Ivar looked disproportionately pleased by this, fixing them with his half-toothless smile, and waving his hand. To which Gwyn willingly waved back, her damp eyes still caught on his face, until Joarr steered her out of the room, and back into the corridor again.
And as they walked together, the light rapidly fading behind them, Gwyn scarcely even noticed the encroaching darkness, or the various orcs that passed. Not with her thoughts fully ablaze like this, flashing frantically between relief and disbelief, confusion and certainty, amazement andawe.
Great-Aunt Agnes’ mate was still alive. He’d welcomed her, reassured her, comforted her. It even felt like he’d given her Great-Aunt Agnes back, somehow, given the memories warmth and fondness again, rather than the chilly, miserable guilt they’d somehow acquired these past months.
And even stranger still, Ivar had clearly wanted Gwyn to stay. He’d wanted her to have a son.Joarr’sson.
And Joarr hadn’t…notwanted that. Right? No, he’d wanted Ivar to stop talking. Hadn’t wanted him to scare her away.
There was something in that, something new, bubbling unnervingly hot and close. Enough that there was the oddest urge to laugh, or maybe sob, and Gwyn gulped down a few breaths, shook her head, and clutched her arms against her chest.
Gods, what was she thinking. She was only here for another few days, at most. She was only… seeing how this went, and that was all Joarr wanted, too. Right? And she was on a strong dose of silphium, and she most certainly wasn’t ready to have a child, most of all with an orc, withhim. She could think about all this later, some other day, some other time, but until then…
Until then, she was once again faced with the truth that Joarr had been… kind. Considerate.Generous.
“Thank you,” she said into the darkness, quiet. “Again. That… meant a lot to me.”
She could feel his shrug, could almost see the dismissive wave of his hand. “Ach, it is naught,” he said lightly. “I ken you need more friends. More kin-brothers who are no cruel heedlessfools, ach?”
And blinking toward Joarr in the darkness, it occurred to Gwyn that yes, yet again, this was kindness. Consideration.Care.
Something hot was prickling behind her eyes, and she had to cough, clear her throat. And suddenly there was the strangest, wildest urge to — to reciprocate. To return this. To help Joarr, somehow, to support him, in the same way he’d just supported her. And what was there, what did he need, he needed…
“It’s so strange that Ivar is Bautul too, don’t you think?” she heard herself blurt out, into the silence. “And he was so lovely, too. Do you ever wonder — maybe — if the Bautul aren’t as bad as you thought? Or even” — she swallowed hard, made herself keep going — “if you might have more in common with them than you realized?”
It didn’t seem like a contentious question — did it? — but it felt like the air between them had shifted. Sharpened. And suddenly that was a growl, deep and feral-sounding, rumbling from Joarr beside her.
“No,” he hissed. “No.Neverwonder this.”
Right. Gwyn grimaced, fought past the clutch of regret in her belly. “Of course not,” she said quickly, her voice thick. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to — to presume.”
She could hear Joarr’s heavy exhale, the sound still burning in his throat. “You no yet — see,” he said, “other side of Bautul.Hordeside. Ach?”
Horde side. Gwyn hadn’t, she supposed — had she? Whatever she’d seen so far in their common-room, it hadn’t felthorde-like, had it?
“No, perhaps not,” she said carefully. “In truth, apart from Silfast, the Bautul have been…”
What? Kind? Decent, despite their brazen ways?Welcoming?
Joarr barked a short laugh, and without warning he steered her sideways, down what felt like a new corridor. Toward what sounded like distant deep voices, steadily becoming louder. Shouts, groans, even… screams?
“You no fear sight of blood, ach?” Joarr’s voice asked, cool and clipped. “Or battle?”
Gwyn felt a dry chuckle rising — she was a midwife, of course she didn’t fear blood — but then it faded at that telltale wordbattle. Surely Joarr didn’t mean there were actualbattlesgoing on? Here, in Orc Mountain?
But the strange shouts and screams kept rising, clamouring ever closer in her ears. And when Joarr silently ushered her into an echoing, torch-lit room, she found herself standing at the top of a rough-hewn stone staircase, and staring down toward what looked like a pit, cut into the earth below. And within the pit, there was —
A battle. Ahorde. Dozens of huge, brawling, hollering orcs, hurling themselves toward one another in a chaotic, careening mess. Their mouths shouting and biting, their clawed hands punching and swiping, and even swinging large wooden weapons through the air. Weapons that didn’t pull away at impact, but instead landed with dull, sickening thuds on backs, chests,faces.
And gods, theblood. Pouring out of the brawling orcs’ noses, pumping from fresh wounds, spitting out their mouths. Pooling dark and thick into what looked like a metalgratebelow them, as if this appalling scene were a frequent enough occurrence to require actualinfrastructure.
And the more Gwyn looked, the more horrifying it became. One orc had swung a wooden blade straight into another’s mouth, breaking off several teeth with a nauseatingcrunch. Another had kicked his opponent in the groin, toppling him over — and then kept kicking, while the orc below him thrashed and screamed. And another was holding his opponent down, yanking out his black hair in chunks, when another one rushed forward and kicked him in the head, and —
And wait. That kicking orc had been…Kalfr. Hadn’t it? The tall, charcoal-skinned orc, who Stella had mentioned as wanting to help in thegarden? And that was the cheerful orc Eyolf, surely, crumpled on the floor in the corner, clutching his belly, and vomiting into yet another grate.
And standing there, in the midst of it all, was Silfast. Looking huge and horrifying, swinging a massive wooden axe in a vicious arc, and slamming another orc — Grum — so hard that he flew back into the nearest wall, and the distinctive sound of breaking bones cracked through the air.
Oh.Oh. Gwyn’s clammy, trembly hands had snapped to cover her mouth, her throat choking down her own rising bile — and she had to squeeze her eyes shut, haul back deep breaths. Goddess above, this couldn’t — they wouldn’t —
