[Queen of Orcs 01] - King's Property Page 3

  After Dar retrieved the bundle, she splashed water on her arms and legs, then headed for the shore. The orc seized her arm. “Wet washavokis stink worse. Scrub all skin with sand. Then wash clothes.”

  Dar blushed. “Must I take them off?”

  “Garga-tok said you will be clean.”

  Dar assumed he meant yes. Oh well, it’s not like undressing in front of a man. Then she recalled the two men who had taken her to Garga-tok. She glanced along the riverbank. Sure enough, they were spying on her from a distance and grinning broadly. “I can’t bathe now.”

  The orc’s body tensed, and he opened his mouth wide to expose his fangs. Puffing up his chest, he growled. The growl grew louder and became a roar that echoed along the riverbank. All the while, his greenish eyes bore into Dar. There was no mistaking his menace. Ignoring the men, Dar quickly shed her clothes and tossed them on the bank. While the orc watched, she scooped up river sand and rubbed it on her bare skin. After she rinsed it off, she headed for the shore. The orc blocked her way and sniffed. “Still stink,” he said.

  Dar waded back into the river to scrub some more. When she finished, the orc sniffed her and sent her back yet again. By then, Dar had realized that she wasn’t about to die, and her fear gave way to irritation. Though she dared not defy the orc, she glared at him angrily. She had no idea if he understood her look; he simply curled back his lips and muttered, “Dargu nak theef turpa ala ga.”

  When Dar was finally permitted to leave the river, her skin glowed rosy pink and her arms and legs were several shades lighter. She hurriedly washed her shift by pounding it on a submerged stone and donned it wet before washing her other clothes. When the last garment was clean, the orc seemed satisfied. “Come,” he said. “You go to Neffa.”

  The orc led Dar to a part of the camp outside the circle of branches, but close to it. He headed for a long, open-sided tent that was twice the height of the others. Its cloth was black with soot, for it spanned a pit where food was being cooked. “Neffa!” bellowed the orc.

  A woman left the smoky tent and hurried over. Her clothes, hair, and skin were soot-stained and her eyes were bloodshot. “Here is new washavoki,” said the orc. Then he walked away without waiting for a response.

  Neffa seemed harried, and she had a worn-out look that made her age hard to determine. She gave Dar a cursory inspection. “We’re supposed to get two girls,” she said. “Where’s the other? Tupping some soldier?”

  “She’s dead,” replied Dar.

  Neffa seemed unsurprised. “Already?”

  Four

  Dar thought Neffa would help her settle in, but all she said was “Feed the fires.” There were over a dozen blazing within the long pit. Women were gathered about them, tending large kettles. As Dar waited for more complete instructions, Neffa turned and struck a woman who was listlessly stirring porridge. “Mind what you’re doing,” she yelled. “Don’t let that scorch!”

  “Neffa!” shouted Murdant Teeg. “The men are hungry.”

  “There’ll be porridge soon,” said Neffa.

  “Porridge? I gave you bitches roots this morning.”

  “They’re cooking.”

  “Well, cook them faster,” yelled Murdant Teeg.

  Neffa glared at Dar. “Why are you standing there?”

  Dar set her wet bundle down and went over to the nearby woodpile. She grabbed a large branch and dragged it over to where a woman stirred a kettle filled with roots. The woman grabbed Dar’s arm. “Hey, scabhead. What are you doing?”

  “I’m supposed to feed the fires.”

  “Fool! That’s way too big. Do you want to burn down the tent?”

  “I’ll chop it up,” said Dar. “Where’s an ax?”

  The woman rolled her eyes. “How should I know?”

  Dar dragged the branch outside and looked about for something to chop it into smaller pieces. She was still searching when another woman called, “Wood, scabby! Bring wood!”

  Dar dashed over to the tangled pile of branches for one that she could break with her hands and feet. She hurriedly snapped it into pieces and threw them on the woman’s fire. Already, someone else was shouting for wood, and others quickly joined her call.

  “Wood, you slug! Wood!”

  “Move your ass, scabby!”

  “Hurry, hillbitch, food doesn’t cook itself!”

