[Queen of Orcs 01] - King's Property

by Morgan Howell

  “And you’re afraid of him?”

  “Cautious,” answered Sevren. “If you’re wise, you’ll be cautious, too.”

  Dar grew silent. The path turned with the river, revealing a beach of gray sand. Sevren lifted Twea from the saddle. “We must let Skymere rest from his heavy burden,” he said.

  Twea dashed to the water’s edge as soon as her feet touched the ground. Sevren smiled. “She’s a sunny child, though she has little cause. In Averen, we’d say she’s ‘faerie-kissed.’”

  “She’s just ignorant of her future,” said Dar.

  “As are we all,” said Sevren. When he glanced at Dar, he was surprised to see his remark had upset her.

  Twenty-nine

  While Twea played, Dar took advantage of her unexpected leisure to doze. Not only did she welcome a chance to rest, sleep allowed her to avoid Sevren. It was afternoon when he gently shook her awake. “I promised Davot I’d have you back in time to help with dinner,” he said.

  As they returned to the royal compound, Dar bombarded Sevren with questions about his life. He told her that he was the youngest in a family of nine and had left home in his teens to make his way in the world. Averen was part of a waning empire. Ambitious lords raised their own troops, and men-at-arms found ready employment. Sevren had made his way to the rich province of Luvein, where warring nobles were always looking for soldiers. There he honed his skills and learned to ride.

  “What brought you here?” Dar asked.

  “When I was young, I thought swordsmen could protect the weak.” He smiled ruefully, as if astonished by his own naïveté. “I learned differently. The weak can na afford soldiers. The strong can and use them for their own benefit.”

  “Yet you still served them.”

  “For a while, I switched from lord to lord until I learned they were all the same. By then, I was used to soldiering. And you bond with your comrades. Many are good men who have only their lives to sell. One told me of a king who was a man of peace and justice.”

  “King Kregant?”

  “Aye. The elder one. I rode north to join his guard and discovered he’d died.”

  “And the son was unlike his father?”

  “Aye. But what was I to do? Ride back to Luvein? So I donned the blue and scarlet. I’ve worn it three years.” Sevren’s voice betrayed his weariness. “The king has claims in the neighboring kingdom, lands he says are his by right. We take towns and territory, but can hold neither. All we get is goods.”

  “Plunder, you mean.”

  “Choose your words with care. Kregant says those goods are his by right.” As Sevren said this, his expression indicated that he agreed with Dar. What he said next confirmed it further. “This is my last campaign. Next spring, I’m done with this. I’ll head south with the price of a farm in my purse.”

  As they neared the royal compound, Dar asked yet another question. “Why did you seek me out? Don’t tell me it’s my teeth.”

  “Your ways remind me of home,” replied Sevren.

  “A sweet-sounding lie.”

  “Nay, I swear ’tis true. Averen women are na meek.”

  “So, you think I have spirit?”

  “Aye. ’Tis a grand thing.”

  “Grand? I’ll show you how grand!” said Dar. “Touch my back.”

  Sevren hesitated.

  “Come on. Touch it!”

  Sevren ran his fingers down the back of Dar’s shift.

  “Feel those scars?” said Dar. “That how spirit’s repaid here.”

  Dar fell silent and Sevren thought it best to say nothing. This one fair day must make the rest seem all the worse.

  When they neared the royal compound, Dar silently handed Sevren the reins and ran the rest of the way back. Sevren didn’t chase after her, but simply watched her go. When he looked up at Twea, she was regarding him with a serious expression. “Don’t be mad at Dar,” she said.

  “How can I?” replied Sevren. “I have na cause.”

  Davot had a large staff of men, so Twea and Dar had little to do. Mostly, they stayed out of the way while dinner was prepared and served. They ate at the same time as the guardsmen and cleaned up afterward. When Dar and Twea were done, Murdant Cron escorted them back to their regiment. He departed after telling Teeg that he expected the two at the royal compound by sunrise. By then it was dusk.

  Dar and Twea headed for the bathing tent, but Neffa barred their way.

  “The orcs have already been served,” said Neffa. “There’s no reason to bathe.”

  “We must anyway,” said Dar.

  “The water’s been dumped,” said Neffa. “The serving robes are wet from washing.”

