Chapter Eight: Cleansed
As Baronk pulled back to thrust his entire length into him, Samson squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the inevitable pain. Then . . .
"RARRRRGHHHH!"
Samson's eyes snapped open with a gasp.
Dalthu?!
It was true. The golden-eyed warrior was charging toward them with an expression so murderous that even Samson felt a bolt of terror in his belly. He felt Baronk's arm jerk in alarm. Taking advantage, Samson relaxed his body, allowing gravity to pull him out of Baronk's grasp.
Samson looked up and saw Baronk's gray eyes widen as he realized he'd lost his prey. He was left completely unbalanced when Dalthu tackled him. Samson watched in mesmerized horror as Dalthu and Baronk grappled with each other on the ground, both punching whatever they could.
A small hand on his shoulder pulled him out of his trance. Ulam, the little orc child, had come back.
"Come on," the orcling insisted, tugging his arm. He eyed the two battling orcs warily. "It's not safe here."
Samson half-crawled while Ulam half-pulled him, offering soft encouragement.
"Just a little further," he said. "The rest are coming—"
Samson didn't have to wait long to find out what he meant by "the rest." The air filled with shouts and exclamations as a crowd of burly orcs swarmed into the alleyway and surrounded Dalthu and Baronk.
"Hey, Dalthu! Wait!" "Stop—" "Let 'im go Baronk!" "What were you thinking—" "Grab him!"
A morbid curiosity filled him as Samson slid back toward the fray. From his low viewpoint, he could see patches of wet, red grass and dirt.
Whose blood is it? Dalthu's?
One of the orcs stepped back suddenly and nearly crushed Samson's head. Ulam repeated that they should leave, and this time, Samson allowed himself to be pulled completely away.
It was like entering another world as they emerged from the alleyway. Where the quiet alley had been dark and confining, the village square was bright and open. Samson didn't see the group of captives he'd arrived with. Instead, he saw a familiar orc with two black braids bounding over to him.
"Goddess," he growled, looking both relieved and furious. "We'd been looking all over for you. If it weren't for Ulam—"
He stopped, looking past Samson. Samson turned and saw Dalthu, his face and hands bloodied, emerging from the dark alley.
His eyes . . .
The orc's now-black eyes locked onto Samson's and he stalked toward him, holding Samson captive with his gaze. The braided orc stepped swiftly up to Dalthu.
"Easy now," he said lightly. "Don't want to scare him, do you?" His voice was pitched low and had a soothing musicality. It reminded Samson of his father. Once when one of their horses had spooked, he'd used the same voice to calm it down.
But Dalthu was not a spooked horse. He was a raging bull. His lips pulled back into a snarl. "Get out of my way . . ."
"No," said a small voice. It was Ulam. His hand was outstretched, and while Samson could see his hand trembling, his voice didn't waver. "Don't come any closer, Zau'Opash."
The words meant nothing to Samson, but for Dalthu it was like he'd been slapped. He froze, finally breaking his gaze from Samson. He glared down at the defiant orcling.
"What will you do, foshnu?"
Ulam blinked rapidly but didn't drop his hand. "I will keep my honor."
If the words before had been a slap, these were a punch to the gut. Deflated, Dalthu sank to his knees.
The braided orc let out a roar of laughter. "Goddess Dalthu, I almost pissed myself when I thought you were going to have a go at me," he pointed at Ulam, who doggedly still had his hand up, "and you take the knee for an orcling."
"Shut up, Shakil," Dalthu growled. He then, more gently, addressed Ulam. "Stand down, little one. I am recovered."
Ulam dropped his hand in obvious relief.
"Someone should tell the elders what has happened," Shakil said, still chuckling to himself.
"I'll go." Dalthu stood up and patted the orcling on the head. "I am indebted to you, rog-vokak."
Ulam blushed, but stood straighter as he asked, "Then, may I have a favor?"
