Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances Book 2), page 4
The woman who helped me. Who bandaged my injuries and asked nothing in return.
"Continue."
"She operates a mercenary company. Small but professional. Mostly takes contracts in disputed territories, border conflicts, clan skirmishes, that sort of work."
"And the weapons?"
"Destined for Bloodfang territory. She's planning something big up in the mountain passes."
Bloodfang.
The pieces fall together with sickening clarity. Ressa Vaelmark isn't just a mercenary who happened across my hunting party. She's running weapons to our enemies. The woman who bandaged my wounds may have been preparing to arm the orcs who'll use those weapons against my clan.
Trust. Such a costly mistake.
"When?"
"Three days. Maybe two. The Bloodfang payment comes through when she delivers the last shipment."
I lean closer, letting him smell the metal and leather scent of someone who's killed recently.
"Final shipment location."
"Thornback Ridge. The old watchtower ruins. But look, I was just transport. I don't know what she's planning to—"
Boot steps echo across the courtyard. Multiple sets moving with military precision.
I turn to see Ressa Vaelmark striding through the broken gates, flanked by two soldiers in mismatched armor. Her auburn hair catches morning light like polished copper, and those pale violet eyes scan the scene with professional assessment.
Beautiful. Deadly. Treacherous.
"Impressive interrogation technique," she says, voice carrying the crisp authority of command. "But I'm afraid you're questioning my prisoner."
I keep the knife visible while rising to my feet. "Your prisoner ran weapons through Ironspine territory. That makes him ours by right of capture."
"He was captured in neutral ground. The southern approach to Ember Hollow technically belongs to no clan."
Technically.
I study her face for signs of deception, but find only calm competence. The same expression she wore while treating my wounds—focused, efficient, giving away nothing.
"Neutral ground patrolled by Ironspine forces."
"Patrolled, not claimed. There's a difference."
Her soldiers spread out slightly, hands resting near weapon hilts. Not threatening yet, but ready to become so. I count distances, angles of attack, tactical advantages.
Two swords. One crossbow. Professional spacing but not perfect.
"What's your interest in this smuggler?" I ask.
"He stole something from me. I want it back."
"The weapons cache?"
"Among other things."
We face each other across ten feet of bloodstained courtyard stones. The tension builds like pressure before a storm, that electric moment when violence hangs balanced on a knife's edge.
She armed our enemies. Gave them weapons to kill my clan.
But I remember the careful way she cleaned my wounds. The precise stitches that will heal clean. The way she refused payment and asked nothing in return.
Unless helping me was part of some larger strategy.
"Tell me about Bloodfang territory," I say.
"What about it?"
"Your weapons shipments. Your final delivery to Thornback Ridge."
Now she goes perfectly still, and I seethe posture of someone calculating kill ratios and escape routes.
"Where did you hear that name?"
"Your prisoner talks freely under proper motivation."
"Darian," she calls without taking her eyes off me. "Are you intact?"
"Mostly," comes the weak reply.
"Good. We're leaving."
She takes a step forward.
Too close for weapons. Perfect range for grappling.
"I think not."
"I think you'll reconsider."
Her voice drops to the tone commanders use before ordering executions. Soft. Final. Absolutely certain.
"One smuggler isn't worth starting a war between our forces."
"No," I agree. "But arming our enemies might be."
For the first time, genuine emotion crosses her face. Not guilt—surprise. As if the possibility of consequences hadn't occurred to her.
"You don't understand the situation."
"Explain it."
"The Bloodfang Clan has something that belongs to me. Getting it back requires certain... negotiations."
"What kind of negotiations require poisoned crossbow bolts?"
"The effective kind."
Her honesty catches me off-guard. Most humans try to elaborate justifications for treachery. She simply admits to planning violence as if it were a reasonable business decision.
Which makes her more dangerous, not less.
"And if those weapons kill Ironspine warriors?"
"Then they should have stayed out of Bloodfang territory."
The cold calculation in her voice ignites something savage in me. This is the woman who tended my wounds with gentle precision. Who refused payment and offered aid without conditions.
All while planning to arm my enemies.
"You bandaged my injuries."
"Yes."
"Knowing you intended to supply weapons to orcs who might kill me later."
She meets my stare without flinching. "Yes."
At least she doesn't lie about it.
"Why?"
"Because you were bleeding. Because I could help. Because in that moment, politics didn't matter."
The simple honesty hits harder than elaborate justification would have. She helped me because helping was the right thing to do, regardless of larger strategies or future conflicts.
Which makes this betrayal cut deeper.
"And now? Do politics matter now?"
"Now I need my prisoner back. And you need to decide whether preventing my mission is worth the cost."
"What cost?"
She gestures toward her soldiers, who've moved into more aggressive positions during our conversation. Still not openly threatening, but closer to weapons and better positioned for crossfire.
"I have twelve more fighters positioned around this courtyard. Crossbows trained on strategic points. One word from me, and this becomes a very different conversation."