  Neena emerged from the bathing tent. “The bitch doesn’t wear a robe, wet or dry, when she’s with her piss eye,” she said. “The brat doesn’t either.”

  “That’s not true!” shouted Twea.

  “Ignore her,” Dar said to Twea. She turned to face Neffa. “We have to wash.”

  “Then use the river.”

  Dar considered bathing in the Turgen but quickly rejected the idea. The river ran deep, and its cold, swift currents were treacherous. They might easily sweep Twea away.

  “Men don’t care how a woman smells,” said Neena, “but you don’t tup a man, do you?” She smiled maliciously.

  This was Neena’s idea, thought Dar. She knows it’ll cause mischief. Dar worried how Kovok-mah would react when she and Twea came to his shelter unbathed and “snoffi va urkwashavoki”—reeking like washavokis. It appeared she had no choice but to find out. Dar took Twea’s hand. “Come. It’s time to rest.”

  Without looking back, Dar led Twea to Kovok-mah’s shelter. He parted the reeds before they reached it, making Dar think he had been watching for them. She halted several paces away. Since she held Twea’s hand, the girl was forced to halt also.

  “Dargu. Little Bird,” said Kovok-mah. “You did not serve tonight.”

  “We had to work elsewhere,” said Dar, staying put.

  “Come,” said Kovok-mah. “Rest.”

  “Kovok-mah, merth dava-splufukuk thwa,” said Dar. Kovok-mah, we have not bathed. “Merth snof-fuk.” We reek.

  Kovok-mah held out his massive arms. “Come, Little Bird.”

  Dar released Twea’s hand and she ran to him. The orc scooped her up and set her on his lap. Then he breathed in deeply. “You smell like Little Bird,” he said. “This is good smell.”

  Twea giggled.

  Kovok-mah looked at Dar. “I think you will smell like Dargu.”

  “Hai,” said Dar.

  “Come. That scent is also pleasing.”

  If Kovok-mah were a human, Dar would have assumed he was merely sparing her feelings. But Kovok-mah was incapable of lying, even with good intentions. He actually likes the way I smell. The idea both surprised and pleased her. She blushed. “Shashav.” Thank you.

  Dar and Twea reported to the royal compound at the first sign of dawn. After they left, a damp, sluggish breeze blew in from the river. It flowed around Kovok-mah’s shelter, spreading Twea’s and Dar’s scent among the sleeping orcs, who awoke to discover the change in the air. The scent of washavokis in their midst, which had been a subtle note before, was difficult to ignore. Sitting in his shelter, Garga-tok fingered the ears sewn to the edge of his cape and decided the situation had grown intolerable. I’ll meet with others, he thought. It’s time to act.

  After the morning meal was served, Dar heard the thunder of hooves as the guards rode from the base camp. “Off to meet the king,” Davot said. “His Highness will be here on the morrow. Busy times ahead.”

  Davot and his staff were already preparing tomorrow’s feast. Bread could be baked in advance, and dozens of bowls were filled with rising dough. Soon Dar and Twea were feeding fires in all the ovens, washing bowls and pots, hauling water, and replenishing the woodpile. The tent turned sweltering with the ovens’ heat. Dar’s sweat-soaked shift clung to her body, which was covered with soot from the stoves and dirt from han
dling firewood. By dinnertime, the baking was done and Dar approached Davot. “Can Twea go back to the regiment? She needs to serve the orcs tonight.”

  “She’ll eat better here,” said Davot.

  “Yes, but if she serves the orcs, she’ll get to bathe.”

  “Bathe? Why would she want to do that?”

  “Orcs have sensitive noses.”

  Davot shrugged. “Aye, she can go.”

  After sending Twea off with a warning to scrub herself well, Dar worked until the ashes were cleared from the ovens and the last pot was washed. It was dusk when she finished and headed for the river. There was a section of riverbank where a grove of trees grew up to the water and offered enough privacy to bathe. She approached it only after glancing about to ensure no soldiers saw her. When Dar reached the trees, she made her way to the river.

