The arrival of woe mans bearing food interrupted Zna-yat and Magtha-jan’s conversation. Zna-yat was surprised to note that the woe man leading the procession had a branded forehead, which meant the woe man had served in the regiments. This was a change. Since sons had arrived at the washavoki great mother’s hall, only unmarked woe mans had served. The branded woe man spoke the proper words. “Saf nak ur Muthz la.” Food is Muth la’s gift. This was also a change.
The orcs responded in unison. “Shashav, Muth la.” Thank you, Muth la
Afterward, the woe mans served. Unlike in the regiment, they brought the food on platters. As a woe man placed Zna-yat’s meal before him, she attempted to say “Muth la urak tha saf la”—Muth la gives you this food—but her speech was barely intelligible. Nevertheless, Zna-yat was encouraged by the attempt at appropriate behavior.
The food was only a slight improvement over that served in the regiment. As in the army, it was mainly porridge, though there were some boiled roots. The meal also included meat, a rare item. Unfortunately, it was nearly spoiled, a fact Zna-yat’s keen nose detected despite the dish’s heavy spicing. He left the meat untouched.
The woe mans returned after the meal was over to retrieve the platters and depart for the night. Afterward, a lone washavoki dressed in blue and scarlet entered the hall. That was unusual. It halted outside Muth la’s Embrace and did an unexpected thing: It spoke in the tongue of mothers, albeit poorly. “Ma pahav Zna-yat.” I say Zna-yat.
Zna-yat rose, and approached the washavoki. It seemed familiar, but most washavokis looked alike. It bowed politely and spoke again. “Ma nav Sevren.” I am Sevren.
Zna-yat nodded and replied in Orcish. “I am Zna-yat.”
The washavoki bowed again, and continued speaking in the tongue of mothers. “I...take Dargu-yat...” It imitated a galloping horse with its fingers. “.take her to.” It seemed unsure what to say next.
“To hall?” said Zna-yat. “To healer?”
The washavoki made a puzzling gesture with its shoulders. “You hear? She live? She kill?”
It wants to know if Dargu lived or died, thought Zna-yat. He replied as if he were speaking to an infant. “You there. You see.”
“I no see. Mother say go. Dargu-yat live? Dargu-yat kill?”
“I do not know,” replied Zna-yat. When the washavoki looked confused, he added, “Mothers no say. I no hear.”
“You no hear?”
“Hai.”
The washavoki bowed low. “Shashav, Zna-yat.”
Zna-yat watched the washavoki depart. It was a strange encounter, and he didn’t know what to make of it, other than the washavokis knew no more about Dargu’s fate than he did. Zna-yat thought Quengirta might have sent the washavoki, since it wore the colors of her guard, but he suspected it acted on its own. Zna-yat’s time with Dargu had taught him to recognize washavoki expressions. It was sad, he thought. His orcish sense of smell also detected another, more puzzling, emotion. It was in love.
A group of guardsmen waited for Sevren at a safe distance from the orcs’ quarters. Valamar stood among them and grinned when he saw his friend returning. “Pay up, lads. He made it back in one piece.”
As Sevren approached, the men paid Valamar their bets.
“What of the orc wench, Sevren?” asked one of the losers.
“Mind your tongue,” he replied. “She’s a queen now, or at least, she was.”
“A queen of piss eyes,” said the man. “Hardly royalty.”
“More like their whore,” said another.
Sevren knocked him to the floor. He was about to deal another blow when Valamar restrained him. “Calm down, Sevren. Thrashing Wulfar won’t change anything. The whole army’s named her orc wench. And worse. You can’t fight them all.”
Wulfar rose, trying to look menacing.
“Come, Sevren,” said Valamar. “I’ll stand you an ale at the Bloody Boar.”
As the two headed for the tavern, Valamar spoke. “That woman’s made you foolhardy, and tonight’s a fine example. It’s wise to avoid orcs. A few days ago, one nearly killed a serving man. Broke both his arms.”
“He was sent by fools who should’ve known better. Orcs will na abide men serving food.”
“Why should we change? If they’re supposed to be guardsmen, let them act like guardsmen.”
“They’re na men, so they can na be guardsmen. Could you become an orc?”
“You claim Dar did,” replied Valamar.
“Aye, and she thought it an improvement.”
“Did you?”
“’Tis unimportant now.”
“So, what did the orcs say?”
“I’m still learning their tongue and lack skill in it, but it seems they know na more than we do. I fear she’s dead. She seemed nearly so when I last saw her.”
“Since you returned their queen, why wouldn’t the orcs let you stay? That seems common courtesy.”
“A queen’s death is momentous. To them, I was only some washavoki.”
“But to question you and turn you out? Your regard for them is overblown. They’re called brutes for a reason.”
“This summer, who used their own troops as bait? Who pillaged Karm’s Temple? Mayhap orcs are brutes, but they’re honest ones.” “I wouldn’t trust an orc,” said Valamar. “Dar addled your wits, and that’s for certain. Still, I’m sorry she’s gone. You were right—she had spirit.”
Sevren sighed. “Aye, she did.”
The two men entered the tavern, where Valamar purchased the ale. Sevren, having refused to touch plunder from the temple, was not a copper richer after the summer campaign. He thanked his friend, then raised his flagon. “To Dar, and what she wrought. To peaceful times.”
Valamar touched his flagon to Sevren’s. “I’ll drink to your departed love, but peaceful times are lean times. No war means no plunder.”
“Queen Girta has a treasury.”
“Just a name for an empty chest. If there’s no campaign, we’ll be threadbare by summer’s end. Men are already leaving. How about you?”
“I’ve na yet the price of a farm.”
“Then why did you refuse your summer’s share?”
“’Twas obtained by sacrilege. You can na buy land with cursed gold. The curse lingers in the purchase.”
Valamar grinned. “Then you’re drinking cursed ale.”
“Which I’ll piss away afore sunrise.”
Valamar’s grin broadened. “That’s the first wise thing you’ve said all evening.”
Seven
Dar pushed through snow and brown weed stalks to reach Muth la’s Dome. It was not yet noon, but she wanted to ensure that Meera-yat could reach their meeting place easily. The small stone hemisphere stood in the center of an otherwise empty courtyard. No one had visited it recently, and the surrounding snow was deep and undisturbed. It formed a drift against the dome’s ancient wooden door, which Dar struggled to pull open. In her weakened state, the effort left her panting.
The dome’s single, circular room was ten paces across and partly below ground level. Dar descended a short set of stairs to reach its stone floor. A small opening in the apex of the ceiling admitted some dim light and an occasional snowflake. Dar gazed about the place that had been the site of her great ordeal and great joy. The room looked undisturbed since her rebirth, although the hole in the floor’s center had been covered by a circular flagstone. Dar wondered if water still filled the hole. If it did, it was surely frozen. The floor about the flagstone bore a dusting of snow, and Dar’s breath condensed each time she exhaled.
When Dar heard Meera-yat at the doorway, she rushed to help her down the stairs. “Greeting, Mother,” she shouted. “You chose cold place for us to talk. Will you be warm enough?” “My comfort is unimportant, Muth Mauk.”
Dar led Meera-yat to where the floor was free of snow. Meera-yat sat down and Dar huddled next to her. “What has Zor-yat told you about being great mother?” asked Meera-yat.