[Queen of Orcs 01] - King's Property Read online

  After the morning meal, Dar went to retrieve the pelts and heard orcs in the river. Fearful that they might have dislodged the soaking pelts, she rushed into the water. Dar was relieved to see the orcs were bathing upstream and the pelts were where she had left them. She examined one and found it properly softened, though silt had lodged in the fur. While she rinsed it out, an orc swam closer. He stopped and stood chest-deep in the water a few paces away.

  Dar recognized his green-gold eyes. Though nervous, she thought it prudent to acknowledge him. “Tava, Kovok-mah.”

  The orc curled back his lips. “Tava, Dargu.”

  Dar had an ear for language, and having guessed the orcish word for “name,” she replied, “My theef is Dar.”

  The curl of Kovok-mah’s lips became more pronounced. “Theef nak Dargu.”

  “Dar.”

  “Thwa,” said Kovok-mah. “No.”

  “Yes,” replied Dar. “Hai.”

  “Dargu nak theef turpa ala ga.”

  “You said that before. What does it mean?”

  “Dargu is proper name for you.”

  “Why? What does ‘Dargu’ mean?”

  “Dargu is small animal. It hunts. Fur is brown in summer, white in winter.”

  “A weasel!” said Dar. She pretended to be insulted and made a show of scowling.

  When Kovok-mah saw Dar’s expression, he hissed, then said, “Dargu is small, but fierce.”

  The comment encouraged Dar to quip, “Especially when wet.” The orc hissed again, and it occurred to Dar that he might be laughing. That gave her the courage to ask about what troubled her. “Why did Garga-tok kill that soldier?”

  “He was angry because washavoki stole from Muth la.”

  Dar recognized the name. “Who is Muth la?”

  Kovok-mah shook his head. “Washavokis understand nothing.”

  “How can I understand if you won’t tell me?”

  “Muth means ‘mother.’ Muth la is…” Kovok-mah paused, trying to think of the proper human word. “One Mother.”

  Dar shot him a puzzled look. “So the soldier stole from Garga-tok’s mother?”

  “Thwa. Muth la is mother of everything—world, stars, trees, animals, urkzimmuthi, even washavokis.”

  “So she’s a goddess, like Karm,” said Dar. “An orc goddess.”

  “I do not understand ‘goddess.’ Muth la is Muth la.”

  “And the food belongs to her?”

  “Hai. When you say ‘Muth la urat tha saf la,’ you say ‘One Mother gives you this food.’ Washavoki soldier stole from Muth la.”

  To Dar, it seemed a poor reason to kill a man. “I made that food,” she said. “That soldier only took it from me.”

  “You are muth,” replied the orc.

  Before Dar could respond to this cryptic remark, an orc called to Kovok-mah in Orcish. Kovok-mah replied in the same tongue, and the two briefly shouted back and forth. Dar thought their words sounded angry, but she knew too little about orcs to be certain. Then, without another word to Dar, Kovok-mah swam off.

  Dar finished rinsing the pelts and went to the Queen’s Man’s compound to scrape them. The camp bustled with preparations for the march, and even the soldiers were busy loading wagons, slaughtering livestock, and sharpening their weapons. As usual, the women worked harder, and Dar thought it wise to pick up her pace as she walked.

  The cooks were packing when Dar borrowed a knife, spread the pelts on the ground, and set to work. She was nearly finished when Murdant Kol strode by. He stopped when he noticed her. Despite wishing to appear calm, Dar tensed as he approached.

  “How’s my woman doing?” asked Kol, smiling slightly when Dar flushed red.

  “I’m almost done with the pelts,” she replied. “Where should I put them?”

  “Give them to a cook to pack.”

  “They’ll rot if not dried first.”

  Kol nodded, but seemed unconcerned. “Have the men bothered you?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” said Kol. “Still, you appear ill rested. A crowded tent makes for a fitful sleep.”

  “It makes for a warm one. Especially when I snuggle with Loral.” Dar watched Kol for his reaction.

  He was unperturbed. “How’s she doing?”

  “Perhaps you should ask her.”

  “Too busy,” said Kol. “Keep an eye on her during the march. She’s almost due.”

  “I’d think you’d do that. After all, she’s…”

  “She’s what?”

