Chapter 2 Galthan
GALTHAN
The mountain pass cuts through stone like a knife wound, narrow and treacherous beneath our horses' hooves.
Mud cakes thick on my boots, the kind that clings like guilt and weighs down every step.
Three days of rain have turned the eastern borders into a quagmire, but at least the raiders have moved on.
My war party trails behind me in single file—eight seasoned warriors who've bled alongside me through countless skirmishes. The silence stretches comfortable between us, broken only by the steady clop of hooves and the occasional curse when someone's mount stumbles on loose rock.
"So," Borgak finally speaks up, his voice echoing off the canyon walls. "Tomorrow you meet your bride."
The others perk up like wolves scenting fresh meat. I should have known this was coming.
"Heard she's Vaskyr nobility," adds Threk, spitting into the mud. "Fancy bloodline and all."
"Fancy indeed," Borgak continues, warming to his subject. "Daughter of a chieftain who lets humans sit at his table. Practically makes them part of the family."
I grunt, keeping my eyes fixed on the path ahead. The last thing I need is my warriors questioning Thorran's alliance based on Vaskyr's... peculiar customs.
"Nothing friendly about humans," I say, voice flat as hammered steel. "At least not where we come from."
Jorik laughs, a harsh bark that bounces off the stone walls. "Remember that human settlement we cleared last spring? They begged like children when the steel came out."
"Weak as water," agrees Threk. "No wonder Vaskyr coddles them—probably need the extra hands for women's work."
The familiar contempt in their voices settles something in my chest. This is what I understand—the clear lines between strength and weakness, orc and human, predator and prey.
"Your bride's probably never seen a real warrior," Borgak continues, grinning wide enough to show his gold-capped tooth. "Bet she expects poetry and flower crowns."
"She'll learn different quick enough," Jorik chimes in, his scarred face splitting into a leer. "Our Galthan's got a reputation for breaking things that need breaking."
The others roar with laughter, their voices echoing through the pass like thunder. Threk slaps his knee hard enough to make his horse sidestep.
"You'll be breaking them in soon enough," he crows, and the laughter doubles.
I let them have their fun. Better they think of me as the same iron-fisted warrior who's led them through a dozen campaigns than wonder if marriage might soften their war chief. The alliance needs strength, not sentiment.
The mud squelches beneath us as we continue our descent, and I push thoughts of tomorrow from my mind. Whatever waits in the neutral valley, it won't change who I am.
The arrow whistles past my ear close enough to trim hair. I wheel my mount around, battle instincts flaring to life as more shafts pepper the hillside around us.
"Ambush!" Borgak roars, drawing steel as masked figures pour from the rocks above like angry hornets.
My axe clears its sheath in one fluid motion.
The first raider drops from an outcrop directly onto Threk's horse, blade flashing.
I spur forward, bringing my weapon around in a brutal arc that catches the bastard across the skull.
Bone cracks like kindling, and he tumbles into the mud with half his head missing.
"Form up!" I bellow, but chaos has already claimed us. Horses scream and rear as more arrows find their marks. Jorik's mount goes down hard, pinning his leg beneath its thrashing bulk.
A curved blade slices toward my throat. I lean back, feeling steel part the air where my neck was, then drive my knee into the attacker's ribs. He doubles over, gasping, and my axe takes him in the spine. Blood sprays across my braids as he collapses.
"Behind you!" Threk's warning comes too late.
Fire explodes across my ribs as a jagged sword finds flesh between my armor plates. The blade parts skin and muscle like parchment, sending hot blood streaming down my side. I grunt, spinning to face my attacker—a lean orc with clan markings I don't recognize.
"Thorran dog," he snarls, raising his weapon for another strike.
My fist connects with his jaw before he can bring the blade down. Tusks snap. He staggers backward, spitting teeth and blood, then comes at me again with desperate fury.
This time I'm ready. My axe bites deep into his shoulder, cleaving through bone and sinew until it lodges against his ribs. He screams, a high keening sound that cuts through the battle din. I wrench the weapon free, and he drops like a felled tree.
The world tilts sideways. Blood loss, maybe, or the blow to my head I didn't notice taking. My warriors scatter in different directions, some pursuing fleeing raiders, others helping wounded comrades. Borgak's voice echoes from somewhere to my left, but the words blur together like water.
My horse is gone—dead or fled, I can't tell. The hillside spins beneath my boots as I stumble away from the carnage, one hand pressed against the gaping wound in my side. Each step sends fresh blood seeping between my fingers.
The mountain pass stretches ahead, empty and silent except for my labored breathing. Behind me, the sounds of battle fade to nothing.