Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances Book 2), page 2
Three down. Pack eliminated.
I release the body and try to stand. My left shoulder protests. My ribs ache. But it's the gash on my thigh that's the real problem, deeper than I initially thought, and bleeding freely. I need to get it wrapped before I lose too much blood.
The carter struggles out from under his dead wolf, cursing in three languages. Now that I can see him clearly, I understand the type: independent trader, probably dealing in salvaged magical items. The person who makes good money moving questionable goods through dangerous territory.
"You all right?" I call out, testing my weight on the injured leg. It holds, but it won't for long.
"Alive." He examines his cargo with the frantic urgency of someone whose livelihood just took a beating. "Fuck. Half this stuff is ruined."
"What exactly are you hauling?"
He looks up at me, probably noticing my clan markings for the first time. His expression shifts from gratitude to wariness in the space of a heartbeat.
"Trade goods. Nothing that concerns the Ironspine."
Liar. But I don't have the energy to press him right now. My thigh is throbbing in rhythm with my heartbeat, and standing is becoming more difficult by the moment.
"Thane." I keep my voice level despite the pain. "Secure the area. Check for additional threats."
My second-in-command appears beside me, blood on his sword but moving without obvious injury. "Casualties?"
"Minor wounds only. What about you?"
"Clean kill. That one put up a fight, but nothing we couldn't handle." He notices my stance, the way I'm favoring my left leg. "Sir? You're bleeding."
"Flesh wound. We'll deal with it once we've finished here." I turn back to the carter. "You're operating in Ironspine territory without authorization. That requires explanation."
"Look, I didn't know about the wolves. If I had, I'd have taken the northern route."
"Not talking about the wolves."
The carter's face goes through several expressions before settling on resigned honesty. "I'm moving salvage. Pre-Blazing artifacts. There's good money in the border settlements for items that survived the magical fires."
That makes sense. The fire elementals that destroyed Ember Hollow left behind a strange aftermath, some magical items were demolished, while the experience transformed or enhanced others. Collectors in the safer settlements pay premium prices for such artifacts.
But it also means this carter has been looting Ironspine burial grounds and sacred sites.
"Where did you acquire these items?"
"Various sources. Estate sales. Private collectors. All legitimate."
Another lie. I can see several pieces in his cart that I recognize, ceremonial weapons from the warrior's quarter, ritual implements from the clan shrines. They should have buried these items with their owners or destroyed them during the evacuation.
My hand moves toward the knife at my belt before I remember I threw them all. The carter notices the gesture and takes a step back.
"Easy." He raises his hands. "We can work something out. I'm a reasonable man."
Reasonable men don't desecrate graveyards.
But before I can respond, the world tilts sideways. My wounded leg gives out completely, and I hit the ground hard enough to see stars. The gash on my thigh has opened wider than I realized, and I'm bleeding out faster than my body can compensate.
"Sir!" Thane drops beside me, already pulling field dressings from his pack. "Mira! Get over here!"
I try to sit up, but the movement sends fresh waves of pain through my leg and shoulder. The carter is backing away, probably hoping to disappear while we're distracted.
"Secure the trader," I manage through gritted teeth. "Don't let him... leave."
Jorik moves to block the carter's retreat while Thane works on my thigh. The pressure bandage helps slow the bleeding, but I can feel the weakness spreading through my limbs. Too much blood loss, too fast.
Stupid. Should have been more careful with that last wolf.
But even as consciousness frays around the edges, I'm mapping the encounter in my mind. Pack behavior. Territory markers. The magical artifacts drew them to this specific location. All useful intelligence for future operations.
Kaven would have been proud of the tactical analysis.
Maybe that's enough.
The thought follows me down into darkness, where the ghosts of Ember Hollow wait with their endless questions about duty and failure and the price of surviving when better warriors don't.
The arrows whistle past my ear with mathematical precision, three shafts finding their marks in their heartbeats. The ember wolf that was circling for another pass at the carter drops mid-stride, its fire-eyes dimming to ordinary amber before going dark entirely.
Professional archery. The kind that costs real coin.
Through the haze of blood loss, I spot the pennons first, crimson and gold, snapping in the wind above the ruined marketplace. Vaelmark colors. My vision sharpens despite the weakness spreading through my limbs, survival instincts cutting through the fog of pain.
What the hell are Vaelmark mercenaries doing in Ironspine territory?
"Formation delta! Secure the perimeter!" The voice cuts across the square with military authority, crisp consonants that speak of officer training and battlefield command. Female. Confident. Used to being obeyed without question.
I force myself up on one elbow, ignoring Thane's protests and the fresh wave of dizziness that threatens to drag me back down. Six mounted archers in Vaelmark livery have taken positions around the market square, their recurved bows still strung and ready. Professional soldiers, not the usual border raiders or treasure hunters we encounter in the ruins.
The woman giving orders sits on her horse as if she were born to it, tall and imposing in a burnished plate that's seen real combat. She pushed her helmet back, revealing sharp features and pale hair bound in a severe braid. Everything about her posture screams command authority, from the way she holds her reins to the casual confidence with which she surveys the scattered wolf corpses.
