Page 3 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

Footsteps approach with measured weight. The other warriors step aside, making room for their leader.

Chief Drokhan stands before me now, close enough that I can see the intricate details of his ancestral tattoos, smell the iron tang of blood on his armor. He studies me with intelligence that burns like banked coals.

He speaks to his warrior in their language. The warrior responds, gesturing toward my pendant, toward the wounded around us.

Drokhan nods slowly. Then he addresses me directly.

"You shield the warrior who would kill my people." His accent is thick, but his words are clear. "Why?"

"Because he's wounded. Because healing doesn't choose sides." I keep my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands. "Because my oath demands it."

"Your oath." He seems to taste the words. "To whom?"

"To life itself."

Something shifts in his expression. He studies the wounded boy beneath me, takes in the careful bandaging, the competent treatment.

"You know the healing ways of my people," he says. It's not a question.

Heat floods my cheeks. "I know all healing ways that work."

"Even those your kind call heretical?"

The question hangs between us. Around us, both sides watch and wait. Sir Edmund shifts beneath my protection, probably preparing to resume fighting the moment I move.

"Especially those," I answer.

Chief Drokhan smiles then with a brief expression that transforms his weathered features completely. For an instant, he looks almost approachable.

He barks an order to his warriors. They step back, weapons lowering. Several actually sheath their blades entirely.

"We came for supplies and to test your defenses," he tells me. "Both objectives are complete."

He turns as if to leave, then pauses.

"The boy with fever in your healing tent will recover fully by tomorrow's dawn. The remedy you used, my grandmother taught it to your mother, years ago, when such knowledge could still pass between our peoples."

My breath catches. "You knew my mother?"

"I knew of her. She was respected among the Stoneborn." His gaze meets mine one final time. "As are you now, Lady of House Thorne."

Then he's walking away, his warriors falling into formation around him. They move with the same deadly grace they showed in attack, but now purposeful withdrawal rather than aggression.

At the broken gates, Drokhan stops and looks back.

"Tell your captain, the next raid will come from the eastern passes, three days hence. Unless tribute is paid." His voice resounds clearly across the courtyard. "Twenty bushels of grain, ten casks of ale, and safe passage for Stoneborn trade caravans through the spring."

"And if we refuse?" Sir Edmund calls out, struggling to his feet.

Drokhan's smile returns, predatory this time.

"Then I return with a war host instead of a raiding party."

They disappear through the breach like smoke dispersing, leaving only bloodstains and silence behind.

I remain kneeling in the courtyard, hands still shaking, as the full impact of what just happened settles over me. The Chief of the Stoneborn knows my name. Knows my mother's history. Knows secrets I've barely understood.

And somehow, in the space of heartbeats, everything I thought I knew about the boundary between civilization and barbarism has crumbled like poorly mortared stone.

The boy with fever sleeps peacefully when I return to the healing tent, his breathing deep and steady. Color has returned to his cheeks, and when I press my palm to his forehead, the skin feels blessedly cool. The Orc remedy worked exactly as it should have.

As my mother said it would.

I move between the cots methodically, checking wounds, changing bandages, dispensing pain relief where needed.

Sir Edmund requires the most attention with three cracked ribs and a gash along his sword arm that needs proper stitching.

He endures my ministrations in stoic silence, though I catch him wincing when he thinks I'm not looking.

"You shouldn't have protected me," he says finally as I tie off the last suture. "That creature could have killed you."

"That person showed me mercy when he could have taken my head." I clean my bone needle with practiced efficiency. "Perhaps we should consider why."

Sir Edmund's jaw tightens. "They're raiders, Lady Eirian. Murderers and thieves. Today's restraint means nothing."

I don't argue. There's no point. But his words sit uneasily as I finish treating the wounded.

Hours pass before the last patient is settled for the night.

Ser Mael has proven capable enough, following my instructions precisely and asking intelligent questions about treatment procedures.

The tent grows quiet except for the soft sounds of sleeping men and the murmur of guards discussing the day's events.

My mother's scroll calls to me from my personal effects, obsidian ink on parchment that feels ancient between my fingers.

