Page 33 of Bound to the Alien Orc (Alien Gambits #1)

Chapter 33

T he torches flicker, casting eerie shadows across the arena. The air is thick with tension, the crowd’s murmurs a low, ominous rumble. I stand at the edge of the pit, my heart heavy with the weight of what’s coming. The fate of Morcrest, the fate of my love, it all hangs on this moment.

My gaze finds Tasha, her curvy form dwarfed by Claws, the hulking guard holding her captive. Even from this distance, I can see the bruises marring her delicate skin, the fear in her eyes. Rage ignites within me, a simmering fury that threatens to consume me entirely.

As if sensing my thoughts, Tasha straightens, her chin lifting in defiance. There’s a steel in her gaze, a quiet strength that takes my breath away. In that moment, I swear a silent oath. I will end this, for her, for Morcrest, for the memory of my father. No matter the cost.

I turn, striding towards the small tent at the edge of the arena. Inside, Drexan awaits, his face grim. He says nothing, merely clasps my shoulder, a wordless gesture of support. Then, he reaches for a bundle set on a low table, unwrapping it with reverent care.

My breath catches. It’s my father’s armor, the battered plates gleaming dully in the low light. Emotion clogs my throat, a tangle of grief and rage and fierce pride.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I had a dig around the old training lockers. I thought you should have this,” Drexan says quietly. “He would have wanted you to wear it, today of all days.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I wore this armor sparring for years after my father died. With shaking hands, I don the armor, feeling the weight of it settle on my shoulders. It’s more than just a physical burden—it’s the weight of my father’s legacy, of the duty I have to uphold. I will not fail him. Not again.

Drexan helps me with the last of the straps, his fingers deft and sure. When it’s done, he steps back, his eyes shining with approval. “You look just like him,” he murmurs. “He would be so proud of you, Droilin. Never doubt that.”

I swallow hard, a lump in my throat. “Thank you,” I manage. “For everything.”

He clasps my arm, a warrior’s embrace. “Fight with honor,” he said. “And come back to us.”

I nod, the unspoken words hanging between us. Come back to her.

I step out of the tent, the arena opening before me. The crowd’s cheers wash over me, but I barely hear them. My focus is on the two figures at the opposite end of the pit—Garrox, garish in his golden armor, and Tasha, her eyes finding mine across the distance.

I start forward, each step measured and deliberate. As I reach the edge of the pit, a flicker of movement catches my eye. Claws, dragging her roughly to the side. She struggles, a look of desperation on her face.

“Droilin!” she cries, her voice cutting through the din. “Let me speak with him. You promised me that!”

Garrox waves a hand, a bored expression on his face as he heads into his tent. Claws shoves her roughly towards the edge of the arena.

Tasha stumbles, catching herself against the wooden railing. Her eyes are bright with tears, her expression frantic.

My heart lurches in my chest. She looks terrified, desperate, like something is terribly wrong.

“I will speak with her,” I say, striding over to them.

“No,” Claws growls.

“You will let her speak,” I snarl, my voice low and dangerous. “Or you will die before I take my next step.”

Claws hesitates, his expression wavering. I can tell he wants to refuse. But the look on my face must be enough, and he lets go of Tasha’s arm, stepping back.

I hurry over to her, cupping her face with my hands. “Are you hurt?” I ask, my voice low.

Tears spill down her cheeks. “Droilin,” she whispers, her voice hoarse. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

My heart clenches, an icy tendril of dread coiling in my gut. “There is nothing to forgive,” I assure her.

“I have something for you,” she says, her voice shaking.

Our fingers brush as she discreetly presses something into my palm. A knife, the handle warm from her skin. I look down, seeing the wires, the tiny switch. Understanding dawns.

“Tasha,” I breathe. “You brilliant, brilliant female.”

She smiles, a small, fierce thing. “Give him hell,” she whispers.

Then Claws is there, wrenching her back with a curse. I snarl, starting forward, but Tasha shakes her head.

“Go,” she mouths. “I’ll be alright.”

It takes every ounce of my control to turn away, to tuck the knife into my belt and face Garrox. He leers at me, his eyes glittering with malice.

“Touching,” he sneers. “Saying goodbye to your pet? Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her once you’re dead.”

