Chapter Fourteen
Andre
Andre’s heart raced as he found himself riding along the bottom of a cliff wall. He didn’t know the terrain of Vale’s deep south and had hoped that by riding north, he’d soon find familiar territory. Then steep rock had cut off his path, forcing him to veer east.
He followed the cliff, the shakiness in his limbs making riding difficult, so he got off Chestnut, keeping a hand on his neck as he led him along the wall. He’d driven him hard in the first hour of his flight, exhausting him. Now, they walked side by side, riding no longer increasing his speed.
If only the cliff broke soon. Andre suspected he’d come too far east to reach the villages of Lord Aranin’s territory. Fortunately, Lord Dalton’s land was right there. If he found the River Somer and followed it north, he could get help.
Running as far away from the orcs as possible was crucial. Andre had no idea what they did to escaped mates. There had to be a punishment.
And if he got away… How long would his body’s craving for Farigoth last?
It had only been a few short hours since Farigoth had taken him, and he already felt the withdrawal.
His body demanded to be reunited with his mate.
How was he supposed to get through the night, the next day and the day after that?
Every fiber of his being was crying out for his mate, desperate to be filled and sated. Could he wean himself off Farigoth?
A twig snapped.
Andre froze, stopping Chestnut, praying he’d be quiet.
Leaves rustled. He held his breath.
Just the wind?
The steady drum of heavy footsteps hit the forest floor. Distant, but coming closer. Impossible to tell from where.
To the south, shrieking sparrows burst from the trees.
Fear shot through Andre. He had to get away. Fast. Trapped against the cliff face, there was nowhere to go but to continue on his path.
Andre snuck forward, thanking the Lady that the soft, mossy ground swallowed the clip-clop of Chestnut’s hooves. Hypersensitive to the smallest sound, he listened for signs of the orcs, heart in his mouth.
The horde broke through the thicket from all sides.
Trembling, Andre pressed his back against the rock. The cold, hard stone would do nothing to protect him. He was defenseless and without weapons. There was no stopping what would happen next.
Farigoth emerged from the ranks of the orcs, the greenery brushing his giant form as he advanced.
Andre shook like a leaf. He tried to make himself small, knowing full well it wouldn’t help. Cold sweat beaded on his brow.
He’d challenged Farigoth in front of the tribe. Farigoth wouldn’t kill him like he’d killed Serckor—would he?
Twenty feet from Andre, Farigoth stopped. Regarded him. Frowned. “You don’t need to be afraid.”
How could he not be? Andre pressed against the wall, willing himself to melt into it. Chestnut, jittery, shook wildly, neighing.
Farigoth didn’t come closer. His hands went to his weapon belt.
Andre suppressed a shriek. He would try to maintain his dignity throughout what was to come.
Farigoth undid the belt and dropped it. He took a step forward, slowly, like one would approach a spooked animal they were trying to catch.
Andre didn’t dare to breathe.
Another step. The weapon belt was now outside Farigoth’s reach.
In a controlled, unhurried motion, Farigoth sank to his knees and pressed his brow to the forest floor. His voice boomed through the woods, a startled deer jumping away. “Kneel for the high mate.”
Behind him, the tribe followed suit, descending to the ground, heads down.
Even on his knees, Farigoth was huge, a boulder of an orc. “I have failed you, High Mate, and brought great shame upon myself. The tribe has come to witness my repentance.”
Andre didn’t believe his ears. “You’re not here to punish me?”
“Punish you?” Farigoth looked up, aghast. Then, as though remembering his place, he lowered his face to the ground once more.
“A worm cannot punish a swan.” He swallowed thickly.
“An orc’s first duty is to his mate, and I’ve dishonored myself and the tribe by appalling you so profoundly that you left.
I am unworthy of your forgiveness, and yet, I beg you to return.
” He hesitated. “I did not mean to upset you.”
Andre’s gaze drifted over the rows of prostrated orcs. Farigoth had come to make amends. Andre believed him. If Farigoth wanted him dead, captured or beaten, he already would be. There’d be no need for this.
Summoning his courage, Andre stepped away from the cliff and told the horde, “Leave us.”
To his surprise, the orcs, keeping their heads lowered, retreated in a crouch, none turning their backs on him. When they’d disappeared into the forest, Andre returned his attention to Farigoth’s kneeling shape.
“Why were you so brutal? Couldn’t you have shown mercy? Serckor begged for his life. It would’ve cost you nothing to spare him.”
