Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga) (24 page)

“Ancestors help us if your brother arrives next,” Fossegrim groused. “Hiding one orc is hard enough. Ah well.” His glower softened, and he nodded to her, his lips curving. “I’d bet my boat you’re hungry now. Fish stew? It’s hot and fresh.”

She blushed. “Thank you, my lord Fossegrim.”

“Lord nothing,” he said firmly. “Grandfather Fossegrim, now that you’re properly bound to Bolthorn, and only if you insist, though I wouldn’t mention it in front of the other elves, eh?” He winked before smoothing his face back into a scowl for Bolthorn. “Pour her some wine, boy. I’m not as spry as I used to be, and the poor girl is half-starved and three-times parched after the paces you put her through.”

“Of course, Grandfather,” Bolthorn murmured, giving her a crooked smile. He squeezed her hand and let her go.

Grandfather?
Her lips shaped the word soundlessly, but Bolthorn only chuckled in response.

Fossegrim left them in peace after the meal, though Arianna balked when he offered them the bedroom for the night.

“After everything he’s done for us, you’d let him sleep on the floor?”

Bolthorn caressed her cheek, his fingers curling into the warmth of her hair. “If it means I have privacy with you, I would even ask him to sleep on the floor. A thousand times over.”

She flushed, her lips parting just so, inviting him nearer.

He pressed his forehead to hers. “I will beg you, Princess, if I must.”

A soft noise of objection rose from the back of her throat. “At least let him have the pallet. We can make a bed of blankets on the floor for ourselves. Less creaking that way.”

“As you wish.” He grinned, unable to stop himself from stealing a soft kiss. She lifted her face to his, rising to her toes to forestall him from breaking it. No, neither one of them would be sleeping much, tonight. Having her body pressed to his was too tempting to ignore, even had she persuaded him to sleep by the hearth.

“I’ll just—clear a place for it,” she mumbled, pulling away at last.

“Mm.” Her hand slipped from his and he watched her disappear through the curtained door. He had to stop himself from following, though his hands became fists at his sides. It would not do, he knew, to loom over her every moment. He had promised her freedom, even from him, if need be.

Fossegrim’s voice rumbled, and Arianna laughed before the old elf brushed back the curtain. “I see you convinced her to keep the bedroom.”

“After so many weeks apart, I did not expect it would be difficult.”

Fossegrim grunted, levering himself into a chair with his stick. For as long as Bolthorn had known him, he had always played the ancestor, griping about his age and grumbling about the young wasting youth. But he was an elf, blessed with eternity, and only as aged as he pretended to be, though everyone knew old Nykur on the river had been advisor to Ingvifreyr, entrusted with all his secrets.

“You’ll both be safer hidden here,” Fossegrim said. “But it’s only a matter of time before Vanadis comes to claim her, and then what? With Hjalli watching, I can’t slip you back out by the river, and you haven’t the power to take her with you through the quartz. How you managed to take yourself will keep me up at night for years.”

“Strong Elvish blood,” Bolthorn muttered. “And the blessing of the Ancestors.”

“Elvish blood! This from the boy who could barely talk blackrock into burning. That blood runs thin, Bolthorn. Your brother got the better share for all you’ve made more of yours.” Fossegrim drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, staring at something Bolthorn couldn’t see. “The things that girl of yours said—Vanadis can’t have meant to send her back over the mountain with a little magic, to say nothing of that bit about the war you weren’t fighting.”

“Vanadis sent
me
over that mountain, whispering dreams of peace in my ear.” He spread his arms, showing the scars on his chest and the violence with which he had been met. He’d known the moment Alviss’s men had found him there was no peace to be had, and changed his mind again when Arianna took his hand. With Gunnar dead, there was no telling what the future held. “Whatever it was she meant for me to find, I think it was not Arianna. There have been moments since when I wondered if she meant for me to return at all.”

Fossegrim looked up sharply, his gaze suddenly focused. “Lead the Hrim-Gothi to his death, at human hands? There would be no hope for peace after that. The Hrimthursar would see every pass blocked, and forbid all contact for another century, assuming they didn’t set fire to the nearest villages first. And instead you brought home a bride, pregnant no less.” He grunted again. “If that was her intention, to end this bid for peace you put in everyone’s mind, I can see exactly why she made off with your wife. What I can’t see is what difference it makes to her one way or the other.”

“Bolthorn?” Arianna pushed back the curtain with her elbow and swept the weight of her hair up off her neck.

He pressed his lips together to keep from dragging her near enough to kiss and tore his gaze from her bare skin to meet her eyes. “Wife of mine?”

Her cheeks reddened, but she kept her place in the doorway. He blamed Fossegrim for that. “Would you bring the pallet out? There should be space enough now, and nothing piled near enough to the hearth to catch fire, either. You should be more careful of your books, Grandfather Fossegrim.”

