I stare into the green-skinned face of a massive orc. My stomach drops, and it’s only the sheer terror of the moment that keeps me from crying out. The male’s eye flares wide—just the one, because his other eye is covered with a black leather patch, a vicious scar marring his face. His mouth drops open, his white tusks gleaming, and he goggles at me, clearly shocked to find us sitting here.
Wren stirs by my side, and I glance down at her. Her narrow face is scrunched up in fear, and she takes in a deep breath for what I know will be a high-pitched squeal. Instinctively, I slap a hand over her mouth, muffling her.
The orc’s nostrils flare, and he inhales. A shudder runs over him, his hands tightening on the canvas flap. Then he lets the cloth drop again, hiding us from view.
“You know what?” he says to the guard. “Maybe we can come to another arrangement.”
His deep voice makes perfect sense now. He’s a godsdamned orc. We need to get off this wagon, immediately—but doing so now would result in us being detained by the guard for sure. It took every bit of vigilance and stealth to get on this wagon in the market without being seen, but dropping out right here, on the busiest street of Ultrup, would be impossible even for me. Especially with a four-year-old in tow.
I remind myself that all that effort might be for nothing, given that Lindie saw me. My chest squeezes with terror, and it’s suddenly an effort to breathe. Wren trembles at my side, so I lean down and press a kiss to her messy blonde hair, willing her to stay quiet. She whimpers behind my palm and snuggles closer to me. I grit my teeth, listening to the conversation outside.
“I think this should cover it,” the orc says.
A jingle of coins in a leather purse—a sound I know so well.
“Well,” the guard says. “Thank you and good day, sir.”
The orc climbs back on the driver’s seat, the wagon dipping under his weight. He remains quiet, and a moment later, the guard calls for the caravan to move forward. The wheels roll over the bumpy cobblestones, and soon, a crunching noise signals that we’ve passed onto the gravel country road leading north.
I slowly release Wren and brush back her hair. She peers up at me with those big blue eyes, and her chin trembles, her face white.
“It’s all right,” I whisper, barely loud enough for her to hear me over the rattle of the wagon. “We’re through.”
I bid her to sit still on the sack of grain, then crawl to the end of the wagon to peek out of the flap again. We should abandon this course immediately, both because of the orc and my old crew member. But the moment I lift the canvas, I curse under my breath. We’re going too fast for us to leap out of the moving wagon. I might have made the jump, but Wren could break her legs, and besides, we’d be seen by one of the many carriage drivers or riders traveling on this busy stretch of road.
I scuttle back to Wren and force a smile on my face. I wish I could sing her to sleep like I usually do, but even though the orc is aware of our presence here, I don’t want to draw attention to myself. There’s nothing for us to do but wait for the orc to pull to a stop, so until that happens, she might as well rest and gather her strength. I wrap her in my cloak and stroke her cheek. She dozes off, her fingers growing lax in my hand.
A swishing sound has me turning around. I stare at the canvas separating me from the orc driver. Carefully, I release my dagger from the sheath in my boot and grip it loosely, ready to stab him.
The rope that ties the canvas to the wooden side of the wagon loosens, and a green-fingered hand tugs up the cloth. The orc stares at me, hunched over to peer through the narrow opening. I shuffle to the side, putting myself between him and Wren, shielding her from his view. I don’t threaten him with the dagger but rather hide it at my thigh. It’s better to have the element of surprise against a target this large. I don’t think he could attack me without either stopping the wagon and coming at me from the back or ripping this front side completely apart, but I’m ready. I’ll aim for his remaining eye. He can’t grab me if he can’t see me, and that’s the most important thing—I have to stay out of his reach.
The wagon keeps moving forward without his attention, the horses apparently following the road on their own. The orc’s dark eye is disconcerting, and the intensity of his gaze has me squirming in place.
Then he draws back, and my gut lurches again—in relief, I tell myself. I’m relieved that he’s backing off. Not disappointed.
A moment later, a satchel drops through the opening, followed by a soft brown lump. The untied canvas stills, but I wait a couple of minutes anyway, afraid that this is a trap. If I get too close and he grabs me, I’ll slash at his hand. Cut the tendons and sever the veins. I know exactly how to inflict the most damage.
But the orc doesn’t stir in his seat, and the wagon trundles on, so I eventually give in to my curiosity and reach for the satchel first. It’s heavy, so I drag it along the wooden floor and pry open the iron clasps with my left hand while still gripping the dagger in my right. In the deepening gloom of the evening, I peer inside.
It’s filled with food. The orc has given me—us—what must be his provisions for the road. There are apples and cheese, a cloth bag of nuts, several yeasted rolls, and something greasy wrapped in paper. It smells delicious, and my mouth waters. My empty stomach cramps painfully, but I make myself wait.
Why would the orc share his food with us? It makes no sense. We’re stowaways on his wagon, hiding from the law, that much must be clear even to an outsider like him.
Then my hunger wins. I unwrap the parcel and find four turkey drumsticks, browned to perfection and rubbed with spices. With a shaking hand, I reach for Wren and nudge her awake.
“Here,” I say, passing a drumstick to her. “Eat slowly and chew well.”
Her mouth drops open, but she doesn’t say anything, just takes the meat and sinks her small white teeth into it. I give her a bread roll, too, then quarter an apple with my dagger and feed her that as well. I force myself to take measured bites and I stop before I’m completely full, saving most of the food for later. For Wren.
But even though I only eat the rest of her drumstick after she’s finished, this is the best meal we’ve had in weeks. A feast. Wren smiles at me sleepily, her face smeared with grease. I wipe her soft cheeks with the hem of my sleeve and settle her down to sleep again.
“Why are you crying, Mama?” she asks quietly.
I sniffle and dash my palm over my cheeks. “I’m not. It’s fine. You rest now.”
I kiss her forehead, and she falls asleep, trusting me to watch over her. The wagon trundles on, and I try so very hard to stay awake, but I haven’t slept well in so long, I’m fighting a losing battle.
Just a quick nap.
I’ll be more alert and able to formulate a better plan if I’m rested. So I pick up the soft bundle that the orc passed to us and discover it’s a woolen blanket, likely meant for him to wrap around himself in case the weather gets even colder. For now, I won’t question his kindness. He must pity us, two dirty wretches escaping the nastiness that is Ultrup’s criminal underbelly.
Whatever his reasons, I have no choice but to trust him for the moment. We have nowhere to go, and I’ll be able to escape with Wren faster if I’m not dead on my feet.
I’ll only rest for a bit.
I snuggle close to Wren and spread the blanket over us both, making sure she’s well tucked in. She doesn’t even move, her exhaustion complete. A sharp twinge of guilt stabs me in the chest, and suddenly, I’m wide awake again.
I should have protected her better. In the darkness of the winter evening, I can’t make out the fading bruise on her temple, but knowing it’s there is enough. If I was a better parent, I never would have let things go so far. I got her out, but not before Timo punished her for being a child.
I sit up and lean on the side of the wagon. I keep the blanket draped over both of us, but I’ll keep watch over Wren until I know we’re completely safe. Until we’re so far from Ultrup that the strings tying us to our old lives snap.
