Chapter 18 Aurora
AURORA
The roar Othic unleashes is not the sound of a man. It is a physical force, a blast of sound so primal and full of rage it shakes the dust from the rafters. It is the sound of a god of war, and it splits the night.
I am in the hayloft, peering over the edge, my heart trying to escape my chest.
Below, the slavers jolt awake. They sit up, their eyes wild and unfocused, completely disoriented, blinded by the darkness, their hands fumbling for weapons that are no longer there.
"NOW!" I shriek, my voice a thin, useless echo under his roar.
The two slavers by the fire do not even have time to stand. The freed women are on them. The older woman, the one Othic spoke to, is in the lead. She does not scream. She just raises the rusted broadsword over her head with both hands and brings it down on the neck of the man closest to her.
The other women are not silent. They are a wave of high-pitched, shrieking rage. They swarm the second slaver, their clubs and pitchforks rising and falling. It is not a battle; it is a butchering. It is a savage, desperate, and beautiful justice.
"What the—" Tars bellows, scrambling to his feet, his eyes wide as he sees his men being slaughtered. He sees the empty, open cage. He sees the mob of furious, armed women.
And then he sees Othic, standing by the wagon, his massive, healed body now a towering silhouette against the firelight.
"You!" Tars roars, his face turning purple. He ignores the women. He sees the true threat. He and Jax, the lanky one, draw their own swords.
Tars lunges at Othic.
Othic is unarmed, but he is not the victim from the Eelry gate. He is a mountain of coiled, ready muscle. He ducks under the first wild swing, the wind of the blade hissing past his head, and drives a powerful kick into Tars's knee. The slaver howls as his leg buckles.
My heart leaps. He is winning. He is strong.
A thud from the ladder to my left.
My head snaps around. Jax.
He ignored the chaos. He ignored Othic. He is coming for me.
His grime-caked fingers grip the edge of the hayloft, his face twisted in a grin as he sees me. "Found you, little rabbit." He begins to scramble up, his own rusted knife in his teeth.
He is coming for me. Tars is getting to his feet, about to charge Othic again. They are going to kill us both.
I scramble back, my hands finding the rusty, three-pronged hay-hook Othic had pointed out to me days ago. It is heavy, balanced, and sharp.
The slaver’s head appears over the edge of the loft. He sees me, and his grin widens, his eyes dropping to my torn tunic. "Yes, come to me, little..."
I scream.
It is not a sound of fear. It is a raw, guttural shriek of pure, undiluted rage, a sound I did not know my body could produce.
I don’t wait for a lunge. I do not hesitate. I lift the heavy hay-hook with both hands and jam it down, putting all of my weight, all of my terror, all of my hatred for Privis and Krell and all of them into one, single, vicious thrust.
He does not have time to block. He only has time to be surprised.
The rusty tines hit his face. I feel a sickening, soft pop as they find his eye, sinking deep.
His shriek is unholy. It is a sound that splits the night, a high-pitched, wet wail of agony that drowns out the weeping of the other women. He rears back, his hands flying to his ruined face, a fountain of black blood erupting from the socket.
He stumbles backward on the ladder, loses his footing, and falls, a heavy, screaming weight, to the barn floor twelve feet below.
He hits the packed earth with a thud so heavy it shakes the loft. His broadsword, the one he was carrying, clatters loudly on the dirt floor, skittering to a stop just feet from where Othic is.
Tars, his sword raised, his face registering confusion, turns.
He turns his head for a split second toward the sound of his man’s ungodly shriek.
It is all Othic needs.
I see him move. He is not a wounded victim. He is a predator. He dives, his massive body twisting with a speed that defies his size. His hand closes around the hilt of Jax's dropped broadsword.
Tars whips back, his eyes wide, realizing his mistake. He swings his sword down, but he is too late.
Othic is on his feet, the heavy, clumsy human sword held in two massive fists.
The clang of human steel on human steel rings through the barn.
Othic is a wall of iron. Tars is drunk, clumsy, and enraged. He swings his sword in wide, sloppy arcs, screaming curses. "I'll wear your tusks as a necklace!"
Othic does not answer. He does not wait. He does not just defend. He attacks. He is Iron Tusk. He presses forward, his movements economical and brutal. He smashes Tars's guard wide with a powerful parry that sends the slaver stumbling back.
Tars, mad with zhisk and seeing his men dead, overextends. He lunges, a sloppy, desperate stab aimed at Othic’s gut.
Othic does not dodge. He simply turns his hip, letting the blade scrape harmlessly past his leather-bound side, and in that same instant, he brings his own sword around in a devastating, two-handed arc.
It is not a swing. It is an execution. The heavy blade, backed by all of Othic’s strength, cleaves straight through the slaver's neck.
Tars freezes, his eyes wide with a final, stupid surprise. His head topples. His body drops like a stone.
The barn is suddenly, shockingly silent.
The singular sound is the soft, hysterical weeping of the freed women, huddled by their empty cage. The smell of fresh, human blood is thick in the air, mingling with the hay.
Othic stands over Tars's body for a long second, his massive chest heaving. Then he slumps, the adrenaline leaving him. The borrowed sword falls from his nerveless fingers and thuds into the dirt. He staggers, leaning heavily against the wagon cage, his head bowed.
I scramble down the ladder, my knees so weak I almost fall. I run to him, my hands flying to his face, to his chest. "Othic. Othic, you are... you are..."
He is alive.
He covers my small, shaking hands with his own. They are hot, slick with Tars's blood.
The other women—eight of them, their faces streaked with blood and tears—stay back, huddled by the cage, staring at us. They are staring at the orc, at the four dead slavers, at me.
One of them, the older woman, whispers, her voice trembling. "The... the monster. He saved us."
I look up at them, my face streaked with dirt and the blood of the man I killed. I am shaking, but I am not afraid.
"No," I say, my voice clear and strong in the quiet barn. "We saved ourselves."
I look back at Othic, my hands on his chest, feeling the steady, powerful beat of his heart. "And his name is Othic."