Page 25 of The Orc's Bonded Bride (The Five Kingdoms #3)
CHAPTER 25
E gon squinted at the narrow mountain path ahead, a jagged scar against the steep face of granite. The air grew thinner with each step, but he pressed on, occasionally glancing back at Lyric. Her face was set with determination, cheeks flushed from exertion and the biting wind that whipped around them.
“You’re certain about this route?” he asked, not for the first time. “The southern pass would be easier.”
“And crawling with Lasseran’s men.” Lyric’s voice was firm. “Freja showed me flames there—death waiting. This way is clear.”
He nodded, though unease twisted in his gut. He trusted her, trusted the vision that had come to her, but the protective instinct within him balked at leading her into such treacherous terrain.
They rounded a bend, and he halted abruptly. Below them, in the valley they’d avoided, dark shapes moved between trees—the unmistakable glint of armor catching the late afternoon sun.
“Look.” He pointed. “Soldiers. Dozens of them.”
She stepped up beside him, her shoulder brushing his arm. “The goddess was right.”
A cold wind gusted across the mountainside, carrying the scent of pine and snow. He wrapped an arm around her, drawing her close against the chill. The path ahead narrowed further, becoming little more than a goat track clinging to the mountainside.
“It gets worse before it gets better,” he murmured, scanning the route. “We’ll need to single-file from here. Stay close to the rock face.”
He led the way, testing each foothold before committing his weight. The drop to their right plunged hundreds of feet into mist-shrouded valleys. One misstep would mean death.
“When we reach Norhaven,” he said over his shoulder, “my brothers will want to know everything about these visions.”
“If they believe me.”
“They will.” Egon paused to help her over a particularly treacherous section. “Wulf’s mate has the sight as well. And Lothar…” He trailed off, remembering his youngest brother’s unconventional mate. “Let’s just say they’ve seen enough strange things to keep an open mind.”
As they climbed higher, the world below seemed to shrink. The soldiers in the valley became mere specks, unaware of the two travelers observing them from above.
His muscles burned as they crested the final ridge of the mountain pass. The air thinned his breath, but the view that greeted him sent a jolt of recognition through his body. Home —or what passed for it. The mountains of Norhaven, wild and untouched, spread out before them, their snowy peaks glistening in the fading light.
He turned to Lyric, his heart tightening at the sight of her. She stood with her back to him, her face lifted to the wind, hair whipped into a fiery halo by the currents that swirled around them. She’d always been beautiful to him, but here, against the backdrop of the mountains, she looked ethereal, as though she’d been carved from the same wild stone that surrounded them.
“Norhaven,” she breathed, her eyes meeting his. “It’s…”
“Home,” he finished for her. “Or close to it.”
A flicker of doubt crossed her face. He knew her fears—that she wouldn’t belong in the rugged world of the orcs, that her human nature would set her apart—but he had no such worries. She belonged with him, at his side, no matter where they were.
He stepped closer, cupping her cheek in his palm. “You’re sure about this?”
Her eyes held his, clear and steady. “Yes. Freja indicated that we’d find answers here. If there’s any chance we can break the curse, any hope of freeing you and your brothers, we have to try.”
They descended the winding path toward the Fanged Gate, the massive entrance to Norhaven carved to resemble the open maw of some ancient Beast. As they drew closer, he noticed unusual activity along the battlements. Soldiers moved with purpose, setting up additional ballistae and reinforcing weak points.
War preparations.
A cluster of armored figures stood at the base of the eastern wall. Even from a distance, Egon recognized the tallest among them —King Ulric, his broad shoulders and commanding presence unmistakable.
“Wait here,” he told her, touching her arm gently. “Let me approach first.”
He walked towards the group surrounding the king, aware of the guards’ eyes tracking his approach. Two warriors stepped forward, hands on weapon hilts until recognition dawned on their faces.
“Egon,” one called out. “The king will want to know you’ve returned.”
Ulric turned at the commotion, his weathered face betraying brief surprise before settling back into its customary stern expression. The king dismissed the officer he’d been speaking with and strode toward Egon.