I've carried it for years without fully understanding its significance, but Chief Drokhan's words have stirred something loose.

Knowledge that wants to surface like bubbles rising through still water.

The night air feels cool against my skin after the tent's close warmth.

Stars scatter across the sky like scattered grain, and a full moon bathes the courtyard in silver light bright enough to read by.

I settle on a wooden crate near the broken gates, my healer's bag my feet, a habit so ingrained I barely notice the weight anymore.

The scroll crackles as I unroll it, revealing my mother's delicate script alongside symbols I recognize as Orcish runes. Her handwriting describes herbal preparations, ritual components, healing ceremonies that bridge the gap between human knowledge and Stoneborn wisdom.

"The mountain spirits respond to offerings of blood and bone," one passage reads. "But they demand respect, not subjugation. Those who approach with humility find doors opened that remain closed to conquerors."

Fascinating, but still cryptic. My mother wrote in riddles, always protecting her secrets behind layers of metaphor and misdirection.

I stand needing movement to help me think clearly.

The battlefield stretches beyond the broken gates, littered with equipment dropped in haste and dark stains that will take rain to wash clean.

By daylight it seemed chaotic, but under moonlight it reveals patterns with the careful way the Stoneborn withdrew, the strategic points they chose for their initial assault.

Military precision dressed as random violence.

My feet carry me toward the treeline, where shadows pool like spilled ink. The scroll rustles in my hands as the night wind stirs the parchment. Here, away from human voices and watching eyes, I can almost imagine understanding the deeper meanings hidden in my mother's words.

A twig snaps behind me.

I turn, expecting to see a guard checking the perimeter or perhaps Ser Mael looking for his missing lady. Instead, silence greets me as thick and watchful as a predator studying prey.

"Hello?" My voice sounds smaller than intended in the vast night. "Is someone there?"

The attack comes faster than thought. A massive hand clamps over my mouth before I can scream, fingers rough as tree bark against my skin. An arm thick as a ship's mast circles my waist, lifting me off the ground as easily as a child lifts a doll.

No. The word screams inside my head even as my captor's hand muffles any sound. I clutch the scroll reflexively, my other hand reaching for my medicine bag just as powerful arms drag me backward into the trees.

My feet kick uselessly at air. The satchel's leather strap cuts into my shoulder as I refuse to let go, its precious contents rattling with each jarring step. Moonlight flickers between branches overhead, creating a dizzying pattern of silver and black as we move into the forest.

The hand over my mouth smells of leather, weapon oil, and something uniquely wild. Not unwashed, that would be different, but carrying scents of mountain pine and stone dust that speak of places far from human settlements.

Orc. The knowledge hits with absolute certainty. One of Drokhan's warriors, returned for some purpose I can't fathom.

We move through the trees with supernatural quiet despite my captor's size.

Branches that should crack under his weight bend silently aside.

Fallen leaves that should crunch and rustle barely whisper beneath his feet.

This is someone who knows how to hunt, how to move through wilderness without betraying his presence.

My mind races through possibilities. Ransom seems likely.

The daughter of House Thorne would bring a substantial price.

Or perhaps revenge for some past injury I'm unaware of.

Or worse, the kind of fate that befalls women taken in raids, stories whispered in corners when mothers think their daughters aren't listening.

The satchel. Whatever happens to me, I can't let them find my mother's remedies.

The Orc preparations would be evidence of forbidden knowledge, enough to see my family stripped of titles and lands.

Worse, they might reveal connections between my mother and the Stoneborn that could be interpreted as treason.

I try to work the strap off my shoulder, hoping to drop the bag somewhere it might be found later, but my captor notices the movement. His arm tightens around my waist in warning, and I go still.

The forest opens onto a moonlit clearing where other figures wait in the shadows. I count at least five, possibly more, all bearing the distinctive build and bearing of Stoneborn warriors. They speak in low voices, their language a series of growls and clicking consonants that mean nothing to me.

One of them gestures toward a narrow path leading up into the mountains. Another points back the way we came, perhaps suggesting they return me before my absence is discovered. A third draws a curved knife and tests its edge against his thumb.

Not ransom, then.