“Ach, brothers,” broke in a familiar, thoroughly ill-timed voice, and Kesst huffed an irritated sigh as he glanced toward the door. It was Grimarr, his face hard and blank, his hand clutching the sword-hilt at his side. And between that tone in his voice, and the look on his face, Kesst felt his bubbling warmth draining away all at once, leaving something cold and slimy behind.
“My father and Skald are hosting a revel in the Ash-Kai common-room,” Grimarr said, his voice just as hard as his face. “And they have commanded you both to come and show yourselves. At once.”
8
Kesst stared at Grimarr for a long, silent moment, while his heart suddenly began beating a sickening pulse in his chest. A revel. Commanded. At once.
“But I’m still wounded,” he protested, which perhaps wasn’t quite as true as it had been, but he could still cling to it, damn it. “And Eft’s far too busy. Dealing with all the ungrateful loutsyoukeep sending him, I might add.”
Grimarr betrayed a pained-looking grimace, and then shook his head, his eyes dark. “I have already gained you five days’ reprieve, brother,” he said, quiet. “I cannot risk pushing this further, without drawing more of their ire toward you. Unless” — he grimaced again as he glanced between Kesst and Eft, his gaze oddly sharpening on how Eft’s hand had somehow come to rest against Kesst’s shoulder — “you might rather wish to leave the mountain together for a spell, mayhap. I can claim I could not find you, grant you a few days’ start —”
Kesst’s thoughts were wildly churning now, racing down too many messy paths at once. How many times had Grimarr already dealt with his father and Skald on their behalf? How much fallout would Grimarr face if Kesst and Eft both up and vanished, under his watch? Would it destroy whatever nefarious plots Grimarr had clearly been busily hatching of late?
And most crucial of all, surely Eft would never actually runawaywith Kesst, straight into the middle of awar? Just to escape a single stupidparty?
Suddenly Kesst couldn’t bear to look at Eft, to see what he might think of all this — and he belatedly lurched out of bed, and yanked up his saggy, grimy-feeling trousers. “Of course we’ll come,” he said, as he stalked past Eft, and fixed Grimarr with his coldest smile. “Iloveparties. Ready whenever you are, brother.”
Grimarr didn’t bother smiling back, but just nodded, waiting until Eft finally came over, too. And Kesst still couldn’t seem to look at Eft as they followed Grimarr out the door, and up the dank narrow corridor. It was the first time Kesst had walked any actual distance since his injury, and he found himself absurdly grateful for the gentle brush of Eft’s hand against his back, his impossible magic now unfurling downwards, sending strength to his legs and feet.
“So what’s the occasion, then?” Kesst said to Grimarr’s stiff shoulders, after a few moments of too-taut silence. “Another raid? Or did your father steal away another woman again?”
Grimarr made a sound that might have been a laugh, but wasn’t. “Ach, he sought to do both,” he replied, his voice very even, though his hand was still gripped tight to his sword-hilt. “In Varrahan. He raided the home of the magistrate, and meant to bring back his wife. To surprise me, he said. To gain me a son. But she…”
Grimarr didn’t need to finish, and Kesst made a similar laughing sound, cold and empty. “I hope it was quick, at least?” he said, as lightly as he could. “The magistrate’s dead too, I presume?”
Kesst still couldn’t seem to look at Eft beside him, but he could taste the sudden flare of disbelief in his still-working magic, followed by a surge of sustained, simmering anger. Strong enough that Kesst gripped at Eft’s arm, letting his still-stubby claws dig in, while he kept watching Grimarr’s shoulders, waiting.
“Ach,” Grimarr finally said, with a heavy sigh. “And their house emptied of goods and ale, and then burnt, whilst all the town grieves and rages against us. Thus… thisrevel.”
Oh. How lovely, and how damned typical, a party to celebrate destroying gods knew how many helpless humans’ lives. And even more typical, by throwing said party in the Ash-Kai common-room, Kaugir and Skald would also ensure that only their favoured orcs — namely, the Ash-Kai and Skai — could even partake of the short-lived fruits of their labours.
