Chapter 38 Galthan
GALTHAN
The roar that tears from my throat doesn't sound like anything human or orc—it's the sound of something breaking apart from the inside. My vision tunnels until all I can see is Thalia, flames licking at her legs, her mouth open in a scream that cuts through every other sound in the valley.
The fire climbs her body like it's alive, hungry, and I feel each lick of flame as if it's searing my own flesh. My chest constricts until I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but stumble forward through the chaos.
"Thalia!" Her name rips from my lungs, raw and desperate.
But as I lunge toward her, something massive crashes into my skull from behind.
Stars explode across my vision as a Vaskyr war hammer connects with the back of my head, sending me sprawling face-first into the mud.
The world tilts sideways, sounds becoming muffled and distant.
Blood streams down my neck, warm and sticky.
"Stay down, traitor," someone snarls above me.
I try to push myself up, but my arms shake like newborn colts. The blow has scrambled my thoughts, made everything slow and thick like moving through honey. Through the ringing in my ears, I can still hear her screaming—that horrible, keening sound that tears pieces from my soul with each note.
"Get up," I growl to myself, spitting blood and mud. "Get up, you worthless—"
My vision clears enough to see two orcs pushing through the crowd toward the pyre.
They look like the orcs who started the ambush, but they move with purpose that cuts through the surrounding chaos.
Relief floods through me for half a heartbeat—someone else sees what's happening, someone else will help her.
But then my blood turns to ice water.
They're not running to stop the fire. They're walking toward it with the steady pace of executioners approaching a scaffold. The one orc carries a curved blade that gleams orange in the firelight, while his companion hefts a war axe that could cleave a tree in two.
"No." The word comes out as barely a whisper, then builds to a bellow that makes my throat burn. "No!"
They're going to finish what Rytha started. Pull her from the flames just to gut her in front of everyone, make her death even more of a spectacle. Make sure she suffers before she dies.
I force myself to my knees, then my feet, swaying like a drunkard but moving forward. Each step sends spikes of pain through my skull, and the world keeps trying to tip sideways, but I don't care. Nothing matters except reaching her before those bastards do.
The orc with the curved blade reaches the pyre first. Without hesitation, he steps directly into the flames, his leather armor beginning to smoke as he reaches for Thalia's bonds. The other follows a heartbeat later, his massive frame blocking my view as they work to free her from the post.
"Don't touch her!" I roar, but my voice cracks with desperation instead of authority.
They're going to drag her somewhere private. Somewhere they can take their time with whatever sick punishment they have planned. My vision blurs—from the head wound or rage, I can't tell which—as I force my legs to move faster through the churning mud.
Thalia's screams cut off abruptly, and that silence is somehow worse than the sound. It means she's either unconscious from pain or—
A figure steps into my path—ash-gray skin, amber eyes wild with something beyond rage. Rytha blocks my way to the pyre, her ceremonial tattoos stark against skin flushed with madness.
"Galthan!" She grabs my arm, nails digging deep enough to draw blood. "Don't you see? She's gone! We can finally be together, like we were meant to—"
The words hit my ears like poison. While Thalia burns, this creature talks about destiny. About us.
My hands move before my mind catches up. One moment Rytha's mouth is moving, spilling more venom about our future, and the next my palms are on either side of her head. The twist comes sharp and clean—a sound like green wood snapping.
Her amber eyes go blank. Her body crumples.
I step over her corpse without a backward glance.
"Don't touch her!" I roar at the two orcs as they pull Thalia's limp form from the flames. Her clothes are charred, skin angry red in patches, but she's breathing. Unconscious, but breathing.
The orc with the curved blade looks up, exasperated. "We're trying to save her, you thick-skulled—"
"If not for us, the girl would be dead," the other cuts in, hefting Thalia over his shoulder like a sack of grain. His movements are careful despite the rough handling, avoiding the worst of her burns. "That's the only reason to trust us."
"Who are you?" I demand, blocking their path even as my skull pounds from the head wound. Blood still streams down my neck, but I don't care. "You expect me to trust you?"
The first orc rolls his eyes. "We don't have time for introductions. Half the valley wants her head, the other half thinks she's chosen. We're the second half. Either way, standing here gets her killed."
Around us, the chaos continues—orcs fighting orcs, humans with war paint cutting down warriors twice their size, the acrid smell of smoke and blood thick in the air. But these two move with purpose, like they've been planning this extraction for days.
"You're not Vaskyr," I observe, noting their unfamiliar armor markings. "Not Thorran either."
"Brilliant deduction," the second orc mutters. "Can we discuss genealogy after we're not surrounded by people trying to murder your mate?"
An arrow whistles past my ear, embedding in the ground where Rytha's body lies. More shouts echo from the direction of the tribal council tent—reinforcements coming.
The orc holding Thalia shifts her weight. "Decide now, war hero. Come with us, or watch her bleed out in the mud while you play twenty questions."