Chapter 17 Othic
OTHIC
Iam a coiled spring, wound so tight I feel my muscles ache with the need to act.
Below me, the barn stinks of human filth.
The greasy smell of their roasted meat, the sour tang of spilled zhisk, and the sharp, acidic odor of the women’s fear all combine into an aroma that is an insult to my senses.
My blood hums with its old power. My left arm, once a useless ruin, feels strong, the scar a tight, pulling reminder of Krell’s treachery. I am whole.
And I am hiding in a pile of hay.
The urge to simply drop from this loft, to feel my boots hit the earth and my hands close around a throat, is a physical, burning need. But I look at Aurora. She is a pale shadow beside me, her eyes fixed on the scene below, her face registering cold patience.
Her plan is madness. It relies on cowed, broken humans. But it is not the plan of a brute. It is the plan of a hunter. She is right. A roar and a charge will get me shot by crossbows. I hate this. This is not a charge. It is... skulking. But I will do it.
The day is a slow torture. The sun crawls, a golden dagger twisting in the dusty air. The slavers drink. Tars, the leader, is loud and stupid. The lanky one, Jax, is vicious, his laughter a wet, ugly sound. I watch them. I learn them.
My chance comes as the sun bleeds away. An older woman, her hair gray with terror, is shoved toward the well just outside the barn door. The slavers are arguing, their voices raised over the last of a zhisk skin. They are not watching.
Now.
I drop from the loft, landing in the deep shadow by the door. My bare feet make no sound on the packed earth. I am a shadow. She returns, her bucket heavy, her body shaking.
"Psst."
She freezes, her eyes going wide, her knuckles white on the bucket handle. She is about to scream.
"Do. Not. Scream." My voice is a low rumble, a blade in the quiet. "I am not your enemy."
I let her see me, the monster in the shadows.
"Tonight. When it is dark. I will open that cage." Her body is shaking so hard she spills water. "You must tell the others. When I open the cage, you do not run. You fight."
I point to the weapon pile by the fire. "Take those. Kill them."
She just stares, her mind frozen. I growl, low and impatient. I see the terror in her eyes, but then, something else joins it. A black, bottomless rage. She nods. Just once. She runs back to the wagon.
Night falls. The barn is dark, lit only by the dying red embers of their fire. The sound of their snores is a wet, rattling chorus. Tars, the leader, is slumped against the wagon wheel, his mouth open. Jax is a heap of limbs by the fire, his body twitching in a drunken sleep.
I drop from the loft. This time, I do not hide. I am the predator.
My bare feet land on the packed dirt floor with no more sound than a settling bag of grain. I am Iron Tusk. I glide through the shadows, the smell of unwashed human male sharp in my nostrils. My heart hammers a slow, heavy drumbeat against my ribs.
I loom over Tars. His heavy, spiked club is on the ground. On his belt, glinting in the faint ember-light, is the heavy iron key ring.
My hand reaches down. My fingers, deft and silent, close over the cold, heavy ring. The metal clinks softly, a tiny, sharp sound in the thick silence.
Tars grunts in his sleep, his body rolling, his hand swatting at his belt as if at a fly.
I freeze. I am a mountain of stone, my other hand ready to close on his throat and crush his windpipe if he wakes. He just snores, louder this time, a wet, gurgling sound, and settles.
I lift the ring, painfully slowly, from the leather hook. I have it.
I glide back from the slaver, the heavy keys cold in my fist. I move to the wagon cage.
The air here is thick with the smell of raw, human fear.
The women are awake, huddled in the back, their eyes wide, white moons in the darkness, tracking my every move.
They are looking at me like I am their death.
I put the key in the heavy, rusty lock. The sound of the iron grating as I turn it is deafening, as loud as a gunshot in the silent barn.
Jax groans by the fire and rolls over.
I hold my breath. He settles.
The lock clicks open. I pull the heavy iron pin and slowly, silently, swing the cage door open. The creak of the hinges is a scream in the night. The women shrink back, a mass of pale, terrified faces.
Gods, move!
I point at the sleeping slavers. Then I point to the pile of weapons. "Take them," I whisper, my voice a guttural rumble.
They stare, paralyzed. I see Aurora in the loft, her hands pressed to her mouth. I am out of time.
I reach into the cage, grab the arm of the older woman—the one from the well—and pull her out. She stumbles. I shove the hilt of a rusted broadsword from the pile into her hand.
Her face breaks. The fear is replaced by that same black rage. She nods. She turns to the other women. "Now!" she hisses.
Then another woman moves. And another. They are armed. Eight women, their hands shaking, holding rusted swords and clubs. They look pathetic. They look terrifying. They are a pack of starving worgs that have just cornered their prey. They look to me. The monster. Their leader.
They are ready.
I look at the two by the fire. I look at Tars and Jax. I will not let this be a quiet assassination. This is a release. This is vengeance.
I fill my lungs, my healed shoulders broad and strong.
I roar.
It is a full-bodied, terrifying sound of orcish rage, a sound I have not used since the shipwreck. It is the loyal sound of my clan, of my blood, of my stolen pride.
The slavers jolt awake. They sit up, their eyes wild and unfocused, completely disoriented, blinded by the darkness, reaching for weapons that are no longer there.
"NOW!" Aurora shrieks from the hayloft.
The slavers by the fire do not even have time to stand. The freed women are on them. The barn erupts into a symphony of screams and steel.