Chapter 5 Othic
OTHIC
Her whisper, "I... I want to disappear," echoes in the cramped, cold room.
It’s the sound of a lock clicking into place. A trap snapping shut. But I am not the one caught. I am the one who has been set free.
My fate, which has been a gray, muddy, purposeless road for six months, is now a white-hot, razor-thin line. It leads from this moment to her survival. Everything else is ash.
The fated mate connection, the thing I have been crushing, poisoning with ipia and self-loathing, roars in victory. It floods my veins with a strength that has nothing to do with muscle. Mine. To protect.
My mercenary's code, my shame, my hollow justifications—it all burns away. I failed my clan. I failed my brothers. I will not fail her.
"Done," I say, and the word is an oath.
The sound of shouting erupts from the main hall. Privis is getting impatient. His guards are coming.
I don't wait. I grab her arm. Her skin is so small, so warm, it almost burns me. "This way. Now. Not the main hall."
She gasps as my massive, calloused hand engulfs her small bicep, but she doesn't pull away. I don't give her time to think. I pull her from the room, out into the servant's passage. The air here is cold, smelling of stale food and fear.
I am a traitor. I have no coin, no home, no allies. I have only this small, fragile human and the army of a Dark Elf Lord at my back.
For the first time in six months, I feel like a warrior again.
We move fast, my heavy boots thudding on the stone floor, her lighter, quicker footsteps a desperate echo beside me. I'm heading for the barracks exit, the one that leads to the kitchens and then out into the Eelry night. It’s the fastest way out of this gods-damned fortress.
We round the junction that connects the servant's wing to the barracks, and I stop dead, shoving her behind my massive body with one arm.
Torchlight flares ahead, glinting off polished leather and drawn steel.
Krell. My mercenary captain. He's here, flanked by Tamlin and Ghor. My own squad. They aren't in their cups; they're in full armor, their faces grim. They were waiting for me.
Krell grins, a wet, ugly flash of filed teeth in the torchlight. "Well, well. Look at this, boys. The Tusk has a new pet." He jerks his chin at Aurora, who is trying to hide behind my back. "Or did you just get impatient, Tusk? Decided to take the Master's toy for yourself?"
"He's drunk," Tamlin snickers, hefting his mace. "Lost his mind."
"He knows the order," Krell says, his voice losing its humor. He takes a step forward, his hand on the hilt of his own broadsword. "The Master is waiting for his 'Lady Doll,' orc. He sent us to make sure you didn't... get confused. Give her to us. Go back to your post. We can forget this happened."
I look at Krell. I look at the elf I've shared zhisk with. The man I’ve fought beside. He is a killer. A slaver. He's d-fam filth who bought his way into a mercenary’s life, and he thinks he can give me an order.
"She is not for him," I growl, my voice a low, tectonic rumble in the narrow hall.
Krell's grin vanishes. His eyes go flat and cold. "Don't be a fool, Tusk. She's human. She's a piece of meat with a pretty face. She's not worth the ipia Privis pays."
He's right. She's not worth the coin. She's worth everything.
I shove Aurora back toward the passage we came from, keeping my body between her and them. "Stay behind me."
"So that's it," Krell hisses. He draws his sword. "Traitor."
"She is mine," I roar.
I don't wait for them. I attack. This isn't a raid; it's a betrayal. I know how they fight. Krell is fast. Tamlin is a brute with the mace. Ghor is a coward who likes to flank.
I go for Tamlin first. He raises his mace, expecting me to meet it with my axe. I don't. I drop my shoulder and charge, smashing my tusk into his throat with all my weight behind it. He makes a wet, gurgling sound, his eyes wide with shock as his windpipe collapses. He drops.
Krell screams in rage, swinging his broadsword at my head. I duck, the wind of the blade hissing over my scalp. I don't use my axe. This is personal. I ram my fist into his gut, feeling his ribs crack. He folds, vomiting.
Ghor, the coward, tries to run. He turns to sprint back toward the main hall, to the alarm bell.
Ghor is running. "Tusk's gone mad! Traitor! To the bell!"
I can't let him.
I rip my axe from my back-sheath. I don't hesitate. I hurl it. The sound of the heavy axe spinning end-over-end is a vicious whoosh in the narrow hall. It buries itself deep in Ghor's spine with a wet, sickening thunk. He drops like a sack of stones, his shout cut short.
But it's too late.
Another guard, one I hadn't seen, leans out from the main hall, his eyes wide with terror. He sees me. He sees Krell gurgling on the floor. He sees Ghor with my axe in his back.
He doesn't fight. He just screams and hammers the magical alarm rune on the wall.
The high, shrill, shriek of the estate's alarm begins to wail. A deafening, magical sound that means the gates are sealed. The entire garrison is awake.
Done. No going back. Ever.
I yank my axe free from Ghor's back. Krell is on the floor, conscious, clutching his broken ribs and staring at me with pure, unadulterated hatred.
I turn to Aurora. She is pale as bone, her small hand pressed to her mouth, but she hasn't screamed. She is a survivor.
There is no time. I grab her hand. Her skin is small and cold, instantly lost in my massive, bloody, calloused grip.
"We have to go. Now."
I don't wait for her to answer. I pull her, dragging her with me. Not toward the barracks exit—it'll be swarming. I go the other way, deeper into the servant's area, toward the main kitchens.
Behind us, I hear the thud of heavy guard boots on the marble. They're already on our trail.
We burst into the kitchens. The night-staff—a few human cooks and elven scullery maids—scream and scatter as I charge through, pulling Aurora behind me.
I ignore them. I head straight for the back wall, for the massive, thousand-pound stone pantry shelf, a relic from Lord Tull's time.
"Where are we going?" she gasps, stumbling to keep up with my ground-eating strides.
"Down."
I shove the massive shelf aside with a groan of straining muscle and scraping stone. Behind it is a black, gaping hole. The original, buried sewer tunnels of Eelry, built long before Privis bought his title.
The smell hits us—a putrid wave of cold, damp earth, old sewage, and the faint, sour reek of the city's underbelly.
She recoils. "Gods..."
"They'll have the estate gates locked," I growl, pulling her toward the blackness. "This gets us under the wall and into the city slums. It's our only chance."
I drop into the darkness first, landing with a heavy splash in the ankle-deep filth below. I turn and catch her as she drops, lifting her down as if she weighs nothing.
Above us, I hear the guards smash into the kitchen. "They're in the tunnels! Seal the exits!"
I don't look back. I just pull her into the suffocating dark, and run.