  Used to an isolated life, Dar felt nearly overwhelmed by the clamoring voices. The suddenness of the shouting made Dar suspect she was being baited. Nevertheless, she scurried back and forth, trying to satisfy everyone. It was impossible, and her harassment ceased only when the food was ready.

  Neffa appeared with a woman in tow whose brand looked only recently healed. The woman had a young face that was framed by long black hair and marked by a purple bruise beneath one eye. “You’ll serve with Memni tonight,” said Neffa to Dar. “Go with her.”

  “Come on,” said Memni. “We have to wash first.”

  “I’ve already bathed today.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’re sweaty, and orcs have noses like hounds.”

  Memni led Dar to a tent. Inside was a large copper basin containing hot water that had been mixed with herbs. The steam that rose from it smelled of them. “The herbs help mask our scent,” said Memni. A naked woman stood in the basin and hurriedly scrubbed herself with a cloth that she dipped in the scented water. The rest of the women in the tent, about a dozen in all, appeared to have already washed, for they wore clean robes.

  “Have you lain with a man today?” asked Memni. “If so, wash extra careful. Orcs hate that smell.”

  “I try to keep away from men,” said Dar.

  Memni seemed pleased to hear that. “What’s your name?”

  “Dar.”

  “This is Dar,” said Memni to the others in the tent. The women cast Dar indifferent glances; otherwise, they didn’t acknowledge her.

  “You’re from the hills, aren’t you?” said Memni. “I can tell by your accent. Lots of the girls come from there. I was born in Luvein, but my uncle…oops, it’s your turn. Be quick.”

  Dar undressed, stepped into the basin, and began washing. Recalling her experience at the river, she scrubbed thoroughly.

  “Put on one of those robes when you’re done,” said Memni, pointing to some linen robes draped over a line. “After you finish serving, bring it back here and wash it in the basin.”

  Dar finished washing and donned a robe. “What will I be doing?” asked Dar.

  “Giving orcs their food. They sit. We serve. It’s like a ceremony. Just copy me. And you have to say ‘mootha-yer-rat-thas-affa’ when you do it.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Who knows? But it’s important,” said Memni. “The orcs get mad if you forget. Some will hit you. You don’t want that. I’ve seen one kill a man that way. Just one blow. I’m not even sure he meant to do it. They’re so…”

  “Memni!” shouted a woman. “Stop blabbing with the scabhead and get ready.”

  Memni quickly shed her clothes, exposing several more bruises. After she had washed and put on a clean robe, all the women left the tent. The food they were to serve stood ready. A large kettle of porridge had poles inserted in its handle so a pair of women could lift and carry it. There were also baskets that held steaming roots. The women lifted the food and walked toward the circular enclosure in a slow procession. Memni and Dar were assigned to bear the kettle. Memni grunted from the effort of lifting her end of the pole. “No one likes to serve,” she said. “Especially porridge. By the time we’re done, all we’ll get is scraps. But I have my soldier, so…”

  “Shush!” said another woman as they entered the circle of upright branches. The women proceeded past the conical structures into the open area they surrounded. There, row upon row of orcs sat cross-legged and motionless. The woman leading the procession called out in a loud voice, “Saf nak ur Muthz la.”

  Deep voices answered in unison, “Shashav Muth la.” To Dar, the voices soun
ded like the roar of an avalanche. The fear and awe she experienced when she first saw Garga-tok returned as she gazed upon the monstrous faces. Each was different, yet all possessed a common inhumanity. Their animal-hued eyes glowed like those of cats in the fading light, and Dar dreaded walking among them.

  “Hurry,” whispered Memni. “Fill your ladle and start serving. Don’t forget to say the words.”

  The kettle was too cumbersome to carry among the orcs, so serving them would take many trips back and forth. Each orc had a wide, shallow metal bowl set before him. Dar watched Memni ladle porridge over the roots that had been served already. At least they’re not fussy how their food looks, thought Dar, as she imitated Memni. When she turned to refill the ladle, the orc she had just served grabbed her ankle. His claws dug into her skin. The words! I didn’t say the words! For a long moment, her mind went blank. The hand squeezed tighter.

