Page 9 of The Princess and the Orc (Cursed Kingdoms)

Chapter Nine

A malia tugged at the unfamiliar fabric of her breeches, still uncertain about wearing such masculine attire. Women of her station wore dresses and would never be caught dead wearing such scandalous attire. Yet Drogath had delivered this outfit to her this morning, saying they needed to make good time on the road and she needed to be properly dressed. While it wasn’t appropriate, she felt free wearing breeches, able to move more easily and comfortably.

The morning air was crisp, carrying the scent of autumn's approach as she stood in the castle courtyard, watching servants load the last of their supplies onto pack horses. Drogath argued with them about the amount of supplies, directing them to remove much of her things and the food, saying they could follow later.

“Stop fidgeting,” Drogath rumbled from behind her, his massive hands settling on her shoulders. “You look beautiful and practical.”

“No decent woman wears such things,” she muttered, though with less conviction than she might have had a week ago. The breeches allowed for easier movement, and the soft leather felt pleasantly supple against her skin.

His chuckle vibrated through her. “In our clan, we value functionality over ornamental beauty. Our women are warriors, hunters, leaders, not decorative objects to be admired from afar.” His fingers traced down her spine, making her shiver. “Though you manage to be both practical and breathtaking.”

A thrill ran through her at his words. Warriors. Hunters. Such roles had never been open to her before, constrained as she was by the expectations of court life. “You mean I could learn to fight? To hunt?”

“If you wish it, though, I will protect you with my life.” He moved around to face her, his dark eyes warm with affection. “You'll find we have different ideas about what makes a decent female among my people.”

Before she could respond, a familiar whinny caught her attention. Her heart leaped as she saw Shergar being led into the courtyard, saddled and ready for travel. Beside him was a massive bay stallion, clearly bred for carrying Drogath's considerable weight.

“We’re riding? Where’s the carriage? How will we bring my clothes? Our supplies? This isn’t acceptable.” Amalia protested.

“I thought you would be happy to have your horse, free to ride without the confines of a carriage,” Drogath said, a warning clear in his tone.

She sniffed. “I like to ride, but this isn’t a morning jaunt. You’re forcing me to leave my home. I don’t understand why we can’t just stay here. I’m a princess and you’re a regular orc. What do you have to go back to?”

His eyes darkened, and he leaned in to speak in a low voice. “Watch your tone, mate, or I’ll punish you here and you’ll be sore for the ride.”

“You wouldn’t!” She drew back and stared at him in shock.

He only arched an eyebrow. She considered his words for a moment, then decided it would be far better to back down than test him. “Fine. Do I at least get to ride by myself?”

His expression smoothed. “Of course. You're my mate, not my prisoner, and you’re an accomplished rider. I trust you to stay by my side by choice.” He paused, then added with a hint of fang, “Though if you try to run, I might have to spank you. Again.”

Heat flooded her cheeks at the memory, along with other places she tried not to think about in public. Another piece of her preconceptions about orcs, and him, crumbled away.

“Why such haste to leave?” she asked, changing the subject as she watched the five royal guards mount up. Her father had insisted on sending them, despite Drogath's protests. “Surely we could stay a few more days? And why are we riding? Not that I don’t like riding, but if we took a carriage, we could carry all the supplies.”

His expression darkened slightly, and he frowned into the distance. “I’ve delayed too long already. I must return to my clan. We must move swiftly. Your things, along with supplies, can follow more slowly.” Something in his tone suggested there was more he wasn't saying, but she knew better than to press him in front of others.

“Amalia.” Her father's voice drew her attention. King Henrik stood at the castle steps, looking older than she remembered. When had his face grown so drawn?

She ran to him, propriety forgotten as she threw herself into his arms like she had as a child, tears springing in her eyes. “Father.”

“Hush now.” He held her tight, his voice rough with emotion. “This isn't goodbye forever. You're barely a day's ride away, and with our new alliance, there will be regular communication between us and the clan.” He pulled back to cup her face in his hands.

Amalia blinked back tears. “I’ll make you proud, Father. I'll show them all that this alliance can work.”

“You already have.” He kissed her forehead, then turned to Drogath with a stern expression. “Keep her safe.”

“With my life,” Drogath promised solemnly.

The farewell became a blur after that. Last-minute instructions, tearful hugs from her ladies' maids, last checks of the supplies. Before she knew it, she was mounted on Shergar, the familiar leather of his reins grounding her as they passed through the castle gates.

She looked back once, watching her childhood home grow smaller behind them. Drogath rode beside her, his presence both intimidating and comforting. When she faced forward again, she sat straighter in her saddle. She was no longer just Princess Amalia, ornamental daughter of King Henrik, heir to the throne. She was an orc mate, though she had no idea what that meant or her role in his clan. She’d figure it out eventually and hoped she could handle it.

