Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga) (14 page)

Bolthorn knew exactly where to find umber and showed her how to mix it into paint for her face, then swept the pigment across her cheeks in a pattern he assured her carried some meaning, if only to him. After he had finished, his eyes glowed with warmth, but when she asked what he’d painted her with, he only shook his head and tucked her more securely within her cloak.

“Keep the hood down low,” he said. “It will shadow your face, but no one will believe you are Vala if you smile.”

“Vala?”

His lips twitched. “They live in the hearts of the mountains, hidden from men. Do you not know of them?”

“We have Seithr women, but they live alone in the woods, not the mountains. The king used to search them out, promising gold in exchange for their secrets.” It made far more sense to her, now, why he had done so. The mirror could not have been the only thing her mother had left behind. She dug her nails into her palm where she had blooded it, forcing herself not to think of what other secrets the Seithr women had revealed. How different her life would have been if the king had not thought of her as his cuckoo. If he had never had reason to mistrust the queen. “Witch women and sorceresses.”

Bolthorn grunted and lifted her into his arms, the basket, now emptied of everything but the rolled skin and the silver cups, dangled from his elbow. “The Vala are different. They say the oldest and wisest can walk anywhere they wish to go without ever showing themselves to the sun or the moon. They are great healers, but their services cannot be bought, nor can they ever be found if they do not wish to be.”

“Then what good are they as healers?”

“The Vala serve the Ancestors. They heal those with the greatest need and the purest hearts.”

“Why didn’t they come to heal you?”

His stride faltered. “Orcs are—hardy when it comes to things of this nature. A mild poison would not have hurt me any more than the sting of wasp. I would have survived, as I said then.”

She studied his face, the way his lips thinned and small lines fanned from his eyes. Her mouth went dry. “If you had been a man and not an orc…”

“If he had struck at you with the knife, you would not have lived. That you fight the poison even now speaks of a great strength.”

They came to the tree line, and Bolthorn set her down. A goatherd was guiding his trip along the wagon-rutted road. Young enough that he would not trouble her. She pulled the hood down low and Bolthorn smiled.

“The Vala only answer in riddles,” he said, handing her the basket. “Though I do not think that will help you barter.”

Then he shifted back into the trees, blending more easily with the pines than he had the oaks and birches, and she stepped onto the road alone.

She favored her side just enough that she stooped slightly, lending truth to her role. Many of the Vala were crooked in some way, shrunken with age. He had stopped short of painting her with the markings of one, unwilling to tempt reprisals, but his own clan marks had served. Tattooed, she would be more stunning than even the noblest of elves.

He crouched in the shadow of the fura pines, grateful they lined the road, and watched her amble along beside the goatherd, resisting the temptation to follow in the failing light. Alviss’s men may not recognize their princess, but they would know an orc, and know too that the king would wish to hear of it. And in the king’s absence, they would no doubt speak of the monster they found to other powers, and there would be more men crawling over the mountain in search of the passage through.

When she turned the bend, and he no longer heard the bleat of the goats, he began to pace. It would be some time still before the shadows lengthened enough to hide him, and if she fell, surely he would know it, like the tug of a rope between his spirit and hers. No. He would not follow unless he felt some calling, some summons through their bond. He would wait, as he had promised her he would, and trust in her strength.

And if she never chose to take a place among his people, he would remember always the way she looked this night, marked as Hrimthursar, by bond and blood and spirit. Orc in every way that mattered.

CHAPTER TEN

The failing light turned into darkness and the darkness became starlight, and still she had not returned. She could not have been harmed, or he would have felt it, he was certain. But what else could keep her when she knew he waited?

He crept from the shelter of the trees and slipped through shadow along the road to the village. Torches lit the tower and Bolthorn did not miss the movements of guards on the battlements. Nor did he fail to notice the cloaked woman, bent to save her side, as she was dragged between two men toward the gate. He growled, drawing the knife from his belt. Guards or not, he would not leave her in their hands.

“Ancestors, protect us both,” he murmured, stealing closer.

