Her hand fell a foot away from Arcturus’s face, and he could see the black nails digging into the ground as she tried to reach safety. Then she stopped, her strength failing her as she gasped for breath.
Arcturus tried to retreat in terror, only to find his back pressed against a sapling, his skin grazing against its rough bark. Beyond, more orcs emerged from the trees.
Even with the female orc so close, he could not tear his eyes away from the new arrivals. For these were not just rhino riders, but also younger, smaller orcs, their necks lassoed tightly in a long rope chain, stumbling along the forest floor, dragged by their mounted captors. They were prisoners, their faces badly bloodied, some limping from wounds, others nursing broken bones.
All the captives were adolescent males, if the size of their tusks and relatively smaller stature were a sign. Of course, even these young orc pups would stand head and shoulders above Arcturus, but from his vantage point in the bushes, he couldn’t help but pity the poor creatures as a rhino rider lashed them forward with a long, curling whip.
Then his view was obscured as the female orc pulled herself into the bushes, and suddenly Arcturus was staring into her dark, tear-filled eyes. She stared at him, shock plain across her swollen features. Frantically, Arcturus held a finger up to his lips, hoping she would understand.
Still she stared, and beyond, Arcturus could hear the leader of the rhino riders snarling orders. The four orcs that had been assaulting the young female stood, and one yelled out in annoyance and strode toward them.
For a moment the female stared at him, her eyes wide with panic. Then she was being dragged back into the clearing, the male orc laughing as he pulled her by her foot.
The female clawed wildly at the vegetation around her, her hands tugging up roots and snapping young boughs as the orc heaved at her legs. Then, suddenly, Arcturus was jerked after her, her hand curling around his ankle like an iron shackle.
Sobbing with terror, Arcturus grasped at the sapling behind him, and it felt as if his arms would tear from their very sockets as the bull orc heaved.
He kicked out, looking down at the female and shaking his head in a desperate plea. Their eyes locked for a split second … and she let go.
Then she was gone, back into the clearing, where the thud of flesh against flesh could be heard, the male orc’s fist rising and falling over and over. It was a pitiless, sadistic display of violence, and Arcturus could do nothing but watch in horror as the female’s raised arms fell away, too weak to defend herself against the blows that rained down upon her.
In his mind, Arcturus could sense Sacharissa now, following his scent through the undergrowth. He could feel her panic mirroring his own, and shared the flashes of pain as she ripped through thorny branches. The Canid knew he was in trouble. She was coming for him.
The rest of the orcs were almost gone now, disappearing back into the jungle in a tumult of snapping branches and guttural yells from the riders. Still the bull orc continued his beating, laughing as the female’s head lolled to the side.
Arcturus’s anger rose like bile in his throat, sickened by the display of cruelty.
The bull orc lifted the female by her hair, clutching at the long black braid that fell down her back. She hung there, limp, as the orc raised his fist once more. It was the killing blow.
Arcturus could not watch. Would not. Instead, his hand scrabbled at the ground beside him. Met the stock of his crossbow.
He didn’t think. Didn’t even aim. He just raised it and shot in one smooth motion, yelling through the fear, ignoring the madness of it all. The weapon’s butt slammed into his shoulder, and the male orc fell back, a feathered bolt seeming to grow out of his eye.
Arcturus scrambled through the leaves, the dirk from his boot clutched in his hand. He half lunged, half fell onto the male orc, stabbing down, cursing with every breath, plunging the dirk again and again into the orc’s chest. The orc writhed beneath him, his hands slapping at Arcturus, scratching at his bare chest.
Arcturus felt the orc’s fingers around his throat, and suddenly the world was darkening at the corners of his vision, his breath caught in his lungs as the orc’s hold tightened. The dirk fell from his fingers, and he fell limp, held up only by the orc’s grasp.
A dark shape, crashing through the trees. Hot spray across his face, the metal taste of blood on his tongue.
He was falling.
Then nothing.
CHAPTER
30
ARCTURUS OPENED HIS EYES to Sacharissa’s rough tongue licking his cheek. He couldn’t have been out for more than a few moments, for he could still hear the crashing of branches in the distance as the orc horde pushed on through the trees beyond. He sat up, panicked.
Had they heard him?
He was beside the corpse of the male orc, sitting in a spreading pool of blood emanating from its neck. A deep furrow had been slashed across its throat, where Sacharissa must have savaged the beast as it choked the life from him. He had come so close to death.
And for what?
Arcturus turned to see the female orc staring at him, squinting through her swollen eye sockets, as if she found it hard to see. She held his dirk in her hand, and was pointing the weapon at him.
The foolishness of Arcturus’s actions dawned upon him then. This orc was not his friend. She was the enemy. Her entire species was. What madness had possessed him to risk his life for hers?
Yet, the memory of her eyes staring up at him swirled about his head. She had let go of his leg, knowing what fate awaited her beyond. The orc had chosen not to take him with her. Hadn’t she?
“I’m not here to hurt you,” Arcturus said, holding up his hands. Sacharissa growled beside him, lowering her body into a crouch. Her hackles were raised, the mane on her back standing up like a startled street cat’s.
Arcturus tried to calm her with a thought, but the demon’s aggression was up, and he could taste the bull orc’s blood on her tongue through their connection. Instead, he straddled Sacha’s back, forcing her down. As a juvenile Canid, she was still no bigger than an overgrown dog, and she trembled briefly beneath his weight before succumbing and lowering herself to the ground.
The female orc cocked her head to one side, the dirk still extended toward him. She was breathing heavily, as if the very act of being alive exhausted her. Bruises were blooming across her gray skin even as he watched. She had taken a terrible beating—Arcturus doubted any human could have survived what she had endured.
Then he saw it. Her belly had been obscured by the shawl, but now he could see the distended curve of her protruding navel. The orc was pregnant.
“Arcturus, back away slowly so we can get a clear shot,” Rotter’s voice called from the trees. “Three feet should do it, then we’ll have it.”
“Don’t shoot,” Arcturus hissed. “She’s pregnant.”
“So what?” Rotter snarled from the bushes. “She’ll kill you if given half a chance.”
But Arcturus didn’t believe him. In fact, the orc’s arm was trembling now, and she let her hand drop to the ground. For a moment she stared at him. Then she shook her head weakly, and tossed the dirk aside. The orc let herself fall back and gazed up into the canopy.
“Get back,” Rotter said. “It’s a trap.”
“Lower your crossbows,” Arcturus said, staring in the direction of Rotter’s voice. “If she had wanted to kill me, I’d be dead already.”
His group must have circled around, for they were somewhere to his right, hidden in the foliage. Alice was the first to emerge, her crossbow still loaded but aimed at the ground.
“Just leave her,” Edmund’s voice called. “There’s nothing we can do for her.”
But Alice sidled closer, looking down at the bruised and broken figure. As a female orc, the mother-to-be was only six feet or so tall, far less imposing than her male counterparts.
“We can’t just leave her like this,” she said, biting her lip.