  Kol’s sharp tone made Dar cautious. “She’s under your command.”

  “I’m only a murdant,” said Kol, his tone easy again. “Officers command the troops. I don’t command anyone, least of all the women. I want you to watch over Loral because I can’t. The regiment breaks up into shieldrons when passing through the king’s lands—marching in smaller units makes it easier on the peasants. You and Loral will be with the advance shieldron, but I’ll stay in the rear awhile to visit the other regiments.”

  “There are other orc regiments?”

  “Yes, and I’m high murdant to all of them,” said Kol. “My duties go beyond this unit.”

  Dar thought Kol’s air of pride contradicted his assertion that he was only a murdant. “What will you be doing?”

  “Ensuring the marches start smoothly. It’s a long way to the assembly point.”

  “How long?”

  “You’ll be marching for nearly a moon.”

  Dar was relieved that Murdant Kol would be elsewhere during that time. Her face must have betrayed her feelings, for Kol asked in an ironic tone, “Does our parting make you sad?”

  “You’ve treated me well so far.”

  “Tonight, I’ll treat you even better. You want that, don’t you?”

  Dar’s face reddened. “Do I have a choice?”

  “With me, you always have a choice—I’m sure you’ll make the smart one.”

  “Which one’s that?”

  “You know,” said Murdant Kol as he left.

  As Dar finished scraping the pelts, her feeling of helplessness grew stronger. Though Murdant Kol’s protection was real, she realized it didn’t spring from kindness. He expects something in return, she thought. He wants it tonight. That thought weighed on Dar’s mind as she reported to the cooking site. The tent had been dismantled, but there was much activity about the fire pit.

  “Where were you?” asked Neffa.

  “I had to scrape pelts for Murdant Kol.”

  Neffa’s eyes narrowed when she heard Kol’s name. “Well, you missed the assignments. You’ll be in Murdant Teeg’s shieldron. Loral, Neena, Kari, and Taren will serve with you. Taren’s in charge. That’s only five women for thirty-six orcs and half as many men—hard duty. Slack off, and you’ll be whipped, no matter who you’re tupping.”

  “I’m used to hard work,” said Dar.

  “Then do some now,” said Neffa. “There’s meat to be dried.”

  Dar joined a group of women who were slicing thin strips of meat from goat carcasses and hanging them on a rack over a smoky fire. Taren was with them, quiet and aloof. Dar didn’t know the names of the others. One handed Dar a knife and she began cutting strips, also. The imminent departure had charged the atmosphere, and everyone but Taren was talking about the campaign. Dar discovered that none of the women knew its cause or objective. Their interest lay elsewhere. One young, blond woman with a highland accent seemed particularly excited. “Muut says there’ll be lots of booty.”

  “And he’ll drink every drop of it,” said a woman with a laugh. “You’ll be lucky to get a shawl.”

  “That’s not true,” said the blonde. “Muut promised me a warm cloak and boots and jewels and…”

  “Jewels!” said the first woman. “Neena, you’re a bigger fool than I thought. Soldiers don’t give jewels to the likes of us.”

  “Not when some will tup for a bowl of ale,” added a third woman.

  “You’re no better.”

  “At leas
t my man’s a murdant,” replied the woman. “At war’s end, we’ll see who’s better dressed.”

  “War’s not ’bout clothes,” said Taren with such intensity that it silenced everyone. “It’s ’bout killin’ and dyin’.”

  “But there’s booty, too,” said Neena.

  “Killin’ don’t make men generous,” said Taren. “It makes them mean.”

  “Maybe mean to you,” said a woman.

  “Who’s seen a real battle?” asked Taren, glancing sternly at each woman. None answered. “Well, I’ve lived through three. When things go wrong, the men fend for themselves. Mark me—some of you’ll be crow’s meat afore it’s over.”

  “Muut says battles aren’t so bad,” said Neena in a voice sounding more hopeful than certain.

  “Muut’s no soldier—he drives a wagon,” said Taren. “Hearken to the orcs tonight. They know ’bout war, ’cause they’re the ones that do the real fightin’. When the moon rises, they’ll sing their death song.”