  “Moo…uh…Mooth…Mootha-yer…yer-rat…thas-affa,” said Dar. “Mootha-yer-rat-thas-affa.”

  The orc released Dar, and she hurried back to the kettle, her ankle bloody. After that, Dar was careful to recite the phrase. All the orcs she served received their food without reacting, except the orc who had forced her to bathe. He curled back his lips and said, “Dargu.”

  Dar pretended not to notice as she poured the porridge over his bowl. “Mootha-yer-rat-thas-affa.”

  “No,” said the orc. “Muth la urat tha saf la.”

  Dar repeated what he said. “Muth la urat tha saf la.”

  “Hai,” responded the orc. “Yes.”

  By the time Dar and Memni had ladled out the last of the porridge, it was dusk. The other women had departed. Memni looked inside the kettle as she and Dar carried it back to the cook tent. “If you scrape the sides,” she said, “there’s enough for your dinner.”

  “What about you?” asked Dar.

  “I have my soldier,” said Memni. “He’ll give me something.”

  The cooking tent was nearly deserted when Dar and Memni returned. A lone woman was cleaning up, and a paunchy soldier watched her. When he saw Memni approach, he held out a handful of cooked roots. “Hey, bird,” he said. “Got some supper here.”

  “Aren’t you sweet,” said Memni.

  “Ya might get some,” he replied, “if yar sweet ta me.”

  “I’m always sweet to you, Faussy.”

  “Come ’n’ prove it.”

  “Soon as I change,” said Memni, heading for the bathing tent. “Dar, you should change, too.”

  Dar looked at the porridge kettle and hesitated. “I’m going to eat first.”

  The woman glanced up from her scrubbing. “You can only wear those robes while serving,” she said. “Don’t worry about the porridge. It’ll be safe.”

  “Thanks,” Dar said, and followed Memni.

  After Dar changed into her shift and washed the robe, she returned to the kettle. To her dismay, the woman was washing it. “You must be Dar, the new scabhead,” said the woman, who had a round, pleasant face with kind eyes. She appeared Dar’s age, though her brand was old enough to have faded to a pale, raised scar. She was also very pregnant. The woman smiled and held out a cooked root in addition to a bowl of crusty porridge. “I saved these for you. I’m Loral.”

  Dar took the food. After an exhausting and terrifying day, Loral’s kindness felt overwhelming. Dar started to thank her, but burst out crying instead. Loral watched sympathetically as Dar struggled to stifle her sobs. It took a while before she succeeded. “I never cry,” said Dar, feeling embarrassed, “and now I’ve done it twice today.”

  “I cried for a whole moon after they took me,” said Loral.

  “Everything has been so…” Dar paused to suppress a sob. “…so horrible.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” said Loral. She gave Dar a hug. “Eat. You must be starving.”

  “I am.”

  Loral watched Dar devour the root, then hungrily scoop the porridge from the bowl with her fingers. “You needn’t eat like an orc,” she said. “No one will take it from you.”

  Loral didn’t speak again until Dar finished licking the bowl and her fingers. “I rescued your bundle of clothes. I’m afraid someone trod it into the mud.”

  “On purpose?”

  “Of course. You’re lucky she didn’t toss it in the fire.”

  “Why would anyone do that?” asked Dar.

  “The men fancy new girls, and that stirs up trouble. Everyone’s afraid you might take their man.”

  “Except you.”

  Loral laughed ruefully. “No man wants a plugged womb-pipe.”

  “Well, I want no man,” said Dar. “So no one should worry.”

  “You may not want one, but you need one. Where will you get shoes, if not from a man? Women have no share in the plunder. Only through a man’s generosity…”

  “Generosity?” said Dar. “Don’t make me laugh! The only thing a man gives a woman is a big belly. Nothing else comes free.” Dar recalled her suitors, who seemed to think a wife’s sole purpose was to serve their needs.

  “That’s the way of the world,” Loral said. “We’re subject to men.”

  “My father’s favorite lesson,” said Dar.

  “Why so bitter?” asked Loral. “It’s natural for fathers to teach about life.”

  “There was nothing natural about his lessons. Even beasts show more restraint.”

