Chapter 4
KHALA
How low I had fallen.
Hunger and desperation pushed me to the limit, changing everything about who and what I had ever been. I managed to keep my freedom. But at what cost? I no longer had my dignity.
I would’ve eaten that fish skin in any condition it was—dirty, charred, and stomped into the ground. I would’ve dug it out from the dirt and devoured it like an animal, tearing it with my teeth and choking on it while swallowing without chewing.
What stopped me was the sight of the orc’s boot. Not because it was pressing down on the food that I would’ve given my soul to eat. But because the orc would’ve been the witness of my degradation.
Judging by the way he’d treated me, the orc must’ve already thought I was some kind of animal, and I couldn’t stand him watching me degrade myself even more.
That was the realization that had finally sent me up to my feet and away from his cabin.
I wished I could stay away from it, too, but as the sun had set and the darkness had fallen over the forest, sitting alone in my oak tree was making me increasingly more miserable.
Sleep wasn’t coming. Fear and hunger kept me awake.
The piece of the sausage that I stole the day before had been incredibly delicious but also criminally small. It did little against the hunger gnawing at my insides. Getting a taste of real food had only made me crave it more intensely.
Shortly after sunset, I climbed down the old oak tree that had become my shelter and trudged to the only place in the Wetlands I knew that smelled like food—to the bog orc’s cabin.
I didn’t expect to find anything to eat here. The orc had put huge padlocks everywhere, locking away all his possessions from thieves like me, as was his right of course.
The cabin’s windows were closed. Not a sliver of light shone through the cracks in the wooden shutters, meaning the orc must’ve gone to bed already, and I was free to roam his domain.
I searched the stairs, then tugged at the padlock on the door of the dug-out cellar. I even searched the oven, hoping he’d be negligent enough to accidentally leave some food in there.
No such luck. For the unsophisticated, primitive creatures like the bog orcs were thought to be, this orc proved too diligent and impeccably organized.
I even dug through the dirt in the spot where I’d dropped the fish skin, but the skin was also gone. The orc had probably burned it in his strife to keep this place clean and tidy.
I circled the oven with the tub, unsure what else to do or where to go now.
A dish left on the grill over the cooling coals caught my attention. It was the same wide clay pot with the lid where the orc had kept the blood sausage before.
My heart thudded with hope.
Did he forget it here?
My feet carried me to the fire pit before I knew it.
“Please, please,” I prayed in my head silently. “Let there be at least a scrap of food. Any food.”
Just before reaching for the lid, however, I paused.
What if it was a trap?
What if the pot was a bait?
Then it occurred to me that I didn’t even care. Let him trap me, let him do whatever he wanted to me. At that moment, I didn’t even mind if he butchered and ate me like he did with the boar, as long as I also got something to eat first.
I grabbed the pot and opened the lid.
The most fantastic aroma hit my nostrils—the smell of food.
Having been sitting on the grill over the hot coals, the pot was still warm. I couldn’t see exactly what the food in it was in the darkness, but I didn’t need to see it in order to eat it.
Scooping the pieces with my hands, I shoved them into my mouth as quickly as I could.
In my hurry, I hardly tasted it, but I believed there were a few flaky pieces of fish, a couple of roasted potatoes, and chunks of some grilled vegetable, turnip or maybe squash. Everything was sprinkled with aromatic herbs and slathered in butter, and I devoured it all in minutes.
Once the food was gone, I diligently licked the pot clean, getting every last drop of the herbed butter from the bottom.
Then I sat in one of the huge log armchairs by the fire pit.
I kept the pot on my lap even when there was nothing more to eat or lick.
Hugging it to me, I wondered why the orc had left it on the grill.
Could it be an oversight on his part? Did he gather the leftovers after his dinner to keep for tomorrow, then forgot to put the pot into the cellar before going to bed? Even the most organized people made mistakes from time to time, didn’t they?
But then why would he leave it over the coals, as if to keep it warm for someone? He couldn’t have left the food deliberately for me, could he?
He didn’t want me to keep even a bite of sausage yesterday.
But he wanted me to have the fish skin today.
Was it because I cried? Did he feel sorry for me?
