Joarr shrugged again, but Simon fully ignored this, and dragged him into a crushing, bear-like hug. “I shall not be sad to see the last of this pledge, brother,” he said, once he’d pulled away again, tugging at the tooth around Joarr’s neck. “Though I am glad” — his warm gaze flicked toward Gwyn — “that you have gained such a quick, hungry mate in this, ach?”
Joarr twitched another rueful smile, his eyes following Simon’s toward Gwyn. “Ach, she is a good, greedy little witch,” he replied. “Always seeking out new altars to anoint with my fresh seed.”
Gwyn tried to elbow him, but he easily avoided it, and Simon’s loud, rolling laughter carried through the trees around them. “As she should,” he said, with a staggering clap of his huge hand at Gwyn’s shoulder. “You keep worshipping my brother thus, woman, and your goddess shall keep you flooded with blessing.”
Gwyn made a noise that was half-laugh, half-scoff, and rolled her eyes at where Joarr was now grinning down toward her. “Thanks, but I’m afraid Joarr’s the one who’ll be doing the worshipping,” she said to Simon, as sweetly as she could. “On his knees where he belongs, making thorough use of his slippery tongue.”
Simon’s roar of laughter at this was loud enough to draw over several more friends and well-wishers. Ella and Natt, Hannah and Fulnir, Baldr and Drafli, Grimarr and Jule, and even a smiling Inga and her two orcs, who had brought an entire Bautul band from the south for the party — including their beautiful new son, who Gwyn had last seen being fawned and fussed over by multiple orcs in the newly restored nursery.
“Congratulations, you two,” cut in another familiar voice, and when Gwyn turned to look, it was Efterar, of Clan Ash-Kai. Orc Mountain’s big, scarred, irritable Chief Healer, together with his sly, smiling, handsome orc mate Kesst.
Gwyn smiled back with genuine warmth, and soon fell into easy conversation with them both. Because now that she’d finally met Efterar — after all that time spent avoiding him — it had turned out that they were utterly in accord, and had become instant allies. Efterar was a stubborn, no-nonsense kind of healer, who did wield truly spectacular skills — but he thankfully wasn’t fool enough to refuse correction, either, and he’d tolerated Gwyn’s lengthy tongue-lashing about Stella with tolerable grace. After that, he’d even worked with her to create a comprehensive treatment plan for Stella and Silfast — which had indeed included regular counselling sessions with Ivar, who’d of course been delighted to offer his services.
“I’ll need you to send more mugwort down to the Bautul pit for tomorrow, Gwyn,” Efterar was saying now, his eyes narrowed on Gwyn’s, his arms folded over his chest. “That fool Silfast nearly decapitated four of his fellow Bautul with that axe yesterday, and then sent me and my medics down there to clean up his mess. I couldn’t even risk moving the poor bastards without breaking something. That prick is amenace.”
Joarr, who had also participated in that Bautul brawl the day before — with precise but deadly enthusiasm — was suddenly wearing a mask of utterly blank innocence, and carefully inspecting his claws. While beside them, Kesst was stroking Efterar’s shoulder, and giving an exasperated but affectionate roll of his dark eyes.
“We’re supposed to be hererelaxing, Eft,” he said firmly. “Not raging against Bautul for being Bautul. Now come. Is there somewhere we can actually have some fun around here?”
This was said with a beseeching glance toward Gwyn, who after an instant’s silent communication with Joarr, waved up at the row of trees along the mountain’s wall. “There are platforms up in the trees, if that might help?” she replied. “It’ll be quieter there. With fruit to eat, too.”
“Ooooh, fruit to eat, Eft,” Kesst repeated, with satisfaction, as he instantly steered Efterar off toward the trees. “Maybe you can think of some other tasty sweets to offer me, too?”
Efterar certainly wasn’t arguing, and allowed himself to be herded away — which was just as well, because now here was Silfast himself, with the aforesaid axe in his hand, striding through the crowd toward them.
