The War God's Woman

Chapter 1

Lirienne

I grip the wooden reins so tightly my knuckles turn white. The cart rocks beneath me, wheels crunching against uneven gravel as it passes under the massive iron gates of the orcish settlement. A cold wind blows across the high walls, tugging at my woolen cloak. I fight to keep my trembling under control, determined not to let them see my fear.

No human willingly comes here. And yet, here I am, jostling forward with my heart in my throat, offering myself up as a living guarantee of peace.

The stench of sweat and smoke fills the air, undercut by a sharper scent I can’t quite place—like scorched metal or singed herbs. Torchlight flickers against the dark stone ramparts, revealing glimpses of watchful shapes hunched on the battlements. Those shapes are big. Hulking. Orcs. I can almost feel their burning eyes on me, studying each breath I take, deciding if I’m prey or some sacrificial token best tossed aside.

But I chose this fate—for my village, I remind myself. My stomach churns at the memory of the council meeting where I stood before my neighbors, cheeks flushed with both terror and determination, and offered myself as tribute. The orcs’ demands had been explicit, a representative from the village must be sent to negotiate a peace, or else the next raid would leave no survivors. Everyone assumed it would be an older widow or a prisoner, not me. But as soon as the elders started talking about it in hush-hush tones—volunteering a nameless scapegoat—a hollow ache bloomed in my chest.

No one else was stepping forward. Not the mayor’s grown sons, not any of the village’s older men. Too frightened, too pragmatic, or perhaps too selfish. When I rose from my seat and said, “I’ll go,” it was as though a hush had stilled even the wind. Before I fully realized what I was saying, I’d made my vow. I couldn’t bear the thought of children starving or my younger sister, Mara, forced into some orc’s captivity. The council seized on my volunteerism with desperate relief.

Now, seeing the dark silhouette of the orcish fortress looming all around me, that council feels very far away. The gate slams behind us with an iron clang, cutting off my escape.

A stooped figure at the head of the procession raises a torch, lighting the wide courtyard that stretches before us. A hush seems to grip the space, as though even the wind dares not stir. Shadows flicker across the high walls, revealing glimpses of intimidating spikes and battered shields mounted like trophies. It’s a brutal aesthetic—a world so far removed from my tiny farmland that I suddenly feel small and terribly fragile.

The orc driver brings the cart to a halt, and I swallow hard, the dryness in my throat threatening to choke me. He doesn’t bother offering a hand to help me down. My left foot catches momentarily on the cart’s edge before I find solid ground.

A cluster of orc warriors approaches, their massive builds casting long shadows across the dirt. The largest among them, with deep brown skin marred by jagged scars, sneers in my direction. “So this is the human bride?” he scoffs, voice as rough as gravel sliding off a cliff.

My cheeks heat, but I lift my chin. Bride. That word tastes bittersweet on my tongue. Some say it with scorn, others with pity. I’m no blushing newlywed. I’m a bargaining chip.

Still, I can only stare at the orc who has spoken, half in alarm and half in fascination. His tusks are chipped, and the scar across his face tells me he’s seen real battle, not a scuffle in a farmland. He stands almost two heads taller than me. I hear my breath catch in my chest when he reaches out, as though to tug the cloak from my shoulders. I stiffen.

“Watch it,” he growls, before actually grabbing a handful of my cloak and yanking it aside. If he wants to see if I’m hiding weapons, he’ll be disappointed; I have nothing but a small satchel of personal effects.

I try to control my breathing, try to steady the wild beating of my heart. Yes, orcs are known for their aggression, but my father used to say we mustn’t confuse savage appearance for a savage spirit. He believed peace was possible. Just maybe.

I force myself to meet the orc’s eyes, refusing to tremble in front of him. “I—” I begin, voice weaker than I intend. I cough and try again. “I come in peace.”

He snorts. “You come because your people are afraid.”

I can’t deny that. So I hold silent, letting him feel victorious in his observation.

