Page 44 of The Savage Vow
Would Bula return?
The question was now lodged deep in her mind, and it refused to budge.
She rolled onto her side and clasped her hands together, a habit from childhood she had never fully abandoned, but tonight she wasn’t calling on the gods she normally prayed to.
“Nogora,” she whispered. She didn’t know why, but she felt the need to call on the orc goddess. She had been told stories of the warrior goddess, and somehow, right now, it felt like the appropriate goddess to turn to. Nogora was the goddess who the orcs prayed to. She was the one who’d given her own heart to save her people. “Please.”
She had never asked this particular goddess for anything. Not for strength or endurance, not even the ability to survive one more day. She was human and wasn’t even sure Nogora would hear her, much less honor a request, but she had to try.
Tonight, she came to Nogora with a purpose.
“Bring her back to me,” Orlena murmured. “I don’t know where she is, but let her be safe and let her be honest to me. Don’t let her lie to me and don’t let her hurt me.”
If Bula returned, then Orlena would have her read the contract. She would learn the truth—no matter how frightening it was. She would then put the parchment back where it belonged before Yambul ever knew it had been gone.
One step at a time.
Thunder rolled overhead, and sleep finally claimed her. Her dreams were filled with amber eyes, smooth green skin, firm muscles, and rain-soaked roads. She held on to the fragile hope that fate was not going to be cruel to her again.
Two days later,and Nargol ached in places she shouldn’t. The long ride had exhaustion resting deep into her bones. She had to force herself to remain alert as she and Makhel slowed their shukans at the edge of a ravine. Ahead rose the Temple of Spirits. The ancient ruins were half swallowed by stone and vine. It was perched on a plateau like a scar sliced into the earth by the gods themselves.
Mist clung to the ground. It curled around the broken pillars and shattered stairways worn smooth by centuries of wind and rain. The air felt heavier. It was thick with memories and power. Nargol glanced around at the surrounding area and found that even the forest seemed to bow away from the temple. The trees grew sparse and twisted away from the building as if they were unwilling to encroach too closely.
“We are here,” Makhel announced. She reined in her shukan beside hers.
Nargol’s throat tightened so she was unable to speak. She nodded quickly to acknowledge her friend.
She had not been this far east since childhood and even then she’d never been brought here. No orc came to the Temple of Spirits lightly. This was not a shrine meant for causal prayers. This was where the ancestors lingered. Where Nogora’s presence was said to press so close, she could steal the breath from those who she deemed unworthy.
As Nargol dismounted, her thoughts betrayed her. They drifted away as they had for days, to Orlena.
The look in her eyes when Nargol had promised to return haunted her. Hope tangled with doubt had been in those brown eyes. Did she truly think Nargol wouldn’t return for her? Nargol had been on battlefields, drenched in blood, had faced enemies with blades raised, yet that single look had shaken her more deeply.
I will come back, she vowed silently. This was one promise she would not break.
But first she would have to survive this.
“Stay here and graze, my friend. You deserve it.” Nargol firmly patted Torch’s shoulder.
They were leaving their shukans in an area that provided plenty of grass for them to rest and feed. Torch gave a low snortand turned away from her. He already had his head lowered and took his first bites.
She followed Makhel toward the ruins. Their boots crunched over gravel and broken stone. The Temple loomed larger with each step. Massive slabs of dark rock fitted together with a craftsmanship long lost to time. Ancient Orcish runes were carved deep into the wall and glowed faintly. They pulsed like a heartbeat beneath the layers of moss.
“This place was built thousands of solars ago,” Makhel said. Awe filled her voice. She shook her head slowly. “This came before clans. Before any one orc wore a crown.”
Nargol knew the history well. She had studied it since she was young. She had listened, wide-eyed, as the elders spoke of Nogora around roaring fires.
Nogora had been a fierce warrior who had refused to let her people fade. In the age before steel and fire, when the orcs wandered as nomads, the world had been cruel, and their existence was fragile. War had come with their ancient enemies, the trolls. When the Karrnoth Horde had come to try to enslave the orcs, it was Nogora who’d led the charge against them.
But the war was only half the battle.
The land turned against the orcs. The soil withered, the rivers ran dry, and famine loomed over them. It was Nogora who refused to allow her people to shrivel into dust. She had climbed Mount Gorthul and offered her own heart to the gods in exchange for the survival of orcs.
From her blood, rivers had been born. From her bones, fertile land had risen, and from her sacrifice, the orcs had learned what it meant to endure.
Now orcs prayed to Nogora before battle and harvest alike. Warriors carved her sigil into their armor, famers etched it into plows. The strong believed they would feast beside Nogora in the Ironfang Halls where they died to be honored for eternity.
Nargol’s steps slowed.