“The sweet songs women sing.” Fossegrim’s lips twitched. “Bestla would have liked you, girl. And liked you all the more for a Gythja.”

“I confess, I am not quite certain of myself in that regard. The only example of leadership I had was the king.”

“And your mother,” Bolthorn said firmly, for the queen should not be forgotten. Least of all by her daughter. “Young as you were when she died, she did not leave you without the strength required to lead.”

“Yes.” Fossegrim frowned, his eyes narrowing as he studied her. “Your mysterious mother with her Elvish blood. What was her name, did you say?”

“Signy,” Arianna said.

Fossegrim tapped his fingers against his stick. “No elf should have been left behind when the mountain was raised, but I cannot say it would surprise me if a half-blood escaped notice, seeing as how they weren’t meant to be born to begin with. Our queen didn’t believe in mingling Elvish blood with those she considered lesser beings, and Ingvifreyr saw the wisdom in it for other, much less insulting reasons. Mind, this was long before the orcs came into being, but as you might imagine, we elves have always struggled against humility.”

Bolthorn snorted. “Hubris is a better word for what ails your race, Grandfather.”

“Yes, yes,” Fossegrim agreed, jabbing at him with his stick. “But that’s hardly the point, now. The question which troubles me is whom of our fair folk saw fit to flaunt Ingvifreyr’s rule so utterly. A half-blood human wouldn’t have been so hard to hide among the elves, but to leave the child among men seems a strange choice.”

“Unless the child wasn’t born until after the mountains rose,” Arianna said softly, her hand pressed to her own stomach. “There clearly couldn’t have been a marriage, if their relationship was forbidden. A woman in that position would hide her pregnancy as long as possible, even give birth in secret if she could manage it. Perhaps her lover didn’t know, or he learned of it too late.”

“Well.” Fossegrim sighed. “I’ll search the records, when next I travel to Nericia, and speak with those I might trust upon the council. Your Ancestor may yet live, Arianna, though I’m not certain what good it will do you, bound to Bolthorn as you are. Even if he’s willing to admit his affair, you’re near enough to orc now, he’ll not be able to claim you.”

Arianna shook her head. “I’d rather be orc than elf, anyway.”

“I can’t say that I blame you, all things considered. But that reminds me.”

He rose from the chair with an easy grace, no trace of the limp he affected as he crossed to the chest of drawers beside the bed. Bolthorn snorted again, crossing his arms. The elf needed a walking stick as desperately as Bolthorn needed another knife between his ribs. Fossegrim ignored him, sifting through one of his drawers.

“Ah, yes.” He withdrew a black cloak, holding it up. “A little long, perhaps, but no doubt a princess knows how to raise a hem, eh?”

She caught it when he tossed it to her, her fingers checking the fabric for wear. “Did you need it mended? Or anything else done, while I’m here?”

Fossegrim smiled. “I’m sure I could find a few things when you’ve tired of what distraction Bolthorn has to offer, but that one’s for you. Wear it in the mountains and you’ll never feel so much as a nip from the wind. Assuming we manage to send you back there, though I think the Gothi will find a way. You might have noticed he’s stubborn about things like duty and honor. It certainly didn’t come with his Elvish blood.”

“Mm.” He turned from them, rolling the pallet from the bed frame so he need not meet his grandfather’s eyes. “Best we wait to hear from Bolvarr.”

He could not admit he might not be Gothi any longer.

Not yet.

CHAPTER TWENTY

With the blankets folded beneath them, the polished wood floor was more comfortable than the nights they’d spent sleeping on hard stone. Bolthorn had stood the empty bed frame on its end against the wall to give them room to stretch, but Arianna wound up curled against his side, his thumb drawing slow circles at the small of her back and her chin resting on his chest, where the tattoos met the scars from her father’s whip. His other hand rested behind his head, propping him up enough to look at her, his eyes glowing yellow in the dim light.

She looked back, tracing the shape of his lips with her fingertip until he parted them and took her finger into his mouth, biting just hard enough to make her skin spark down the length of her arm and straight to her breasts. His hand slid up her spine, then down, and she hooked her leg over his thigh, determined not to let him drive her to squirming this time. Not before he did, anyway.

“Is he really your grandfather?”

He bared his tusks, and she ran her finger over the oversized teeth. She wanted to know the answer, but not enough to stop. He caught her by the wrist and pressed a kiss into her palm, and then more, his tusks grazing her skin with the nip of his teeth. She shivered even as her body flushed with need.

“I had not intended to spend my night telling you stories about Fossegrim,” he said, his voice low.

“Just one?”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “There is no such thing as just one story when it comes to Fossegrim.”

