Page 10 of The Orc's Bonded Bride (The Five Kingdoms #3)

CHAPTER 10

L yric’s stomach knotted as she stood at the edge of the village square. The emissaries’ polished armor glinted in the torch light, a stark contrast to the villagers’ worn clothing. The five men sat tall on their horses, looking down their noses at the gathering crowd. Their demand for information on any strangers was bad enough, but then their captain, a thin-faced man with cold eyes, unrolled a parchment.

“By decree of Lord Trevain, loyal servant to High King Lasseran, the harvest tribute is hereby increased to forty percent of all yields.”

Gasps rippled through the crowd, and her hands balled into fists at her sides.

“That’s double last year’s amount,” Elder Harta protested, her voice wavering. “We won’t survive winter with what remains.”

The captain’s lips curled. “The High King’s forces require provisions. Lord Trevain suggests you work harder.” He glanced at the decorations for the festival. “You seem to have enough to celebrate.”

“Those decorations cost nothing but time and care,” she found herself saying, stepping forward. “Taking forty percent will starve our children.”

The captain’s gaze slid to her, eyes narrowing. “And who might you be?”

“Just a beekeeper,” she answered, lifting her chin.

“Then mind your hives and leave matters of state to those who understand them.” He turned back to the Elders. “Additionally, Lord Trevain requires three able-bodied men from each village for service.”

“Service?” someone called out. “You mean for High King Lasseran’s army!”

The captain ignored the interruption.

“Collection begins tomorrow. Any resistance will be met with… appropriate measures.” His hand rested meaningfully on his sword hilt. “The High King’s influence grows daily. Those who support him now will find favor when the old order falls.”

These people had so little, yet Lasseran would take even more. She thought of Samha, of the other children whose families would go hungry. Behind her, she sensed movement and knew without looking that Egon had followed her. His presence steadied her, even as rage coursed through her veins.

“This isn’t tribute,” she said clearly. “It’s theft.”

The captain’s eyes flashed. “Watch your tongue, woman, or?—”

She swallowed hard as the captain’s threat hung in the air, and chanced a quick look over her shoulder. A large shadow moved in the darkness behind the tanner’s shed and she knew Egon was positioning himself at her back. The comfort of his nearness steadied her racing heart as she turned back to the mounted soldiers.

Elder Harta stepped forward, her weathered hands spread in supplication. “Captain, please. We’ve always been loyal subjects. Surely there’s room for discussion.”

“The decree isn’t a negotiation,” the captain replied, rolling up his parchment with deliberate slowness.

Elder Tomas joined Harta, his normally jovial face grave. “Twenty-five percent would still be an increase from last year. We could manage that, with difficulty.”

Lyric watched the captain’s face harden. These men had no intention of compromising. She glanced around at the villagers—people who had taken her in, who had eventually accepted her despite her strangeness. Samha stood with his sister, eyes wide with fear.

“High King Lasseran’s patience with this region grows thin,” the captain said. “The Old Kingdom’s days are numbered. Those who resist the inevitable change will not be treated kindly.”

“We’re simple farmers,” Elder Harta pleaded. “Not politicians. We just want to feed our families.”

The captain leaned forward in his saddle. “Then I suggest you become very efficient at farming what remains to you.” His gaze swept over the crowd. “Forty percent. Three men. Tomorrow.”

Unease rippled through the crowd, and her heart ached for them. These were good people who worked hard for everything they had. They didn’t deserve this.

“The High King is most generous,” the captain continued, straightening in his saddle. “He could take everything. Remember that when you count your blessings tonight.”

Elder Tomas tried once more. “If we could perhaps spread the collection over several weeks?—”

“Enough!” The captain’s voice cracked like a whip. “Lasseran’s word is final. Be grateful I don’t take someone now for wasting my time.”

Her heart pounded against her ribs as the captain’s cold gaze bore into her. She held her ground, though every instinct screamed at her to back down. The square had fallen silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

“What’s your name?” the captain demanded.

Before she could answer, one of his men—a burly soldier with a pockmarked face and rust-colored beard—urged his horse forward. He circled her slowly, his eyes traveling over her with insulting thoroughness.

“This one’s got spirit, Captain,” he said, lips curling into a smirk. “Might be worth remembering when we return tomorrow.”

Her skin crawled under his scrutiny, and she heard a low growl from the darkness behind her.

The red-bearded man leaned down from his saddle, close enough that she could smell stale wine on his breath. “Pretty little thing, aren’t you? Too pretty to be just a beekeeper.” His voice dropped to a whisper meant only for her. “Lord Trevain appreciates spirited women. Perhaps I’ll mention you specifically in my report.”

Her mouth went dry. She knew exactly what such attention would mean.

“Or perhaps,” he continued, fingering the hilt of his dagger, “I could teach you some manners myself. Right now.” His eyes glittered with malice. “It would be a shame to mark that pretty face, but sometimes lessons must be… memorable.”

She stood frozen, her defiance warring with cold fear. The soldier’s threat hung in the air between them, his meaning unmistakable. She could feel the village watching, their collective breath held.

