Page 5 of The Orc Chief’s Baker (Orc Mates Of Faeda #4)

The tent that his brother owned was significantly larger than the rest, big enough to sleep ten grown warriors.

As the warlord, it wasn’t outlandish for Karthoc to have a more comfortable dwelling, but this was the first time Brovdir had ever seen Karthoc actually stay inside his own tent.

Typically, his brother reserved the space as a healing house.

But no healing was needed here. Not a single warrior had gotten more than a stubbed toe since they’d arrived in these woods.

Upon hearing nearly his entire camp approaching, the warlord threw back the flap and exited into the fray.

Karthoc was a burly male, taller and larger than the rest of his clan, with just as many scars as the rest of them.

His square jaw and cropped short hair made him seem ruthless and unrelenting but there were bags under his dark eyes.

Despite being in the Rove Woods, Brovdir’s brother was more exhausted than he would be in the heat of battle.

Karthoc’s brows shot up as he saw his entire camp of warriors clamoring with questions.

“Fucking calm down. Calm down! ” Karthoc threw up his hands and walked into the center of the circle of males before narrowing his gaze on Brovdir. “What is the meaning of this?”

Brovdir moved into the center of the circle as well and tapped his throat.

Karthoc scowled. “Your voice is still gone? How much did you speak today?”

The incredulous tone forced Brovdir to give his brother a flat, unamused look.

Karthoc had been in a meeting with Chief Ergoth of Rove Wood Clan since before dawn.

The discussion of his cousin Govek’s ascension to the role of chief was not going well, and while Brovdir didn’t fault his brother for needing to default the leadership of the warriors onto his shoulders for the time being, it did mean he was forced to talk more often than his damaged vocal cords could withstand.

Ogvick spoke up. “Warlord, he says he got this food from a village called Oakwall.”

“He smells of a woman!” another proclaimed. “One without the stench of her Rove Wood mate. You told us the only women here were mated to the males.”

Karthoc shot Brovdir a withering look that made him feel like a daisy baking in a roasting pit.

“You said the orcs here got their women from outside Rove! So, what did Brovdir mean when he said there was a village?”

“A village with women in it?”

“Men too, I’d guess.”

“Yes, but no men of the Waking Order.”

“Just regular men. And women friendly enough to give Brovdir food .”

“It’s not poisoned, is it?” Hendr, a surly, gruff male with a mossy green hide, moved toward Brovdir as if he were going to inspect the bag. Brovdir’s snarl had the bright green male backing off in an instant.

“Don’t smell poisoned.”

“How could the conjurer orcs not tell us of this?”

“Did you know of this, Warlord?”

“Shut it!” Karthoc roared with such volume it shook the soil beneath their feet. “The lot of you.”

The orcs fell into a somewhat tense silence.

Karthoc let out a low, fury laced growl before slowly saying, “Are you defying my direct orders?”

Brovdir could feel the shift of energy under his skin. A command from their warlord, especially among these males who were his most elite warriors, took precedence over nearly everything.

Nearly.

“ Brovdir .”

A slither of prickling fear ran down the column of his spine as Warlord Karthoc turned his violent gaze on him. The venom exuding from every one of his brothers’ muscles had Brovdir briefly regretting his choice to defy the powerful male’s command.

And then Trinia’s face flashed in his mind’s eye. Her smile. The low sound of her laughter was so clear in his memory it made him feel light.

As if he could sense the defiance in him, Karthoc’s claws extended with a shlink. The ice dripping down his spine crystallized, and he froze, eyes wide on those claws.

“You have defied me, Brovdir. You will fight in a challenge. Now. ”

Fuck.

He barely had time to catch a breath before Karthoc struck. He crashed into Brovdir’s chest and took him down.

On instinct alone, Brovdir fought, though his mind quailed. There was no winning this fight. But it was win or die .

And he did not want to die. Not yet.

Not with Trinia waiting.

He swung his legs out for leverage and thrusted Karthoc’s weight off his chest and to the left.

His brother was too quick and strong. He regained his footing before Brovdir had even gotten to his feet and shot forward again. Brovdir barely dodged the male’s wrath. The wind whistled next to his ear as Karthoc struck at his face.

The other males scrambled back as Brovdir leaped to dodge the warlord’s next attack. He evaded the claws, but Karthoc’s foot connected to his gut with a searing crunch.

