“Inside?” I ask.
He motions forward, and I gasp. A small hut stands on the platform, its side no more than ten feet long. Its door is closed, barely distinguishable from the rest as the whole structure has been covered with moss, stuffed with it for insulation.
Gaping, I allow the orc to lead me forward. He ducks his head to enter the space, but inside, the hut is just tall enough so he doesn’t smack his head into the rafters of the sloped ceiling.
“I have to clear the snow from the roof,” he says, picking up an iron pot. “And get my bow. See if you can get the fire going.”
I stare after him as he leaves the hut and closes the door firmly behind him. Somehow, setting a fire in a wooden treehouse seems like the height of folly, but I find a small wrought-iron woodstove in the corner, its black chimney leading through a roof opening. Inside, wood is already laid for a fire, so I search around for flint and spark a flame with shaking hands. It catches slowly, a lazy curl of smoke drifting up from the kindling.
At first, I worry that it might spread through the room, but as soon as I blow on it to help the flames along, the smoke is pulled through the chimney. I watch the fire lick over the dry sticks, add a piece of firewood on top when it’s ready, and close the iron door of the stove. Then I just sit there, unable to move. My hands hurt, but I don’t want to deal with them yet, because I don’t want to know the extent of the damage. Closing my eyes, I reach out and put my palms as close to the heat as I can bear. I know I have to get warm, and that’s the best I can do right now.
A rattle at the door alerts me to the orc’s arrival. He stomps the snow off his boots and puts the iron kettle on the floor. He unwraps his great overcoat from his shoulders and hangs it on a hook by the door. Then he slowly untucks the ends of his scarf and unwinds the soft woolen fabric. He’s facing away from me, yet even in my tired, mangled state, I can’t help but crane my neck in curiosity.
The orc who saved me turns, finally showing me his face.
My first thought is that he looks a lot like the few orcs I’d seen before, merchants sometimes passing through our village, or hunters coming to trade furs or wild game for provisions they need. His skin is a deep mossy green, and the long hair that hangs across his shoulder in a braid is black. One of his pointed green ears is pierced, two gold loops adorning the tip. He’s muscular and tall, nature’s perfect creation, made to survive in these mountains.
That’s where the similarities to those other orcs end. He’s younger than I thought, perhaps my age or a little older, not that I can tell for sure. His face isn’t lined or too scarred—but one of his tusks is chipped, giving him a lopsided appearance that has me relaxing somewhat. It’s strangely endearing, and though it tells me nothing about his temperament, something inside me instinctually unclenches.
The orc stands still for a moment as if he’s letting me look my fill, and his cheeks turn a darker green. I’m not certain that’s what passes as blushing with orcs, but I suspect it might be. I lower my gaze to my lap, biting back a smile. It’s too early to be at ease with this male. He’s brought me here for reasons unknown, and I’ll have to uncover his motives.
He toes off his big boots, leaving them at the door. Then he walks toward me—taking all of two steps in the small space—and sets the black pot on top of the woodstove.
“Snow,” he explains, his voice low. “We need water.”
“Right,” I say. “Good.”
I want to stand and face him so I’m not sitting at his feet, but I have no more will left in me to move. My hands tremble with exhaustion, and it’s taking everything I have in me just to stay sitting upright. It would be so much easier to just slump over and let the floor support my body.
But first, I have to say something that’s been weighing on my chest. “I’ll pay you back,” I rasp. “For saving me. Somehow. But—thank you.”
I can’t even lift my head to look him in the eyes. Now that he’s standing so close to me, that would require a monumental effort of craning back my neck and raising my gaze, and I just can’t. I sniffle, then hold my breath to keep the tears locked in me, not wanting to blubber.
The orc crouches in front of me. His gaze touches on the bruise on my cheek and the one on my temple, then slides down to my wrists where the sleeves of my dress have slid back to expose the raw, chafed skin. He takes in my chipped fingernails, crusted with blood where I’d scratched one of the other villagers who came at me this morning—was it really only this morning?—to help Barney and Sal tie me up and drag me before the village council.
I don’t even remember who it was. Another one of my neighbors, men I’d said hello to every day on my way to the market where I sold my teas and tonics and the eggs my chickens lay.
