Captured by the Orc

Chapter Twelve: Temple of the Goddess

Samson knew eventually it would be impossible to see in the dark cave and he'd have to give in and hold on to Dalthu for guidance. But for now, he would continue his small act of defiance by refusing to take the orc's hand. As they walked through the tunnel in silence, Samson gave his escort a sideways glance.

The orc warrior was handsome, Samson had to admit it. He was blessed with a strong jawline that complemented his masculine features. A straight nose and full lips finished the composition. If he didn't have the customary tusks and pointed ears, Dalthu would have been the envy of every man in Samson's village.

And desired by every woman.

Samson shook his head.

Fine. He's handsome. For an orc. So what? He's arrogant, too. And a tyrant. Besides his face, there's nothing else to swoon over.

He glanced down at the yellow loincloth twisted around the orc's waist. A prominent bulge hinted at what lay beneath the fabric. Samson swallowed.

. . . maybe there's one more thing to swoon over.

Other than the loincloth and his dire wolf headdress, Dalthu was naked. Scars crisscrossed the orc's torso.

How did he get so many?

One particularly nasty wound ran from his chest all the way down to the orc's waist. Samson's fingers twitched.

Is it rough? Maybe it's smooth in sections . . .

The end of the mark disappeared under Dalthu's yellow loincloth, which was cinched low on his waist with a leather belt. Tied to the belt, swinging at his side with each step, was a drawstring pouch. As they walked, Samson counted five times that Dalthu reached down to touch the purse. Like he was reassuring himself that it was still there.

"Can I help you?" The deep rumbling bass of the orc's voice resounded against the cave walls, making Samson jump.

"Huh?"

"You've been staring at me like you want something."

He noticed!

"Tsk! I'm not—I didn't—"

"Ask."

"What?"

"You may ask me anything. My word is final, but," Dalthu frowned slightly, "you may always ask."

Ha! What am I supposed to say? "Gee, that's a nasty scar, Mister Orc. Can I touch it?"

Samson imagined the seductive smirk on his captor's face. No. That line of conversation would lead to an uncomfortable destination. "It's nothing."

There was a moment of silence, then Dalthu coughed. "My mother," he said. "This isn't about her, is it? She . . . she didn't say anything . . . strange . . . to you, did she?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know," Dalthu grunted. The orc's eyes were fixed ahead, but Dalthu's lips were mashed together and twisting. "Maybe some foolish stories—all false, mind you—about my childhood."

"Ooooh," Samson fought the urge to smile, "you mean, like about when you tried to ride for the first time and you—"

Dalthu whirled around. "I knew it! She told you about that? I was just an orcling! How was I supposed to know how tight to cinch the girth?! She promised she . . . she . . ." The orc's voice trailed off and he narrowed his eyes. "She didn't tell you, did she."

Samson shook his head, grinning. "But now I have to know the rest of the story,"

Dalthu groaned. "Couldn't I tell you another story? A better one?"

"Nope. Now tell me what happened."

"Forget it." Datlhu crossed his arms and turned away with a scowl.

"Aw, c'mon . . ." Samson skipped over to the huffy orc and elbowed him playfully. "Tell me."

A snort was the only reply.

"Please?"

Silence.

"You know, I can just find out from your mother when I see her next."

The orc warrior's body stiffened, but he remained tight-lipped.

"Perhaps . . ." Samson drawled, "an exchange?"

Dalthu twitched.

Almost there . . .

Samson posed thoughtfully, tapping his finger against his lips. "I suppose if you were to tell me, I could give you something in return."

That did it. Greedy eyes swung toward Samson.

"My choice."

"What?"

"You will give me something of my choice?" Golden eyes blazed with hunger and Samson realized he might have made a critical error of judgment.

"Erm—wait, hold on a—"

Dalthu folded his arms again and spun away petulantly. "If you don't agree, then I won't tell you."

So childish!

"Hmph. How do I know the story is worth it?"

"The event is my eternal shame. You would have something to lord over me. What is that worth?"

Holy shit. It is absolutely worth it.

Samson gnawed on his lower lip. "As long as it's not anything . . . intimate . . ." he cursed his burning cheeks, "then, I s-suppose I agree. Or dangerous!"