Brovdir kept his footing, though his vision blurred, and his skin grew clammy. Each breath felt like clanging rocks were in his lungs and his head grew hazy from the lack of air.

Karthoc swung again. This time with a balled fist to the side of Brovdir’s head and his vision blackened.

The hit to the ground jerked his mind back to the present just as Karthoc swung him onto his stomach.

His head burned as the warlord grabbed his hair, yanked him back until he thought his spine would break, and displayed his neck.

The prickle of Karthoc’s claw against the scar on his neck brought true terror. The line was perfect and stark against his dark skin, a path for any to trace with their weapon. To slice open the wound and finish the job that sneaky human had started so long ago.

But Brovdir did not feel the slice of his skin. Instead, his brother hesitated. Pain bloomed as the panic died out. His body shivered and convulsed for air. Blackness bled around the corners of his eyes.

He could feel the eyes of his brethren on him. None would help him. None would want to defy their warlord, knowing their fate would be to die in the muck, gasping for air with tears streaming from their blackening eyes.

“ Give me her sweets .”

Brovdir’s ears prickled with every word, and he grappled with his own instincts.

“ Give them .” Karthoc snarled into his ear. Each word shivered through him like the slice of a blade. He may as well have cut his neck then.

And then Trinia’s face flashed again. Her red lips. Her round cheeks. Her eager words.

She wanted to trade with him.

He couldn’t do that if he was dead .

As if sensing his submission, Karthoc dropped his head and got up from his back. Brovdir fell flat onto his stomach, hissing with agony. Pain radiated up his spine with even the most minor twitch.

But he struggled past the pain. Orcs were not so easily broken, and he’d been through horrors far worse than this.

He got to his knees, assessing the damage in a swift instant. Both lungs were punctured by his own ribs. His legs were partially numb from the crack in his spine. His arm hung limp and was drenched in blood.

He sliced the beeswax pouch away from where he’d tied it to his sheath and with his good arm, held it toward Karthoc, though his whole body buzzed with the desperate need to keep it.

Karthoc snatched it from his grip and Brovdir watched in muted devastation as he threw back his head and upturned the bag over his unhinged gaping maw. Not a single crumb was spared from his brother’s jaws.

He swallowed thickly as the memory of the taste of them coated the back of his tongue and made his mouth water.

Then Karthoc took the bag and brought it over his face. The Warlord’s deep inhale brought agony slicing though Brovdir anew. He was taking in Trinia’s essence. Pulling her vanilla and sunshine deep into himself and learning it in a way that Brovdir could only dream of.

His brother’s ruthless and relentless strength was nothing compared to the powers he kept hidden. Powers Brovdir sensed but had never spoken of. Secrets that had never been vocalized even when they were alone.

His blood skittered in horror as Karthoc’s green eyes dilated until they were nothing but black and his muscles fought to rise. To meet the challenge. He would not let his brother take this woman from him! He’d rather be dead than?—

“Fuck, Brovdir.” Karthoc’s voice was a low whisper on the wind. So quiet that had Brovdir’s ears not been so keen, he would never have heard it. “How’d you find her like this... ?”

The tension drained out of him with a pop and shock took its place. Warm, tingling shot down his every limb. Vanilla curled up in his mind and sunlight baked his broken flesh.

“Give him a fucking tincture before he dies,” Karthoc snapped, throwing the beeswax bag onto the ground. “I’ve won this challenge.”

Brovdir collapsed, unwilling to expend any further energy as he waited for someone to give him a magical potion.

Relief had sapped his strength. Challenges between orcs were the main way warriors resolved their conflicts and most did not end in death, but the warlord was not typically one to be merciful.

Ogvick appeared at his side and pushed him onto his back.

The pain was nearly enough to make him blackout but then the tincture was thrust between his lips and the familiar taste of bitter swill thundered into his muscles like the spike of an electric shock.

His bones knitted back together with agonizing snaps and his lungs refilled.

The blackness of his eyes faded. His arm stitched itself, leaving only a coating of sticky cold blood to remind him it had nearly been slashed off.

The moment it could function, Brovdir snatched up the discarded bag out of the muck and hid it in his fist. It still smelled sweet despite being covered in mud.

“I’ll challenge you, Warlord.”

The silence that descended was so chill it was like winter had come early. Brovdir managed to his knees, though his healing was only half done, and stared at the foolhardy male that had just challenged their warlord moments after Brovdir had been cut down so easily.