He thought he heard the word for food from down the hall, just a few footsteps and scraping metal—hopefully that meant he would be fed soon. The voices continued for a bit, sounding like a casual and unhurried conversation. Then, finally, more footsteps that seemed to come closer and echoed down the long hallway, and the flickering light was blocked by a hulking shadow.
Taegan took a few steps backward, away from the metal bars where he had been pressing his face a moment before to try and listen more closely. One of the orc guards often seemed to grow angry at him if he was too close to the door, and he couldn’t tell which guard was approaching now, so it was best just to wait at the back of his cell until the tray of food was set down and the door locked once more.
The guard that approached was not the one that frightened him as much, but still he waited until the orc, never looking up at him, had set down the tray of food in his cell and turned away to the cell in the opposite wall. Taegan stepped toward the tray hungrily, but paused, watching as the orc opened the cell door across from his own and slid a second tray across the floor. He had seen food being left in the opposite cell each time he had been fed so far, but in the dim light that was only being shed from the distant upper room far to the left, he could never quite make out the shape of whoever was being held captive alongside him.
The guard said something in a nonchalant tone, but no reply came. He seemed to wait, then spoke again, this time sounding vaguely irritated. A faint voice answered him, speaking only a few words that seemed to placate the guard. Though it had been a long time since he had heard a female orc speak, he thought he recognized a higher, more feminine register to the voice that answered, even though it was just above a whisper.
Taegan frowned as he was lifting the heel of bread that had been brought to him to his lips, a thought taking him aback. The last time he could recall hearing a female orc speak had been the illusory figure Kelvhan had summoned when he betrayed them (thefirsttime, he thought bitterly), and that voice sounded vaguely familiar now that he was thinking of it. Had Kelvhan told them that night what had happened to Naydi, Zorvut’s mother? He wracked his brain but could not remember—and much to his chagrin, the guard did not try to speak with the other prisoner again, instead locking the door and ambling back out the hallway to the left.
If Naydi were still alive, and had not been able to flee, it would certainly be plausible that she might be held captive, too. Taegan could easily imagine the warlord not reacting kindly toward his wife upon learning of her infidelity. It seemed strange he might place them so close to each other, though—unless it was not intentional, which was a possibility as well.
His hunger won out over his curiosity, though, and he turned his attention back to the food in front of him. Bread, an apple, and for once something warm—a thin soup that was barely more than broth but that he drank greedily before it could grow cold. Even after it was gone he held the still-warm bowl in his hands for a few minutes, savoring the comforting sensation in his fingers that had been cold and numb more often than not during his stay here.
The bread was hard and the apple was mealy, but his hunger had been sated for now. He pushed the tray between the bars of the cell so it sat just outside, and leaned against the bars to try and make out any sign of the prisoner opposite him. The other prisoner must have eaten faster than him, though, as he didn’t even hear the sounds of eating coming from the cell, no crunch of an apple or bread. His eyes could not make out any movement, though in the darkness he did not expect being able to see much of anything.
For a long moment, he simply sat there, curled into the corner between one of the stone walls and the metal bars, thinking. If it was not Naydi, would whoever it was get him in trouble for trying to communicate with them? He had already decided his best chance at survival was to put his head down and not make a fuss, at least for now, and the last thing he wanted to do was bring any negative attention on himself. And even if it was Naydi, would it matter? Neither of them could do anything to help the other, he was sure—and he suspected her elvish was likely not nearly at the level of Zorvut’s, probably just the same as Taegan’s orcish, which was next to nothing.
But he was curious. And maybe they could somehow help each other after all. He wouldn’t know unless he tried, would he?
He licked his lips and cleared his throat, unsure of when he had even spoken aloud last. All he could do was try.
“Hello?” he said in a whisper, then cleared his throat again before speaking a little louder but still in a hushed tone. “Hello, is someone there? Can you hear me?”
He paused, sitting perfectly still as he listened intently for a sign of recognition, anything at all from the opposite cell. But nothing came—no movement he could see, no sound of anyone shifting or mumbling or answering in any way. He was speaking in elvish, which probably was not to his benefit, but he wasn’t confident enough in his orcish to try and speak it now.