  “But men aren’t beasts,” said Loral. “They’re the masters here. You’d best look for a generous one.”

  “Have you found such a man?”

  “Perhaps,” said Loral, “if I bear him a son.”

  Dar looked dubious. “And that’s how I should live my life?”

  “That’s how you must live it.”

  Five

  After Loral banked the embers in the cooking pit, she led Dar to the women’s tent. Its floor was covered with straw and bodies. Although it was only a little past dusk, all the women there were asleep. Loral and Dar carefully picked their way through the crowded gloom to a space large enough to lie down. Though Dar’s cloak was still damp from washing and covered with muddy footprints, she was too exhausted to care. She wrapped it around her and sank down on the trampled straw.

  Loral touched her shoulder. “Share my cloak,” she whispered. “Yours is wet.”

  Dar cast her damp cloak aside to be enveloped by Loral’s dry one. She felt Loral’s bulging belly briefly press against her back and recalled lying next to her pregnant mother. It was the last of her happy memories. After Dar’s older brothers died in an avalanche, her father had become obsessed with replacing his male heirs. Only when Dar’s mother conceived again had peace returned. Yet what came afterward convinced Dar that her mother hadn’t swelled with life, but with death instead. Dar shuddered, reliving the bloody night it had burst forth. She pressed her back against Loral, wishing her a better fortune.

  It was still dark when Neffa entered the tent. “Up!” she shouted. “Up! Up! Where’s Memni? Is Memni here?”

  “She’s with Faus,” answered a sleepy voice.

  “Taren, then,” said Neffa. “I doubt she’s tupping. Taren!”

  “Here,” answered a voice.

  “Show the new girl how to make porridge,” said Neffa. “Rise, girls. The Queen’s Man is back. The men will be up early.”

  The women slept in their clothes, so dressing consisted of little more than slipping on shoes. Lacking these, Dar was one of the first out of the tent. A woman emerged soon afterward, spotted Dar, and stopped. “Scabhead, you know how to make porridge?”

  “Of course,” said Dar.

  “Have you made it for a hundred?”

  “Only for five.”

  “Well, there’s a big difference,” said the woman, who Dar assumed was Taren. Her appearance was the opposite of Loral’s; she was bony, with a sharp, pockmarked face, and long dirty-blond hair, which was plaited into a single, greasy braid. She bore the same worn and hardened look as Neffa, which made it difficult for Dar to j
udge her age. “Come on, scabby,” she said. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

  “My name’s Dar.”

  “So? You’re still a scabhead.”

  Taren led Dar over to the fire pit. “First, you roast the grain over embers. You know how to do that?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then light a fire. I’ll get the grain.”

  By the time Dar had a fire going, Taren appeared, struggling with a heavy sack of grain. Dar went over to help her. “Do we always rise before dawn?”

  “When you tup a soldier, you get to sleep in.”

  “Neffa allows that?”

  “She has no choice. If she stuck her nose in a man’s tent, he’d whack it off.”

  “Well, I’m used to rising early,” said Dar.

  “You’ll get to sleep in,” said Taren. “Men will choose you.”

  The bitterness in Taren’s voice surprised Dar. Then she regarded the woman’s ragged clothes and shoeless feet. They made her recall Loral’s remark about needing men’s generosity. Taren’s seen little of that.

  When Dar’s fire burned down to embers, she and Taren placed a large kettle upon it. Roasting grain for a hundred turned out to be little different from doing it for five, except it was harder work. The mass of kernels had to be stirred constantly to keep from scorching. As she had in the dark highland hut, Dar judged when the roasting was done by smell rather than sight. When the grain had a toasted aroma, she pulled the kettle from the embers and Taren gave her a large wooden pestle to pound the grain in preparation for making porridge.

  By then, the sky had lightened. Disheveled, sleepy-eyed women left the soldiers’ tents and went straight to work. Memni approached. “Is that grain ready to cook?”

  “Almost,” said Dar.

  “I’ll get the water,” said Memni, grabbing a pair of buckets.

  Taren came over after Memni left. “You two friends?”

  “We served porridge to the orcs together.”