  Taren’s words cast a pall over the women and their conversation stopped awhile. Dar assumed the blonde was the same Neena who would be marching with her, and she studied her future companion. Dar noted the brand on her forehead was healed but still shiny pink. Like Leela, Neena appeared to have been sent off wearing her finest, though her shift and shoes showed the wear of camp life. Dar moved closer. “Neffa says you’re marching with Murdant Teeg’s shieldron,” she said. “So am I. I’m Dar.”

  “I know,” said Neena. She regarded Dar with an amused look. “Muut told me about your visit with Garga.”

  Neena’s smile irritated Dar, but she tried to hide it. “It was my first sight of an orc. I thought I was going to be eaten.”

  “So you believed that story, too?” Neena laughed. “I was just as stupid, as a scabhead.”

  “When was that?” asked Dar.

  “Last fall,” said Neena, her smile fading. “I spent the winter at Taiben.”

  “Where the king has his palace?” asked Dar. “What’s it like?”

  “I never came near it, or the town either,” said Neena. “We stayed outside its walls in the orcs’ garrison. Being here’s better.”

  “I take it Muut’s your man,” said Dar.

  “One of them,” said Neena with a breeziness that didn’t seem genuine. “It’s best to have more than one.” Then she added, “Though not for you. Some men are possessive.”

  “And Murdant Kol’s one of them?” asked Dar, who had ceased to be surprised that everyone knew her situation.

  Neena nodded. “But his share of booty is greater than a soldier’s. Please him, and you’ll do all right.”

  Dar looked away and saw Loral struggling with a load of firewood. Neena caught her expression and whispered, “Are you worried about tonight?”

  “Tonight? You know about tonight?”

  “We’re marching tomorrow, and men will be men,” said Neena. “This night, even Taren may spread her legs.”

  “Karm help me!” said Dar.

  “Haven’t you ever tupped before?” asked Neena. “Well, don’t worry. It’s often pleasant.”

  “I saw my mother die in childbirth, and afterward…” Dar’s face colored. “I know all about tupping. Don’t tell me it’s pleasant.”

  “You were just with the wrong man,” said Neena.

  “I don’t want to talk about it!”

  Neena looked annoyed. “I’m trying to help. You’re not special, you know. We all do things to survive, willing or not.”

  As the day wore on, Dar grew ever more withdrawn. She dried meat until it was time to help prepare the evening meal. It consisted of all the foodstuffs that were too perishable to pack. As usual, Dar was detailed to serve the orcs. That night, she was glad to do so, for it meant avoiding the men a while. They were already milling around the fire pit. Most had been drinking, and drink had turned them bawdy. Even the few that were sober had a lewd glint in their eyes. Dar knew that look, and it made her apprehensive.

  While she cooked, Dar kept scanning the crowd for Murdant Kol. By the time she left to bathe and serve, she still hadn’t spotted him. Dar wasn’t surprised. She imagined he would take his time, confident of her submission.

  Waiting was torture. Dar kept envisioning Kol coming forward, expecting her to tup him. It’s either that or become fair game for anyone. The women assumed she would submit to Murdant Kol. Dar knew it was the practical thing to do, but the thought of it evoked memories of her father’s nocturnal visits. Her old feelings of humiliation and disgust welled up—emotions that only rage kept at bay. It was rage that had driven her at last to draw a knife and end the violations. That night marked the sole victory in Dar’s life. Now am I to submit again? The idea ran counter to her very core. Dar thought of the women in the regiment: Loral, heavy with Kol’s child. Memni, covered with bruises. All the others, so worn and haggard. What has submission gained them?

  Yet Dar feared resisting. She recalled Varf raising her shift as he gripped the glowing brand, and she trembled. Despite her defiant words, she didn’t wish to die. There was no triumph in that. Dar knew there would be no dignity either. All she wanted was to be left alone, and that was the one choice denied her.

  Eight

  Scrubbed and dressed in a clean robe, Dar walked with the other serving women. She bore a basket heavy with boiled roots. Hot water dripped from it, scalding her feet. Entering the circle of branches, she noted its interior had changed. The conical grass structures were gone and the top of the rise was bare, except for a huge pile of firewood and the seated orcs. For the first time, Dar saw them dressed for battle. Iron helmets covered their massive heads. Armor plates were strapped to their shoulders, arms, and legs. They wore heavy-soled sandals. Upon their laps, along with their metal bowls, lay massive weapons—battle-axes, wide-bladed swords, and iron maces, none of which bore the slightest hint of adornment. Everything she saw—helmets, armor, and weapons—was starkly utilitarian.