“Seer!” he called, his deep voice carrying through the clamour all around. “Come. The goddess awaits you.”
Joarr squared his shoulders and nodded, brushing Gwyn’s back with his hand —you too, it meant — and she readily accompanied him and Silfast toward the clearing, and into the depths of the crowd. Which seemed to part around them as they went, the loud voices slightly quieting, the drums softening to a slow, rhythmic rumble.
Silfast didn’t stop until he’d reached the altar, in the very middle of the clearing. The goddess’ wizened old tree still stretched out over it, but now — thanks to the efforts of Gwyn and her helpers — there were clusters of budding green on multiple branches, flickering orange in the light of the nearby cook-fire. And more of the little lanterns also hung throughout the tree, twisting in the breeze, almost as if they were dancing to the beat of the drums below.
“The Bautul have come together this night,” Silfast announced, his deep voice booming through the crowd, “to welcome a new Bautul among us. We do this under our goddess’ eye, so that we may seek her blessing.”
His head had tilted up toward the full moon above them, his fist clenched over his heart — and in the watching, rippling thrum, the Bautul around them all did the same. Raising their eyes, seeking their goddess, their hands pressed against their hearts.
Gwyn had already assumed the pose — it had become so familiar these past weeks — and a glance at Joarr beside her showed that he’d already done so, too. His head high, his gaze unflinching on the moon, his face bathed in silvery light.
“Our new brother is the Seer of the Bautul,” Silfast’s deep voice continued. “His truth was long lost to us, his fathers’ names spurned and forgotten. But to make amends for this, our Seer swore the Bautul coming-of-age pledge, and vowed to offer a great service to us, and our clan.”
The drums kept rumbling, the moon silent and serene, the world hushed and watching all around. Awaiting Silfast’s words, his wisdom, his judgement.
“Our Seer honoured his pledge,” Silfast said, every word slow, solid, certain. “He broke this cruel new law from the men. He crushed our enemies with his speed, strength, wit, and will. And not only this, but he brought us a midwife. He brought our women the help we did not see they needed.”
Gwyn’s stomach was flipping, her skin prickling — and when she glanced toward Silfast again, he was watching her, his gaze fierce and firm. “You have saved us,” he said, perhaps to her, or Joarr, or both. “And in this, you have honoured our goddess. You have earned her blessing.”
It was a gift, a prayer, maybe even an invocation — and in its wake, there was a breathless, rolling stillness. Even the drums now fallen utterly silent, as the Bautul held their faces to the moon. Waiting, watching, seeking as one, until…
The sudden gust of wind swirled through the clearing, caressing Gwyn’s hair, fluttering the dangling, flickering torches above. And the tree over them loudly creaked, its new leaves rustling, as if it were a living, watching presence, saluting its waiting sons and daughters below.
There was a low shout behind Silfast — it was Olarr, the Bautul’s other captain, his gaze still on the moon, his fist punching up into the air. And now Gwyn recognized Kalfr’s voice calling out behind her, and then Stella’s, close behind Silfast. And then more and more and more, the drums rising to join them, until it was a chorus of warmth and gratitude, swelling and soaring to the sky.
Gwyn was shivering all over when it ended, and she could feel Joarr twitching beside her, too. And when she glanced up toward him, his throat was convulsing, his eyes rapidly blinking, his fingers clutching at that tooth around his neck.
“Now come to your goddess’ altar, brother,” Silfast’s voice called out. “And kneel, to fulfill your pledge.”
Joarr nodded and obeyed, his steps unusually jerky as he strode the rest of the way to the altar, and then sank to his knees before it. One hand on the mossy stone, the other again over his heart, his head bowed low. Showing his trust, his acceptance. His worship.
Silfast had moved to stand over Joarr, the huge axe still gripped in his hand. And as Gwyn stared, her heartbeat skipping, Silfast shifted his stance, and raised his axe high — and then swung it downwards, its gleaming blade slicing straight toward Joarr’s exposed neck.
