Page 6
“A Faun is a good choice.” Adelaide gives me an approving nod. “My brother, Addison favors the faun characters, too. He considers Rowan of the Wildling his favorite book boyfriend. They’re known for their love of a good party, and they’re terrific musicians. In my doctorate, I argue that they’re an avatar for the love of fun and revelry that brings people together.”
“Yeah, fun…” I say, my voice a little weak as I watch more dirt slosh past the train windows. “How about you, Adelaide?”
“Oh, like Aimee, I’m also fairly open.” She shrugs her thin shoulders. “Preferably a warlock, since they’re technically human and tend to be scholars. But really all I need is access to any of the Middle Realm’s plethora of libraries.”
She splays her free hand across her chest, and her eyes take on a dreamy quality when she says “libraries.”
Then she grins at us. “As long as it’s not an Orc, I imagine I’ll be fine.”
My eyes widen. “Wait, could that really happen?”
“Oh, I don’t believe so.” Adelaide waves a dismissive hand. “Orcs are the Vikings of this world. Solely focused on marauding. Otherwise, they stick to their Swamplands. I’d be more concerned about them invading whatever kingdom or town you end up in than one of them picking you in a wife auction.”
“Still...” I clutch the fold of my towel a little tighter at the prospect of being paired with one of the monstrous beings that were always getting into tavern fights with Clara Quinn’s heroes, raiding her heroines’ border towns, and/or killing off a recently introduced friend when her main characters were just trying to have a nice, quiet moment.
“I know this is scary—especially for you, I’m sure. You must be feeling so vulnerable in your towel. But thanks to the Unveiled Frost King, the Thousand Seasons War is over. Spring has arrived, and technically we’re entering this world’s happily ever after.”
“Exactly,” Aimee agrees with a firm nod. “Besides, we’re basically NPCs when you think about it, not main characters. The truth is, we’ll probably all be chosen by some lay beings who weren’t even involved in the Thousand Seasons War.”
She chuffs. “I’m more worried about being bored than being chosen by some—”
She cuts off when the burrowing train jerks to a sudden halt, and the mole attendant squeals, “First stop: the North Swamplands. Everybody out!”
Chapter 5
Complainer
We’re greeted on the train’s torchlit tunnel platform by an enormous Orc with tusks jutting out of his lower lip and a topknot of inky black hair rising from his head. He’s all bulging muscle and old scars. A fur mantle lies across his shoulders, and he wears a bandolier with several knives underneath it. Otherwise, he’s shirtless above a red loincloth and a gold skull plate that serves as a codpiece underneath a thick leather belt.
Several only slightly smaller Orc warriors stand at his back. Like him, they wear bronze-plated bracers on their forearms and are packing a ridiculous amount of weaponry: all kinds of daggers and double-sided axes—one guy even has a spear that’s taller than him and topped by a wicked-looking serrated broad blade.
A plan to take a weapon off of them rises inside of me, then immediately gets squashed, since I’d have nowhere to hide it. My new passport’s barely hanging on, stuffed under my towel.
Besides, my vet sixth sense tells me the largest one is their leader, maybe even the general of the entire Orc force. He’d definitely take me down if I tried anything. Easily.
I’m pretty much useless here without access to a gun, so I’ll have to settle for biding my time.
The Orc General launches into a speech as soon as the doors close behind the last person on the train. That last person being a very reluctant me.
“Registry Brides have honor of being presented for lifelong mateship and immediate marriage to Emperor of Orcs, Ivar the Terrible.”
Seriously, Ivar the Terrible? I lean over to whisper to Adelaide, “Do you remember him from the books?”
She shakes her head, her eyes popped wide and terrified.
“Here tunnel leads to stairs that will take Registry Brides directly to throne hall.” The Orc General points to a set of stone steps on his left. “First, there are Rules to go over before Supreme Orc Horde escort Registry Brides inside.”
The train tunnel is freezing, and the squad of Orcs is scary, but I can’t help fixating on his fascinating syntax. From what I can tell, his Orc language, as translated, is completely in third person, has no pronouns, and only makes use of articles such as “the” and “a” in titles—like Ivar the Terrible.
The Orc General continues. “Registry Brides will not speak to Emperor unless spoken to. Under no circumstances should Brides look Emperor directly in eyes.”
Is he kidding?
Maybe it’s because the train tunnel is freezing cold and I’m only wearing a bath towel, my irritation flares too brightly for me to bite back my next words.
“Is that what he wants?” I ask the Orc warrior in charge. “Some docile wifey? If so, can I take myself out of the running?”
His expression hardens underneath the torchlight.