A second orc steps forward, pushing the scarred warrior aside with a curt grunt. This newcomer is nearly as tall, with slate-gray skin and long, bristling black hair. He wears an insignia on his chest plate—an ornate symbol etched in gold that looks like jagged lightning. His eyes flicker, a slight orange gleam in the torchlight.

He studies me for a moment and then motions for the warriors to form a half-circle around us. “We have our orders,” he says, voice filled with authority. “Bring her to the main hall. The chieftain awaits.”

My throat constricts further. The chieftain. The one who announced, through a swiftly delivered message, that if the humans wanted peace, he demanded a bride to seal it. Some say the idea of forging an alliance through matrimony is progressive by orc standards—others believe it’s a humiliating insult. I have no illusions about how complicated this union will be, if it can even be called that.

The orcs march me across the courtyard. Each step I take, my boots kick up dust that seems to swirl around my ankles. The fortress interior, beyond the open yard, is lit by blazing torches anchored into the stone walls. Rough-hewn archways lead off in many directions, some culminating in staircases that spiral downward—perhaps into the dens or training pits. Echoes of orcish chatter and the clang of metal on metal surround us like an oppressive symphony.

I hear a few curses in their guttural tongue. I pick out bits and pieces of the common language woven in. Words like cursed … unworthy … war god. My gaze darts from face to face. Some orcs stare openly, eyes brimming with suspicion or curiosity. Others spit on the ground as I pass.

One younger orc woman stands behind a row of barrels, arms crossed beneath her leather tunic, watching with a guarded expression. She seems almost pitying. My cheeks burn in shame. Being paraded through their territory feels like being led to a tribunal.

We stop at a broad doorway made of sturdy oak planks. A carved relief of an orc’s face—fierce and snarling—decorates the panels. Two guards stand posted. They swing the doors wide and the orc with the lightning insignia guides me inside.

It is warmer here, though not necessarily inviting. The floors are lined with furs, and the walls are hung with banners in deep reds and blacks. My senses are battered by the smell of tallow candles, the tang of old blood, and the overwhelming presence of power.

In the center of the hall stands a rough-hewn stone throne, illuminated by torches set on iron sconces behind it. Orcish runes crawl across the throne’s surface, forming patterns I can’t decipher. But the occupant of that throne immediately captures my attention.

He rises to his feet with a deliberate slowness. Tall—no, immense—and broad across the shoulders. His skin is a deep forest-green, marked by swirling tattoos. Each line seems to emphasize the powerful muscles in his arms. A pair of tusks juts from his lower jaw, one chipped at the tip, and a scar swoops beneath his left eye. His long, dark hair is tied back with leather cords and small iron beads.

This is the chieftain, orc leader of the clan that terrorizes the edges of my homeland. I feel the weight of his gaze as if it’s a physical force pressing against my chest.

He takes a step forward, and the scattered torchlight highlights the ridges of his face in bronze and shadow. “You are the human who has come to forge peace?”

His voice rolls through the hall like distant thunder. I swallow, my mouth suddenly bone-dry. “I am,” I say. “My name is Lirienne Marshfield.”

Behind me, the warrior with the lightning insignia clears his throat, but the chieftain raises a hand and he falls silent. A hush descends on the room, punctuated only by the crackle of flames and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

“Lirienne Marshfield.” His tone is measured, quietly dangerous, but not cruel. Then he gestures toward a brazier near the throne. “Stand by the fire. Warm yourself.”

Cautiously, I step forward, the wave of heat washing over my numb fingers. My reflection wavers in the glowing coals: a disheveled, pale human woman, eyes wide with worry. The orc chieftain studies me for a few seconds more, then turns to his assembled warriors.

“Clanmates,” he calls out, voice carrying to every dark corner of the hall, “this is the peace offering from the Marshfield region. She is my responsibility. See that she is treated according to our laws.”

A rumble of discontent sounds from a few corners. One orc with a heavily scarred face turns and spits on the ground, but no one openly challenges the chieftain.