“Wulf told me that you had headed south on a scouting trip. I didn’t expect to see you back so soon,” Ulric said, clasping Egon’s forearm in greeting. His eyes flicked past him to where Lyric waited. “Or with company.”
“My mate, Lyric.” Even he could hear the pride in his voice.
“Another human,” the king said thoughtfully. “She is welcome amongst us. I will have a tent prepared.”
“Thank you, but first we have news.”
“Then bring her.”
He motioned for Lyric to approach. She walked toward them with quiet dignity, her back straight despite the exhaustion of their journey. Egon felt a surge of pride watching her—this woman who had faced so much yet remained unbroken.
“Your Majesty,” she said quietly as she bowed her head, her voice steady despite standing before the imposing orc king.
“Welcome, Mistress Lyric. Egon says you have news?”
She nodded but looked at him. They had agreed that he would begin with the more tangible information.
“First of all, Lasseran is seeking the direct allegiance of Old Kingdom nobles.”
Ulric’s jaw tightened. “I warned Aldran, but he chose to ignore me. Come, walk with me.”
They moved along the wall, where workers hauled massive stones to repair a section of damaged fortification.
“The Fanged Gate must hold,” Ulric said, gesturing to the reinforcements. “I’ve ordered every available resource diverted to strengthen our defenses. If Lasseran’s Beasts breach this pass…”
“They’ll pour into Norhaven like a flood,” he finished grimly.
“Precisely.” Ulric stopped, turning to face the mountains they’d just crossed. “Tell me everything you’ve seen.”
Egon felt the weight of every word as he relayed what they’d discovered. Ulric’s face darkened with each detail, his weathered features hardening into stone.
“The Beast warrior attack left nothing but ruins,” he said, his voice low to prevent the nearby guards from overhearing. “The lord’s estate was completely destroyed—buildings burned to the ground, bodies torn apart. No survivors.”
Ulric cursed under his breath. “And you’re certain these were Lasseran’s creations?”
“Without question.” His jaw tightened as the memories flooded back. “I’ve seen combat wounds of every kind, my king. These weren’t made by weapons or natural Beasts. The claw marks were too precise, too… calculated.”
The king turned away, staring at the distant mountains. “And Khorrek? You’re sure it was him?”
“I fought him myself.” His hand instinctively moved to the healing wound on his side. “He recognized me from the fight pits. Something changed in him during our confrontation—I saw doubt in his eyes.”
“Doubt won’t stop him from following orders,” Ulric muttered.
“No, but he revealed more than he intended—or perhaps it was a deliberate slip. The first generation, orcs like Khorrek, were trained to be warriors, to believe in everything Lasseran wished them to believe, but they could still think for themselves.” He lowered his voice further. “This new generation is different. They are little more than mindless rage, but he controls them completely—a weapon to be pointed at any target he chooses.”
Ulric’s eyes narrowed. “How many?”
“Khorrek didn’t give numbers, but from what I saw at the training grounds, at least a dozen, possibly more.” He hesitated before adding, “And he implied Lasseran had found ‘the key to the old magic.’”
The king’s massive fist clenched. “And he has the winter to prepare.”
“There’s one more thing,” he said. “The village was left untouched. The hybrids specifically targeted the lord’s estate— someone who had sworn allegiance to Lasseran—although the lord and his immediate followers were spared.”
“A message,” Ulric concluded grimly. “Betrayal will not be tolerated, even from his own supporters.”
He watched the king’s face, trying to gauge his reaction. The mention of the Beast warriors had darkened Ulric’s expression, but there was something else weighing on him—something he couldn’t quite place.
“My king,” he hesitated, then tugged Lyric forward. “There’s more you should hear. My mate has been touched by the goddess Freja.”
Ulric’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he said nothing, waiting for her to speak.
“I wouldn’t presume to bring you a message from the gods if it weren’t urgent,” she said quietly. “Freja has warned that you must return to Queen Jessamin immediately.”
The change in Ulric was instant and dramatic. The stern, controlled expression cracked, revealing raw concern beneath. His big body tensed, every muscle coiled as if preparing to spring into action.
“What did you say?” Ulric’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. “What about my queen?”