She sighed, pressing her ear against his breast. “Will it make you laugh, to tell the tales? I never thought to hear you laugh again.”

He growled, flipping her to her back, pinned beneath his weight. “I can think of other ways.”

So could she, but with her arms trapped above her head she was dangerously close to squirming. Or possibly squealing instead, if he kept doing that with his mouth on her ear. She closed her eyes and tried to slow her heart, racing hard and fast. Moaning was allowed, wasn’t it? Whatever the sound was that came from her throat, at least it wasn’t more begging. Not yet.

“Tell me,” she said, struggling to keep her voice even.

“Fossegrim,” he breathed against her ear, “was regent after Ingvifreyr traded himself to Sinmarra for the orcs. Some name him the last king of the elves, though never in his hearing.” Bolthorn flicked his tongue against her earlobe and she shuddered. He chuckled and did it again. So did she.

“Mm.”
Last king
, she reminded herself, but it was so difficult to focus.

He bit the soft place beneath her ear, and she strangled a sound that might have been a
more
. By the Ancestors, but his laugh against her neck made even her scalp prickle.

“Exiled,” she managed instead, though it came out as something of a groan. “You told me the elves who loved orcs were exiled.”

He kissed the line of her jaw, lingering and slow. “Fossegrim went to see the orcs, when it was deemed safe for him to do so.” His lips moved against her pulse, shaping each word into her skin. “He came to the Hrimthursar, left alone and frozen on their mountains, where he met my great-grandmother, Bestla.”

His calloused hand slid down her arms, then glided along her ribs to her waist, her hip, her thigh. She sucked in a breath, waiting for the press of his leg between hers, the parting of her thighs, her legs wrapping around his hips, drawing him closer.

“Are you certain you want to hear the rest?” he asked softly.

No.
Down, and then up, her body tingling with his touch. “Yes.”

“They fell in love.” His mouth found the hollow of her throat, and then his teeth did too. She tipped her head back, another moan slipping from her lips. “But Fossegrim knew too well what the cost would be to the elves, to lose another king. And Bestla, seeing his pain, sent him away.”

“Ah,” she sighed, when he brushed his thumb over her nipple, making the skin tighten and pucker.
Fossegrim. Bestla. Cost to the elves.
And then his lips followed and her back arched.
Love!

He chuckled again, shifting his weight to lie beside her and his hand moved across her stomach, barely touching her skin, teasing and tickling and warm. “Heard enough?”

She shook her head and his hand slid lower, his fingers curling into the juncture of her thighs, but not quite inside. She bit her lip, her hands becoming fists in the blankets to keep the rest of her body still.

“Where was I?” he asked, dipping one finger deeper. She groaned, her hips rising. He slid so easily inside, and she wanted more, needed more. “Ah yes.” He withdrew his finger, and she couldn’t stop herself from whimpering. “Fossegrim did not leave without saying goodbye. They met in secret, whispering vows between kisses.”

He brushed his lips against hers, once, twice, three times, until she curled her arms around his neck and pulled him down. His mouth tasted like honeyed wine, and when he tried to lift his head, she bit him. He laughed, kissing her again, his finger slipping inside her body even as his tongue parted her lips. It was her own moan that broke his kiss, then.

“Fossegrim swore he would return, one day,” Bolthorn murmured, his mouth so near she could feel his breath. His finger worked slowly within her, in and out. Her hips moved with him, but it wasn’t enough. “And when he did, he found his son, my grandfather, Borr, in Bestla’s arms.”

Fossegrim and Bestla.
Fossegrim and Bestla and she didn’t care, but Bolthorn kept up the whisper of his lips against her skin. She could feel their curve, hear the laughter beneath his words. “For Fossegrim’s sake, she told the others that the boy was the son of a trader, passing through.”

He was waiting, she knew. Waiting for her to say she’d had enough. He was waiting for her to beg, to squirm, to grasp the hard length of his body and guide him home. And he
was
hard, pressing against her hip, wanting her as much as she did him. She wrapped her fingers around him and he groaned, low and deep against her throat.

“Show me,” she said. “Show me how they said goodbye.”

“Ahh,” he sighed, an echo of her own. “Anything you ask, wife of mine, and I will make it yours.”

It would not take her long, he knew. Another day or two learning his body as he did hers, and she would know exactly how to twist him into knots of need. But for now, for now he could tease her to distraction, to frustration and then to bliss. For now, he could play her body into wonder and joy and show her how to find even greater pleasure.

He shifted above her, guided by her hand, and slid inside her. Hot and slick and ready, her legs wrapped around his hips, drawing him deep. He growled with satisfaction, dropping his forehead to hers. She wound her fingers into his hair and kept him there. This. He needed this more than he needed air to breathe. He needed her, and the tremble of her body beneath his, and the cry of her thoughts for more. He needed her touch, gentle and hard, the bite of her nails into his flesh, and she obliged him.

