Chapter 1

Lara

         I step out into gentle red-golden rays. The sun’s cheery face peeks halfway, bifurcated by the jagged mountains on the horizon. The Orcs call those mountains the Tyrant’s Spine and think they’re the bones of a monstrous creature their ancestors slew.

         I don’t know about any of that. I do know that the orc’s stories don’t seem any more outlandish than those spun by the Old Guard. I mean, giant monsters aren’t that much of a stretch from ships that fly through the sky.

         The village of Meriweather sits nestled in a crook of the Sippi River, protected from flooding by a series of high bluffs and a marshy swamp. The rocky bluffs are dotted with the wooden armatures of mechanical cranes. The Old Guard gripe and complain about not having access to the types of materials they used to enjoy, but they get the job done with what’s available here.

         The cranes unload the river barges which come from the other human and orc settlements  from further up and down the river. Meriweather is allowed to exist, even thrive, under the watchful eye of the Thundercrack Tribe. Their Chieftain, Redlance, has long observed a policy of not interfering with our daily lives overly much.

         It’s not mercy. He simply finds it more efficient. Besides, he doesn’t have to grind us under his heel. The orc garrison here in town is more than sufficient to remind us of his power. And the living and rotting bodies crammed into tiny metal cages outside the village proper are reminders of what happens when you displease the orc masters.

         The Old Guard, the ones who came from the stars, all say that life under the Orcs is brutal and humiliating. I’m not sure I can judge. I’ve lived under their heel my whole life. I have no basis for comparison.

         I stand in the morning sunlight and look at the town below. Our mill sits on a tributary of the great Sippi River, which we harness to turn our milling wheel. I used to sit and watch the water wheel turn for hours when I was a child. Machines have always fascinated me.

         The Old Guard lost their technology, but not their knowledge. They’ve fought to preserve what they can of it by insisting we all attend school until we’ve seen eighteen summers. I have seen twenty two summers and have been free from school for some time. I no longer have to sit in a stifling hot classroom and perform trigonometry or look at scrapings from inside my mouth under a specially crafted glass lens.

         Instead, I work. And it’s a good thing that I do, too. My parents were already in their middle years when the Meriweather crashed on this, the planet of the Orcs. Hard work and hard living have left them more infirm than their age would suggest.

         I have to keep the mill going. We grind the grain the farmers bring in, and for every seven sacks ground, we keep one. Then, we keep what we can use and sell the rest. The Orcs tax us heavily, so there’s seldom enough to do more than keep us functional. It’s a lot better than some humans have, though. In fact, I sometimes think we’re lucky in many ways.

         I shake myself out of my reverie. I have risen with the sun with a purpose. I stride down the path leading into Meriweather proper. Jord the Butcher nods at me as I pass. I shoot him a smile, and he gives me one in return. His is strained, though.

         Not because he does not like me. No, he has heard the news.

         The Orcs take more than just grain, livestock, and manufactured goods like blankets and siege engines from us. They also take women. Their female birth rate is astonishingly low. They were faced with extinction until the Meriweather crash landed on their planet.

         The humans were hunted, hounded, pushed to the brink of extermination. Then, the Old Guard negotiated the Pax Humana. The human peace. The humans would turn over a crushingly high tax on everything they produced, and in return they would be allowed to live. Live in servitude to the Orcs, but alive is almost always better than dead.

         The price was higher than just poverty. The Old Guard also had to agree to turn over ten women from every village every year. My birthday had come up in the lottery, and I was one of the ten.

         That’s why Jord the Butcher looks so sad, and why a lot of people can’t quite meet my gaze. They know that soon Chieftain Redlance and his entourage will come to Meriweather, and they will take the ten who were chosen.

         My prospects don’t look good. The odds are I will be given to one of the high ranking members of the Chieftain’s court. They are known to be a terribly cruel lot, as is Chieftain Redlance himself.

         I’ve heard horror stories. Most of the time, the tribute women don’t last long. They’re seen as ‘bonus’ slaves to the Orcs in the Aebon Citadel, a half day’s ride to the West of us. That means they can be used up like surplus wine or cheese.

         Most of the time, your servitude in the Aebon Citadel doesn’t last long, if you’re a tribute girl. And if it does last long, well, you don’t want it to.

         I grew up with the specter of being a tribute hanging over my head. I dealt with it by not dealing with it. I tried not to think about it. Because, what else could I do? There’s no fighting the Orcs. They are bigger, stronger, and far more numerous than humans.

         I hoped, like every other girl did, that I would not be chosen in the lottery. If you make it to age twenty-six, then you get to take your name out. I was only four years away.

         Now everyone is acting like I’m already dead. Maribeth, a woman about my age who works at her parent’s tavern and brewery, can’t even look my way. Just the other day we were playing chess with each other.

         I hate this. Maybe that’s why it was so easy to make my decision. You see, when the time for Chieftain Redlance to collect his tribute women comes, I plan on being far, far away from here.

         The Old Guard don’t like us to talk about it, but not all of the humans capitulated to the Orcs like those that live in Meriweather. Some humans chose a life on the run, nomads who moved from place to place. They survive by hunting, gathering, and raiding Orcs and even humans who they come across.

         The Old Guard call them barbarians and sometimes traitors. I hope to find one of these roving bands of humans and join up. Barring that, I hope that perhaps I can find another human settlement far far away from here, where I will lie about my age. Or maybe pretend to be a boy or a man.

         I do know that I don’t want to die in some horrid spectacle to make cruel Orc overlords laugh. I will not die kicking on top of a spear shoved the last place you want a spear so they can snort wine out their ugly noses.

         On the surface, though, everything looks normal. Other women have tried to flee, but no one expects good little miss Lara to run. Everyone thinks I have accepted my fate. I have said to many that I hope my skills with the wind flute and tailoring would spare me rough treatment. Maybe I even believe it a little bit.

         It helps when you believe a lie a little bit yourself when you tell it.

         I hadn’t wanted to lie to my parents or say goodbye to them. That’s why I’m up so early. I plan to head out of town on a fishing excursion, like I do quite often.

         What I do when I reach the river, however, will be quite different than normal.

         As I pass through town, heading for the far western gates, I notice one of the Garrison Orcs staring at me. His name is Kuyver, or so I’m told. I’ve been trying to keep my distance. Even for an Orc, Kuyver is huge, a walking wall of muscle and grit. He scares me.

         Especially since he’s developed a kind of interest in me. I’ve felt his eyes on me many times before. Well, he can’t have me. And neither can Chieftain Redlance and his retinue.

         I ignore him and walk out of town as calmly as I can. My fishing rod is balanced over my shoulder, and I carry a box that looks like it holds tackle. Only it doesn’t.

         Inside my tackle box, I have dried rations, extra clothing, and a good thick blanket to keep me warm at night. I wish that I could fit a tent in there, but there’s just no way.

         I head up the winding path to my favorite fishing spot. It’s a good hour’s walk from Meriweather. The solitude I enjoy is part of the reason why I like it so much. And why it will make such a convenient place for me to fake my own death.

         I’m about halfway to my fishing spot when a flock of blood crows creates a huge commotion behind me. I turn around to see them flying up into the sky. My heart freezes cold in my chest. I hadn’t disturbed the crows when I passed earlier.

         And if I hadn’t done so, then what had? Was someone following me, or was there a predator about?

In either case, I was in a lot of trouble.