He takes a slow breath, as though steadying himself against the tension. “War has cost us many lives. If forging an alliance can spare our warriors and secure our future, then I will see it done.” His statement is direct, lacking flowery diplomacy. Yet there’s a hint of conviction that resonates in his tone.

A wave of uncertainty passes through me. Alliance. A word that sounds so formal, so structured—yet I’m fully aware it means I belong to him in some capacity. Like property exchanged in a bargain, though he’s dressed it up with the notion of forging peace.

I can’t stop myself from speaking: “I—I want peace, too.” My voice trembles, but I force each syllable out. “I came here willingly so fewer lives would be lost on both sides.”

He turns his gaze on me, the light illuminating the deep scars that rake across his forearms. “Your bravery is… acknowledged,” he says after a moment. Then, as if snapping back to official duty, he commands: “Karzug, see to her lodging. She’ll remain under guard until the formalities are completed.”

The warrior with the lightning insignia nods. “Yes, Chieftain Ghorzag.”

So that’s his name: Ghorzag. It rolls through my mind, carrying unfamiliar weight.

Karzug beckons me forward, and I follow him toward a side corridor. I can’t resist a final glance over my shoulder. Ghorzag is staring after us, but his expression is unreadable. It’s neither pity nor cruelty—just an intense, measured gaze that makes my cheeks flush for reasons I can’t name.

Is this how my life is going to be now? A captive in an orc stronghold, pinned under the scrutiny of a chieftain who’s duty-bound to accept me, but whose people loathe everything I represent?

I swallow hard and tighten my grip on the strap of my satchel.

Karzug leads me through winding corridors lit by torches that cast dancing shadows on the walls. Orcish architecture is as imposing inside as the fortress walls suggest—tall, vaulted ceilings, stone floors, heavy iron doors. Along the way, I catch sight of other orcs milling about. Most gawk at me brazenly, some snarl softly under their breath. A few younger ones simply blink, as if unsure what a human woman is even doing in their midst.

My entire body is tense, coiled like a spring. We finally stop in front of a thick wooden door banded in iron. A guard stands watch, an orc with pale gray skin and wary eyes. Karzug inclines his head toward the guard, who grunts once in acknowledgment.

“This will be your quarters,” Karzug says without meeting my eyes. He pushes the door open, and I peer inside.

The room is larger than I expect, with a single narrow bed against the far wall. A thick tapestry hangs to the side, depicting what looks like a stylized orc warrior standing victorious over a battlefield. A small fireplace crackles in the corner. It isn’t a dungeon, at least. More like a decent guest chamber if I ignore the iron bars on the window.

Karzug ushers me inside. Before I can thank him or question him, the guard steps forward. “Hand over any weapons.”

I shake my head slowly, opening my empty palms. “I have none. Truly.”

Suspicion flickers in his gaze, but he waves me inside.

“Do not wander,” Karzug says sharply, standing in the doorway. “You have not been cleared to roam freely. There are places in this fortress not meant for your eyes.”

My chest tightens. “I understand.”

“Someone will bring you food,” he adds grudgingly, “and fresh clothes, if you wish. Orc garments will be more practical than… whatever it is you’re wearing.”

I glance down at my simple homespun dress, patched and faded. Indeed, it isn’t suited for a place like this. “Thank you.”

He gives a curt nod and steps back into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind him. I hear a heavy latch slide into place. And just like that, I’m alone.

I move toward the fireplace, wrapping my arms around my torso. My breath catches as I survey my new living space. It’s better than a prison cell, but not by much. The thick walls muffle the fortress’s noises, reducing them to a low hum of voices and clanking metal.

I force a deep inhale, trying to steady the swirl of emotions inside me. “Be strong,” I whisper to myself. “For the village, for Mara.” My sister’s face flashes in my mind—soft freckles, wide brown eyes, tears that welled the night I left.