"Clean shots, all of you." She dismounts with fluid grace, boots hitting the ash-covered stone without a sound. "Varrick, check the perimeter for additional hostiles. Donnel, secure that cart. The rest of you maintain overwatch."
Her soldiers move to comply without hesitation. Whatever rank she holds, it's high enough to command immediate respect from seasoned mercenaries. That makes her dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with the sword at her hip.
She approaches our position with measured steps, taking in the tactical situation with a professional eye. The dead wolves. My bleeding form. The terrified carter was still struggling with his damaged cargo. Thane and my warriors arranged in defensive positions around their wounded commander.
She's evaluating threats and opportunities. Just like I would.
"Ironspine patrol," she observes, noting our clan markings. "Operating in force within your traditional territory. Standard salvage sweep or something more specific?"
The question is casual, but I see the underlying intelligence gathering. She wants to know what we're doing here, whether our presence represents a larger Ironspine operation, and how much we might have observed of whatever brought Vaelmark mercenaries into these ruins.
I should respond with equal caution. Professional courtesy between opposing military units, nothing more. Share minimal information, extract what intelligence I can, and withdraw before the situation becomes complicated.
Instead, I watch the way she moves. Efficient. Purposeful. Every gesture calculated for maximum effect with minimum wasted motion. It's a fighting style I recognize, one that comes from years of battlefield experience against opponents who don't give second chances.
She's good. Probably very good.
"Routine patrol," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. "These wolves have been problematic for our border settlements."
"And yet you engaged five mature specimens with a six-warrior squad." Her pale eyes miss nothing as they catalog our weapons, our formation, the blood seeping through Thane's field dressing. "Either exceptionally confident or tactically unsound."
The criticism stings because it's accurate. I took unnecessary risks in engaging the pack when patience would have served better. But I can't explain the guilt that drives me toward these confrontations, the need to prove myself worthy of survival when better warriors didn't make it out of Ember Hollow.
"The trader was in immediate danger," I say instead.
"Was he?" She glances toward the carter, who's frantically trying to salvage his cargo while staying out of sword range. "Interesting cargo for a simple merchant. Those inscriptions suggest pre-Blazing ceremonial pieces. Valuable enough to risk ember wolf territory."
She knows magical artifacts when she sees them. Military intelligence training, probably.
"Independent salvagers operate throughout the ruins," I reply carefully. "We discourage looting, but enforcement is complicated."
"I imagine it would be." Something that might be amusement flickers across her features. "Particularly when the salvagers are moving items that technically belong to displaced clans."
The observation hits closer to home than I'd like. Most of the artifacts in that cart probably came from Ironspine burial sites or abandoned clan halls. They should have destroyed or properly interred those items instead of selling them to foreign collectors for profit.
But pursuing that line of thought requires energy I don't have. The bandage on my thigh is already soaking through, and my left shoulder has stiffened to where lifting my arm sends lightning straight into my heart.
"Thane," I call quietly. "Prepare for withdrawal."
"Sir, you need proper medical attention."
"We have field supplies—"
"You have combat dressings and prayer." The Vaelmark officer interrupts, her tone matter-of-fact. "That gash needs stitching and proper cleaning, or you'll lose the leg to infection. My field surgeon can have you stabilized in twenty minutes."
The offer catches me off guard. Professional courtesy between opposing forces is one thing, but providing medical aid to potential enemies goes beyond normal military protocol. Unless she has reasons for wanting me functional and grateful.
"Generous," I say carefully. "What's the price?"
"Information exchange. Your patrol reports concerning this area. Our intelligence regarding smuggling routes and hostile creature activity. Standard bilateral arrangement."
Too easy. What's she really after?
But even as suspicion wars with pragmatism, I can feel the weakness spreading through my system. Blood loss combined with the physical stress of the fight is taking its toll faster than I can compensate. If I refuse aid and collapse during the withdrawal, my entire patrol becomes vulnerable.
"Sir?" Thane's voice has quiet urgency. "She's right about the wound."
I look at my second-in-command, seeing the concern he's trying to hide behind professional composure. Thane has followed me through a dozen dangerous operations since the Blazing, trusting my judgment even when it led us into situations like this one. I owe him better than stubborn pride.
But accepting help from Vaelmark mercenaries feels like admitting weakness. Like proving that the Ironspine can't handle their own territory without outside intervention.
Kaven would have taken the aid. He always said survival trumps politics.
The thought decides me.
"Medical assistance only," I say finally. "Information exchange can wait until I'm not bleeding."
She nods, already signaling one of her soldiers. "Corpsman Anders, bring your kit. Standard field treatment for arterial damage."
A wiry man with scarred hands dismounts and approaches with a leather medical satchel. His movements have the quick confidence of someone who's patched wounds under fire, and when he kneels beside me, his examination is thorough but gentle.