The flicker of rage that comes with the memory is soon buried in exhaustion. Anger takes a rested mind, not one that’s been put through the wringer. I thought I was going to die today. I was certain of it. The people I’d known my entire life sentenced me to death without so much as a second thought. They’d needed someone to blame for the bad harvest, for the outbreak of measles that a tinker from the west brought in, for every little thing that had gone wrong in the past year.
I’d been the perfect scapegoat. Without family or friends to protest on my behalf. The odd one with a gift. A curse, more like, given how much grief it has caused me.
My only real friend, Jasmine, was pulled away by her father, the innkeeper, and for once, I was grateful for how overprotective he was of his daughter. At least this way, she didn’t go down with me. I didn’t want anything bad to happen to her.
And now I’m thawing out on the floor of some orc’s hut in the middle of the forest. No one knows where I am—and no one cares either. The thought is so lonely, so very horrible, that I can’t stand it. I duck my face to hide from the orc.
A warm hand comes up, and the orc lifts my chin until I’m forced to look him in the eyes. He’s serious, his thick black eyebrows creased in a frown, but somehow, I know he’s not angry with me.
“What is your name, human?” he asks.
I blink my tears away. “Ivy.”
He takes his hand away and puts it over his heart. “Korr, son of Sorn.”
“Hello,” I croak, then sniffle.
He swipes the backs of his fingers over my cheek. “Don’t cry, Ivy.”
I nod. “All right.”
Then I burst into tears, with huge, hiccupping sobs racking my body. Korr, son of Sorn, clicks his tongue in dismay, and a moment later, I’m pressed up against his chest, squished in his embrace. I sob harder, both because my ribs hurt and because I’ve missed being hugged. My late husband was never fond of hugging, and I’d lost my parents before I ever married him. I enjoy being held so close, but this male will demand his due sooner or later, and I don’t know what I’ll have to do to pay him back.
“Hey, now,” he murmurs, petting my jumbled hair clumsily. “It’s not so bad.”
I hiccup again and finally push away from him, lightly pressing on his chest. His warmth has thawed some of my muscles, and I feel a little better for having had a good cry, but I’m still a mess, and I need to take care of myself, or else I’ll be much worse tomorrow. I have cuts that need washing and bruises that need tending, and because I’d been dragged from my home in nothing but my woolen winter dress, I have no supplies to nurse myself back to health.
Searching for something I could use, I note the wooden chest in one corner and a wide sleeping pallet raised off the floor on short stumps. There’s a sturdy three-legged stool but no table—and nothing to suggest my orc savior has resources to heal humans in here.
“Do you—do you have a basin by any chance? Or a washcloth I could use to clean myself?” I ask. “And maybe another shirt I could borrow while my dress dries?” I inspect the room again. “A blanket would do, if you can spare it.”
Korr rises from his crouch. “Aye, let’s see.”
He steps to the chest and draws out a linen tunic, the fabric soft from use but clean-looking. I don’t dare touch it with my filthy, bloody hands. Walking around the room, he collects another blackened pot in place of the basin and tears strips of cloth off something that might have once been a garment but is destroyed too quickly for me to protest.
“Where do you wash?” I ask, curious because he doesn’t have an easy setup here, but he’s clean nonetheless, not grimy like my fellow villagers.
He motions toward the door. “In the river.”
I goggle at him. The river—if he means the one that flows from the mountains and on through our village—is icy cold and freezes over in the winter.
He only shrugs. “Orcs are hardier than humans.”
“I’m beginning to understand that, yes,” I murmur.
He snorts, and when I glance up at him, his dark eyes twinkle in amusement. I didn’t mean for him to hear it, but I’d forgotten about his more sensitive ears. I’ll have to be more careful in the future. The last thing I want is to offend the orc who saved me.
He helps me wet a cloth with the warm snowmelt water, and I gingerly wash my hands first, prying the dirt and blood from under my fingernails. I rinse out the cloth and repeat the movements on the other side, but it’s slow going.
“Uh, it might be faster if you did take me to the river,” I grumble, hiding my wince. “This will take ages.”
