There was the distinctive sound of a retort, barking back from beyond the door’s blackness, and while it was all again in the gnarled black-tongue, Gwyn was sure she caught the unmistakable wordSkai. Spat out like a curse. Like aninsult.
And despite everything, she felt her indignation rising, her eyes disbelieving on Joarr’s face. That orc — thatBautulorc — had called Joarr a Skai, and tried to prevent him from buying alampfor his guest? Truly?
But yes, truly, that was what Joarr had meant. And while it was surely also another pinecone — another distraction, hurled into the sky — Gwyn again felt herself chasing it, following it where it led.
“Why wouldn’t your new clan deal fairly with you?” she demanded at him. “I thought you said this was bound at birth, so it couldn’t be changed. Why on earth would they hold something like that against you, when it’s so far beyond your control, and obviously not something you wished or asked for?!”
And again, though Joarr had clearly wanted Gwyn to run down that path, she didn’t miss his reflexive wince, or the clutch of his hand back to that tooth around his neck. And the way he smiled at her, like it was an attempt at his mask, that had instead faltered into a brittle, defeated bleakness.
“You wish to learn my clan’s ways?” he asked, in a voice just as bleak as his eyes. “Wish to face these with me?”
There was surely some kind of meaning there — some unspoken truth, or perhaps even a warning. But even so, Gwyn already felt herself nodding, sharp and certain, toward those empty eyes. She’d promised to do this. To show him her mettle, and help him. For her garden. Her future.
“Ach, then, witch,” he said, his throat convulsing, his mouth curling into another blank, broken smile. “Next, we meet the Bautul.”
14
Joarr led Gwyn down the corridor in a stilted, dangling silence. His hands now not touching her, but instead hanging stiff at his sides, his steps smooth and controlled, his eyes staring straight ahead.
And up ahead, there was another light, gradually brightening the walls around them. And as they approached, Gwyn could hear a rising murmur of voices, and perhaps other sounds, too. Hinting at something she wasn’t sure she wanted to identify, and Joarr’s grim face was certainly no comfort, and —
And with one last step, the surrounding stone corridor suddenly broadened into a room. A large, circular stone room, with low stone benches cut into the walls, and wooden tables and chairs scattered about. And in the room’s very middle, there was a tall, cylindrical stone chimney, rising all the way up into the stone ceiling, and boasting a lively, crackling fire at its base.
Under other circumstances, the fire — and the relative normalcy of the room it illuminated — should have been a welcome surprise. But once again, Gwyn’s body felt irrevocably struck to stillness, her eyes fixed wide and stunned to the sight before her. To the dozen-odd orcs filling the room, and…debauchingone another.
One orc had another orc pinned to the nearest wall, his trousers yanked low, his hips snapping powerfully against the first orc’s bare backside. Another orc was sprawled spread-legged on a bench, while yet another one knelt before him, working over his groin with his mouth. And another pair were fully bared and furiously wrestling on the floor, perhaps fighting for dominance, until — Gwyn startled — one finally pinned the other, and then drove inside, while the defeated orc kicked and moaned beneath him.
Gods. Gwyn had never considered herself much of a prude — her line of work generally involved far more familiarity with the human body than most — but even so, this was certainly multiple leagues beyond her current realm of experience. So far beyond that her brain couldn’t quite seem to accept it, and had instead decided to fixate upon the only orc in the room — beyond Joarr — who was not currently lost in the throes of passion. A huge, deeply hideous orc who was sitting across from someone on a bench, and…sewing?
Gwyn blinked again at the sight, because not only was the orc indeed sewing, but the person across from him was awoman. And the woman was sewing, too, both of them intently frowning down at what looked to be a single piece of cloth between them.
Gwyn’s blatant staring had finally seemed to catch the hideous orc’s attention, because his big head snapped up, his eyes narrowing toward her. And then his gaze flicked to Joarr beside her, and held there with something that had to be astonishment, or perhaps even disbelief.
Joarr surely saw it too, and when Gwyn glanced up toward him, that mask was already firmly in place, hiding away his eyes. And without a word, or a single look back toward her, he ushered her into the room, and straight into the midst of its groaning, growling, completely shameless orcs.
Gwyn’s steps slightly stumbled, her eyes darting furtively at the shocking sights still unfolding around them — but Joarr’s hand had thankfully gripped her again, holding her steady. And while many of the orcs hadn’t yet seemed to notice her, she could still feel several pairs of eyes settling on her as they passed, followed by multiple voices quieting to watchful, wondering whispers.
Joarr still hadn’t even spared a glance toward them, and just kept guiding Gwyn across the room, his steps purposeful, his hand firm on her back. Until he drew her to a halt before the ugly, incredulous-looking orc, who slowly set his sewing aside, and rose to his feet.
And. This orc wasmassive. Perhaps just as large as the captain orc, with a thick corded neck, a huge barrel chest, and powerful, sloping shoulders. And he was entirely undressed, his muscled body heavily dusted with dense black hair, and — Gwyn tried to stop herself from looking, too late — the sight at his groin was blatantly bared, though thankfully pointing slack toward the floor.
But even more daunting, by far, was his face. It was harsh and badly scarred, with a ruined nose, and bulging, battered ears that scarcely retained their pointed tips. His mouth was cruel and thin, and his eyes under their heavy brows were truly vicious, glowering at Joarr with visible, palpable loathing.
“Ach, ourbrotherhas returned,” the orc said, his lip curling. “And what isthis?”
His frankly terrifying gaze had snapped to Gwyn’s face, before sliding deliberately down toward her waist. Almost as if peeringinsideher, somehow, and she couldn’t deny the irrational urge to cover herself, or perhaps even hide behind Joarr’s tall form beside her.
But she was supposed to be proving this to Joarr, and surely this exact moment was a crucial part of what he’d wanted from that. And while the bastard surely could have taken a minute to better warn her about this — whatever the hell it was — there was also something about the stillness of his hand on her back, the cool blankness of his eyes on this orc’s face.
“Myname,” Gwyn finally replied, when Joarr still didn’t speak, “isGwyn. And I’m a practicing midwife, and with Joarr’s help, I’ve come to offer my services to the women here.”
The disbelief again flared across the frowning orc’s eyes, his cruel mouth snarling toward her — when suddenly, the woman who’d been sitting across from him staggered up to her feet, and grasped his huge arm. “Silfast,” she gasped. “Please.”
Gwyn blinked at the woman, who bore a head of thick dark hair, and a pair of large dark eyes — and whose plump, scantily clad form was visiblypregnant, perhaps five or six months along. Not only that, but the woman also looked unmistakably exhausted, her eyes shot with red, with deep blue circles beneath.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Gwyn,” she said, her voice soft, her mouth curving in a wan but genuine smile. “I’m Stella, of Clan Bautul. And this is my mate, Silfast. He’s one of our mountain’s fiercest warriors, and serves as a captain of the Bautul clan.”
Her fingers were digging into the orc’s muscled arm, clearly sending some kind of silent message — and while the orc’s glance down toward her was still dark with displeasure, his other hand moved to rest over hers, holding it against his skin.
