Chapter Twelve
Andre
The rise of a commotion stopped Andre on his way to Chestnut. A throng of orcs crowded around the center of camp. Shouts rang out—Farigoth had been challenged for chiefship. Panicked, he ran over, pushing his way through the circle of orcs.
The sight of Farigoth and Serckor locked in combat had him going cold. He stood frozen in place, watching with mounting terror as the orcs swung at each other. Bones were crushed, flesh bruised. Farigoth knocked a tusk from Serckor’s mouth, which neither seemed to notice. Blood splattered.
Despite Farigoth’s gargantuan size and indomitable strength, Andre feared for him. Serckor fought well, landing hit after hit. Then the tide of combat turned.
Andre’s relief was short-lived. Farigoth fought like a bear mauling its prey. The match wasn’t even close. It was slaughter.
In the grip of panic, Andre couldn’t make himself look away from the gruesome scene. Serckor pleaded for his life. In a flash, Andre saw his aunt begging those bandits to spare her and then the ruthless cut through her throat, blood spraying.
“Don’t kill him,” Andre said, but horror was locking his throat, leaving him unable to raise his voice. His words didn’t carry.
Serckor’s desperate begging rang shrill in his ear. Farigoth didn’t acknowledge it. He squashed Serckor like an overripe fruit.
Andre was about to be sick. This was a grim reminder that orc culture wasn’t just about sex. It was also about violence. He’d known how Farigoth had come to power. But seeing it for himself was something else.
Farigoth raised his fist, dripping blood, skull fragments and pulpy brain tissue. The orcs howled their approval. Whipping a disobedient soldier was one thing; this was something else. It was unacceptable. It went against Andre’s very humanity, his morals, his faith in the Lady.
Farigoth’s eyes, wild with bloodlust, landed on him.
“Why did you kill him?” Andre asked. “He was begging for his life! Couldn’t you have exiled him? How can you live with yourself?”
Farigoth moved forward, face grim. Menacing. Andre recoiled. He took a step back. Then another.
He shouldn’t have said that. Not in front of the tribe. He should’ve kept his mouth shut and talked to Farigoth in private. But he couldn’t stay silent after what had played out. The wrongness of it had pulled the words from his mouth. And now Andre had publicly defied the chief.
Fear shot through him. He had disregarded the obedience orcs demanded from their mates. There would be punishment. With a violent shudder, Andre thought of the whip.
Farigoth advanced. Animal instinct took over. Like prey fleeing from a predator, Andre ran, shoving through the mass of orcs.
He dashed to the paddock.
His hands shook as he tried to unlock the gate, jittery fingers fumbling with the lock. He cursed when his hand slipped and banged against the wooden post, drawing a splinter.
At the next tug, the lock came undone. Andre threw the gate open and ran for Chestnut. It spooked the other horses. Chestnut, picking up on the nervous energy, scuttled in place, squirming.
Andre leaped onto his gelding. He bolted out the gate, not bothering to close it. If the rest of the horses ran free, so be it. It’d create confusion, buying him time to escape.
Images of Serckor’s skull shattering under Farigoth’s fist replayed in Andre’s mind. He’d known orcs were warriors. He hadn’t known they were butchers. And Farigoth was the most ruthless of them.
This was why they called him the Ravager.
Andre steered Chestnut north, pressing him into a gallop.
Had mating Farigoth been the mistake of his life? Andre had gotten what he wanted—a giant brute with a giant cock. He might’ve been satisfied for the first time in his life, but this… This wasn’t it. He should’ve seen the signs.
Andre screamed when Farigoth appeared in his path, eyes crazed, blood splattered across his front. Chestnut reared, threatening to throw Andre off. He hung on for dear life.
Farigoth said something, but Andre didn’t hear.
The orc reached out with a bloodied hand, slivers of bone clinging to it.
Andre flinched. Something flicked across Farigoth’s face, too fast for Andre to read.
The rational part of his mind told him that he was in shock, but it didn’t get through to him. In his fear, thinking was impossible.
He had to get away.
He gripped Chestnut’s mane and drove his heels into his flanks, sending him bolting out of camp.
Farigoth’s thumping footsteps raced after them.
Chestnut was a good horse, a hot-blooded thoroughbred of excellent pedigree. He tore ahead, gaining distance.
Chestnut dashed into the forest. Andre pressed himself to his neck, dodging the greenery.
When he glanced back, no one was in pursuit. But the way Farigoth had looked at him was unsettling. Farigoth was going to hunt him down.