“Think carefully about tomorrow,” the man said, straightening in his saddle. “When I return, I expect to see you with your head bowed and your mouth shut. Or we’ll have a very different conversation.” He tapped his dagger meaningfully. “One that ends with you understanding your place.”

Her blood ran cold at the soldier’s threat, but a deeper sound sent a different kind of chill through her body—a low, rumbling growl from the shadows behind her. She didn’t need to turn to know it was Egon, his rage barely contained, but she risked a quick glance over her shoulder. She caught the amber flash of his eyes, his massive form half-hidden but poised to spring. The set of his jaw and the tension in his shoulders told her everything—he was seconds away from charging into the square.

She gave a slight, sharp shake of her head, locking eyes with him. Don’t. She tried to pour every ounce of warning into her gaze. If Egon revealed himself now, attacked these soldiers… her mind raced through the consequences. The village would be punished. People would die. Egon would be hunted.

The red-bearded soldier noticed her distraction.

“Something caught your eye, female?” He twisted in his saddle, following her gaze.

Forcing a neutral expression, she quickly looked back at him. “Nothing. Just… considering your words carefully.”

Her heart hammered against her ribs as another soft growl reached her ears, too low for the soldiers to hear but clear enough to her. He wasn’t backing down.

She shifted her weight slightly as she bowed her head, angling her body to block the soldier’s view of the shadows where Egon lurked. One wrong move, one glimpse of an orc in their midst, and everything would explode into violence.

“Smart girl,” the soldier sneered, misinterpreting her compliance. “Tomorrow, then.”

The captain turned his horse at the edge of the square, raising his voice so all could hear. “Remember this, peasants. Those who refuse the High King’s generous terms will face the consequences.” His lips curled into a cruel smile. “He has a special… army with an appetite for disobedient villages. Beast warriors. I’ve seen what remains afterward—or rather what doesn’t remain. Trust me when I say you don’t want that fate.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd, and her blood ran cold. Beast warriors. The very thing Egon had mentioned investigating. Her eyes darted to the shadows where he remained hidden, wondering what knowledge he possessed of these creatures.

“To ensure your cooperation,” the captain continued, “Dorn and Vex will remain until our return tomorrow.” He gestured to two soldiers, who dismounted with smug expressions. “They’ll keep watch and report any… difficulties.”

The two guards took positions at opposite ends of the square, hands resting on their weapons. Their presence transformed the once-welcoming village center into an occupied territory.

Elder Harta approached her as the crowd dispersed, her weathered face lined with worry. “This is bad, child. Very bad.”

“I know,” she whispered, acutely aware of Egon still hidden in the shadows. She needed to get back to him without drawing attention.

“That soldier marked you,” Harta warned, her voice barely audible. “Be careful.”

She nodded, her throat tight. “What do you know of these… Beast warriors?”

Harta’s eyes widened with fear. “Only rumors. They say Lasseran has found a way to twist men into monsters—creatures with the strength of ten warriors and no mercy in their hearts. Some say they’re half-orc abominations, bred for war.”

Her heart skipped a beat. Half-orc. Was this why Egon had been traveling this way?

One of the guards—Dorn, the broader of the two—spat on the ground and glared in her direction. “Move along, women. Nothing to see here.”

She gave Harta’s hand a quick squeeze and turned away, her mind racing. Forcing herself not to look back at the shadows where Egon waited, she moved away from the square with deliberate casualness. Her skin crawled with the weight of Dorn’s gaze following her, and each step required conscious effort not to run.

She took a circuitous path through the village, stopping to speak briefly with neighbors, feigning normalcy while her heart hammered against her ribs. When she finally ducked behind the baker’s shed, she broke into a sprint, keeping to the tree line that bordered the village.

“Egon?” she whispered urgently, scanning the deepening shadows.

A large hand emerged from the darkness, pulling her behind a massive oak. His eyes burned with barely contained rage, his massive body vibrating with tension.

“I nearly tore that soldier’s throat out,” he growled, voice rough as gravel. “The things he said to you?—”

“You would have gotten yourself killed along with half the village,” she cut in, though she squeezed his forearm in silent gratitude. “There are two guards staying overnight. We need to get back to my cottage without being seen.”

He nodded quickly. “Follow me. Stay low.”

They moved through the forest rather than the village paths, his woodland skills guiding them safely around the village’s perimeter. When they finally reached her cottage, she bolted the door behind them, her hands shaking.

“Forty percent,” she hissed, fury finally breaking through her careful composure. “They’ll starve this winter. And those men they want to take—” Her voice cracked. “They’re talking about farmers, not soldiers. They’ll die.”

The rage that had been simmering inside her since the square boiled over. “I won’t let them do this. I can’t.” She slammed her palm against the table. “This is my home now—my people. I’ve spent my whole life feeling powerless, and I won’t—I can’t feel that way again.”

She gave him a fierce look. “Whatever it takes, whatever I have to do—I’m going to protect them.”