  The Turgen’s swift current had gnawed at its channel to carve a steep bank. The roots of the trees closest to the river were exposed where the earth about them had been swept away. Dar cautiously climbed down the bank. She was unable to swim, and the water made her nervous. Entering the river slowly, she carefully felt its bed with her feet for firm places to stand. Just a few steps from the shore, the water reached her knees. The current pushed forcefully against her legs, gurgling loudly.

  Dar removed her clothes and washed them in the swiftly flowing stream. Once her garments were as clean as she could get them, she wrung them out, hung them on an exposed root, and turned her attention to washing herself. She had no doubts that Kovok-mah liked her scent, but even her washavoki sense of smell discerned it had grown strong. She scrubbed away the day’s sweat and grime, knowing that her essence would remain. When she was satisfied, she left the river and donned her damp clothes.

  Dar didn’t see Zna-yat until she climbed the bank. Standing silently among the trees, he startled her. Dar doubted this was a chance encounter, but acted as if it was. She curled back her lips and said, “Tava, Zna-yat.”

  The orc didn’t reply.

  Zna-yat spoke only Orcish, so Dar addressed him in that tongue. “Why are you outside Muth la’s Embrace?”

  “Washavokis do not own world. I go where I please.”

  “As you should,” said Dar.

  “My mother’s brother’s son lost his cape today.”

  “His cape?” said Dar, uncertain what Zna-yat meant.

  “Hai. Sons say he has forsaken wisdom. They agreed he is poor leader. Another wears cape now.”

  “Why?”

  “Leaders should not stink of washavoki.”

  Dar sensed where this conversation was headed. “I am mother,” she stated.

  “Thwa,” said Zna-yat. “You mock mothers. You have disgraced Kovok-mah.”

  “I will ask him if he agrees,” said Dar. She started to leave, but Zna-yat blocked her path.

  “Thwa. Your words have evil magic.”

  Dar attempted to dart away, but Zna-yat seized her arm. “You have not washed well. I still smell you.” He grabbed her other arm and dragged her to the crest of the bank.

  “What are you doing?” asked Dar even as she guessed. An instant later, the orc flung her into the river.

  Zna-yat saw Dar’s arms and legs flail the air before she splashed into the gray water. Dar vanished beneath its surface. The orc watched to see if she would rise. Dar’s head bobbed up far downstream from where she had landed, then submerged as quickly as it had risen. It was even more distant the next time Zna-yat spied it—a dark speck amid swirling gray. The head disappeared again, this time for good. Zna-yat waited, scanning the broad Turgen with his keen eyes. When he was satisfied that Dar had drowned, he climbed down the riverbank and washed her scent from his hands.

  Thirty

  With an icy shock, the world became an airless, gray blur. There was nothing solid to touch, only water. The cold seized Dar and rushed her along, tumbling her about as it did. It toyed with her—a gasp of air, a glimpse of sky, then grayness again. Dar struggled. Her arms and legs thrashed futilely. Cold invaded her body, turning it stiff and leaden. Her efforts became lethargic. Soon, her lungs ached for air, but there was only the Turgen to fill them.

  I’ll die, thought Dar. Strangely, the idea was devoid of terror. The river held her in a frigid embrace, carrying her to the Dark Path. Dar wondered when she would arrive. Soon, I think. I only have to breathe. The world began to fade even before she tried.

  Something struck Dar and gripped her. In her confused state, she thought it was a hand. The hand fought against the river. Dar was no longer moving. Her body pressed against something hard and rough. Above her head, the gray was lighter. Dar tried to move toward the light and discovered she could push against the rough hand. Suddenly, she saw leaves. There was air. Dar gasped.

  The hand was a tree that had fallen into the river. Its leaves screened the darkening sky and its roots still rested on the shore. Dar was entangled in its branches. For a while, she felt she was dreaming, but when the tree didn’t vanish, that feeling became astonishment. Eventually, Dar began to struggle toward the shore. The way was treacherous, even with her clinging to the tree, and it was night by the time her feet touched dry ground. When they did, she heard a soft groan as the tree began to shift and slide into the current. Dar stepped back and watched it drift away. Soon it was only a parting shadow swirling on the dark river.

  Dar headed for Kovok-mah’s shelter. When she entered Muth la’s Embrace, a patrol of orcs approached her and halted. “Dargu?” said a guard in a voice that betrayed surprise. It made Dar suspect the orcs knew what Zna-yat had done.