Blistering rage heaves through me, Garrox’s betrayal, his cruelty, his lies... they all coalesce into a ball of anger in my gut. He has brought our clan to its knees, has threatened everything I hold dear. My father, my people, my love... all victims of his ruthless ambition.

I clench my fists, the leather of my gloves creaking. I will make him pay. I will see justice done, not just for myself, but for all of Morcrest.

It takes every ounce of my control to turn away, to tuck the knife into my belt and head towards my tent. Inside, Drexan is waiting, his face grim.

“What’s that?” he asks, nodding towards the knife at my waist.

I pull it out, showing him the modifications. “Tasha’s work,” I explain. “She’s trying to give me an edge.”

Drexan’s eyebrows rise, impressed. “Clever female,” he murmurs. “She’s got a mind for this sort of thing.”

I nod, a surge of pride and affection warming my chest. “She’s brilliant. She has saved us more than once with her skills,” I agree. “But... I can’t use her enhanced knife. Not in the Rite.”

Drexan frowns. “Why not? If it gives you an advantage...”

I shake my head. “The Rite must be honored. That means keeping to the old ways, the traditions. Using Tasha’s modifications... it wouldn’t be right.”

Understanding dawns on Drexan’s face. Slowly, he nods. “You’re right,” he said. “The ancestors would not look kindly on such a thing.”

Carefully, I remove the electrified components from the knife until only the plain blade remains. I tuck it back into my belt, the weight of it a comfort.

“Knowing she tried to help... that’s enough,” I say softly. “Knowing she’s with me, even now... it gives me strength.”

Drexan clasps my shoulder. “She’s a fine mate,” he said. “You’re a lucky male, Droilin.”

I nod, the truth of his words settling in my chest. I am lucky. I have Tasha’s love, her brilliance, her fierce determination. And that’s a greater gift than any weapon could ever be.

With a final nod to Drexan, I step out of the tent, ready to face my destiny. The drums beat, a steady, pulsing rhythm that echoes through the settlement. The crowd falls silent, every eye fixed on the center of the arena. I take a deep breath, squaring my shoulders.

It’s time.

I vault over the barrier, landing in a crouch on the sandy floor of the pit. The crowd erupts into cheers, their voices rising in a deafening roar. I rise to my feet, my hand resting on the hilt of my blade.

Across the arena, Garrox emerges from his own enclosure, his golden armor glinting in the torchlight. He looks every inch the arrogant tyrant, his golden tusks bared in a cruel sneer. At his side, Claws keeps a tight grip on Tasha’s arm, his gun trained on her temple.

My heart clenches at the sight of her, so vulnerable, so afraid. I ache to go to her, to gather her in my arms and never let go. But I know I can’t, not yet. First, I have to win this fight.

I meet her gaze, trying to pour all my love, all my reassurance into that one look. ‘I will save you,’ I promise silently. ‘I will end this once and for all.’

Tasha’s eyes shine with unshed tears, but there’s a fierce determination there, too. She nods almost imperceptibly, her faith in me unwavering. It bolsters me, strengthens my resolve. For her, I would move mountains. Winning this Rite is the least I can do.

The drums reach a crescendo, then fall abruptly silent. Chieftain Keklor strides into the center of the arena, his ceremonial robes billowing behind him. He raises his hands, his voice booming out over the hushed crowd.

“People of Frosthok, of Morcrest, hear me! We are gathered here to witness a sacred tradition, a rite as old as our very civilization. The Rite of Akar’ath, the duel of honor, has been invoked. High Chieftain Garrox stands accused of great crimes against our people. Droilin has challenged his right to lead.”

A murmur runs through the crowd, anticipation crackling in the air. Keklor continues, his tone grave.

“Let the ancestors be our witness. May they guide the hand of the righteous, and see justice done this day. Challengers, come forward!”

I move towards the center, my steps measured and deliberate. Garrox mirrors me, his expression twisted into a mask of disdain. We face each other, mere feet apart, our tension glaring.

Keklor looks between us, his face impassive. “The rules of the Rite are thus: you will battle until one of you dies. No outside interference is permitted on penalty of death. The use of any non-traditional weapons or technology is strictly forbidden.”

