But he was still just standing here, staring at this horrid healer’s face, and realizing, with a jolt of shock, that he was very near to weeping. Weeping over this stodgy, stuffy, stick-up-the-rumparse, for reasons he couldn’t bear to examine too closely.
“Look, I — I’m sorry,” the healer cut in, his eyes and his scent flaring, his hand darting toward Kesst, and away again. “I shouldn’t have said that. Don’t cry. Please.”
Kesst flinched, not only at those words — that open admission of his blatant weakness — but at that look in the healer’s eyes. The…pity. Now this belligerent bastard was pitying him, because he was standing here in a filthy camp tunnel and weeping, like the utter failure of an orc he was.
“I amnot crying,” Kesst finally managed, even as he frantically blinked back the cursed wetness behind his eyes. “And I have no need whatsoever for your apologies, or your pity, or your horribly invasive ‘healing’. And I will thank the gods if I never have to set eyes on your hideous face everagain, let alone taste your vile magicinsideme!”
And again, he was glad to see the way the healer twitched, the way his big shoulders hunched higher. The way his mouth snapped open, as if he were about to retaliate — but then he winced, and squeezed his eyes shut. While that dark bitterness again twisted into his magic, souring the air between them, strong enough that Kesst nearly retched.
“Right,” the healer finally replied, his low voice so wooden, so empty. “Right. I’ll note that.”
And that was it, surely. Kesst was surely the victor in this hellish little encounter, whatever the hell it had been. So why the hell was he still weeping, why was there the overpowering urge to shout, to step closer, toapologize—
“Good,” he spat toward the healer, before it was too late, too late. “You do that.”
And without waiting for an answer, he whirled around, and fled into the darkness.
2
The next time he set eyes upon the new healer, Kesst was being railed in the rump by the most loathsome orc in the entire realm.
Or perhaps second most loathsome, Kesst mentally amended, as he darted a glance across the fire, toward the crouching form of Orc Mountain’s huge, repulsive captain — Kaugir, of Clan Ash-Kai. Who was blatantly looking back toward Kesst, his beady eyes gleaming, his long tongue deliberately licking the fat and blood off his thick clawed fingers.
“Ach, that is the way, Skald,” Kaugir grunted, his leering gaze flicking up to the orc behind Kesst, who was still pounding away with tedious enthusiasm. “Make him forget all about Ofnir, ach?”
The bastard. Kesst felt himself betray a full-body flinch, enough that Skald behind him — inside him — barked a loud, grating laugh, and sharply swatted his arse. “You’ll not be getting off to memories of Ofnir whilst I plough you, wench.”
Kesst belatedly moaned and shook his head, tossing his hair up, arching his back. “Who’s Ofnir?” he breathed, with creditable nonchalance. “Can’t remember.”
Skald barked another approving laugh, and across the fire even Kaugir looked grimly amused. And Kesst actually managed a smile toward Kaugir, a flirtatious flutter of his eyelashes, knowing — thanks to some lucky quirk of the gods — that the cruel, deadly captain of Orc Mountain could only ever get hard for human women, and for the prospect of siring his sons upon them. And therefore, Kaugir had always been happy to leave Kesst to the rest of his hangers-on instead — and most of all to his two hulking, powerful Hands. Skald, of Clan Ash-Kai, and Ofnir, of Clan Skai.
And though Ofnir had been blessedly dead for several moons now, Kesst could still feel the agonizing drag of his vicious claws, could still taste the sickly sweetness of his distinctive Skai scent. So strong that it still overpowered every other orc’s scent upon him, Skald’s included — though at this rate, Skald was giving Ofnir a good run for that highly dubious prize.
“You like that, pretty wench?” Skald grunted at Kesst, from where he’d picked up speed behind him. “You should love to have onlymyploughing for all the rest of your days, ach?”
Kesst moaned some semblance of breathless agreement, even as he inwardly cursed Skald, and his own rotten existence. Skald wasn’t quite as vile as Ofnir had been, but after Kaugir, he was most certainly the last orc Kesst would have chosen to make some kind of actual claim upon him next. Skald was loud, rude, arrogant, aggressive, with no gentleness or subtlety whatsoever — and he took inordinate pride in his fat, admittedly impressive prick, and in how it invariably left his conquests limping and wincing for days on end.
And while Kesst couldn’t deny enjoying an oversized prick — as well as a good proper pounding now and then — it was just like Skald to so carelessly wield it like this, right before a gruelling two-day trek back to Orc Mountain, during which Kesst would inevitably be loaded down with goods they’d acquired from today’s raid. Gods, he hated travelling, he hated kneeling in the dirt, he hated this stupid endless war, he hated his entire damnedlife—
And it was then, as Kesst was groaning, keening into Skald’s onslaught, that he met the new healer’s eyes. The healer had been walking past the fire, with a hunk of fresh meat clutched in his big hand — a cut from the day’s kill, a felled deer at the edge of the clearing — but now he’d frozen in place behind Kaugir, and was staring. Staring straight at Kesst, bared on his hands and knees in the filth and ash, with Skald still pounding away behind him.
Something hot and shameful abruptly curdled in Kesst’s belly, and he could feel his face and ears flushing scarlet, in a way that had nothing to do with Skald or the fire. This stodgy, stuffy healer was staring at him, he was judging him, and he was…pityinghim. As if Kesst were a weak, contemptible disappointment, rather than a clever, pragmatic orc who knew exactly what he was doing. Ingratiating himself with the most powerful orcs in the realm, and revelling in this one’s massive prick, like the beautiful, eager size queen he was.
“Oh, that’s good,” Kesst breathed, again fluttering his lashes and tossing his hair over his shoulder. “So nice and thick.Lovefeeling it inside me.”
Skald barked another approving laugh, gave him another swat. And Kesst managed to purr another heated, convincing moan, his eyes again fixed on the healer. On how the healer still hadn’t moved, and how the hunk of rib he was holding had suddenly bent at an unnatural angle. As if — as if his hand had somehow snapped the bone inside it.
“Ach, I ken that new healer likes seeing you get your due, wench,” crooned Skald behind Kesst. “Or mayhap he is jealous. Wishes he could have a turn.”
But Kesst already knew better, because that look in the healer’s frozen eyes certainly wasn’t jealousy, or envy, or approval. No, no, it was still that same damnedpity, scraping up Kesst’s arched spine, clawing at him, choking in his throat…
And Kesst couldn’t bear it, it was worse than Skald, worse than the dirt and ash beneath him, worse than Kaugir’s thick greasy fingers. And he had to fight against it, had to drag for his dignity, his pride,something…
“Oh, he onlywishes,” Kesst heard himself say, far too loudly, flashing his coldest smile toward the still-staring healer. “Didn’t you know, Skald dearest, our newest, ugliest arrival has never been touchedoncein his smug, sheltered little life?”
And oh, there it was again, the satisfying recoil of the healer’s body, the flare of hurt across his ugly face. And the way Skald and Kaugir both laughed, Kaugir now turning and eyeing the healer with a contemptuous, calculating interest that certainly hadn’t been there before.
“Ach, another bewitcher,” Kaugir said, his lip curling. “Who costs us much good food and coin, and gives us only magic tricks in return. My stubborn, soft-hearted son claims this new one cannot even fight, either.”