“It might’ve cost me my life,” Farigoth mumbled into the ground.
“Look at me when you talk to me!” Andre flinched at the harshness in his own voice.
Farigoth lifted but remained on his knees. Fear and worry shone in his eyes. “I want to apologize.”
“What I want,” Andre said, unknown wrath and courage blooming inside him as he stepped forward, “is for you to never kill an opponent begging for mercy again. Regardless of whether I’m watching.”
“I won’t. I’m going to do whatever is necessary to restore your trust in me.”
Good, Andre thought. The tide had turned. “There will be no more whippings. Or running the gauntlet. If you must perform corporal punishment, have them paddled. But not the whip!”
“No, not the whip, not the gauntlet.”
“It’s barbaric. I don’t want you to be barbaric. And you are to find Serckor’s family and return his ashes to them. You will pay them in cattle and gold for the brother and son they’ve lost.”
“Yes.”
“Now stop groveling and sit with me so we can talk like men.”
It was the first command Farigoth didn’t immediately obey. He crawled to Andre and bowed deeply, head to the ground. Slowly, he placed a kiss on Andre’s calf, just above his ankle bracelet.
“I will do better,” Farigoth promised. “I want to be worthy of you.” He sat on the moss, Andre settling in a yard away.
“You scared me,” Andre said, pulling his cloak tight around his chest. “You really, really scared me. I’ve never been so scared in my life.”
Farigoth studied the forest floor between them. “I am very sorry. It was not my intention.”
“Why did you kill Serckor when he was begging for mercy?” Andre’s voice was thick with grief. He hadn’t known Serckor personally, but seeing him squashed had rattled him. No intelligent creature deserved to be crushed like a bug.
Farigoth’s posture crumbled. “Because it had to be done. A challenger is either victorious and will lead the tribe, or he perishes at the hands of the incumbent. There was a time when things were different. My father was a merciful chief known for his wisdom and kindness, not for ruthlessness. He only remained chief for as long as he did due to sheer physical strength. He was unbeatable in combat. A force of nature. I saw him fight many times. It was a sight to behold, my father slicing through enemies like wheat stalks, cutting them down with his scythe of death. But despite his strength, he was not respected. He had become soft after attaining chiefship—by killing the old chief, he’d robbed a son of his father, leaving the pup an orphan to be cared for by strangers.
He hated killing after that. He was mocked for his softness and his mercy.
Later, when I was old enough to understand, it worried me because it brought on many rivals—they could challenge him to combat without fear of death.
His position was constantly in question.
If any of his challengers had overpowered him, they would’ve killed him.
No question. His kindness destabilized the tribe.
Only a fierce, ruthless leader can control the horde. No orc will accept a weak chief.”
“And you don’t want to be disrespected like your father, is that it? Farigoth, the orcs fear you. You only have to look at them to know they believe it was stupid of Serckor to challenge you. Everyone knew you would win.”
“The position of chief cannot be inherited.” Farigoth’s finger drew agitated patterns in the moss. “It can only be won in combat.” The words hung in the air.
Andre reared back, coldness expanding in his stomach. In the time of Farigoth’s father, the tribe had become unstable. No one had respected the old chief. The unruly horde would’ve caused chaos beyond imagination. And Farigoth… “You… you killed your father?”
Farigoth’s head snapped up. “No!” Shock widened his eyes. “No! I would have never!”
“What happened?”
“When I was eighteen, another chief challenged him. It was a tough fight, but my father prevailed. The other chief begged for his life, and my father spared him. But when he turned to celebrate his victory, the other orc pounced, gripped his head and, with one brutal twist, broke his neck. I watched it happen, going from elation over my father’s victory to utter shock. ”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
“He’d killed my father and was now chief of the tribe.
The injustice was unbearable. My father’s chiefship had been robbed by a coward.
I roared with grief and rage, and I challenged him to a fight to the death.
I…” Farigoth glanced at Andre, then looked down, ashamed.
“I wasn’t gentle with him.” A euphemism if Andre had ever heard one.
“I won and became the chief of not one but two tribes. It was how I started uniting the orcs of the Turian lands.”
Andre chewed on it. Farigoth’s past explained why he killed and maimed. Losing his father at eighteen and in such a treacherous way couldn’t have been easy. What Farigoth had done to Serckor didn’t sit right with him, but he empathized with Farigoth’s violence-drenched youth.