Dalthu smirked. "I agree to your terms. But just so we're clear," he lifted Samson's face to meet his eyes, "I would never put you in danger."

His green captor gazed down at him with such gentleness that Samson was unable to look away. Dalthu brushed his thumb across Samson's cheek tenderly.

"Can it be?" The orc's voice was a hoarse whisper. "Is my fierce tiger cub finally accepting my caress?"

Samson swallowed. "Nice try," he stepped back out of Dalthu's grasp, "but I won't be distracted. Stop stalling and tell me what happened."

The golden-eyed warrior raised his hands in mock defeat. "Very well," he laughed. "But you can't blame me for trying, eh?" He winked at Samson, whose chest suddenly felt strangely tight.

"T-tell me."

Dalthu sighed. "As I already mentioned, I was just an orcling at the time. My tusks hadn't even come in yet, but all of my friends were already learning to ride and I didn't want to be left behind. I begged my father to let me ride his wolf once around the village. He agreed under the condition that I was able to saddle and mount it by myself. I had watched the warriors saddle their wolves many times, so I thought I knew what to do."

The orc pinched the bridge of his nose. "My father's wolf had a bad habit. He liked to fill his belly with air so that once the saddle was cinched, he could release the air and the saddle would be looser and more comfortable . . . No one told me."

Samson bit his lip to keep himself silent. He could see where this story was headed. Dalthu shook his head miserably.

"Everything was fine until I reached the center of the village. All my friends were cheering for me. I felt invincible like I could conquer the world. Then, that despicable creature released all the air, and—and I ended up sliding underneath the foul beast. And there, in front of the whole village, as I was hanging on for dear life, the wretched animal pissed on me."

Samson couldn't stop himself. He gripped his sides as he howled with laughter.

"Yes, laugh away," Dalthu grimaced. "That's what everyone else did that day, too."

"It's . . . it's too mu-hahaha . . . too much . . ." Samson fought to suck in enough air between laughs. "He peed on you!"

"Anyway," the green warrior interjected over Samson's cackles, "now you know the truth, and we don't have to talk about it ever again."

"Oh, I think it will come up," Samson sniffed, wiping tears from his eyes. "Every time I see a wolf, or the village green, or hell, every time I have to relieve myself."

Dalthu was motionless. "You know," he said slowly, "if the worst moment of my life is the reason you remember me throughout the day . . . then I suppose I can't call it the worst moment anymore." He smiled. A true smile, without force or agenda. It made Samson's heart pound.

Samson cleared his throat. "Save the sweet talk. What do you want in return?"

The orc's smile faltered, causing Samson to silently regret his flippant response. But rather than looking angry, which he was used to from his moody captor, Samson could have sworn that Dalthu looked bashful.

"I had always imagined," he said, rubbing his large calloused hands together, "that I would walk this path with my mate hand in hand . . ." Dalthu's words trailed off.

Samson blinked.

Is he actually asking to hold hands?

The request was so unexpected that Samson let out a soft burst of laughter.

Dalthu reacted instantly. He slapped a hand over his mouth and backed away from Samson. "Of course, you're—that's fine—I'll think—I'll think of—silly to think—must be weak in the, in the head . . ."

Samson watched the orc unravel with wonder.

Is this the same orc who pulled a monster inside out? How can he act so . . . cute?

Samson couldn't help but be reminded of a young village girl confessing to her first love. Placing adorableness aside, however, he considered the choice before him. On the one hand, he had promised the orc a favor. And holding hands was tame compared to what he'd expected his lustful captor to ask for. Then again . . .

Dalthu wanted to walk hand in hand with his mate. By doing this, I would be indirectly agreeing that I am his mate. But, if break my word . . .

Samson groaned. He approached Dalthu, who was still muttering and extended his hand.

"Well?" he huffed, ignoring his captor's slack jaw. "A deal's a deal."

Dalthu tentatively reached out to accept the offered hand.

Hmph. Does he think I'm going to change my mind?

The orc's much larger fist engulfed Samson's own like a warm blanket.

"Shall we, then?" Dalthu rumbled.