I scan the ruins without moving my head. Subtle shifts in shadow, glints of metal where none should be, the faint sound of leather creaking as someone adjusts their grip.
She's not bluffing.
"You'd start a clan war over one smuggler?"
"I'd finish one."
This isn't negotiation anymore. It's a declaration of intent.
She came here ready for war.
"The Bloodfang have something you want badly enough to fight Ironspine forces for it."
"Yes."
"Something worth risking open conflict with a clan that's shown you mercy."
"Mercy?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You call interrogating my people mercy?"
"I call treating your wounds mercy. I call not killing you where you stand mercy."
"Then we have different definitions of the word."
We're close enough now that I can see flecks of gold in her violet eyes. Close enough to grab her throat before her soldiers could react. Close enough to end this standoff with brutal efficiency.
Close enough to remember the way she smiled when she finished stitching my wounds.
"Last chance," she says. "Release my prisoner, or learn why mercenaries survive when noble warriors don't."
The challenge hangs in the air between us like smoke from a signal fire. Behind me, Darian Thorne whimpers softly, probably realizing his fate depends on a pissing contest between two stubborn killers.
She won't back down. Neither will I.
But those weapons...
I think about poison-tipped bolts punching through Ironspine armor. About liquid fire burning through clan defenses. About my brother's grave marker standing lonely in the memorial grounds.
More Ironspine warriors will die if she delivers those weapons.
But starting a war here means Ironspine warriors die today.
The choice crystallizes with brutal clarity: immediate casualties versus future ones. Known losses versus potential threats.
Command decisions. The kind that leaves scars whether you choose right or wrong.
"You have ten seconds to reconsider," she continues. "After that, this gets messy."
I study her face, looking for any sign of bluff or hesitation. Find none.
She means it. Every word.
Which means I need to decide what I'm willing to die for, and what I'm willing to kill for.
Ten seconds.
Nine.
Eight.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
The ground shudders beneath my boots like the earth itself objects to our standoff. Dust cascades from overhead beams with the sound of grinding stone.
Four.
A low rumble builds in the ruins, vibrating through bone and sinew. The sound that precedes avalanches and building collapses.
Three.
"What—" Ressa begins.
The western wall explodes inward.
Not metaphorically. Not gradually. The ancient stonework simply disintegrates in a thunderous cascade of limestone blocks and mortar dust. Where moments before stood a barrier twenty feet high and three feet thick, now gapes a wound bleeding rubble and choking clouds of pulverized rock.
I dive left as a chunk of masonry as a war-axe whistles past my head. Ressa rolls right, her soldiers scattering like startled ravens. The careful positioning of our standoff dissolves into pure survival instinct.
Move. Think later.
Another section of wall tilts inward with the grinding inevitability of geological time compressed into seconds. Support beams crack like breaking bones. Overhead, the remaining roof structure sags under redistributed weight.
"The prisoner!" Ressa shouts over the growing roar of structural collapse.
Darian Thorne screams as debris rains around the interrogation post. A limestone block as large as a barrel crashes down three feet from where he's bound, sending up a geyser of dust and stone fragments.
Shit.
I sprint toward him through falling masonry, dodging chunks of architecture that would crush a skull like an egg. Behind me, Ressa moves with the same desperate efficiency, her blade clearing smaller debris from our path.
Enemy or not, we need him alive.
"Cut the restraints!" I bellow.
"Already on it!"
Her knife parts the ropes with surgical precision while I grab Thorne under both arms. The man weighs more than expected—too much rich food and not enough honest labor—but adrenaline makes us all stronger.
"Move! Move!"
We drag him clear just as another section of wall buckles and crashes exactly where he'd been tied. The impact sends shock waves through the courtyard that I feel in my teeth.
Close. Too close.
But the collapse contines. What started as a localized failure spreads like infection through the ruins' structural skeleton. Load-bearing walls that survived centuries of weather and warfare finally surrender to the accumulated stress of time and poor maintenance.
"There!" Ressa points toward what remains of the main gate. "That's the only exit still clear!"
She's right. The other approaches are blocked by fresh rubble or threatened by walls that lean at angles physics shouldn't allow. But between us and safety lies thirty yards of chaos where death falls from the sky in limestone chunks.
Standard tactical problem. Crossing a kill zone under fire.
Except the fire is gravity and ancient architecture instead of arrows and spears.
"My men—" one of her soldiers starts.
"Dead or scattered," she cuts him off with brutal honesty. "We save who we can save."
Practical. Ruthless. Smart.
I respect her for it even as I despise what she represents.
Thorne tries to stand and immediately collapses. His left leg bends at an angle that suggests broken bones and torn ligaments. Blood seeps through torn fabric where sharp stone found soft flesh.
"Can't walk," he gasps. "Can't—"
"You'll walk or we'll leave you," Ressa informs him with matter-of-fact cruelty. "Choose."
She means it.
But when he struggles to his feet and immediately crumples again, she doesn't abandon him. Instead, she loops his arm over her shoulder and prepares to carry his weight.
