Page 21 of The Orc Chief’s Baker (Orc Mates Of Faeda #4)

On that, Brovdir could agree. The fifteen warrior orcs Karthoc had left behind had been worked almost to the bone, searching for cracks in the forest floor.

Brovdir had spent much of his time toiling right alongside them.

Trinia’s face flashed in his mind as motivation to keep searching. She liked to walk in these woods.

“We have to at least know how to stop them before we bring it up to Headman Gerald. This and the prophecy. Otherwise, it could very well be the driving force that would make them leave . And you know what would happen if they left, don’t you?

There would be no more conquests. No more sons .

This clan would die out in a few generations. ”

Brovdir couldn’t argue with that. This clan was so remote, so cut off from the outside world, that it wouldn’t be possible for them to stay here long term if the humans of Oakwall abandoned these woods.

But it was here they had to stay. All orc kind did. The Fades had willed it. The prophecy had been foretold. Their world would be remade. There was no escaping that fate.

And it was a fate Oakwall was blissfully unaware of. In less than two seasons, thousands of orc warriors would move into these woods. They’d outnumber the small village of humans five to one.

“We need answers first,” Sythcol said firmly. “Once I know more, at least enough to ease their fears, I will go to Headman Gerald myself and tell him everything. I swear it. But right now, we can’t. You know that, don’t you, Brovdir?”

Brovdir sighed and rubbed at his aching throat.

“We are not going to get Oakwall involved, Brovdir.” Sythcol’s firm conviction had him straightening in steady agreement with the clear command.

Brovdir nodded despite the churning in his gut that told him that keeping their human neighbors in the dark was going to backfire—badly.

But Sythcol had lived in these woods all his life. He knew every human in Oakwall Village. He was better suited for the role of chief than Brovdir ever could be.

“Go fetch the soup for me,” Sythcol said quietly, rubbing at his stomach. Brovdir completed the order without complaint or thought and settled the still steaming bowl of pine-needle fish down on the desk next to the conjurer.

The male wrinkled up his nose at the sight, but relented and took a quick bite.

It crunched.

Brovdir could not decide if he was more amused or disgusted as Sythcol grimaced. He flinched as he swallowed down the mysteriously crunchy soup.

Then he looked back down at the messages the warriors had been sending and asked absently. “Any word from Karthoc?”

Brovdir shook his head.

Sythcol nodded, brows furrowed. “I have a bad feeling about it. We should be getting more updates from them.”

“Rendid sent one yesterday.”

“Yes, and all it told us was that he’d separate from Karthoc to fetch the western clans,” Sythcol muttered. “Six hundred warrior orcs delivered here by winter’s end... there’s just too much to do.”

“Orders for me?” Brovdir asked cautiously.

“Just stay on top of your warriors and keep hunting,” Sythcol demanded before sighing raggedly.

“Last we heard, Karthoc still had Ergoth with him. If the male was capable of all this”—Sythcol stretched his hands out to indicate the stacks of scrolls and papers on the desk—“then he’s capable of anything. Even slithering into Karthoc’s ear.”

“No. Ergoth couldn’t,” Brovdir insisted. Karthoc had never trusted Ergoth. He wouldn’t fall for the male’s tricks.

“We should have kept Ergoth here.” Sythcol laced his fingers together as he thought. “We could have locked him beneath the Rove Tree. Then we could have questioned him.”

Brovdir opened his mouth to respond, only to have his stomach plunge.

“He has something to do with all of this. I just know it.”

Brovdir sucked in a hard breath as the odd sinking feeling intensified.

“Brovdir.” Sythcol rose to his feet. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t know.” The sensation of falling made his hair stand on end. He clenched his jaw, flexed his muscles.

Sythcol looked up just as a bird swooped in and landed on his shoulder. The messenger robin tweeted brightly as Sythcol removed the note from his leg.

It was all Brovdir could do to keep standing. Why had he suddenly gone so dizzy ?

And cold ?

“This is . . .”

The shocked tone from Sythcol caught Brovdir’s attention just as the male yanked a scroll out from the sleeve of his robes and spread it out on top of the messy desk.

The map of Rove Wood was clear, and Sythcol used a charcoal pencil to mark down the location of the new crack that one of his warriors had just sent in.

Cracks that always led to new sinkholes.

“Fades,” Sythcol gasped as he scribbled down calculations Brovdir couldn’t understand.

The map was littered with angles and numbers and dark blots where sinkholes had already formed.

Where deep chasms were still dangerous and churning.

Many grew larger by the moment. So far, no one had gotten hurt when the ground broke open and sucked everything above it into the depths beneath.

But it was only a matter of time.

Sythcol drew lines across the map from three different cracks to a single point.

A very large point.

Dangerously close to Oakwall Village.

And suddenly something deep inside his mind... screamed.

“That’s... odd.” Sythcol pulled out his notebook and scribbled notes as his brow furrowed. “It’s not following the usual pattern.”

Brovdir could hardly spare a grunt in response. The sensation gripping his veins was growing stronger. Like pouring cold water over his flesh. The intensity increased with every passing moment. His skin prickled like he’d just been caught in a spider’s web. A web that was tugging on him.

Tugging toward the depths of the Rove Woods.

“Perhaps it’s aligning with these ones here? Though it’s not perfect.” Sythcol’s voice barely broke through the fog clouding him.

The pull was so vivid . Almost like a compulsion. The web strummed around him, vibrating like sound waves he could feel against his flesh.

And then he felt his name .

Brovdir!

And he knew in an instant who it was.

He snatched up the map right out from under Sythcol and bolted for the stairs, ignoring the conjurer’s confused demands. There was no time to explain or stop.

He had to get to Trinia before it was too late.