Samson risked a look at his escort's face. He was wearing that same smile from before. As they continued quietly down the pathway together, Samson could not deny that he felt lighter than he had a moment ago.

********************************

As they moved further and further into the cave, a soft blue light began to grow brighter and brighter. Samson looked around, trying to find the source of light, but there were no torches that he could see. It looked like the walls themselves were giving off light.

"What kind of magic is this?"

"No magic. It is the light of the Goddess herself." The orc pressed his hand reverently against the stone wall. "She is the giver of life and light."

Samson mimicked Dalthu and pressed his hand against the wall. It was cool and damp. When he pulled his hand away, his palm faintly glowed as well.

It's beautiful.

He echoed his thoughts out loud. "Beautiful."

"Yes."

Samson glanced up and saw the golden-eyed warrior staring at him intently. Samson averted his gaze and busied his hands fussing with his braids.

"H-how much farther is it?" he asked.

"You didn't notice? We've already arrived."

What?

Samson whirled around. Sure enough, there, at the end of the path, was an enormous door. It was beautiful in its simplicity; it was carved out of solid wood, and strange symbols had been carved around the frame. Beyond the door, Samson could hear shouts and laughter. Walking together with Dalthu, Samson had almost begun to relax, but now that they had reached their mysterious destination, his stomach twisted with anxiety.

"Samson." Dalthu's deep voice pulled Samson's attention away from his nerves. "When we enter, do not leave my side."

Samson nodded.

"You must not speak. I will speak for you."

Samson nodded again.

"Keep your eyes on me. Do these things, and I promise," Dalthu squeezed Samson's trembling hand, "everything will be fine. Ah, one more thing—" Dalthu untied the pouch hanging from his side and pulled out its content.

It was a crystal. A pitch-black obelisk with small bursts of white.

Dalthu cleared his throat. "Do . . . do you like it?"

"It reminds me of winter."

Dalthu cocked an eyebrow and Samson chuckled. "At night, my brother and I would stay up late, wrapped up in blankets, and watch outside for Boreas." He remembered how badly his brother had wanted to see the elusive god of the north wind. (Father said he has purple wings, Sam. Purple!)

Samson shook his head. "We never saw him, but the snowflakes flying through the sky looked just like this," he said, gently stroking the smooth facet of the crystal. He smiled up at Dalthu. "I like it very much."

His words had a profound effect on his orc captor. A rapturous smile spread across Dalthu's face, and this cheeks lightened to the color of a ripe pear. "I'm glad."

Samson opened his mouth to ask what the crystal was for when a scream ripped through the air.

It came from behind the door.

"Remember," the orc's voice was so soft Samson almost missed it, "keep your eyes on me." Then, with eyes fixed straight ahead, Dalthu pushed the door open.

The giant door groaned as it opened into a large, open cavern and Samson gasped. In the center, on a large, raised platform, a blood-red orc and a blonde woman were . . . they were . . . well . . .

Fucking.

The room was filled with orcs whose attention was fixed on the act happening on the platform. They responded as an audience, cheering and laughing as if what was happening wasn't a private act but a public performance, like a pantomime or a boxing match.

Then again, the performers also did not seem to notice or mind the crowd. The woman's legs were wrapped tightly around her orc's waist, and she cried out with abandon with each of his thrusts. The red orc pounded into her body faster and faster. The sound of their bodies slapping together mixed with the audience's claps. Then the orc's body tightened and he pressed his entire length into her with a roar.

As the red orc pulled out of the now-limp woman's body, an ancient-looking orc with a stark white beard was helped up to the platform and the room fell into an expectant silence. The old orc hobbled over to the woman and gazed down at her body. For a moment, nothing moved. Then the white-bearded orc lifted his hands and bellowed, "GAJAL!"

The room exploded into cheers and celebration. The blood-red orc lifted the woman into his arms triumphantly and descended the platform to congratulatory slaps on the back from the gallery of orcs. Meanwhile, another orc had climbed up the stairs to the platform and leaned in to the ancient one's ear. White Beard turned and locked eyes with Samson. Extending his bony, wrinkled hand, the old orc crooked a finger toward him.

Oh shit.

"It's our turn, little tiger."

To be continued . . .