled cheeks, and familiar brown eyes.

 

Samson breathed out. “Kane?” 

 

The world began to slip out of focus. Samson heard his brother calling for him. He could see him standing over him from what felt like the bottom of an impossibly deep well. Falling deeper now, Samson sank until he couldn’t hear his brother anymore, sank until he was wrapped in darkness. 

 

To be continued . . .