Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

T he last rays of sunlight illuminated the mountain peaks above them as Wulf and his brothers made the final climb to the Sacred Stones. Dedicated to Wold, the Father God, the ancient site dominated the hill next to a small lake, the water dark and forbidding in the shadow of the setting sun. Still carrying the chill from the last hints of winter, the wind whispered around the stones and ruffled the dark surface of the lake. No other sound disturbed the silence.

Pausing outside the outer ring of stones, Wulf placed his pack on the ground and began removing his clothes. Lothar and Egon stopped beside him and watched silently. They had spent most of the trip arguing with him, or at least Lothar had. Egon was a man of few words although his disapproval was equally obvious. Lothar opened his mouth but at a look from Wulf, decided against speaking. Wulf knew his brothers disapproved. Prayers to the Gods were a dangerous business. If he could see another alternative he would gladly take it; however, he had spent the winter thinking about the situation and Ulric’s plans. Unless something changed, the orcs of Norhaven would die out within a few generations. A few shiploads of women could not prevent it.

Naked, he knelt beside the pack and carefully removed and unwrapped the ceremonial knife handed down in his family for more generations that he could count. It had not been used in over a hundred years but it still gleamed softly in the fading light and the edge was honed to razor sharpness. In addition to the knife, he pulled out candles, a small bag of spices, and a flask of wine. When he stood up, both brothers were watching him with expressions of doom.

“Don’t look so grim.” He started to reassure them and then stopped. If half the tales were true, their concern was justified but a warrior did not shrink from danger. “I don’t know how long this will take-“

“We’ll wait,” Egon interrupted.

Wulf studied the usually silent scarred warrior, then nodded. Lothar pulled out a pair of dice and attempted his usual cheerful grin.

“I’ll use the time to win Egon’s share of the ale. Again.”

"Just save some for me."

He forced a smile and entered the outer ring. As he did, a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze shivered down his spine. A heavy silence surrounded him and he could no longer hear his brothers' voices but he didn't look back. He entered the inner ring, took a deep breath and started arranging the candles on the altar stone. When he finished, he poured the wine onto the stone and watched the dark red liquid seep into the ancient stone.

He paused for a long moment, listening to the silence, and then set the empty flask aside, struck the flint and lit the first candle. The flame burned straight and true. He lit the others, then added a pinch of spice to each flame, the exotic odors making his head spin.

He raised the knife, his hand steady. This was not a night for hesitation. His fingers closed around the carved bone handle and the long narrow blade sliced neatly across his palm. As the blood ran down onto the altar stone, he started chanting. The language was one that few modern orcs understood but it was still part of their heritage. He called for his ancestors and prayed for wisdom. He begged the Gods to hear him, and offered himself as sacrifice.

Mist began seeping up from the ground, gradually surrounding him, but he kept chanting. The fog grew thicker, obscuring everything else. A crack of lightning split the sky and thunder rattled the ancient stones. He held his position. Blood dripped from his arm onto the altar, the drops vanishing into the stone. Light flashed again, this time within the fog itself. Shadows flickered just beyond his sight and he heard the murmur of voices.

Lightning crashed directly overhead. Instead of blinding him, the white-hot flash only heightened his senses. The scent of spice and rain and his own hot blood filled his nostrils. The fog danced. Images appeared in the swirling clouds, images of warriors and women and the child of a perfect mating. All of his hopes and dreams were there and then it was all gone, and darkness rushed over him.

When he regained consciousness, he was lying next to the altar stone. The candles had burned out completely, leaving only a few dark smudges. All trace of the wine and blood were gone as well and the gash across his palm had closed into a long-healed scar.

He rose to his feet, looking around uncertainly. He wasn't sure what he'd expected but it wasn't this... emptiness. The storm had passed, the mist had gone, and he could clearly see and hear the night beyond the stones. Nothing had changed.

It would be foolish to expect an immediate answer, he told himself, fighting back a wave of despair as he walked slowly out through the rings of stone, his legs weak and trembling. When he saw his brothers sitting beside a small fire, he forced his knees to tighten and firmed his stride. They looked up as he emerged from the stones, their expressions equal parts of relief and concern. He wondered briefly how bad he looked. Lothar came to meet him, but stopped an arm’s length away.

“What is it?” Thankfully, his voice was rough but strong.

“Your eyes…” Lothar whispered. “They’re glowing blue.”

Frowning, he looked at Egon who had moved up beside Lothar. The big man nodded, his face unreadable. He looked around again, but everything appeared normal. Too tired to think about it and chilled by the breeze, he picked up the leather pants he'd discarded before entering the stones. As he was pulling them on, he looked beyond his still silent brothers to the lake. A thick fog was forming over its surface, rising into the air and glowing with an odd bluish light. A trickle of unease slipped up his spine.

“Do you see the fog?”

They both followed the direction of his gaze and shook their heads.

“There’s something there,” he insisted. The fog thickened briefly, then thinned to a fine veil. He had a momentary impression of sunlight illuminating a peaceful park filled with odd trees and surrounded by even stranger buildings before a flash of light erased all traces of the fog. The flash was followed immediately by a loud splash and a muffled but definitely feminine shriek. With one accord, the brothers turned and raced toward the lake. He led the way, picking up the sound of splashing and praying that the woman was all right. He reached the shore just as a very naked female emerged from the water.

The panic that had overtaken him at the thought of a female in trouble disappeared in a cold rush as he realized that no Norhaven female would have been swimming alone in such an isolated location. Females were too few and too valuable to ever be left unattended. And this female was no orc. She bore a closer resemblance to the females of the Old Kingdom.

But where had she come from? Could she be the literal answer to his prayers? He had prayed for an answer for his people, for an end to the Curse, but what could one female do?

One very small female, he realized as his eyes swept over her. She was so small, her head would barely reach the middle of his chest but her body was lushly curved. Her long hair streamed water but appeared to be an unusual light color. His eyes dropped to her heavy breasts, the nipples hard with cold, and down to the light patch of curls between rounded hips, and his shaft stiffened despite the questions swirling through his mind.

She had been picking her way out of the water, watching her feet and muttering, but as she reached the shoreline she looked up and saw him. Her eyes widened with shock and she stepped back a pace before straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. The female might be small but she had courage.

Her eyes flicked briefly to his brothers, standing shocked and silent behind him before lifting to his face. He studied hers, her features soft and rounded like her body. Her mouth had a tempting pout with a full lower lip. Her eyes were large and thickly lashed, the color indeterminate in the moonlight. The moment their eyes met, electricity shivered over his skin, and he felt the mate bond click into place. A surge of happiness filled him, immediately followed by a surge of guilt. Had his personal desire for a bride been stronger than his desire to help his people?

A small wave swept over her feet and the female shivered, reminding him that she was naked, and his questions disappeared beneath the urge to protect her. One of his brothers moved behind him, reminding him of their presence. Growling, he immediately stepped forward to shield her naked body from their sight.

“Bring me my shirt,” he snapped as he moved closer.

Her pretty lips parted and he was so entranced by their soft curves that for a moment he didn’t realize that she was speaking – and that he didn’t understand a word she'd said.