Already, my hands are trembling from the effort of cleaning myself, and I’d only just started. The warmth has sent my blood flowing again. Pain blooms all over my body, but especially in my wrists and arms, which were wrenched repeatedly, and my feet, which I haven’t dared check yet for fear of finding irreparable damage.
“We cannot leave,” the orc says. “The wolves are still circling below, and night is falling.”
I glance toward the single window, but it’s covered by a thick pelt to keep the warmth from seeping out. “You can hear them?”
The orc dips his chin. “They know we’re the largest game around.”
I shiver at the thought of them waiting for us. That means we’re caught here, at least for now. I’m thankful the hut is built above ground, a refuge from everything that nature has to throw at us.
I dip the cloth again and swipe it over my cheek. It comes away bloody, so I wipe again, feeling with my tongue for the split in my lip where Barney had backhanded me.
“Why did they tie you to that tree?” Korr asks quietly.
I look up to find him crouched close to me, his hand hovering over my knee. Up close, his presence is so potent. It’s clear he’s trying not to overwhelm me, though, and I’m incredibly grateful for it. I debate lying, telling him they’d been bandits who robbed me or something, but when I open my mouth, the truth slips out.
“They accused me of being a witch,” I confess.
Korr lifts his dark eyebrows. “Were they right?”
“No,” I lie immediately.
It’s only a small omission. Does my power even count? The villagers thought so, but it’s completely useless most of the time.
He cracks a smile. “That’s what a witch would say, aye?”
I muster enough will to glower at him. “I have no magic, orc.”
He raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Forgive me. I meant no harm. In the orc lands, witches are a boon. If you were one, I would not hurt you.”
I shake my head in answer. I can’t afford to be truthful with him, even though it feels deceptive. “I’m really not. I only kept a good stock of herbs and tried to help the fools who ended up accusing me.”
That’s the story I kept repeating today. Not that anyone believed me. My late husband had been the only one to know the truth, and he must have spread it all through the village. I wish I could bring him back to life to punch him in the face, but alas, that is also outside of my power.
Giving up on cleaning my hands, I drop the cloth in the pot of water. “I can’t do this.” I stare at the sleeping pallet longingly, then face the orc again. “Do you have a spare blanket to lend me, please?”
Korr’s frown is back in full force. “You’re not going to tend to your wounds?”
I lift one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “They’ll keep till tomorrow.”
They won’t, and I’m risking infection by neglecting them, but I’m seconds away from collapsing or crumbling again, and I want to save face. I don’t want the orc to know just how spent and injured I am.
He lurches forward, then stops himself. It’s a jerky movement, as if some will other than his own had pulled him toward me, and he’d managed to hold back just in time.
“Will you—” He pauses and swallows thickly. “I would help you if you’d let me.”
My pride almost wins. It’s a close call, but I’ve seen a wound fester from inattention too many times, and even if I don’t have any herbs or honey here to make a poultice, cleaning the cuts and scrapes with warm water would be a good first step. Then I’d have to hope and pray that the ropes used to tie me up hadn’t been too filthy.
I grimace. The chances of that are low, given the villagers’ general state of uncleanliness.
“I won’t touch you…that way,” Korr says, his voice low.
Glancing at him, I note how his cheeks have turned a darker green again. He misunderstood my reticence for fear of him attacking me.
And I hadn’t even thought of it. For some reason, having this orc so close to me didn’t register as a threat.
“That would be good,” I manage to say. “I don’t… I can’t anymore.”
He springs into action immediately, and it becomes clear how much he’s been holding himself back, letting me have my space. He drags the wooden stool to the wall and props me up on it, then has me lean on the wall for support, for which I’m endlessly grateful. Putting more wood on the fire, he blows on it until the flames dance high inside the stove and warmth spreads through the room faster.
Then he takes my left hand gently and peels back my sleeve, hissing at the chafed skin. He doesn’t comment on my injuries as he washes them, but his scowl deepens, and at one point, the grinding of his teeth becomes loud enough for me to hear. Still, his grip on me remains soft, and whenever I let out a whimper of pain, he stops, glancing over at my eyes before he continues.
“I have to get the dress off you,” he says after he has washed my face clean of tears and dried blood. “It’s filthy and wet, and I don’t want you to catch a chill.”
