Rapture by L.V. Lane

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Jacob

WINTER CLINGS TO me throughout the night. I don’t think either of us gets more than snatches of sleep. I have been in planned conflicts before, and this is the nature of them. Most men don’t sleep much the evening before. Many take to the oblivion of alcohol and are dull-witted when they must rise and fight.

Old Cecil did not stand for that among the warriors, but some still snuck a flask into pockets and would sup liberally of that.

There is no alcohol here, even should I desire it. Our enemy has the advantage of sleeping like babies, while we, the slaves attempting escape, spend the night lost to worries.

I convince myself that this is an ill-conceived plan that will get us all killed.

Then I remind myself that we will all die imminently when we are forced to fight the shifters if we do not.

I have told Winter what will happen. I doubt it will go exactly to plan. Either way, she must be ready to take Melody when we launch our attack. I worry about this part. The child is indoctrinated and views the orcs as her protectors. But she also shows a strong attachment to Winter, and I hope that will tip the scales.

The other slave who accompanies her most days also worries me. Jasmine is well integrated and mated to a higher slave. There are many variables and opportunities for failure. But this is our one and only chance, and we must act.

I pray the child does not start screaming as we flee.

I pray for a lot of things.

When the bald overseer arrives, Winter clings only a little. Her face is puffy from tears, which is sure to draw attention if anyone notices it. I snatch one last kiss as the overseer throws open the cage door before turning his back on us.

“We will get through this, Winter,” I say. “Persuade the child. That is the most important thing you can do.”

“I will,” she says.

Then I am leaving, hopping down from the cage wagon for what I hope is the very last time.

I don’t look back.

I can’t.

But I sense Winter’s eyes on me.

When I reach the clearing, the slaves and men are all present… but not the wooden swords.

I frown. Where the fuck are the wooden swords? I see my fellow slaves shuffling, eyes shifty. I shoot them a fucking glare. Whatever the fuck happens or doesn’t happen, we will need to adapt. They are all twitchy. If they keep that up, even the hapless bald bastard will realize that something is up.

I should be taking the overseer by the throat by now. We should be implementing our plan, but it will be a whole lot harder without even a wooden sword.

“Where the fuck are the practice swords?” baldie snarls at the nearest orc.

The orc’s nostrils flare as he swings his head our way.

“Do not yap at me, human,” he rumbles, black eyes narrowing on the overseer.

“I will get the fucking swords,” I say.

“You will not get the fucking swords,” baldie says, stabbing a finger at the orc. “What happened to Dougie?”

The orc smirks. “The hunting was poor last evening.”

Baldie blanches. I have no love for Dougie, who was ever ready with his club, but even I feel a little queasy.

“I expect it to be poor again tonight,” the orc continues, broad face splitting into a grin.

I brace myself as the orc lifts his ax and slams it straight into the top of the overseer’s head. It cracks like a ripe melon, and blood splatters out.

“Now!” I yell, snatching up the overseer’s sword as he slips to the forest floor.

The orc’s ax is wedged, and he cannot quickly get it out. Rounding him, I hamstring him while he still fights to free his ax.

The slaves react too slowly. Orcs surge forward. One man is sent flying as a club swipes him from his feet. It is like they have forgotten every word I have said.

“NOW!”

As I run toward them at full tilt, the shifters finally shift. Without swords, their power and teeth are the only credible means of attack.

It is fucking messy and chaotic, but they take the first orc down, even as another wades into the mass defenseless slaves, smashing two more from their feet. I meet the next orc’s blow, feeling it reverberate the length of my arm. “Get the club!” I holler.

I trade blows with the orc. He is a heavyset bastard and easily twice my weight. A shifter leaps from the side, closing jaws clumsily around his throat.

It is enough. My sword slices, finding the orc’s belly. He crashes to the ground, fingers fumbling for the open split.

An orc makes a run from the clearing, and three shifters tackle him to the ground.

The fight is ugly and deadly on both sides. Blood flows, and men and orcs fall.

But we fight for our lives and for the lives of those we love, and that is the most powerful motivation.

The Goddess is with us today, and as I stand over the body of a fallen orc, chest heaving, I find most of the men are still miraculously here, and so are all seven shifters.

Orc weapons are gathered. Some men are wounded and hastily tie off or staunch blood as best they can.

I nod. “It’s time.”