"Deep, but clean," he reports to his commander. "Missed the major vessels, but it's close. He'll need stitches and a pressure wrap, then rest for at least three days."
"Do what you can here. We're not staying long enough for extended treatment."
The corpsman nods and begins unpacking his supplies. Needle. Thread. Bottles of clear liquid that smell like distilled fire. Professional medical equipment, far superior to our field dressings and herbal remedies.
When did Vaelmark mercenaries carry field surgeons?
The question bothers me more than the pain as Anders cleans the wound. Standard mercenary companies rely on basic first aid and prayers to get their wounded back to proper healers. Only military units with extended operational parameters invest in trained medical personnel.
Which suggests these aren't ordinary sellswords.
"Hold still," Anders mutters, threading his needle. "This will sting."
Sting proves to be a massive understatement. The first suture feels like liquid fire being drawn through my flesh, but I've endured worse during my warrior trials. I focus on observing the Vaelmark force instead of the needlework.
Six mounted archers, plus the commander and medic. All equipped with quality gear that shows signs of regular maintenance and recent use. Their horses are well-trained warhorses, not the pack animals usually favored by salvage operations. Their positioning around the square follows military doctrine rather than mercenary pragmatism.
They're hunting something specific. Question is what.
"Tell me about the smuggling routes," the commander says, settling into a crouch beside me with casual authority. "How frequently do you encounter independent traders in this area?"
"Varies by season. More activity during the dry months when the roads are passable."
"This trader specifically. Have you encountered him before?"
I glance toward the carter, who's secured most of his cargo and is now eyeing the various armed groups with obvious nervousness. "First time. But his type comes through regularly."
"His type?"
"Artifact hunters. They follow rumors of pre-Blazing sites that might have survived the elemental fires. Usually work alone, move fast, sell to private collectors in the border settlements."
She processes this information. "Any indication these collectors might be connected to larger organizations? Foreign interests, perhaps?"
Now we're getting to it.
The question reveals more than she probably intended. Vaelmark Command isn't just concerned about random smuggling. They're tracking organized procurement operations, possibly tied to hostile intelligence gathering.
"Hard to say," I reply honestly. "We focus on keeping them out of our sacred sites. Who they sell to isn't usually our concern."
Anders finishes the last suture and begins wrapping my thigh with clean bandages. The pressure feels good and secure. Professional work that should hold even if we encounter more fighting on the withdrawal.
"Thank you," I tell him.
He nods and begins packing his equipment. "Keep it clean. Change the dressing daily. If you see red streaking or feel excessive heat, find a proper healer immediately."
"I will."
The Vaelmark commander stands, brushing ash from her armored knees. "Your patrol should be able to reach friendly territory before dark. Avoid unnecessary exertion for the next few days."
There's something final about her tone, suggesting the conversation is over. But as she turns to rejoin her soldiers, I notice something that stops me cold.
A ribbon. She tucked dark blue silk against her skin, barely visible beneath her breastplate. The color and weave match Ironspine ceremonial dress, the kind worn during memorial services and clan gatherings.
Why is a Vaelmark officer carrying an Ironspine memorial ribbon?
The sight dredges up memories I've worked to suppress. We distributed blue silk ribbons during the mass funeral rites after the Blazing, when we burned empty pyres for warriors whose bodies were not recovered from the ruins.
Including my brother.
I received Kaven's ribbon three months ago, along with forty-three others representing the fallen defenders of Ember Hollow. Each one blessed by the clan shamans and consecrated with the names of the dead. Sacred items that should never leave Ironspine hands.
Unless she took it from someone.
The possibility sends cold fury through my system, cutting through the exhaustion and blood loss like a blade through silk. If this Vaelmark commander killed one of my people and kept their memorial ribbon as a trophy...
But even as rage builds, tactical thinking reasserts itself. She could have acquired the ribbon through trade, theft, or inheritance. She might not even know its significance. Acting on assumptions without evidence would be tactically unsound and potentially disastrous.
Later. When I'm stronger and have backup.
I make a mental note of her appearance, her unit composition, and the direction they came from. Intelligence that might prove useful when I'm in a position to pursue questions about stolen memorial items.
"Ready to move, sir?" Thane appears beside me, offering his shoulder for support.
"Ready."
Standing takes more effort than I'd like to admit, but the fresh bandages hold and my leg bears weight without buckling. Anders did good work under field conditions.
The Vaelmark commander watches our preparation with professional interest, noting our withdrawal formation and movement capabilities. Still gathering intelligence, even during what amounts to a humanitarian pause.
"Safe travels," she calls as we move toward the square's eastern exit. "Try to avoid any more wolf packs."
I raise my hand in acknowledgment, but don't trust myself to speak. The sight of that blue ribbon has stirred emotions I can't afford to display in front of potential enemies.
Focus on the mission. Get the patrol home safely. Deal with personal concerns later.
But as we pick our way through the rubble-strewn streets of Ember Hollow, my hand moves unconsciously to my belt pouch. Where I keep my blue ribbon, the one that bears Kaven's name in silver thread.
