Six days later, I’m starting to doubt this mythical kingdom belonging to King Gorvor exists at all. I might as well be trying to reach the fae lands, taken right out of fairy stories. I’ve walked dozens of miles, wearing through my only pair of boots. I had to tear strips of wool off the bottom of my cloak to wrap my blistered feet and prevent them from hurting even more. But even though I’ve entered the forest of Bellhaven on my fourth day of journey from Ultrup, I seem to be no closer to wherever Steagor, son of Torg, lives.
If it wasn’t for my father’s tales about how good this man is, I’d have given up for sure and returned to some human town in search of work. Not that there would be much for me to do, with the harvest over and the cold weather setting in. But I’ve come so far now, I can’t give up. Even if the main road leading through the forest has been getting narrower with each mile. Even if I’m seriously afraid of being eaten by some wild beast in the night.
I tried to keep moving in the darkness, but the tall spruce trees obscured the feeble moonlight seeping through the clouds, so I stumbled too often and finally decided to wait for morning. I spent the first night in the forest lying in a divot in the ground, curled up like a fox and hoping my smell would be enough to deter any predators. At that point, I’d been more afraid of the human threat—of brigands or thieves who might take advantage of me or guards searching for me through the countryside. Those posters will soon be stuck on every noticeboard in the kingdom, so I won’t be able to hide forever, not in Styria.
The second night, I climbed into a red-leafed maple tree and settled on a thick branch, hoping that would keep the critters scuttling through the undergrowth away from me, but I could barely nap for short snatches of time. Every time I had sunk into a deep sleep, I’d find myself jerking awake, scrabbling to hold on to the tree trunk behind me.
I drag my feet over the rough gravel on the road and wince as a sharp rock digs into my heel. The man at the last farm I passed didn’t know how far exactly it was to the border of King Gorvor’s lands, and he’d frowned at me fiercely when I’d asked for more details.
“Don’t know what a pretty girl like you wants with them,” he’d said, sneering, then shut the door in my face.
I didn’t even get an opportunity to ask if he would sell me a pint of milk or a bit of bread to chew on. At a farm before his, the mistress of the house had sold me three hard-boiled eggs and two limp carrots, and I’d managed to forage for some late-season blackberries, but hunger has been a constant companion, and combined with my exhaustion from walking, I don’t know how much longer I can go on for. It’s not even that I don’t want to spend the last of my money—which I don’t because I need to save some of it in case this search proves to be futile—it’s that the people in the small villages and homesteads I’d passed didn’t have much to share. They’re all aware that this cold autumn is a herald of a brutal winter to come, and they’re not about to sell their much-needed supplies to a stranger knocking on their door.
I stumble again, cursing under my breath. I wish I could scream and rail at the unfairness of what happened to me—to my father’s legacy—but I’m afraid to point out my location to beasties. And worse, every sound I make seems to be swallowed by the trees. The forest is so dense here, the twilight is permanent, and nothing grows on the damp ground apart from moss and mushrooms.
I peer at the canopy, gauging the time of day. I feel like I’ve been walking for hours, but I might be mistaken. I might be running a light fever, too, because I’m shivering constantly, or maybe it’s that my cloak still hasn’t fully dried from that early morning rain shower I got caught in several days ago.
It’s a glimmer in the distance that has me stopping in the road. I squint through the falling darkness, unsure of whether my eyes are playing tricks on me. Then I scent it, the faint whisper of smoke on the air.
A fire. Still far from where I’m standing, but it’s definitely a fire, and where there’s a fire, there’s people, at least in a forest as damp and gloomy as this. I stumble forward, my feet carrying me in the direction of the orange glow before I can even think this through. The promise of warmth is too much of a lure at first for me to resist.
But the closer I get, the more worried I am. Who would be camping in the middle of the forest? Maybe a woodsman or a hunter. Or maybe it’s brigands and thieves, like I’d feared. I hide in the shadows of an old fir tree and whimper quietly, torn between the instinct to flee and my intense need for food and warmth. If I could only dry my clothes by the fire…
Maybe I could hide close by and see who it is?
The idea seems like a good compromise, so I tiptoe forward, taking care not to step on any dead branches or to scuff my boots on the rocks. I come to a point where I need to leave the road in order to approach the campfire, and reconsider again.
If anything happens, I could get hopelessly lost in the forest. I need some way of getting back to the road.
Crouching in the bushes, I tear off strips of my linen underskirt as quietly as possible, gritting my teeth at each ripping sound. I tie one on the first tree by the road, then one every couple of steps I take toward the fire. They shine bright white against the darkness, a path to mark my way.
Finally, I’m close enough to the fire to see the flames clearly. I shuffle forward, hidden from the light. I did try to keep quiet, but there’s still a chance whoever made the fire heard me, so I stay completely still, waiting to see if anyone jumps out at me.
