Chapter 39 Galthan
GALTHAN
The choice isn't really a choice at all. Thalia's breathing is shallow, her skin mottled with angry burns, and the smell of charred flesh makes my stomach clench. Every second we stand here is another second closer to her death.
I reach out, and the orc holding her transfers her limp form to my arms. She weighs almost nothing—too light, like the flames have consumed more than just her clothes.
Her head lolls against my chest, dark hair singed at the ends, and I can feel the heat radiating from her burns through what's left of her shirt.
"Her name," I demand, adjusting her carefully so her injured leg doesn't drag. "If we're doing this, I need to know who you are."
The orc with the curved blade wipes blood from a fresh cut on his cheek. "Vargath. And that's all the introduction you get until we're somewhere that doesn't reek of politics and blood."
Vargath cups his hands around his mouth, his voice booming over the chaos. "Move! We have her! Get out, now!"
The call ripples through the crowd, and suddenly I see them—other orcs I hadn't noticed before, scattered through the melee like seeds in soil. They converge on our position with military precision, cutting down anyone who gets too close. Not Thorran, not Vaskyr—something else entirely.
"How many of you are there?" I grunt, shifting Thalia's weight as we start moving toward the valley's edge.
"Enough," Vargath's companion answers, swinging his war axe in a wide arc that sends three Vaskyr warriors stumbling backward. "Less talking, more running."
We push through the crowd, and I use my bulk to clear a path while keeping Thalia's burns away from grasping hands and swinging weapons. A Thorran soldier recognizes me, confusion flickering across his face before Vargath's blade opens his throat.
"You're killing my people," I observe, though I don't stop moving.
"Your people tried to burn a goddess-touched woman alive," Vargath replies without looking back. "I'd say we're even."
A familiar figure steps into our path—stocky frame, broken tusk, gray-green skin scarred from a dozen battles. Tarnuk stands with his weapons lowered, but his stance is tense, ready.
My heart lurches. Of all the orcs in both clans, he's the one I least want to fight. The one I can't afford to lose.
"Brother." His voice cuts through the noise around us, steady and sure. "Let me join you."
I almost stumble. "Tarnuk—"
"I've watched you these past days. Seen what she means to you." His eyes flick to Thalia's unconscious form, then back to my face. "If the War God wanted her dead, he wouldn't have let the Harvest Goddess mark her first."
Vargath makes an impatient sound. "Touching reunion, but we're about to be surrounded by very angry orcs who don't share his theology."
Tarnuk falls into step beside us, his war hammer appearing in his scarred hands. "Then let's give them something to be angry about."
The three of us—four, counting Vargath's companion—carve through the crowd. Tarnuk's hammer crushes a Vaskyr skull, while Vargath's curved sword opens arteries with surgical precision. I use my size and desperation, shouldering past warriors too shocked to react quickly.
"There!" A Thorran captain points at us from across the square. "They have the girl! Stop them!"
"So much for subtlety," Tarnuk mutters, crushing another warrior's ribs with a backhand swing.
The woods swallow us in darkness, but we're not alone.
Shadows emerge from behind trees—humans with blue and white war paint streaked across their faces, moving with the fluid grace of trained fighters.
They fall into formation around us without a word, covering our retreat with an efficiency that makes my warrior's instincts prick with awareness.
A human woman sprints alongside me, her painted face fierce beneath curly chestnut hair. She carries twin daggers that gleam even in the moonlight, and when a Vaskyr scout stumbles into our path, she opens his throat before he can draw breath to shout.
I've never seen humans fight like this. Not the cowering servants I've known, but warriors who move like they were born to it.
"Who are you?" I demand between ragged breaths, adjusting Thalia's weight as we leap over a fallen log.
The woman glances up at me, her smile sharp as her blades. "We're just like you. Like her."
Another human—male, with intricate spiral patterns painted down his arms—vaults over a boulder to join us. "Goddess-touched," he explains, parrying a thrown spear with casual precision. "Marked by divine hands, cast out by our own people."
Behind us, Tarnuk's war hammer connects with something that crunches. "How many of you are there?"
"Enough to make this interesting," Vargath calls from ahead, his curved blade carving through low-hanging branches.
The painted woman keeps pace with my longer strides, her eyes fixed on Thalia's burned form. I look down at Thalia's face, pale and slack against my chest. Her golden eyes are closed, dark lashes singed but still intact. The vine markings on her arm pulse faintly, like a heartbeat made visible.
"Will she live?" The question tears from my throat rougher than I intended.
The woman's expression turns solemn, her playful smile vanishing. "She was chosen for a reason. The Harvest Goddess has a plan for her." She leaps over a stream without breaking stride. "Let us hope that it's not for her to die on this night."