At this, Garrox’s eyes narrow, a calculating glint appearing in their depths. I feel a flicker of unease. He’s planning something, I’m sure of it.

But there’s no time to dwell on it. Keklor is already gesturing to the weapon racks lining the edge of the arena. “Challengers, choose your blades.”

I move to the racks, my hand hovering over the assortment of swords, axes, and maces. After a moment’s deliberation, I select a simple Gundrian steel sword, its balance perfect in my grip. I present it to Keklor along with my stripped back blade from Tasha. The Chieftain nods his approval for moving to Garrox.

Garrox, unsurprisingly, chooses the largest, most brutal weapon on offer — a massive war hammer, its head easily the size of a melonite. He hefts it with ease, a smug grin on his face. Keklor approves his weapon choices and we return to the center, facing off once more.

Keklor raises his hands again, his voice echoing in the sudden hush. He places his hand on both our foreheads and says a prayer to our ancestors in the old language “Famil blud, hear throk krith. Akar’Ath Kloth shrok thal gruk. Viktir zok ledor, fod grothra Morcrest.” May the ancestors hear my plea. Bring this Rite to a just end. May the victor be a leader, and a guardian of the people.

Garrox and I both pound our fists against our chest.

“For the clans. For Morcrest,” we both shout, our voices ringing out through the silence.

I can sense the crowd’s nervous energy, but I push it aside. All that matters is this fight. Garrox and I stare at each other, our bodies charged.

The crowd chants before a hush falls over the arena. The energy changes, the crowd tense, expectant.

Keklor looks at me, his weathered face grim.

“The challenge has been made and accepted. The weapons have been chosen. In the sight of our ancestors, in the name of Morcrest... let the Rite of Akar’ath begin!” Keklor roars. The Chieftains take their places, and the drums beat, the sound echoing through the arena.

The crowd roar back their approval, the sound crashing over me like a wave. But I tune it out, my focus narrowing to Garrox, to the battle ahead. Everything else fades away — the spectators, the drums, the pomp and ceremony. All that remains is the pound of my heart, the rasp of my breath, the weight of my sword in my hand.

Garrox moves first, a blur of golden metal. His hammer swings, a whistling arc of death. I twist aside, feeling the rush of displaced air. My sword comes up, parrying his next blow. The impact jars my arm, sends shockwaves up my shoulder.

We trade strikes, the clash of metal on metal ringing out. Garrox is strong, brutally so, and each blow feels like being kicked by a durgal.

Garrox lunges forward with a speed that belies his bulk. His hammer travels through the air, a blur of deadly metal. I barely sidestep, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle my hair.

I dart in, my blade flashing, seeking the weak points in his armor. But Garrox is quick. He pivots, bringing the hammer around in a devastating arc. I throw myself backwards, losing my footing in the loose sand. The hammer slams into the ground where I was standing a heartbeat before, sending up a spray of grit.

I roll to my feet, circling warily. Garrox tracks me, his eyes glittering with malice. “Give up, whelp,” he sneers.

I bare my teeth in a snarl, my grip tightening on my sword. “I’ll never yield to an honorless Nullark like you.”

Garrox laughs, a cruel, mocking sound. “Pathetic,” he spits. “Just like your father. He died mewling like a crishnak, begging for mercy.”

Rage surges through me, white-hot and blinding. With a roar, I charge forward, my blade a silvery blur. Garrox meets me head-on, his hammer swinging. The weapons collide with a deafening clang, the impact shuddering up my arms.

I land a cut on Garrox’s bare thigh, seeing the blood well up. He roars, more in anger than pain, and redoubles his assault. His hammer is a blur, a relentless battery of strikes. I give ground, my boots slipping in the churned-up sand. Garrox presses his advantage, his hammer striking fiercely. I parry desperately, feeling my strength waning.

We trade more blows back and forth, the ringing of steel and the grunts of exertion filling the air. I take a glancing hit to the shoulder, feeling the bone creak under the strain. Pain shudders through me, but I grit my teeth and push through it.

A particularly vicious strike slips past my guard, the flat of the hammer slamming into my ribs. I feel something give way, a sickening crack and a burst of agony. I reel back, gasping, my vision swimming.

