Page 93 of The Savage Vow
The first tear slid down Orlena’s cheek. She refused to wipe it away. She blinked again, and another trailed down the other cheek.
“You are my life,” Orlena whispered.
Nargol’s expression fragmented. Pain flickered in her amber eyes.
“If I fall, it will not be for nothing if you live,” Nargol said.
The floodgates opened. Tears freely spilled down Orlena’s cheeks now. The thought of this warrior—this fierce, stubborn, beautiful orc—choosing death so she could breathe. So she could be free. So she could see the world and fulfill her dreams.
It wrecked her.
“I don’t want a world without you in it,” Orlena said through quivering lips. She gripped the bars of her cell. There had to be some other way for both of them to escape.
“I’ve experienced what it means to live and now to love.” Nargol’s voice softened. She leaned her head against the iron. Her eyes were pleading as she gazed down at Orlena. “Now it’s your turn.”
Before Orlena could answer, boots thundered down the stone steps. Orlena’s heart leaped into her throat. The torches flickered, and shadows stretched long across the corridor. Keys rattled, the footsteps growing closer.
Massive orcs appeared in front of their cells. Orlena stepped back instinctively; her cell door was unlocked. She shook her head and tried to get away from the warrior who entered.
“No!” she screamed. Rough hands grabbed her arms. She fought as hard as she could. Instinct more than strength. She kicked at his shin, scratched his wrist, tried to bite him, but it was useless.
He was bigger and stronger.
“Nargol!” she cried.
They wrapped thick rope around her wrists, binding her arms together in front of her. Her skin burned from the rope digging into her.
Across the narrow divide, four orcs stormed into Nargol’s cell. Even bound, she fought like a storm breaking loose. She slammed one into the wall hard enough to crack the stone. Another took a head butt to the nose. The third one struck her across the face.
That just pissed Nargol off even more.
It took all four of them to force her down. Orlena screamed. One drove his fist into Nargol’s ribs. Another kicked her legs out from under her.
“Stop!” Orlena sobbed. “Stop!”
A heavy blow struck the back of Nargol’s head. The sound—sickening.
Her body went still.
“No!” Orlena’s voice tore from her throat.
She watched them lift Nargol’s limp form from the dungeon floor. Her head lolled forward, blood dripping from her onto the floor.
Orlena’s world tilted. “Is she breathing?”
“She’s breathing,” a guard sneered. “For now.”
They dragged her up the steps. Orlena fought harder, but her strength was nothing against the iron hands that pushed and shoved her along the way. They finally left the suffocating dungeon and stepped into daylight. The brightness blinded her. She blinked, and finally, things came into focus. The courtyard of the stronghold had been transformed.
Where there had once been an open space for training and assembly, a crude wooden structure now stood in the center.
Two upright beams.
Two nooses swayed gently in the morning breeze. The sight snatched the air from her lungs. She screamed.
A small crowd gathered. Villagers. Warriors. All were waiting. Grat had said he was going to make an example out of them.
She took one look at the still slumbering Nargol who they had tossed down on the ground next to her.