Only…there’s no one here.
The fire crackles merrily, stacked high, casting a light on the remains of someone’s camp. A chunk of something is roasting on a spit over the hot coals at the side. The meat is already browned, and whenever a drop of fat lands on the coals, it sizzles and pops. A gust of wind sends the flames dancing, and the aroma of the cooked meat hits me full force, sending my mind spinning.
I’m so hungry.
Saliva coats my mouth, and I swallow, my stomach protesting loudly. My leg has fallen asleep, and it takes everything in me not to run forward and snatch the meat from the fire. But whoever set it to roast could be back any minute, and I can’t risk being caught stealing from them.
I squint into the shadows to discern if anyone is hiding in there like I am. There’s only the dance of shadows from the fire and the deepening darkness of the forest beyond the ring of light. No sounds either, apart from the crackling of the flames and the wind in the treetops.
This is torture.
Black spots dance in front of my eyes, and I blink to chase them away, then shake my head when that doesn’t work. I gingerly straighten my leg and wince as blood rushes back, the prickly feeling excruciating. I’m so cold and tired, so sick of trudging alone through the forest.
So what if it was thieves who lit the fire?
And yes, I could get raped or worse. We’re in the middle of the forest. No one would hear me scream, let alone come to my aid.
But I’m so damn hungry.
Tentatively, I step forward, the bushes rustling around me. There’s no use hiding, not since I’m already leaving the shadows for the circle of light. The fire looks so inviting, I can’t resist it anymore. I hurry forward, hands extended toward the flames. The first hit of warmth has me groaning softly, and I rub my hands together to get the blood flowing again.
The fat from the meat sizzles again, startling me into movement. I drop to all fours and paw through the leather satchels and sleeping furs, searching for food. I don’t even try to take the meat off the fire—it looks too heavy, and I’d have to slice it and wait for it to cool, and I don’t have the time or the patience for that. Whoever set this camp will return soon.
I find a strip of dried salted meat and tear a chunk off with my teeth, chewing greedily. The salty, spicy taste explodes in my mouth, and I press my hand to my lips to stifle a groan. I continue my search while snacking on the meat and come up with four yeasted bread rolls, two pears, more of the salted meat, and a skin of something that smells like honey but turns out to be a very strong mead.
A feast.
I open my shoulder bag and stuff the food inside. I don’t even care about the fire anymore—I can handle the cold as long as my stomach is full. The pears go in first, then the meat.
Hurry, hurry.
In a minute, I can slip back into the shadows. Whoever lit the fire won’t even know which direction I came from. They won’t be able to follow me in the dark.
Something moves to my left. I catch the blur of motion with the corner of my eye and freeze. Slowly, I lift my head, dread gripping my insides.
And there he stands, a tall man illuminated by the flames.
I blink, and my heart thunders in alarm. I should drop everything and run, but my hands clench instinctively, one on the strap of my bag, the other around the bread roll.
The man stares at me, motionless on the other side of the fire. Maybe he’s as surprised to find me here as I am to suddenly see him.
But no, something’s wrong with him. Even in the orange glow of the flames, his skin color is wrong. Human skin looks warm in the firelight, no matter its tone—from pale to the deepest brown, fire gilds it and makes it more beautiful.
This man’s skin has turned a strange shade of green.
That’s when I notice the tusks protruding from his lower lip. My brain stutters over that detail for a second, and I skim my gaze down to his brawny shoulders, barely contained by a linen tunic, then to the weapons on his belt. Finally, I note his boots, several sizes larger than any man would ever wear.
An orc!
A shrill voice in my head screams at me to run, to save myself, but I’m too confused and tired to do anything of the sort. I can only blink at him, horror rising in my throat.
I walked right into an orc’s camp.
A scuff of boots against rock behind me. I jump to my feet, finally startled into moving, and come face to face with another orc. If possible, he seems even bigger than the other one, his face scarred and rough.
I shriek and haul my arm back, then let loose the only projectile I have on hand. The bread roll flies from my fingers, hits the orc in the shoulder, and bounces harmlessly to the ground. He glowers at me and takes a step forward. I whimper and back away from him, raising my hands in front of me to ward him off, even though it’s pointless. He’s more than a head taller than me, and those arms could crush me so easily.
Just as suddenly, he stops, and a confused grimace passes his face. He stiffens and drags in a long, deep inhale. His expression becomes one of clear focus, and he lunges toward me, reaching out with his big hands.
I stagger back, and my heel catches on one of the sleeping furs, sending me flying. I windmill my arms wildly to find purchase, but all I see is the massive orc in front of me, his glittering dark eyes widening in alarm. And at my back, the enticing—but deadly—warmth of the campfire.
My scream lodges in my throat, and the last thing I know is a warm, strong hand closing around my wrist.
And my world turns black.