Through the haze of pain, I hear Tasha’s scream, feel the weight of her gaze on me. I can’t let her down. I won’t.

With a massive effort of will, I straighten up, raising my sword once more. Garrox looks surprised, then angry. “Just die, you stubborn bastard,” he growls, stalking forward.

I retreat, my breath coming in shallow gasps, my ribs a blaze of agony.

A huge blow slams into my chest, sending me flying. I hit the ground hard, the breath driven from my lungs. Garrox is on me in an instant, his hammer raised for a killing blow.

Desperately, I roll aside, feeling the hammer’s head crunch into the sand where my head was a heartbeat before. I scramble to my feet, my body screaming in protest.

A red haze of rage descends over my vision. With a wordless roar, I charge forward with my sword extended. Garrox meets me head-on, his hammer swinging.

I duck under his guard, inside the reach of his weapon. With a snarl of triumph, I ram my blade into the gap under his arm, where his armor is weakest.

Or should be the weakest. But to my horror, the blade skitters off, sparks flying. Some sort of under armor, something far stronger than mere dorix hide. Garrox chuckles darkly.

“Surprise,” he hisses. Then his fist slams into my face, an exploding burst of pain. I reel back, my vision swimming.

Garrox presses his advantage, his hammer slamming brutally. I’m forced back, struggling to parry his blows. He’s too strong, too fast. My injuries slow me, each movement sending agony ripping through my body.

A crushing strike to my leg sends me to one knee, a scream tearing from my throat. Dimly, over the roar of the crowd, I hear Tasha’s cry, a sound of pure anguish. It rips at my heart, but I have no time to look for her.

Garrox looms over me, his hammer raised. “And so, it ends,” he gloats. “Crawl like the wormling you are. I’m going to enjoy breaking your little human. I think I’ll make her watch while I rip out your hearts.”

Despair crashes over me, as cold and heavy as a shroud. This is it. I’ve failed. Failed Morcrest, failed Tasha, failed my father. Garrox has won.

Then, through the haze of pain and hopelessness, I feel a tiny spark. An ember of defiance, glowing in my chest. No. It can’t end like this. I won’t let it.

My hand falls to my belt, closing around the hilt of Tasha’s knife. I meet Garrox’s eyes, seeing the smug triumph there.

He thinks he’s won. He’s wrong.

With the last of my strength, I drive Tasha’s knife into his unprotected throat, right where his green skin meets his golden collar.

Garrox’s eyes go wide, shock and disbelief writ large on his face. His mouth opens, but instead of words, only a bloody gurgle emerges. I twist Tasha’s knife into his flesh for all the pain he caused her. The sound stomach-turning but satisfying.

Garrox convulses, his body jerking grotesquely. The hammer falls from his nerveless fingers as he scrabbles at his throat, trying futilely to pull out the knife. But it’s lodged deep.

I watch, a distant, detached part of me feeling a grim satisfaction. Garrox takes a shuddering breath, his eyes rolling back in his head. Then he crumples, folding in on himself like a puppet with its strings cut. He hits the ground with a heavy thud and lies still, blood pooling from his throat.

Silence falls, shock and disbelief thick in the air. Then, slowly at first but with growing strength, a chant rises.

“Droilin! Droilin! Droilin!”

My name, over and over, a roar of sound that shakes the very foundations of the arena. I struggle to my feet, my body a mass of pain. But I barely feel it. All I can think of is Tasha.

I turn, searching for her in the crowd. And there she is, her face alight with joy and relief. She’s smiling through her tears, the most beautiful sight I’ve ever seen.

I start towards her, needing to feel her in my arms, to assure myself that this is real. But I only manage a single step before the world spins around me. My injuries, the strain of the fight, it all crashes into me at once. I feel my knees buckle; the ground rushing up to meet me.

The last thing I see before the darkness takes me is Tasha’s face, her eyes wide with fear. I want to tell her it’s alright, that I’m okay. But I can’t make my mouth form the words. The blackness rises, cold and smothering, and I sink into it, letting it pull me under.

But even as I fall, a sense of peace settles over me. It’s done. Garrox is dead, and Morcrest is free. Tasha is safe.