“I’m Taegan,” he said softly, trying again. “What’s your name?”
Again he waited, holding his breath and listening with all his attention. But again he was met with silence, no discernable sign that he’d been understood or even heard.
With a sigh, he turned away. Maybe he shouldn’t have gotten his hopes up after all.
He stood and stretched, and resumed walking in an endless loop around his cell. There was nothing else to do.
3
Zorvut
The first few days on the road largely melted together for Zorvut as he traveled, but he did notice when the terrain started to become more rocky and mountainous, a sign he was approaching the orc territories. Once he was out of Aefraya, he would need to remain more alert.
Traveling at this pace, he had nothing to occupy his time with, so in his mind he went over each of the lessons in magic he had been taught by his true father, Tomlin Whitmore. Though the human was a bard and had not specialized in using his magic as a weapon, there was still plenty Zorvut had learned from him, and plenty more to figure out on his own.
Fire, lightning, ice—Tomlin had shown him a bit of working with each element, building on his initial, instinctual knowledge of summoning a small flame to his hand and throwing it just a few feet, until finally he could hurl fireballs and light his sword aflame. He could throw lightning bolts like javelins, and with some effort even bring down a lightning bolt from the sky. Ice was still tricky for him, but he could make snowflakes and throw a handful of sharp glass shards.
But Tom had shown him how to understand his magic in the first place, and he had every intention of working out more on his own. When he thought of the way he summoned fire, he suspected that if he pulled it in the opposite direction of the way he twisted it to summon lightning, he might get something like acid, though he was unsure how best to utilize it. He tried it a few times on the road, but conjuring a handful of acid while on horseback ultimately seemed like a bad idea.
The human had been able to explain everything to him in a way that finally made sense, where so many elven magicians from the castle had failed. He was a good teacher. It was a shame they had left Tomlin’s home in such a hurry. The thought of that made his chest ache with regret, too—much as Taegan had been restless during their time in Naimere, Zorvut felt quite sure the elf would have much preferred to still be in the port town than wherever he was now. At least, Zorvut thought,hewould have certainly preferred it.
The road he traveled started to splinter off into smaller trails and rocky footpaths the farther north he rode—he was familiar enough with the territory that he was confident he was still on the main path, but he stopped every so often at a particularly confusing fork in the road to leave a small tower of stones on the side of the road he took. Much as he trusted the elves to find their way, it was best if they were sure of his location, too.
On the fifth day, he was certain he had crossed the border from Aefraya into his homeland. There was no physical marker, no guarded gate or high wall, but something about the craggy shapes that pierced the horizon and the colder bite in the air made him positive he was no longer in Aefraya with its rolling hills and slightly more moderate climate. Graksh’t seemed more familiar with their surroundings, too, though he was sure the only time the horse had ever been this far south on this stretch of road was when they had rode with the caravan down to Aefraya for his wedding.
The thought of his wedding stabbed his chest with pain. He felt foolish remembering how shy and afraid he had been at first, how much he had dreaded meeting Taegan and how he would try to avoid his presence as much as possible in those first few weeks. Part of him wished he could go back and relish every second with his husband—the rest of him admonished himself for daydreaming in such a way. Wishful thinking wouldn’t buy him any more time with Taegan. He had to keep pressing on.
The sound of horses, multiple horses, snapped him from his thoughts, and as he pulled back on the reins to stop and listen he could tell immediately that the sound was coming from the other end of the steep hill just ahead of him.
Swearing under his breath, he drew his sword and waited. While he was sure he would have to encounter scouts at some point once entering the orc territories, he had not anticipated a fight so soon.
The sound of hooves on the coarse dirt road drew closer and closer, and after a moment he could see the shapes of several orcs on horseback cresting the hill ahead of him. As they drew nearer, he could hear voices, too, jovial conversation and laughter. Whoever this group was, they were not trying to be stealthy. He stood his ground, one hand gripping Graksh’t’s reins tightly and the other gripping his sword, and waited.
