Chapter 8 Aurora
AURORA
We burst from the narrow, winding street into the open courtyard before the North Gate. The sudden space is terrifying. There is no cover. Just a hundred yards of churned, muddy ground, slick with filth, standing between us and the black iron arch of the gate.
My lungs are on fire. My own breathing is a raw, ragged gasp in my throat, lost under the heavy thud-thud-thud of Othic’s boots. He’s not just running; he's dragging me, his massive hand locked on my arm, his strides pulling me off my feet.
The screams of the Lowtown are behind us now, replaced by the sharp, military shouts of Krell’s men as they pour into the courtyard after us.
We're exposed. Oh gods, we're exposed.
My legs feel like water. I'm going to fall. I'm going to slow him down. He’s a massive, unmissable target, and I'm the anchor tied to his leg. He's going to die because I can't keep up.
"Tusk! Traitor!"
The voice is a sharp, elven snarl, echoing from above. My head snaps up.
On the stone wall above the North Gate, Krell is standing. He's silhouetted against the dark Eelry sky, his black lacquered armor gleaming in the torchlight. He's not with the men chasing us. He was waiting for us. He knew.
He has a heavy crossbow in his hands. It’s leveled.
He's trapped us.
Othic sees him. He roars, a sound of pure, defiant fury, and pulls me harder, zigzagging across the mud. But the space is too open. There's nowhere to hide.
I see Krell adjust his aim. He's not looking at Othic. His eyes, two cold, pale chips of ice, are locked on me. He’s smart. He knows he can’t bring the beast down with one bolt. But he can bring me down. He knows how to stop Othic.
A sharp, vicious hiss cuts the air.
It’s not aimed at Othic. It’s aimed at my chest.
Time stops.
Othic roars my name—a sound so raw and guttural it tears from his throat: "Aurora!"
He doesn't just push me. He throws me. His wounded left arm smashes into my side like a battering ram, his strength absolute, sending me flying off my feet. I hit the ground hard, my shoulder and hip slamming into the muddy cobblestones, the impact driving the air from my lungs in a painful whoosh.
THUNK.
The sound is heavy, wet, sickening. I scramble, gasping, and look back.
Othic is still standing. But he's rigid, his back slammed against the stone wall of a tannery. A black-fletched crossbow bolt is sticking out of his left shoulder, high up, buried deep in the thick, gray-green muscle near his neck.
He took it for me. He saw it. He turned his body, took the bolt that was meant for my heart, and it pinned him to the wall.
"Othic!" I scream, the word tearing from my throat, raw with a terror that is all for him.
He doesn't answer. He just groans, a low, furious sound, like a mountain shifting. His head is bowed, his body trembling with a force I can't understand.
"I have him!" Krell screams from the wall, reloading. "Pin him! Pin the traitor!"
Othic lifts his head. His amber eyes are not filled with pain. They are blazing with a pure, murderous light, and they are locked on Krell.
He reaches up with his massive right hand. He doesn't wince. He doesn't hesitate. He grips the shaft of the bolt. He roars and rips the entire, blood-soaked piece of wood and steel from his own body.
Dark, almost black blood gushes from the wound. He throws the bolt to the ground.
Then, before Krell can even aim, Othic unslings his own axe.
With a single, fluid motion born of pure rage, he hurls it.
The heavy orc axe spins end-over-end, a blur of dark steel, screaming through the air.
It smashes into the stone wall beside Krell, shattering the stone, sending chips flying.
Krell shouts, not in triumph, but in terror, diving for cover.
Othic doesn't wait to see if he hit. He lunges for me, his wounded arm already hanging useless. He grabs my arm. "Run!"
He's bleeding. Gods, he's bleeding. A dark, thick stream is running down his chest, soaking his tunic, dripping from his fingers. But he doesn't slow. He's dragging me again, his strength undiminished, fueled by an adrenaline I can't even comprehend.
I can smell his blood. It's coppery and hot, thick in the air.
We're at the gate. The guards, seeing a seven-foot, bleeding orc charge them, have formed a pathetic, shaking spear-wall. "Halt! Halt in the name of Lord Privis!"
Othic doesn't even look at them. He's bleeding. He's slowing down. He's lost his axe. He can't fight them all.
Behind us, Krell is screaming from the wall, "He's wounded! Take him! Take the beast!"
Othic stumbles, his bad shoulder causing him to weave. He leans on me, just for a second, his weight almost crushing me, and I feel the hot, wet soak of his blood against my side. He's dying. He's dying for me. The guilt is a physical sickness, choking me, but there is no time for it.
He's trapped between the spears in front and Krell's men behind. He shoves me forward, toward the guards, toward the bottleneck. He's unarmed, bleeding, but he is still a wall between me and the army chasing us.