He instinctively shifted closer to Lyric, though he knew Ulric would never harm an innocent messenger. The king’s reaction confirmed what Egon had suspected—beneath the political alliance with Jessamin, there were genuine feelings.
“The goddess showed me flames surrounding her,” Lyric explained. “Danger closes in while she waits alone. That’s all I know, but the message was clear—you must go to her now.”
He watched the conflict play across Ulric’s face—the wariness of a king who couldn’t afford to be swayed by superstition battling with the concern of a man who might be putting his queen at risk. The king’s eyes narrowed as he studied Lyric more carefully.
“Many claim to speak for the gods,” Ulric said, his voice deliberately measured. “Especially in times of war. How do I know your vision isn’t born of fear rather than divine guidance?”
He stepped forward, his protective instincts flaring. “My king, I’ve known Lyric since we were children. She’s never spoken falsely, and she has nothing to gain by inventing such a warning.”
Ulric raised a hand, silencing him. “I would hear it from her.”
Lyric met the king’s gaze without flinching. “I understand your doubt, Your Majesty. I questioned the vision myself. But Freja showed me your Jessamin surrounded by flames, her golden hair like a beacon in darkness. There was a pendant at her throat—a crescent moon set with sapphires.”
Ulric’s expression shifted subtly. He recognized the look—surprise carefully masked beneath royal composure. The pendant was clearly something personal, something Lyric couldn’t have known.
“She also showed me a secret passage,” Lyric continued. “Behind a tapestry depicting a great hunt. The goddess said, ‘The way out becomes the way in.’”
The king’s massive frame went rigid. His jaw clenched so tightly that Egon could hear the grinding of teeth.
“No one outside the royal family knows of that passage,” Ulric growled.
He felt a surge of pride for Lyric, standing unintimidated before the most powerful orc in Norhaven. She had always possessed a quiet strength that few recognized.
Ulric paced several steps, his brow furrowed in concentration. “If what you say is true, then Jessamin is in immediate danger. But I cannot abandon Norhaven on the eve of Lasseran’s attack.”
The king turned back to them, conflict evident in his eyes. “How can I be certain this isn’t a ploy to draw me away when we’re most vulnerable?”
He stepped forwards, placing himself partially between Lyric and the king. The protective gesture came naturally, though he knew she needed no shield.
“My king,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I’ve served you and Norhaven faithfully. I wouldn’t bring false warnings to your gate.”
Ulric’s eyes narrowed. “Your loyalty isn’t in question, Egon.”
“Then trust my judgment.” He held the king’s gaze, refusing to look away despite the tension crackling between them. “The Old Gods have been silent for generations. If they speak now, through her, we cannot afford to ignore their warning.”
He felt the weight of his own words. He’d spent years dismissing Wulf’s faith in divine intervention, yet here he stood, advocating for a goddess’s vision. The irony wasn’t lost on him, but Lyric’s certainty had become his own.
“You’ve seen what Lasseran is capable of,” he continued. “If he’s found another way to target Jessamin while our attention is divided, we play directly into his hands by hesitating.”
The king’s massive shoulders tensed, his tusks gleaming in the fading light as he worked his jaw in contemplation.
“And what would you have me do? Abandon the Fanged Gate when Lasseran’s forces gather at our borders?”
“Not abandon,” he countered. “Divide our strength strategically. Secure both fronts.”
Ulric turned away, staring out at the distant mountains. He recognized the conflict in the king’s stance—the battle between duty and personal concern.
“Your men can hold the Fanged Gate,” he urged. “But if Jessamin falls because we failed to act on a divine warning…”
He left the thought unfinished, knowing Ulric would follow it to its inevitable conclusion. The political alliance would crumble. The kingdoms would fracture when unity was most needed. But he suspected that the king was concerned about more than just political alliances.
Ulric remained silent for long moments, his broad back to them as he considered. Finally, he turned, his decision etched in the hard lines of his face.
“At dawn,” the king said, the words clearly costing him. “I’ll depart with a small contingent at dawn. Not before. I need tonight to ensure our defenses are prepared.”
He nodded, relief washing through him. “A wise decision, my king.”