It was typical of how Joarr had approached this so far — not really speaking of it, as if perhaps he didn’t truly believe it yet, either — but still giving her more, somehow, too. More of those sharp smiles, more hints of affection beyond the hunger. More answers to questions when Gwyn asked, more obvious attempts to keep her well-fed and well-rested. And even, to her genuine surprise, more insights into the rest of his life, and his work, and thewar.
“Wish to come to meeting with me?” he’d asked her, perhaps two days after she’d learned of her pregnancy. “Hear more of war, and men?”
Gwyn had eagerly agreed, of course, and had soon found herself seated in a meeting-room with a variety of orcs, as well as many of the women she’d met these past days — Jule, Ella, Rosa, Maria. All of them not only listening, but actually participating, as the orcs discussed the latest threats from the men, the latest offenses, the latest attacks.
And even more astonishing, it wasJoarrwho seemed to know the most about the men’s plans. About where they were currently searching for women, and where they were taking them. About how that new law would surely be signed in twelve short days, and how they needed to find a solution as soon as possible, before the attacks became an onslaught.
But to Gwyn’s continued astonishment — and her genuine relief — no one seemed to assume that the situation was her responsibility. No one mentioned even a possibility of her testifying, or returning to Varrahan, or making a case to her father. And when she tentatively expressed her willingness to help — to share information about her father, or his men, perhaps — the orcs waved it away, and Grimarr gave her an indulgent, rather terrifying smile across the table.
“Ach, I ken we know far more of your father than you do, woman,” he said. “Joarr most of all, ach?”
Really? Gwyn twitched to stare at Joarr beside her, who had very blatantly assumed his mask again, his eyes entirely unreadable. “You no offer more to us upon this, woman,” he said, voice crisp. “You yet bear enough, ach?”
Gwyn didn’t argue, but she had no intention of not trying, either. Of not doing her best to face this. To fix this. To take this — thisimpossibilitygrowing all around her, inside her — and turn it into truth.
And as the next few days passed, she didn’t push more on the meetings, or the men — and instead, she poured every breath of her focus into making this work. Being with Joarr, however he needed her. Becoming a true Bautul. Making her own way, and fighting for the future she suddenly, desperately longed for.
She kept working in the garden each morning, preparing herbs for anyone who wanted them, while continuing to teach Kalfr, Iyolf, Eyolf, and Stella. She spent her afternoons down in the Ka-esh wing, either meeting with women in the clinic, or reading and researching with Rosa in the library. And in between, she spent more time with Ivar, who turned out to be quite the resource on Bautul customs and culture, and was more than willing to offer his steady, cheerful wisdom, and answer any questions she asked.
And, of course, through it all, Gwyn threw herself into finding even more fun with Joarr. They explored the entire mountain together, going all the way up to the snow-capped peak, and deep down to the newest tunnels the Ka-esh were digging. They splashed and swam in Orc Mountain’s huge heated baths, and chased each other through the trees until they were both sweaty and gasping, and yanking at each other’s clothes. And almost every day, they went back to the Skai arena, where Gwyn eagerly joined Maria and Bjorn in watching Joarr and Simon — and often Baldr and Drafli — playing together like wild little orclings, and laughed at them until her stomach hurt.
And late one night, when Joarr abruptly shook Gwyn awake in the darkness, she grabbed her lamp and her bag, and accompanied him down into a deep, dark tunnel below the mountain. Moving faster and faster through the rough-hewn rock and earth, until Joarr finally threw her up onto his back, and ran at full tilt into the shadows. As if he could see — or perhaps smell — something Gwyn couldn’t, and finally she heard the faint, distinctive sounds of a woman’s cries, echoing against the stone.
It turned out to be Inga, who was well into her labour, and desperately clinging to one of her huge orcs, his harsh face crumpled and ashen. While her other orc had rushed over to Gwyn and Joarr, barking a stream of frantic-sounding black-tongue toward Joarr’s face.
Joarr quickly translated for Gwyn — they’d been trying to get Inga to the mountain, but her labour had come on too rapidly — and Gwyn immediately set to work. Finding a position for Inga that seemed comfortable, perched atop her crouching orc, and then checking the baby’s position and heartbeat. All while reassuring Inga that she was doing wonderfully, and everything would be well soon.
It was indeed a quick, unexceptional labour — the fact that it was Inga’s second most certainly helped — and Inga’s orcs proved to be a great help as well. Soothing her, massaging her with an oil blend that Gwyn had brought, and growling their earnest reassurances as Inga breathed and wept through contraction after contraction. Until finally, toward what felt like morning, Inga delivered a squalling, squirmy, grey-skinned son.