Though she wished he'd tell her why they were in such a hurry.

* * *

D rogath's muscles tensed as he guided his mount through the narrow mountain passes. Every instinct screamed at him to move faster, but he couldn't risk the horses on the treacherous terrain. He'd sent two guards ahead to scout while three remained with their group, though he trusted his own senses more than their human eyes.

The wind shifted, bringing with it the scent he'd been dreading—metal, leather, horses, and too many men. An army on the move.

One of the scout guards appeared around the bend, riding hard. “My lord! There's a force moving parallel to us through the valley. At least two thousand strong, maybe more.”

Drogath cursed in his native tongue. He'd known this was coming, had felt it in his bones when he had not seen Councillor Basinger at the royal wedding. He knew the man was colluding with Prince Frederich in their attacks on the orc clans, and, when the older man disappeared before the wedding, he feared that the older man would move on his clan. He'd hoped to have more time, to get Amalia safely to the clan before war broke out. But it wasn’t to be. He'd led his mate straight into danger.

“Show me,” he ordered, dismounting. He turned to Amalia, who watched him with worried eyes. “Stay here with the guards. I need to see this myself.”

The guard led him to a rocky outcrop. Below, partially hidden by the trees, moved a sea of armed men. They had no banners, but Drogath didn't need them to know who the men belonged to. This had been building for months.

He returned to the group, his decision made. “Matthias,” he addressed the youngest of the guards, “you and Tyrell ride back to the castle. Tell King Henrik that Councillor Basinger's troops march on orc lands, along with Darea’s troops. Trust no one but the king himself with this message. Go!”

The guards’ faces paled at the implications, but they wheeled their horses around without question and galloped back the way they'd come.

He turned to Amalia. “We must hurry. You will ride with me for the rest of the trip.”

She only nodded, her face pale. Crispin, the captain of the guards, helped her dismount and Drogath settled her on his mount, then mounted behind her. “We ride quickly. No stops.”

Everyone nodded. They understood the urgency.

Several hours of hard riding later, they rode through the clan gates. Amalia's slight form tensed against him as they rode through the wooden gates. The settlement sprawled across the valley floor, stone buildings interspersed with tents and training grounds. Orcs stopped their activities to stare at the approaching group, their expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility. Despite the late hour, preparations were well underway for battle. Word had reached the clan about the approaching army.

He could smell Amalia's fear, though she held herself proudly. He wanted to comfort her, to explain that his people would come to love her as he did, but before he could speak, a massive figure shouldered through the gathering crowd.

Korroth. Of course, it would be Korroth.

His cousin's scarred face twisted in a sneer as he took in their small party. “Welcome home, cousin. I see you brought back three soldiers. Scant defense against an army.” He gestured at the royal guards. “I brought something better. A promise of alliance with Osna. Their warriors are fierce, their numbers great.”

Drogath kept his voice level, though his hand tightened on Amalia's waist. “A promise is nothing without action. I’ve brought an alliance with Sherith itself. This is Princess Amalia, my mate. King Henrik's only daughter and heir to the throne.”

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. The clan elders pushed forward, their aged faces grave as they studied Amalia.

Korroth's laugh was ugly. “Oh, brilliant strategy, mating a human. But tell me, does your human princess know there's an army marching toward our lands? Will her father's troops come to our aid, or will they abandon us to our fate?”

“I’m aware of the army, having seen them with my own eyes,” Drogath growled. “I’ve already sent riders to alert the king.”

“Have you now?” Korroth's eyes glittered. “Then we shall see who saves our people first. Your human allies or mine. We’ll see who is worthy of leading our people.” He spun on his heel and stalked away, shoving aside anyone too slow to move.

Elder Throkgar stepped forward, his white braids gleaming in the sunlight. “The situation is grave, Chief Drogath. We must speak with you immediately.” His eyes flicked to Amalia. “Let the females see to your mate's comfort. This is a matter for warriors.”

Drogath wanted to refuse, to stay with Amalia until she was settled, but he could read the urgency in the elders' faces. He swung down from his mount, then reached up to help Amalia dismount.

She was trembling slightly, though whether from the long ride or the hostile welcome, he couldn't tell. Her voice was barely a whisper: “Did you marry me just to secure an alliance?”

The question hit him like a physical blow. He opened his mouth to deny it, to tell her how much more she meant to him than any political advantage. But Elder Throkgar was already pulling at his arm, speaking urgently about troop movements and defensive positions.

He allowed himself to be led away, hating himself for the hurt he saw in Amalia's eyes. He would explain later, would make her understand that, while the alliance had been his initial motivation for their bargain, she had become so much more to him.

But as he followed the elders toward the council chamber, he couldn't shake the feeling that she might not give him the chance to explain. He'd just handed his mate over to strangers, leaving her alone among his people with her trust in him shaken.

Some chieftain and mate he was turning out to be.