“And your father’s mood?” Kesst asked Grimarr, his voice very thin. “And Skald’s?”
“Very jolly,” said Grimarr, just as thin. “Very… hungry.”
This assessment proved unnervingly apt, Kesst soon discovered, as he and Eft followed Grimarr into the loud, chaotic Ash-Kai common-room. It wasn’t a large room to begin with, but it currently felt stuffed to bursting with scents and shouting and laughter, with dozens of Skai and Ash-Kai orcs revelling in their victories.
And while Kesst certainly wasn’t opposed to a good rioting party, he could indeed already feel the distinctive edge on this one. The way Kaugir, lounging at the front of the room on a large bench — his de facto throne — was sweeping his beady eyes over the assembled revellers, his dark-stained scimitar lying unsheathed in his lap. While beside him, Skald was fully bared, his head thrown back as he laughed, his massive body streaked all over with dried red blood. And before him, another orc — Benkt, a smaller Ash-Kai — was kneeling, working over his groin with palpable effort, while Skald blatantly ignored him, and again broke into riotous laughter at whatever Kaugir had just said.
Kesst had found himself hesitating near the door, his eyes reflexively angling toward Eft, who had halted beside him. And who, predictably, was making no attempt to conceal his obvious contempt toward this entire little scene, his brow darkly furrowed, his lip curling with distaste.
Thankfully, Grimarr’s big body before them was strategically blocking Eft from Skald’s view, and Kesst could see Grimarr working to bring the smile to his mouth, before clapping a nearby Alfrik on the shoulder, and congratulating him on his day’s gain. And then moving steadily forward through the room, with a barely perceptible glance back toward Kesst and Eft that was very clearly an order, all the same.Follow me.
But Kesst was already doing it, and smiling, too — one did not enter a gathering like this without first paying one’s respects to one’s captain — at least, until he realized that Eft had made no move to join them, and the touch of his magic had dropped from Kesst’s back. Not only that, but Eft was viciously glowering at the orc — Skarpi — who’d just bumped into him, and sloshed his drink onto his tunic.
“This way,” Kesst hissed, gripping Eft’s arm again, and herding him around Skarpi. “And drop the death glare, for the love of the gods.”
Eft didn’t resist, but his eyes on Kesst were still stubborn, and maybe confused, too. “Why?” he muttered back. “Itreeksin here. And I have no interest in —”
Kesst dug his claws deeper, and kept his own smile pinned to his face. “Because,” he said, through gritted teeth. “We don’t want you todietoday!”
Eft blinked at him, clearly nonplussed once again — and for perhaps the first time, it fully occurred to Kesst just how ingrained these little games, these small cruelties and injustices, had become in his own awareness, his own existence. One always paid respects to Kaugir, before all else. One always simpered and smiled, never showing anger or weariness or disgust. One never risked speaking one’s true thoughts, because one might very quickly become an example, an entertainment, for the rest of the hungry mob.
And because all the other orcs were doing exactly the same, you never quite knew where you stood among them. You never quite knew which ones would heartily laugh as your entrails were carved out, or which ones would furtively try to help you. You had ideas, of course, hints and scents and glances — but when it came down to it, you could never truly be sure.
And as Kesst watched Grimarr so smoothly play the game in front of them, smiling, laughing, speaking praises and congratulations, he suddenly just felt cold, and sick, and empty. Grimarr was trying, Kesst knew, he’d been trying for years — but that uncertainty had always been there, undermining him, impeding him. Which orcs were his, and which were his father’s? How many orcs would ultimately take his side, and join him in unseating their all-powerful captain, who had ruled over them for most of their lives? And how many orcs would turn on Grimarr, and seek to kill him — and surely all his friends and supporters — before the next sunrise?
And worst of all, how much more misery and bloodshed would that bring? How many more orcs would die in the midst of a full-on mutiny? Would it be the end of their kind, and their home? Forever?