He would not have reached the village without being seen if Arianna had not broken free and ran. Shouts went up, drawing the attention of the guards above, and Bolthorn slipped between two sheds, too weakly constructed to be homes, surely. A sharp pain in his ribs and tightness in his lungs told him Arianna had crumpled though he could not see her from where he stood. He pressed his back against the stone and wood, struggling to breathe.

Acrid and sharp, with an underlying scent of urine, he nearly gagged on the air he drew. A tanner’s shed, by the smell, which explained too, why it was so far from the tower. He bared his tusks. To come this far and fail would be unforgiveable, but the Ancestors blessed them. She would not suffer all this for nothing.

“Get up,” one of the guards ordered.

Bolthorn edged toward the voice. Arianna stirred from the heap she made on the road, and the pressure in his chest eased. She was not unconscious, at least. But nor did she rise.

Keep fighting, Princess.

The door to the tannery was barred from the inside. Bolthorn applied his shoulder, half-worried the entire building would fall if he used too much force. The wood cracked and splintered, and with another glance to be sure he had not drawn attention, he entered.

A boy stared wide-eyed from a straw pallet. Bolthorn let his own eyes glow and bared his tusks with a growl. The boy squeaked and pulled his blanket over his head, leaving Bolthorn to search the shed in peace. Had he been braver, he might have realized all he need do was shout to bring the guards. Bolthorn snorted, thanking the Ancestors for frightened boys.

Finished boots, lined with rabbit’s fur in a size Bolthorn prayed would fit, sat on a workbench. But there were no cloaks completed. He grabbed the largest cured pelt he could find, and threw it over his shoulder before returning to the door.

From inside the frame, he could just see the guards, keeping their distance from the filthy edge of her cloak. Bolthorn narrowed his eyes. They ought to have dragged her up by now, not that he wasn’t glad they hadn’t marched her inside the tower. He had missed something, some struggle by the beat of his own heart. They did not quite beat together, but there was an echo in his chest, racing in time with hers.

“Your lord can speak to me in the afterlife,” she rasped. “For he will not live to meet me in this one.”

He risked leaving the shed, keeping close to the building, and moved until he could see her. Somehow, she had managed to steal a knife from one of the guards and she held one hand outstretched, her palm bloodied.

“One drop of my blood upon your body and you will die with him. Let me go and you will escape my curse.”

Bolthorn swore. Had she not learned yet not to play with things she did not understand? A few, the youngest of the group, backed up at once, their hands raised as they begged forgiveness and blathered about Lord Alviss’s commands. What kind of women were these Seithr that they feared her so?

“Vala,” he called softly.

Her head jerked, her eyes searching the shadows. He moved only enough to draw her gaze. The guards stood between them, and though they did not dare take their eyes off Arianna, he could see them straining to find the source of the voice. Her eyes widened just slightly and he grinned. If she could only make it past them, they might reach the wood, even with the guards following. Better if they didn’t, but time ran short.

Arianna threw back her hood, revealing her painted face, and began to chant. Nonsense sounds and meaningless words, he realized after a moment, but when she stepped toward the guards, they moved hastily out of her way. Bolthorn could hear them praying to their Ancestors for protection, gripping talisman’s around their necks instead of their swords, but the stitch of pain in his side worsened with every step she took.

He detached himself from the tanner’s shed, moving closer as the shadows allowed, until she stood only an arm’s length from him.

“Here,” he murmured. “We have all we need, and on foot I can outrun them, even with you in my arms.”

She sidled closer, still chanting, and when the shadow obscured her, he threw the fur around her body. She sagged against him and he lifted her up.

“They’ll see you.”

“They will see a monstrous form disappearing into the trees where a witch once stood.” He adjusted her weight, cradling her close and tight to his chest. “Keep your head down, against my neck.”

And then, with another prayer, he ran.

They had lost the basket in the village, so they bundled the last of the apples and cheese, and the skins of water in the cloak, and Arianna held it tight to her stomach while Bolthorn carried her. Running had tired them both, and her side ached enough that even Bolthorn seemed to feel it, his pace slowing and his face lined. At least with the fur she didn’t shiver when the fever rose.