No words now, no stories but what they shared between them in their joining. Nothing but the press of her skin against his and the warmth of her center and the motion of their bodies. Her hips rose to meet his, her back arching beneath his hands, and he gathered her in, wrapping his arms around her and rolling to his back.

Her eyes opened wide with the movement, her fingers digging into his shoulders just enough to make him grin. He grasped her hips and showed her, just as she had asked, teaching her the rhythm until she found her own and moaned, so loud he feared Fossegrim might wake with the sound. When she began to shudder, he pulled her down, pressing her face into the curve of his shoulder. She bit him hard as her body quaked in release, and he stiffened before his own pleasure spilled inside her with a broken groan. Once, twice, and again.

She collapsed against his chest, all the tension draining from her limbs, and somehow he found the will to lift his hand, stroking her hair. This, he thought. The trusting weight of her body against his, the tickle of her hair beneath his chin, and the soft sigh as she lay on the edge of sleep in his arms, free of all fear. This, he needed, more than air to breathe, food to eat. More than the beat of his own heart, for beside it lay hers, slowing now, until he found the strength to make it race again.

This was all that mattered. All that would ever matter again.

Fossegrim sat beside the fire, his feet up on a stool, and stared out the window. His gaze slid sidelong to Bolthorn, lips twitching when he ducked into the room. Bolthorn ignored the knowing gleam in his grandfather’s eye and tugged a light linen tunic over his head against the morning chill. Winter had come to Tiveden, gentle though it was.

“Morning,” Fossegrim drawled. He hooked his stick on the shutter and pulled it closed. “Sleep well, did you?”

“Well and deeply,” he said, checking the cook pot which hung near the fire.

“Leftover fish stew. Figured you’d both be starved when you woke. If she ever wakes at all. The bit about exhaustion catching up from all that bloodletting wasn’t just talk you know. You don’t do her any favors keeping her up half the night, no matter how much pleasure you both find in the dark.”

“She’ll sleep a bit longer,” Bolthorn said. “And if it will ease your mind, I’ll see that she rests this afternoon.”

Fossegrim snorted. “
Rest
is not what you’ll have in mind by then, boy, and don’t think I don’t know it.”

Bolthorn shrugged, spooning a healthy portion of stew into a wooden bowl. “You can hardly expect me to refuse her anything after what she’s been through. I promised her freedom when she agreed to help me, and all she’s found so far are prisons of one kind or another. Even here.”

“Mm,” Fossegrim’s gaze returned to the window, as if he might see through the shutter. “Can’t be helped, I fear. Hjalli’s no threat, but there’s no telling when that witch will show her face again. I imagine Asvi’s sent a message off to her. A day maybe, until she gets it. Your girl said Bolvarr left the Vidthursar a week ago, now. You don’t think he got himself killed on that mountain the way you nearly did?”

“Not Bolvarr,” Bolthorn said at once. “That orc has never met a piece of blackrock he couldn’t talk into flame. He’ll have arrived safe by now, but the council will move slowly without a Gothi, talking themselves and everyone else into old age before they settle on anything, and Ancestors only know what news Bolvarr brought them besides my death.”

“Better for you and your girl if they think it true, for now. Vanadis and I have not seen eye to eye since before she bound herself to Asfarth, but perhaps in this I might offer her my service. I suppose it depends on what she has planned, if she’ll agree, but if she wants the girl to learn Elvish magic, she can’t really refuse without turning a few heads, now can she? Ought to shake Hjalli loose from his tree, too, and the sooner that’s done, the sooner I can slip you both out by the river, at least as far as the Vidthursar wood.”

“To fall back into the Vala’s hands?” Bolthorn shook his head. “The Vidthursar belong to Vanadis more than any other.”

“She has her orcs and I have mine. Which of us do you think will win, if it comes to that battle of wills, boy?”

“The Vidthursar are closer to the elves, their blood is stronger.”

“Nonsense and propaganda!” Fossegrim banged his fist on the arm of his chair. “Fool orc! Why would Vanadis go to so much trouble to twist you if you held no power of your own?”

Bolthorn grunted, glowering at his stew. “I am no threat to the Vala. The Hrimthursar are no threat to anyone, least of all the Vidthursar. We would never fight our own, even if we could win.”

“If you were no threat, why did she steal your wife and leave you to die? Lead the Hrim-Gothi to his death, besides! How much have you accomplished since, Bolthorn, where others would have failed at every step? You should not have lived to come this far, boy, and yet you did. Because you are orc. Because you do not waste your strength wishing to be elf!”

“Because I will never
be
elf,” he growled. “None of us will be!”