I only nod, unable to muster any outrage over the improper suggestion.
Korr stands in front of me and assesses me, then crouches again. “How fond are you of it?”
I blink at him. “Not very. But it’s the only one I have.”
He hums. “I will get you a new one.”
Then he pulls a sharp knife from a sheath on his weapons belt and slices my left sleeve off me, taking care not to prick me with the tip. I gasp, but he’s already halfway done with the first sleeve before I think to stop him, and saying anything just seems so much of an effort. Within minutes, he has cut through the shoulder seams as well, and he gently pulls me upright so the dress slithers down my body and into a heap at my feet.
I see, looking down at it, why he declared it irreparable. The back is soiled with mud, where Sal and Barney pushed me down in the village square. It hits me for the first time that I’ve been so lucky. If they hadn’t decided to leave me for the wolves, I’d be dead. Suddenly, the scrapes and bruises don’t seem so bad.
But I still wish I had the magic to curse them all with pox. Filthy assholes.
I’m left standing in front of the orc in nothing but my linen shift, stays, and underwear. He takes my shoulders with warm hands and gently inspects me from head to toe. A moment passes, then he lets go of me and steps back.
“Wait here.”
I glance up just in time to see him disappearing outside, into the twilight. He closes the door behind him. Then a guttural, angry roar rends the silence, and a heavy thump follows, a blow so strong, it shakes the hut, walls, floor, and all. I flinch at the sound and stare after Korr, wondering what on earth is going on.
The door opens, and he strides back in, lightly dusted with snow. He catches me gawking at him and ducks his head. “Forgive me.”
I take a shuffling step forward. “Are—are you all right?”
That sounded as if he’d punched something outside. A tree, maybe?
He shakes his head. “The last thing you need to worry about is me, little witch. Come, we must tend to your wounds.”
The orc tugs at the ties of my stays to loosen them, then helps me slide them down without undressing me fully. My chest expands with my first full breath I’ve taken since this morning. My ribs protest, but I hide the wince because I don’t want him to think it’s his fault I’m hurting. The shame at being seen in nothing but my patched-up shift and underwear is fleeting. I’m simply too tired to worry about it tonight.
Korr washes away the blood from my feet, and when he wrings out the cloth in the pot, the water runs red. I close my eyes against the sight, not wanting to consider how close I came to dying today. I still might die if my scrapes get inflamed. It would be so easy to believe that I’m saved, that I’m safe, but that’s just not true.
“I will need to stitch this wound,” Korr murmurs from above me. “It is too deep. Still bleeding.”
He lightly traces a lump at my hairline, above my brow, where I’d been hit by something someone threw at me. I have no idea who it was—everything was so confusing in the jumble of feet and pressing bodies and raised voices.
I scrunch up my face. “All right. Do it.”
He doesn’t move. “I am not good with—with delicate things. The scar…”
I do my best to sound indifferent. “It’s all right. It’ll be small, right?”
Korr’s expression remains serious, but he finally relents. He places his warm palm on my shoulder for a moment, a gesture of compassion. Then he stands, retrieves a tin box from his wooden chest, and returns to my side. I help him thread a curved needle with a thin linen thread, then lie on my back, my hands trembling with fear.
The thought of more pain is terrifying.
“Here.” Korr nudges my elbow. “Have a sip, then bite down on this.”
He hands me a flask of something, and I don’t even sniff at it before taking a long sip. It’s mead, sweet and very potent. I cough, but the warmth spreads through my entire body, so I take another, smaller pull, then set the flask aside. Korr passes me a cooking spoon, beautifully carved so the grain of the wood is visible. It will do.
I bring it to my mouth, then peer at the orc and ask, “Will you talk to me? Through it?”
His dark eyes are serious as he gives me a short nod. “I will try to be quick.”
My nose prickles, a sign of oncoming tears, but I blink them away and bite the handle of the wooden spoon instead. There’s no use in crying anymore, and I know this needs to be done.
That doesn’t mean my stomach doesn’t squeeze with worry when Korr runs the needle through the flames in the stove to cleanse it, or when he kneels by the bed for better access.
Then the pain begins.
