Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga) by Amalia Dillin Page A

even her stomach trembling at the sight of the hilt between his ribs. It was enough to shake her out of her own discomfort, the fire that had danced across the welts on her back. Gunnar’s death had stopped the pain, but not the shock of it. “Bolthorn, please, you have to be all right.”
    He grunted, his head tipping back against the stone. Her fingers brushed against the knife, but he pushed her hand away. “Leave it.”
    “You can’t walk around with a knife inside you!”
    He opened his eyes and met hers. His breathing was far too shallow beneath her hand. “Mustn’t leave them my blood.”
    Blood, always blood! By the Ancestors, she wanted to scream. But at least she understood it now. After what the king had done. And if Bolthorn died now—she couldn’t think of it. He couldn’t die!
    She let out a shuddering breath. “If you don’t want to leave your blood, we must go.”
    “Princess.” He stroked her cheek. “Open the mirror.”
    “No!”
    He chuckled, then groaned, forcing himself to sit up. “Not for me.”
    “Oh.” She swallowed, unable to look at the other—the king. “You mean to leave him with Alviss.”
    “That is best.” He struggled to rise and she slipped her good shoulder under his arm, helping him up.
    “You need a bed,” she said softly, watching the green tones of his skin pale to grey. He leaned heavily against the wall, even with her help.
    Mother, grant me strength. Her shoulder burned. The king had twisted it completely out of its joint. And thank the Ancestors it had only been her arm and not a broken leg.
    “Bolthorn, you can’t travel like this.”
    He nodded to the body. “I fear I cannot lift him alone.”
    “Bolthorn—”
    “The body first, Arianna.”
    She chewed her lip for a moment, then slid out from beneath his weight. As long as she did not look into his face, perhaps she could keep herself from shaking.
    But Bolthorn stopped her, catching her hand and sending a jolt of fire into her shoulder. “Your arm.”
    “It is nothing.”
    He bared his tusks, but he did not let her go. “We make a strange, proud pair, Princess. But you will need both arms for this work. It will take me but a moment and you will have relief enough.”
    She swallowed, giving him a nod. His hand slipped up her arm, fingers gentle upon the swollen joint. She clenched her teeth against the pain. Bolthorn braced her shoulder with one hand, and after a muttered prayer, gave her arm a quick jerk. She pressed her lips together on a cry and the joint popped, bringing a relief so strong the room spun.
    “Better?” His hand was still on her shoulder, an anchor in the storm.
    “Thank you.”
    He let her go with a grunt, leaning heavily against the wall as his attention turned to the room. She rolled her shoulder, testing her discomfort and eyeing his side. She could hardly see more than the flash of the hilt, but it was clear it pained him. And even clearer that he must not jostle it any further. Not if he did not wish to leave a trail of green blood through the halls.
    “Rest,” she told him, pushing him back when he drew himself up as if to move. “I will manage this.”
    “By the feet,” Bolthorn suggested, and that he did not argue was proof enough of the graveness of his wound. “Or the arms.”
    “Perhaps I can find a wagon,” she said, gripping the booted ankles and heaving him—it—in the direction of the mirror. At least the room was not wide, but how was such a thin person so heavy? Maybe it was his height.
    Her vision blurred, but she blinked against the threatening tears. The things he had said. About her mother. About herself. She could not cry. Could not think of any of it. Not yet. Not until they escaped. A wagon. A wagon and the journey ahead. “You can ride in the bed.”
    “Outside the city,” he said. “This late, you would be remembered asking for one.”
    The next village was how far? A day’s journey. She glanced at Bolthorn. His eyes were closed again,