Page 5 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

DROKHAN

T he war-horns echo as we return, their deep voices carrying news of victory tinged with loss.

Twelve of my warriors limp through the gates, and three more ride draped across their saddles, never to see another dawn.

The price of raiding grows steeper each season, but the borderlands demand blood tribute from all who dwell there.

I dismount before the great hall, my muscles protesting after hours in the saddle. The wound across my ribs, courtesy of a Thorne knight's desperate thrust, has reopened during the ride home. Fresh blood seeps through the crude field dressing Koreth applied with battlefield efficiency.

"Chief." Grimjaw approaches, my war-leader's scarred face grim even by his standards. "The prisoner?"

"Secure?"

"In the lower chambers, as ordered. Marek stands guard."

Good. The human woman's courage on the battlefield earned her life, but courage alone doesn't guarantee wisdom. Too many variables remain unknown, too many questions demand answers before I can judge her true worth.

"Summon the healers for our wounded," I command. "And send word to the clan mothers. We feast tonight for the fallen."

Grimjaw nods and moves away, barking orders to the warriors dispersing through the courtyard. I watch them go, these brothers-in-arms who follow me into fire because I've never led them astray. Each bears wounds from this day's work, and some carry scars that will never fully heal.

The stronghold rises around us in terraced stone, carved from living mountain over generations of patient work. Our ancestors built well. These walls have turned aside siege engines and storms alike, offering sanctuary to the Stoneborn when the world grew hostile.

But sanctuary means nothing if we cannot heal our people's hurts.

I climb the winding stairs to my chambers, each step sending fresh fire through my injured ribs. The wound needs attention, but first I must cleanse the battlefield's stench from my skin and clear the day's chaos from my thoughts.

The stone basin waits where I left it, filled with mountain water cold enough to shock the senses clean.

I strip away armor and clothing methodically, noting each cut and bruise acquired during the fighting.

My reflection in the water shows a warrior growing older, gray threading through black hair, new lines etched around amber eyes that have seen too much death.

The water runs red when I wash away the battle's residue,my blood, my enemies' blood, the blood of those who fell under my protection. All of it spirals down the drain carved into living rock, returning to the mountain's heart.

I dress in clean leather and examine the rib wound properly. Deep enough to need stitching, but the blade missed anything vital. A small price for the day's work, though it throbs with each breath.

Sleep comes fitfully, haunted by familiar ghosts. I see Vorgrim's face as the crossbow bolt takes him, watch Thakka fall beneath a Thorne knight's hammer, feel the decisions that cost lives. Command means carrying the dead with you, their voices whispering accusations in the dark hours before dawn.

But dawn always comes, indifferent to mortal sorrows.

I wake to gray light filtering through narrow windows cut deep into stone. The mountain's silence surrounds me, broken only by wind singing through the peaks and the sound of the stronghold stirring to life.

The prisoner. Time to take her measure properly.

I dress with care, leather and mail, the ceremonial torque that marks my rank, weapons' belt heavy with iron authority. First impressions matter, and this human woman has already proven herself more formidable than most.

The lower chamber smells of damp stone and old fears.

These rooms served as dungeons in my grandfather's time, when the clans warred among themselves and prisoners meant political leverage.

Now they house only the occasional drunk warrior sleeping off ale-poisoning or the rare border-crosser who needs persuasion to share information.

Marek straightens as I approach, his massive frame filling the narrow corridor. "Chief. She's been quiet all night. Refused food and water, but hasn't tried to escape."

"Smart woman. Escape would mean death in these mountains."

"What are your orders?"

I consider. Standard protocol demands interrogation, harsh questioning to extract useful intelligence about Thorne's defenses, troop movements, supply lines. But this prisoner represents something more valuable than military secrets.

"Bring her to the healing grotto. Shackled, but comfortable. Post guards, but keep them discrete."

Marek's scarred brow furrows. "Chief?"

"She's a healer. If she proves trustworthy, we may have use for her skills. If not..." I shrug. "The mountain claims many who disappoint."

The key turns with a grinding of old iron. Through the heavy door, I see her, Lady Eirian Thorne, daughter of enemies, keeper of secrets that died with her mother twenty-three summers past.