“Sleep,” Bolthorn said. “You have earned your rest twice over.”

She sighed, letting her head fall to his shoulder. Her cheek was tender where she’d taken a hard slap across the face, but the pain in her side overwhelmed the small discomfort. “I should have known Alviss would be looking for Seithr women for the king. It was a foolish disguise.”

“Better that his men believe they found and lost a witch than the princess and the king’s orc.”

“If you hadn’t come—”

“We go on,” he said, his expression grim. “Together.”

He knew these woods, sparse as they had become, and when the stunted, scraggled, fura pines broke, he knew the soft green and browning tundra of the foothills too. Just before dawn, he found the lichen painted outcrop beneath which he had made a shelter his first night beyond the mountains, and though he did not dare to light a fire, the thick ribbons of sedge grass made a soft bed.

After a meal of apples and cheese, the last of their food, Arianna curled against his side, sharing the fur, and rested her head on his shoulder. He tested her forehead for fever and breathed his relief when she did not burn against his palm.

She tugged his hand away, a small smile curving her lips. “You worry overmuch. There are still two days of warmth before I must fight your cruel winds. I will be well enough for your mountains by then.”

His fingers lingered against her skin and her smile faded. He traced the clan-markings on her cheek and her lips parted, her heart thrumming in his ears.

“Bolthorn—”

Up the bridge of her nose and over her eyebrow, the umber flaked from her skin, coloring his fingertip. Down along the line of her jaw, to the pulse point beneath. Her breathing hitched. He only wished the marks had reached her collarbone, to give him some excuse to trail his fingers across the smooth skin there.

“You make a beautiful orc.”

“Not a Vala?” she asked, her eyelashes sweeping across her cheek.

“The Vala cannot marry.” The sunlight caught in her hair, flashing reds within the rich brown and he smoothed the soft, wild strands from her face. “They cannot bear children, or know the touch of any kind of man after they have made their vows. They know only the Ancestors and the mysteries they reveal.”

“Oh,” she breathed.

Oh. It was the first thing she had ever said to him, trembling against the stone. She trembled now, too. As she should, he thought, knowing herself within the arms of an orc.

He closed his eyes and drew his hand back. This was a dangerous game to play with her so near, so vulnerable. Without knowing her feelings or his own, he did not dare let it go further.

“Sleep well, Princess,” he said, his jaw tight against his need. “You’ll want your strength.”

She made a noise in the back of her throat, but when he glanced at her, she had turned away.

Rabbit roasted over a fire, but Bolthorn didn’t sit beside it. She wasn’t certain if she was more relieved or annoyed with his absence, but she shivered even next to the flames, and rubbed her side. Her whole body felt stiff and sore from last night, and her heart ached. Before they had fallen asleep, he had looked at her so strangely. As if he feared he would never see her again.

She tried to force the memory from her mind, stoking the fire and turning the rabbit. Most of the king’s men would have given their sword arms to have Bolthorn’s skill as a hunter. Maybe he would teach her, someday. Surely they would have time enough once they reached the mountains.

“I fear we have nothing left but meat and water,” he said, settling beside her in the flattened sedge grass, bent by wind and before long, snow. She hadn’t even heard him return, but that was hardly surprising. He offered her a skin, damp and full. “Fresh from a mountain stream.”

She sipped from it, but the cold froze her lungs, making her cough. Bolthorn stroked her back until she stopped, the warmth of his hand seeping through her cloak. She waved him irritably away. His touch was too confusing, though at least her back did not pain her. “Will we reach the passage tonight?”

“Mm,” he said, moving the skin of cold water near the fire to warm. “The nights are growing longer. But we need not travel in darkness on the other side.”

“Will your people be looking for you?” White motes of cotton grass clung to her gown, and she picked them off, one by one, afraid if she looked up at him, he would be staring at her with that same agony she had seen before. “You never said what place you held in your village, but the way you talk, it does not seem as though they would forget you.”

He snorted and leaned forward, stoking the fire. “No. They would not forget me.”