  The Dark Path seems near, thought Dar, gazing at a bloodstained ax. How quickly one steps from life onto the Sunless Way. Throughout serving, Dar thought of death. It seemed inevitable unless she could bring herself to tup Murdant Kol. I must. I have no choice. She recalled the leering soldier’s words on the day she was taken. “Well, you’re good for one thing.” Was he right? Dar recoiled at the thought. Better good for nothing, than only that! Yet, while Dar shrank from trading her body for safety, she realized resistance wouldn’t save her. No matter what I do, I’ll lose. She considered running away but knew her brand marked her for death. And how might my captors sport with me before they took my head? Immersed in such morbid pondering, Dar didn’t recognize Kovok-mah in his battle gear. Perhaps the orc brooded also, for he didn’t greet her.

  The other women served quickly. A few seemed eager to join the men, and the rest appeared resigned to it. Dar dawdled, trying to avoid the inevitable. As raucous sounds grew louder in the camp, the silent orcs ceased to seem menacing. Instead, their camp felt like a refuge. Men fear to come here. She recalled how soldiers refrained from entering the circle even to save a comrade.

  Though Dar stretched out serving as long as she could, she was done eventually. Reluctant and fearful, she headed to the bathing tent to change and confront Murdant Kol. She still hadn’t decided what she would tell him. The noise of carousing had grown louder as the twilight darkened, making the prospect of what lay ahead seem more immediate and ominous.

  The way to the bathing tent passed a pile of the shelters that had served the orcs as tents. Rolled up and bound with cord, they resembled cylindrical bales of hay, each longer than a man and several hand lengths in diameter. Dar halted when she reached them. The pile lay within the circle of branches—ground that men feared to tread. Dar realized it would be a perfect hiding place.

  What will happen after Murdant Kol can’t find me? Dar imagined all sorts of possibilities, but none more dreadful than what awaited her that night. I’m just postponing things. Yet postponing things mea
nt remaining unmolested one night longer. A night of peace, she thought.

  Dar made up her mind. She circled around the pile of shelters so she was out of view of the orcs. It was getting dark, and she hoped that no one in camp would spot her as she burrowed between the cylinders. Although the bundles looked like bales of straw, they were not nearly as soft. Lying among them felt like resting in a woodpile. Nevertheless, Dar never considered leaving. She waited anxiously for some sign that she had been spotted, and when none came, she began to relax. Don’t think about tomorrow. Tonight, at least, no man will have me.

  A mournful sound invaded Dar’s dreams, then woke her. It was a single, deep voice raised in song. The only words Dar understood were “Muth la,” but there was no mistaking the song’s solemnity. The camp was quiet, and the only other sounds were the snap and crackle of a bonfire. The fire must have been very large, for some of its light invaded Dar’s hiding place. A second voice joined the first. It was equally somber. A third orc began to sing. Soon, he was joined by others until the air vibrated with voices that made sleep impossible.

  This must be the death song Taren mentioned, thought Dar. She didn’t understand its verses, yet was touched by them anyway. They had a pure and primal quality, like a child’s wail or a wolf’s howl in the empty night. Muth la’s children were calling to her in the darkness, and Dar sensed their loneliness and yearning. The voices conjured visions of spirits departing life, leaving warmth and light behind forever. Perhaps, if Dar understood the words, she would have found comfort in them. Instead, she felt desolate and utterly alone.

  The song gradually dwindled until only a single voice echoed in the dark. When it died away, the night was still. With muffled sobs, Dar cried herself to sleep.

  A hand grasped Dar’s ankle, jarring her awake and whisking her from her hiding place. Dar briefly glimpsed the orc that dangled her upside down; then her robe slid over her head, blocking her sight. Her captor began to shout angrily in Orcish, emphasizing each word with a violent shake. Dar recalled seeing a man grab a kitten by its hind leg and slam the helpless creature against the ground to break its body. She feared the orc was about to do the same to her.