I didn’t even know if primitive beasts like bog orcs were capable of compassion. The books I’d read described them as wild, uncivilized beings with their level of intelligence being barely above that of animals. But the books also claimed that bog orcs lived in tribes or clans.
Why was this orc alone? Why didn’t he have any friends or family to share this cabin with?
I hadn’t been inside his cabin, of course, but I imagined it was also clean and well organized like the grounds around it. It must be warm and cozy, too, with a big, comfy bed made with fluffy blankets and puffy pillows that smelled like freshly washed linen.
Hugging the still warm pot, I leaned back in the armchair, then laid my weary head on the wide armrest.
I didn’t belong to the Wetlands. I had no place to call home anymore. But right now, I would’ve loved to belong right here, in this clean, comfy place with the big, neat orc who cooked the most delicious food.
A hard, loud noise jolted me out of my sleep. I sat up and opened my eyes.
Damned me and my carelessness. It was morning already. I was still laying in the orc’s chair by his fire pit. The pot I’d been hugging when falling asleep was now gone.
The orc was standing on the other side of the fire pit with a huge ax raised over his head.
Horror speared me. My body tensed, ready to bolt.
Then the orc lowered his ax, splitting a thick log in half with a single blow. The sound of him chopping wood had been what woke me up.
“Morning,” he muttered, not pausing in his work.
Was he angry?
Calculating?
Setting a trap for me?
I gathered my legs under me and slid to the very edge of the chair, ready to run at the slightest sign of danger. Actually, I should’ve been running already, but something held me in place.
It was exhaustion, I realized. I was tired of running. For once, I just wished to stay put and see where it’d take me. Especially since the orc didn’t seem to be eager to use that massive ax against me.
He tossed two pieces of wood into the fire under the grill with a copper tea kettle on it, then gave me a glance from under a raised eyebrow.
“I know you can talk,” he said. “You even know when to say ‘thank you.’ How about a ‘good morning’ now?”
I cleared my throat, gripping the edge of the chair so hard my fingers ached.
“Good morning,” I rasped, my voice hoarse from sleep.
He gave me a satisfied grunt in response before splitting another thick log first in two pieces, then in four.
Despite the chill in the early morning air, he had no shirt on, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from his bulky muscles moving under his forest-green skin.
I didn’t know if all bog orcs were built like him, but his physique fascinated me.
It was like seeing a massive green rock golem come to life and suddenly being able to hunt, chop wood, and cook the most wonderful food.
“Oh, and thank you for dinner,” I added, just in case he had left the food in the pot on the grill on purpose, for me.
“Hm.” He grunted again, moving his massive shoulders back and stretching his neck.
He seemed unsure about how to receive my gratitude or even whether to admit that he had fed me.
“How many of you are in the Wetlands?” he asked unexpectedly.
“Of whom?” I blinked, confused.
“Of the apemen like you. Where is the rest of your tribe or pack or whatever you call it? And don’t lie to me. I can’t stand lies and people who tell them. Do you have a family?”
“No.” I shook my head.
That was true, both my parents were dead.
Even when they were alive, it hardly felt like I had a family.
My parents had basically sold me. They traded the status of my birth and my name for piles of gold from my late husband to maintain their lavish lifestyle.
I never saw them again after the wedding, not until their funerals years later.
“No family,” I said firmly.
He dropped the ax with force, leaving its toe embedded in the chopping block, then rested a hand on its handle that reached up to his waist. Dressed only in light linen pants, with his wide, hairy chest on display and his brawny arms bulging with muscles, he presented a truly fascinating picture that captivated my imagination.
My fingers itched to sketch him in this pose.
The orc stared at me. The scar on the right side of his face pulled his eyelid down, making it look like he was squinting in suspicion.
“So, are you lost then?” he asked.
I felt lost in every sense of that word. I had only a vague idea of where in the Wetlands I was right now. I wouldn’t find my way out of the forest or back to Reizon’s caravan even if I wanted to return to that man, which I did not.
But I also felt lost in a broader sense too. I had no goal in life, no plan. I ran away from the hurt and abuse that would’ve become my future had I stayed. But so far, my freedom had only brought me fear, hunger, and uncertainty.
“Yes,” I replied simply.
“Did your folks leave without you?” A note of compassion softened his voice, and my lonely heart soaked it up.