“He’s beautiful,” Gwyn said firmly, once she’d cleared out the little orcling’s nose, and then settled his slick, twitchy body onto Inga’s bare chest. “Congratulations, you three. Now Inga, I’ll just clean you up a bit, and keep an eye on things, while you get to know your son. And perhaps one of you” — she glanced between the two orcs — “would like to cut the cord?”
The two orcs seemed to silently communicate with each other — one was visibly weeping, the other rubbing the baby’s back with palpable reverence — and seemed to agree that the weeping orc would handle it. So once the orc’s hands had been thoroughly washed and disinfected, he carefully cut the cord with a gentle clip of his claws.
This led to more weeping, all three of them now clutching at their beautiful new son. And even as Gwyn kept intently working — watching for the birth of the placenta, and checking for any bleeding or tearing — she somehow found herself weeping too, wiping her eyes on her sleeve, while Joarr stepped close behind her, and squeezed his hand to her shoulder.
They ended up staying until what felt like late the next day, making sure Inga was rested and recovering well, and that the orcling was nursing properly. And though Gwyn strongly recommended that Inga come to stay at the mountain for a few days, she and her orcs again refused, pointing out — not incorrectly — that the danger from the men would only increase with every day that passed.
So Gwyn sent them off with multiple helpful herbs, including nettle and raspberry leaf, as well as extensive instructions for both Inga and her orcling. And Joarr — who had occasionally disappeared throughout the day, finding food and water, and meeting with a scout who was nearby — pressed fresh meat and mushrooms into the orcs’ hands, and ordered them to send for him at once if anything was amiss.
By the time Joarr and Gwyn returned to the mountain, it was nearly nightfall again, and Gwyn could scarcely think through the towering, staggering exhaustion. But as she finally sank down beside Joarr in their hammock, there was only satisfaction, relief, and a raw, deep-seated gratefulness.
“Thank you,” she mumbled into Joarr’s neck, her eyes fluttering closed. “You werewonderful, Joarr.”
His laugh sounded more like a scoff, his head shaking against hers. “I was naught,” he said, husky. “Youwere this, woman. You ken one of these orcs is blood-brother to captain of southern Bautul, ach? This shall only build this trust, and bring many more women to you. Ach?”
Oh. Gwyn’s heart felt like it was brimming, escaping out her prickling watery eyes, and Joarr pulled her closer, and wiped the wetness away. And sleep came so easily, suddenly, drawing her into Joarr’s warm chest, into the slow rock of the hammock in the breeze. She was… content.Safe. Where she belonged.
And perhaps it was superstition, silliness, stupidity — but as the next few days slipped by, still seemingly without any breakthroughs regarding the men, Gwyn also found her thoughts turning more and more to the goddess.This cruel goddess, Joarr had called her, who they were fighting for their future. But the more Gwyn heard Ivar and Stella speak of this goddess, the more that didn’t seem quite right. The more it seemed that maybe — maybe this goddess was important. Part of this. Of making this new way.
So one evening, after a delightful day full of gardening, meetings with clients, and a delicious supper in the kitchen, Gwyn pulled Joarr over to the goddess’ altar, and nudged him down upon it. He didn’t need convincing, especially when she shoved down his trousers, and began making thorough use of her mouth — and afterwards they even slept there again, tangled in each others’ arms. But when morning came, and Gwyn once again paused to stand beside the altar in the pose Stella had shown her — one hand against it, the other to her heart — she could feel Joarr’s eyes watching her, heavy with unease, or maybe even disapproval.
“You no need to do this, woman,” he said, with a gentle scratch of his claws to her head. “You yet do more than enough. We shall find other way to face this, ach?”
His voice was light, but it still seemed to grip at Gwyn’s belly, her throat. Because he was implying, of course, that the situation still wasn’t even close to being dealt with. The men, the attacks, the new law. And while Gwyn hadn’t been attending all Joarr’s meetings these past days, he’d kept her consistently informed about the orcs’ progress, and their ongoing plans against the men. Which so far included increased patrols, an astonishing amount of tunnel-digging toward the most heavily populated orc camps, and multiple letters and statements of protest sent off to lords like her father.
But the tales of the attacks had kept swirling ever higher, too. And the women Gwyn cared for — indeed including a few more from the southern Bautul clans — had also seemed more anxious, more fearful, with each day that passed. And as much as Gwyn kept fighting to ignore it, the days until the law’s ratification seemed to keep slipping away faster and faster, counting down with unnerving, relentless rapidity. Six. Five. Four.
And adding to the mess, of course, was the looming question of Gwyn’s house in Varrahan. Joarr’s scouts — most of whom Gwyn now knew by name — had continued to bring back plants and cuttings from her garden each night, while also leaving more notes explaining her ongoing absence, and even spreading word of her various travels. But that house, thatlife, was still there, still empty, waiting — and that deadline was counting down, too. And there were now only nine short days until Roy returned to drag Gwyn back to Dunburg, or burn her house to the ground.