She sits with her back straight against the stone wall, still clutching that leather satchel like a lifeline.

Her golden hair, unbound now, spills over shoulders covered by a travel cloak that bears road dust and blood stains.

But her green eyes hold steady when they meet mine, courage burning beneath the surface fear.

"Lady Thorne." I step into the cell, filling the doorway with my presence. "I trust your accommodations proved adequate?"

"Charming décor." Her voice trembles slightly. "Very authentic dungeon aesthetic. Though the room service needs improvement."

Sharp wit. Her mother possessed the same quality, words like blade-edges, cutting through pretense to find truth beneath. Mirelle Thorne could match any clan elder in verbal combat, and often did during those secret meetings.

"Come. We have matters to discuss."

She rises gracefully despite the cramped quarters, settling the satchel's strap across her shoulder with practiced ease. The motion draws my attention to her hands, slender but strong, bearing calluses that speak of honest work rather than pampered nobility.

Marek produces iron shackles, lightweight but effective. Lady Eirian extends her wrists without protest, though I catch the way her jaw tightens as the metal closes around delicate bones.

"Necessary precaution," I explain. "My people have little love for Thornes."

"Mutual sentiment, I assure you."

We climb from the depths through passages carved with clan history, with symbols and stories rendered in living stone by artisans long dead. She studies the carvings with obvious interest, and I wonder what her trained eye sees in our ancient markings.

The healing grotto opens before us like a secret garden hidden in the mountain's heart.

Sunlight slants down through crystal-lined shafts, illuminating pools of steaming water that bubble up from underground springs.

Herbs grow in carefully tended plots, their green abundance a sharp contrast to the stone wilderness outside.

Lady Eirian stops in the entrance, her breath catching audibly. "This is remarkable."

"My people understand the value of healing spaces." I gesture toward the pools where minerals gleam like scattered jewels beneath clear water. "These springs have mended bones and closed wounds for a thousand years. Your mother worked here often during her visits."

"My mother came here?"

"You sound surprised. Did you think her knowledge sprang from nothing? The healing arts she practiced, the remedies she guarded so carefully. Much of it originated in places like this."

I lead her to a stone bench carved from the grotto's wall, positioned to catch morning light while offering clear views of the chamber's exits. Old habits, even in sanctuary, a warrior watches for escape routes.

"Tell me about her visits," Lady Eirian demands, settling onto the bench with chains chiming softly. "When did they begin? How often did she come? What did she learn?"

"Questions flow like spring water from you.

" I settle onto another bench, close enough for conversation but far enough to avoid threatening her personal space.

"Your mother first came during the Plague Years, when sickness swept through clan and kingdom alike.

Traditional healers, yours and mine, failed against the wasting fever. "

The memory surfaces unbidden, bodies stacked like cordwood, funeral pyres burning day and night while the living waited to join the dead. Even here in our mountain stronghold, the plague found us.

"She came alone?"

"With a single guard, who waited at the gates while she ventured into our halls." I observe her face, noting the way her eyes widen at this revelation. "Brave beyond measure, or desperate beyond reason. Perhaps both."

"What did she want?"

"Knowledge. Our healers possessed remedies her people had forgotten, herbs that grew only in high places, preparation methods passed down through generations of clan mothers. In exchange, she offered knowledge of her own. Lowland healing techniques, surgical methods, alchemical principles."

Lady Eirian leans forward, chains forcing her to move carefully. "An exchange of knowledge. Not conquest or subjugation."

"Your mother understood what many refuse to see that healing transcends borders drawn by kings and chiefs. Disease recognizes no banners, makes no distinction between human and orc blood."

The grotto's peace settles around us like a cloak. Steam rises from heated pools, carrying scents of sulfur and mountain flowers. In this place, war seems distant, almost unreal.

"She came regularly after that first visit," I continue. "Once each season, when clan business brought her near the borders. Always in secret, always alone save for that single guard."

"Sir Jedius," she breathes. "Her personal bodyguard. He died when I was fifteen, took fever during a harsh winter."