That memory solidified my resolve. My greatest fear was that I’d be mistreated here, or killed outright once the orcs decided they had no further use for a human bride. But the chieftain, Ghorzag, hasn’t struck me as bloodthirsty. Stern, yes. Dangerous, undoubtedly. But there’s a hint of weariness in his eyes, as though he, too, is carrying burdens.

I wonder if he truly believes this “alliance” will hold. If so, what does that mean for me? Orc culture is a fog to me—dark, impenetrable. They worship the War God, that much I know. Rumor has it the War God demands constant tribute in blood, but even my people’s knowledge of such rituals is laced with speculation and fear.

Sighing, I pace the room. My gaze snags on a wooden chest set near the bed. Curiosity licks at me, but I have a feeling it might be empty or contain items specifically placed for my use. Could it be a test? I press my palm against the rough wood. It creaks open, revealing a neatly folded set of clothes—an orcish tunic and leather leggings, from the look of them—and a pair of worn but sturdy boots. Practical, indeed.

A flood of relief and discomfort mingles in me. They’re treating me more like a guest than a hostage—at least for now.

I sink onto the edge of the bed. The straw mattress gives slightly under my weight. My mind drifts back to the chieftain’s face, etched with scars and intensity. Ghorzag Stormborn. That name alone sounds like a thunderclap.

The door latch scrapes, and I jolt. A timid knock follows. “May I come in?” comes a quiet, low voice.

I stand quickly, trying to gather myself. “Yes, of course.”

The door opens to reveal a young orc—maybe not much older than me—carrying a wooden tray. Steam rises from a clay bowl of stew, and beside it are thick slices of dark bread. He wears a simple leather vest and has wide, curious eyes.

“I—I brought your meal,” he says. He steps inside and awkwardly closes the door behind him.

“Thank you,” I manage, stepping forward to take the tray from him. Our fingers brush, and he flinches as though scalded.

An uneasy silence stretches between us. Finally, he clears his throat. “I’m Tozu. I help the cooks. The chieftain said you were to be offered the same fare as the warriors.” He glances at the stew, lips twitching in a quick half-smile. “It’s… gamey, but filling.”

“Thank you, Tozu,” I repeat, carefully setting the tray on a small table near the fireplace. I can feel his gaze roaming over me, not in a lecherous way, but with blatant curiosity.

“You’re really… human.” He shrugs, as if to say, Well, that’s obvious, but it’s new to me.

I nod. “I am.”

He fidgets, clearly torn between politeness and interest. “Is it true you’re to mate with our chieftain?”

Warmth creeps up my neck again. “That’s… what they’ve said.” I manage to keep my voice steady, though a million emotions clash inside my chest.

Tozu nods as if I’ve confirmed a rumor. “Some in the clan think it’s bad luck. They say you’ll bring the War God’s wrath.” A flicker of concern crosses his face, like he isn’t sure if he believes it.

My shoulders sag. “I’ve heard that, too.”

He studies me for a moment, then takes a step back. “If you need anything… well, maybe ask one of the guards. But you can ask me, too, if you see me around the kitchens.” He turns as if to leave, then pauses. “And, um, don’t take it personally. Orcs can be mean as a hedgehog’s backside when they’re uncertain. And everyone’s uncertain right now.”

“Thank you,” I say again, forcing a small smile. The kindness in his voice reminds me that orcs aren’t a monolith of hatred. “I appreciate it.”

He ducks his head awkwardly, then leaves the room. The latch scrapes once more, locking me in.

Alone again, I exhale slowly. My gaze falls on the steaming stew, and my stomach rumbles. The aroma isn’t terrible—earthy, rich, with a hint of spice. I realize I’m ravenous. Carefully, I taste a spoonful, half expecting it to be bitter or inedible. To my surprise, it’s quite good. Savory with chunks of meat and vegetables I don’t recognize. I tear off a piece of dark bread and dip it into the broth.