Contradiction. She threatens abandonment but won't actually do it.
Interesting.
"Take his other side," she orders me.
"He's your prisoner."
"He's information we both need alive."
Another wall section shudders and drops in a cascade of dust and broken stone. The sound echoes off remaining structures like thunder in a narrow valley.
She's right. Dead smugglers tell no secrets.
I grab Thorne's right arm and help support his weight. Together, we begin the nightmare journey toward the gate through air thick with choking dust and the constant threat of death from above.
Trust her enough to share the burden. Don't trust her enough to turn your back.
Complicated.
Three steps. Five. Ten.
A huge block crashes down between us and safety, breaking into smaller chunks that ricochet like shrapnel. One piece catches Ressa across the shoulder, spinning her halfway around. She keeps her grip on Thorne but staggers under the impact.
Blood on her sleeve. Not serious but painful.
"You're hit."
"I'm functional."
No complaint. No dramatic reaction. Just assessment and continuation.
Professional.
We push forward through the maelstrom of falling architecture. Every step requires split-second decisions about which path offers the least probability of sudden death. Dodge left around a tilting column. Sprint right to avoid a cascade of loose stones. Stop completely as an entire section of roof crashes down ahead of us.
Like navigating a battlefield where the enemy is physics itself.
Thorne whimpers constantly, a stream of fear-soaked babble about broken bones and internal injuries and wanting to see his family again. Neither Ressa nor I waste breath on reassurance or comfort. Survival requires focus.
Save the sympathy for after we escape.
Fifteen yards from the gate. A navigable distance under normal circumstances. An eternity when measured in falling masonry and structural collapse.
The remaining roof groans overhead like some massive beast in its death throes. Dust falls in thick curtains that turn breathing into a conscious effort. Through the haze, I glimpse other figures moving. Ressa's scattered soldiers attempting their own escapes through the chaos.
Some will make it. Some won't. Nothing we can do about it now.
"There!" She points toward a gap between two fallen blocks. "We can squeeze through there!"
I study the route she's indicated. Narrow but passable, assuming the precarious balance of debris overhead doesn't shift while we're underneath.
Risk versus reward. Stay here and die slowly. Try the gap and maybe die quickly.
Easy choice.
"Go."
We maneuver Thorne through the opening with careful haste, his injured leg dragging uselessly behind him. The space is tighter than it appeared from a distance. We have to turn sideways and duck beneath a granite lintel that hangs supported by luck and the friction of stone against stone.
Don't breathe too hard. Don't jostle anything. Don't think about the tons of rock balanced over your head.
Halfway through, the structure shifts.
Just slightly. Just enough to make the lintel drop another inch and compress our escape route into something barely wide enough for a single person.
Stuck.
Thorne's bulk fills the narrowed opening like a cork in a bottle. Behind us, the way we came disappears under fresh debris. Ahead, freedom beckons through a gap we can no longer fit through.
Perfect.
"Back up," Ressa orders.
"Can't. Exit's blocked."
She cranes her neck to confirm what I already know. The route we used to reach this position no longer exists.
Forward or nowhere.
"Can we widen the gap?"
I examine the precariously balanced stones above us. One supports another, which supports a third, in a delicate architecture of mutual dependence. Disturbing any element might bring the entire arrangement down on our heads.
Or it might give us the clearance we need.
Calculated risk.
"Maybe. If we're smart about it."
"Define smart."
I point to a wedge-shaped chunk of limestone that acts as a keystone for the current configuration. "Remove that piece carefully, the lintel drops but the weight redistributes to the side supports. Should give us another six inches of clearance."
"Should?"
"Nothing's certain when you're playing games with gravity."
She studies the stone I've indicated, then looks at Thorne's semiconscious form, then back at the narrowed gap.
Measuring odds. Weighing probabilities.
"Do it."
I work my knife blade into the gap around the keystone, using the steel as a lever to gradually shift the rock's position. The technique requires patience—too much force too quickly, and the sudden movement triggers a cascade failure that crushes us all.
Gentle pressure. Steady progress. Don't rush.
The stone shifts. An inch. Two inches.
Overhead, the lintel groans and settles lower. But not catastrophically. The weight redistributes exactly as hoped, creating precious additional space in our escape route.
Sometimes physics cooperates.
"Now," I tell her.
We squeeze Thorne through the widened gap with desperate efficiency. His injured leg catches on a protrusion, and he screams, but we force him through, regardless. Broken bones heal. Crushed skulls don't.
Practical priorities.
Ressa follows, her lithe frame navigating the tight space with a dancer's grace despite her injured shoulder. I come last, feeling the structure shift ominously as my weight transfers from one support point to another.
Almost...
Almost...
Clear.
The ruins collapse behind us in a final crescendo of destruction. What had been the western quarter of Ember Hollow's ancient fortress becomes a mountain of rubble and dust. The sound echoes across the wasteland like thunder, rolling away into distance until only normal silence remains.