  “Hai.”

  “Were you not in river?” asked another guard, confirming Dar’s suspicions.

  “I was,” Dar replied in Orcish, “but I have returned.”

  “How can that be?” asked the guard.

  “Tree saved me.”

  The orcs’ eyes grew wide, and one pressed his palm against his chest, splaying his fingers so they pointed upward. Dar had seen that gesture before, although she didn’t know its significance. “Tree?” said the orc, in a hushed tone.

  “Hai,” said Dar. Then, with all the dignity she could muster, she walked to Kovok-mah’s shelter. Behind her, she heard the orcs speaking in low, agitated tones.

  Skymere moved down the dark road with a gait that betrayed his exhaustion. The long ride had pushed the stallion to the limits of his endurance, and Sevren was angry over it. Despite this, he rode silently and stoically. A King’s Guard didn’t complain. At least, a prudent one didn’t.

  Sevren’s companions were equally quiet. None knew the reason for their journey, other than the king had willed it. They had received no explanation for the order, and experience told them to expect none. Sevren suspected it was merely an exercise of power for power’s sake. The king liked pomp and probably wished to enter base camp accompanied by the full complement of his guards. Sevren wondered who would be impressed.

  As the rising moon silvered the horizon, Sevren spied the fires of the king’s camp. He hoped that meant he could tend his horse soon. Before long, he heard voices made boisterous by drink. For some, war’s a merry business. Their gaiety made Sevren reflect how Dar would see only the grim side of battle. Privation, not riches. Carnage, not glory. Sevren hoped she would be spared the worst. No one should see what I’ve seen. Even as he had that thought, Sevren realized he had been luckier than many. There are worse things than viewing horrors. Far worse.

  It wasn’t the first time during the long ride that Sevren had thought of Dar. After spending time with her, what had begun as curiosity had blossomed into deeper feelings. Sevren had spent much of the day pondering why Dar, who wasn’t eager for his company, attracted him. She had a special quality, and “spirit” inadequately described it. She wears rags, but there’s a grandness to her no lord or lady can match. Sevren found it in Dar’s rapport with Skymere, her protection of Twea, and her fearlessness among the orcs. He also saw it in the way she treated him. Unlike most women, Dar was unim
pressed that he was a guardsman. To Sevren, that was a good sign. She showed contempt for that part of him he had come to disdain. In all his travels, he had never encountered a woman like her. Already, he was smitten.

  When Sevren entered the camp, his thoughts of Dar were interrupted by the trumpet that signaled the arrival of the royal guard. The king, surrounded by advisers and courtiers, left a tent to receive their obeisance, and Sevren viewed the royal party as he rode past. Kregant II stood foremost, his corpulent figure clad in gold-embroidered scarlet. The king’s florid face matched his attire, and unsteady legs marred his dignity. Though approaching middle age, he looked younger than his years. A wispy beard emphasized his callow appearance.

  Sevren surveyed the men about the king. All were familiar, but one surprised him. Othar, the king’s mage, appeared to have aged decades since the guardsman had seen him last. If Sevren didn’t know better, he would have thought the sorcerer was an elderly man. Yet something other than years had sucked life from his features, leaving them hard and withered. It marked them in a way that caused Sevren to think no wholesome thing had ravaged Othar’s face. Only his dark eyes remained unchanged. They were as baneful as ever. When they glanced at Sevren, his hair rose.

  The king returned to his carouse, while his guardsmen dismounted and tended their horses. Sevren fed, watered, and rubbed down Skymere before he looked to his own needs. These were simple. He spread his sleeping roll on the ground and ate a hard biscuit washed down with water. After he supped, he took off his boots and, wrapped in his cloak, lay down to sleep. The night was clear. As Sevren gazed at the stars, he reflected how they were shining over Averen also. He imagined himself there, stargazing from his own farmstead. In his mind’s eye it was nestled among mountains with a lake to mirror the night sky. It was an old dream, which hard years had rendered more alluring. Tonight, however, Sevren added something new: Dar gazed at the stars with him.

  Twea was asleep when Dar entered Kovok-mah’s shelter, but Kovok-mah was awake. He appeared anxious, yet his voice was restrained. “You are wet,” he said in Orcish.