As I eat, my eyes dart around the small chamber. The orcs have placed furs on the floor to soften the stone’s chill. Heavy curtains can be drawn over the small window, sealing in warmth. Compared to the cramped huts of my village, this isn’t so bad—if only it weren’t for the thick iron bars across the window. That grim reminder makes my meal taste less satisfying, but I force myself to eat anyway. Strength, after all, will be crucial in the coming days.

“What now?” I wonder. I have no illusions that I’ll simply talk my way into acceptance here. I might have to prove my worth, somehow. Orcs respect strength—both physical and mental. My father’s stories come back to me once more, about orcish cunning and prowess in battle. If I can’t match them in combat, perhaps I can show courage in other ways.

“Peace is possible,” I murmur, pushing aside the half-finished bowl. “It has to be.”

My voice rings hollow in the empty chamber. But even as I say those words, memories of the orc raids on our village flicker in my mind—homes burned, farmland trampled, neighbors cowering. Back then, I’d hated them all, convinced they were nothing more than bloodthirsty monsters. Now, I’m betrothed—of sorts—to their leader. My heart hammers against my ribcage as I imagine what that actually means. The world feels like it has flipped upside down.

The flicker of the fireplace lulls me, and the exhaustion of my long journey finally begins to settle in. But sleep seems impossible. Instead, I rise and move to the narrow window. I press my fingers against the iron bars and peer outside.

Night has fallen fully. The courtyard below glows with torches, lighting the silhouettes of orc guards patrolling the perimeter. Their guttural voices float up in half-heard snatches. Beyond the walls, distant mountains crown the horizon, their peaks rimed with moonlit snow. It’s bleak, desolate—beautiful in a raw, untamed way.

The open sky reminds me of the farmland back home, how I’d stare at the stars on quiet nights with my sister or slip into the orchard behind our house to watch fireflies dance among the apple blossoms. I ache with longing. Would I ever see home again? If there’s peace, I might, I tell myself fiercely.

But then comes the doubt. Peace demands acceptance—acceptance of me by the orcs, acceptance of them by my people. The gulf between our worlds feels immense.

I let out a shuddering breath. Tomorrow, presumably, I’ll meet with Ghorzag again, or at least someone who can explain what’s expected of me. The wedding? The formalities Karzug mentioned? My mind reels. I’m in a precarious position; too many things can go wrong.

Despite the swirl of uncertainties, that fleeting image of Ghorzag’s face roots in my thoughts. He’s enormous, intimidating, exuding a quiet authority. Yet, behind the stoic mask, something else simmers. A man (or orc?) weighed down by responsibility, maybe even regret. Some part of me wonders if that faint spark of empathy could be the key to bridging our worlds—or if I’m foolish to hope for such a connection.

Exhaustion eventually overcomes the chaos in my mind. I curl up on the bed, pulling a scratchy blanket over myself. The furs offer a decent cushion against the wooden frame, though I’m not used to their musky scent. My eyes drift shut, replaying every detail of the day—my trembling steps through the towering gates, the clan’s accusatory stares, Ghorzag’s deep voice echoing in the main hall.

And, overshadowing all else, that gnawing question: Can peace truly exist between my people and these orcs?

Somewhere in the uneasy space between wakefulness and sleep, I vow: I will do everything in my power to make it possible.

Outside, a distant horn sounds—a plaintive note echoing into the night. Orcish war calls, I think with a shiver. Or perhaps a signal changing the watch. My heart clenches with both fear and fascination.

Eventually, the crackle of the dying fire lulls me into a fitful doze. And in that half-dreaming state, I hear my father’s voice, remembering him whispering when I was a child: We are all creatures under the same sky. If there’s a chance for understanding, we owe it to ourselves to try.

Eventually, I will find out if that understanding can be forged, or if I’m merely the first casualty in a doomed truce.

For tonight, all I can do is endure the weight of the fortress around me, the chill of foreign stone under my hands, and the flickering hope in my chest that maybe this gamble won’t end in bloodshed.