Chapter 34 Vargath
VARGATH
Another scream tears from Seris's throat, raw and primal, bouncing off the carved stone until the ancient walls seem to weep with her agony. Her back arches against the makeshift bed of furs, hands clawing at the blankets as another contraction seizes her body like a vice.
I kneel beside her, helpless as a child watching lightning strike. My hands hover over her sweat-slicked skin, wanting to ease her pain but knowing nothing I do will matter. The blood beneath her has spread wider, dark stains that make my stomach clench with dread.
"Breathe," I whisper, the word feeling hollow even as it leaves my lips. "Just breathe with me."
"I can't—" Her voice breaks on a sob. "Something's wrong, Vargath. The pain is too much, too fast. This isn't how it should—"
Another contraction cuts off her words, and she doubles forward with a cry that makes my chest feel like it's splitting open. I've heard warriors scream as they died, heard the sounds men make when steel finds bone, but nothing has ever torn at me like listening to her suffer.
My hands shake as I reach for her, one palm settling against her forehead while the other finds her fingers. Her grip could crack stone, but I barely feel it. All I can focus on is the way her face contorts with each wave of pain, the way her breath comes in sharp, desperate gasps.
"You're strong," I murmur in orcish, then switch to common when I remember she needs to understand. "Stronger than any warrior I've known. You can do this."
She laughs, but it comes out bitter and broken. "Can I? Because it feels like I'm dying."
The words hit me like a war hammer to the chest. I open my mouth to reassure her, to lie if necessary, when the crunch of footsteps on frozen ground cuts through the air outside our shelter.
I freeze, every muscle tensing as I strain to listen. The sound comes again—deliberate footfalls on snow and scattered stone, too heavy to be anything but orcs. Multiple sets. Moving with the careful coordination of a hunting party.
Seris's eyes widen, pain momentarily forgotten as fear takes its place. "Vargath?"
I'm already moving, rising to my feet in one fluid motion as my hand finds the familiar weight of my axe. The worn leather grip feels like an old friend in my palm, the steel head reflecting a sliver of light shines in through the cave entrance.
"Stay down," I growl, stepping between her and the mouth of our shelter. "Whatever happens, don't move."
The footsteps grow closer, accompanied now by the low murmur of orcish voices. I count at least four, maybe five distinct speakers. My jaw clenches as I recognize the cadence—these aren't random travelers or lost scouts. This is a hunting party, moving with purpose.
A shadow crosses the entrance, then another. I plant my feet wide, axe raised, and let a warning snarl build in my throat.
"That's close enough!" My voice booms through the ruins, carrying the authority I learned commanding warbands. "Turn around and leave, and you might live to see another dawn."
A harsh laugh echoes from outside, followed by the distinctive sound of weapons being drawn.
Behind me, Seris whimpers as another contraction hits, the sound barely audible but enough to make my blood sing with protective fury.
Two humans and an orc step out of the crowd and into view, their forms silhouetted against the pale winter light. I tighten my grip on my axe, muscles coiled to strike, but something in their posture gives me pause. No weapons drawn. No aggressive stance.
The human woman—auburn hair braided back, practical leathers worn soft with use—raises both hands in a gesture of peace. Her voice carries calm authority when she speaks.
"We're not here to hurt anyone. We heard screaming and thought..." Her gaze flicks between me and the shelter behind me. "We thought an orc was harming a human woman."
The words hit me like molten iron poured down my throat. A roar builds in my chest, primal and furious. My vision narrows to red-edged focus as I take a step forward, axe raised.
"No one touches her!" The snarl tears from my throat with enough force to make loose stones skitter across the ground. "No one speaks of her that way! She's not some victim for you to rescue!"
The human man beside the woman shifts nervously, hand moving toward his blade. But the orc—tall, scarred, with the bearing of a seasoned warrior—studies me with calculating eyes. His tusks gleam as he speaks, voice measured and thoughtful.
"They're mates."
The simple statement hits harder than expected. My spine goes rigid, denial rising hot and fierce in my chest.
"We are not—" I begin, but the words stick in my throat.
"You are," the orc continues, unperturbed by my bristling. "I can smell it on you both."
"I don't know what nonsense you're spouting, but—"
"It's not nonsense." His voice cuts through my protest with quiet certainty. "You've claimed her. Marked her. Whether you admit it or not."
Heat floods my face, part shame, part rage. "That's none of your business. Leave. Now."
The human woman takes a step forward, ignoring my raised weapon. "We're not here to judge anyone's choices. We just want to help."
"We don't need help from—"
"SHUT UP!" The scream tears through the air behind me, raw with agony and fury. "Both of you, just SHUT UP!"
I spin around to see Seris doubled over, her face twisted in pain as another contraction rips through her. Blood has soaked through the furs beneath her, more than before, and panic claws at my throat.
Without hesitation, the human woman pushes past me, dropping to her knees beside Seris. Her hands move like she's done this a million times, checking pulse points and examining the birthing area with the calm competence of a midwife.
"I'm Kaela," she says gently, meeting Seris's pain-glazed eyes. "And you're going to be okay."