Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga) (26 page)

Fossegrim gave Isolfur a pat on the shoulder and smiled up at them grimly. “Keep yourselves out of sight as much as possible, won’t you, and for the love of the Ancestors, wait until the sun rises before you climb that mountain. This isn’t the time to take fool risks. You’ve still the quartz, but I wouldn’t rely on it a second time.”

“Thank you, Grandfather,” Bolthorn said.

Isolfur took a step forward, anxious to be on his way, but Fossegrim grasped her ankle for a moment. “Don’t lose that cloak, Princess. And when the ice begins to melt, all you need do is whistle to the water and Isolfur will know to come. Call it a wedding gift, eh?”

Then he slapped Isolfur on the rump, and the forest and Fossegrim disappeared in the roar and rush of water.

The brook horse stood patiently beside the spring while Bolthorn slid from its back, then reached up to pull her down. He was wet through to the skin, and she wondered just what magic Fossegrim’s old cloak contained to have kept her dry and warm even beneath the water. Isolfur lowered his head, his hide shivering as if against flies, and nosed gently at her cheek, blowing warm breath into her face.

“Thank you,” she said, combing her fingers through his mane. The journey had not exhausted her the way traveling with the Vala had, and she had even slept through some of it, held safe in Bolthorn’s arms. “That was much better than those dark mountain passages.”

Isolfur snorted, sounding for a moment so much like Fossegrim that she laughed. He tossed his head and sidled back into the spring, his body dissolving into foam.

They stood in snow up to her knees near enough to the village that she could smell the smoke of their fires. Birch trees dotted the bank on the other side of the water, mixed among the pines. The more she saw of the Vidthursar forest, the more it reminded her of Gautar. All they needed was a castle, hidden among the trees, and she would not have known herself in a different land. Bolthorn gave a low grunt and kicked snow into the horse’s tracks until all that remained were their own. The sky was still dark, and with a sigh, she realized it would remain so. That was the largest difference, she supposed. The winter twilight. She missed the sun already.

“You are certain of the Gythja?” Bolthorn asked.

“Yes. But not the Gothi. Vanadis said Asfarth’s blood still sat on the council, and the Vid-Gothi agreed to give Vanadis the right to stand as my mother in concern for the baby.” She pressed her hand to her belly, though it would be months yet before it had even begun to round. “I wish I knew for certain.”

His warm hand covered hers, lacing their fingers together. “Fossegrim would have told us if the Vala lied.”

“Then all the more reason to find the Gythja, that the child will know its father by the marks he bears. Go and speak with her.”

Bolthorn’s jaw tightened, his eyes glowing. “I do not like this plan, Arianna. What if someone should come upon you while you wait for me?”

“I will whistle for Isolfur and he will carry me away before I can be seen. It is the best way, Bolthorn. Even Fossegrim agreed I should remain hidden.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm, but the glow did not fade from his eyes, and when he turned from her, she could see the tension in his shoulders where the linen clung to his body. His skin already glistened with rime, the water turning to ice in the cold.

“Get some dry clothes, too,” she said. “Fossegrim would never forgive me if I let you freeze.”

Bolthorn snorted, and when he glanced back again over his shoulder, she thought she saw him smile. Arianna wrapped the cloak more tightly around her body and settled in to wait beside the spring. At least she need not fear the cold for herself, this time. It would not do to give the Vala a reason to find them again after going to so much trouble to escape their notice.

She watched Bolthorn until he disappeared into trees and shadow, her heart twisting in spite of her words. But she could feel his heartbeat still, steady beside her own again. He would return, she told herself. They need only survive the journey up the mountain, after that.

What
had
kept Bolvarr all this time?

There would be few who knew his face at once, Bolthorn knew. The elders and the Gothi, for the most part. The younger orcs would recognize only that he was Hrimthursar by his size and features and the tattoos on his face, though that would be odd enough this deep into winter’s darkness. In the summer his people traveled back and forth to trade, ponies packed with blackrock and ore for the forges, to carry fine wood and food back. The track was much too dangerous once the sun had set, and even Bolvarr’s journey had been left late in the year.

Bolthorn avoided as many of the villagers as he could without drawing attention, stepping back into the shelter of shadow when others passed, and it was early enough still that they were few and far between. The clans had not started out so different. Once, there had been as many blue-skinned Hrimthursar as there were green. As many green-skinned Vidthursar as there were blue. And it was odd, still, to him, that their colors had not settled the other way round—for surely greener skin would have served the forest orcs better, and blue would have made more sense upon the mountain, among the stone and snow.

There were some Hrimthursar who might pass, like Bolvarr, throwbacks who looked more elf than orc despite their parentage, and the Vidthursar were always happy to accept them if they wished to leave the mountain. But truly, their bruised skin was the least of it. The Vidthursar claimed far more Elvish blood, their rough Orcish features softened, their muscles leaner and their bones lighter. They believed themselves closer to redemption. Just a generation or two more of half-blood children from the end of their exile and their return to the elves.

Bolthorn had long suspected such a reunion between elves and orcs would never happen. And even if the Vidthursar were welcomed home, the Hrimthursar would still be left upon the mountain, sneered at for their brutish appearance. As if the color of their skin and the shape of their bodies had anything to do with their hearts, their honor, or their very spirits.

Outside the Gothi’s hut, he paused, listening for movements within. He did not wish to wake them. He did not wish to reveal himself to the Gothi at all, if he could help it, but every moment spent in hesitation was one Arianna spent waiting in the snow.

More orcs were stirring, adding wood to their fires and readying for their days. It would not be long before the first hunters left to check their snares. How much longer before they found the tracks he had left, and Arianna at the spring? No. He would have to risk it. No doubt Vanadis already knew he lived. It would make less sense if he did not come here asking after his wife.

He bared his tusks and brushed the heavy hides aside, ducking inside.

The Gythja saw him first, her eyes going wide. The log in her hands slipped, thudding to the ground at her feet. “Bolthorn!”

“Menja.”

The Gothi turned at the sound of his voice, then rose, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. “Hrim-Gothi! But we had heard you were dead!”

“Let us hope every grim rumor proves as false.” Bolthorn said, forcing back a growl. The Gothi would explain himself and his decision to send Arianna to Tiveden against her will, but he had not the time now. “I would speak to the Gythja.”

“Of course, Hrim-Gothi,” Menja said, casting her husband a hard look. “Perhaps a walk to the shrine?”

Bolthorn swept the hides back. “Lead on.”

He diverted her quickly from the shrine at the heart of the village to the forest surrounding it, glancing once over his shoulder to see if others had noticed. Menja merely raised her eyebrows, but she did not argue, nor speak at all until they reached the trees.

“Bolvarr must have reached you,” she said then, after they had left the hearing of the villagers. “I worried he had not made it up the mountain.”

“Bolvarr knows the track well, even if he is better served climbing trees than rock. You need not have feared for him.” He set off toward the spring, following his own trail. “I come to beg a favor, Gythja. Will you keep what I must ask of you from your husband?”

“For what my husband has done, it is the least I can grant you. He has much to answer for, as does the council, and I mean to see that he will.”

Bolthorn nodded. It was not good for the clan to have their leaders so divided. If Menja challenged her husband’s right to rule, a new Gothi would be chosen. All to the good, though enough of the Vidthursar laid claim to Asfarth’s blood that Vanadis would no doubt hold sway, still.

“You serve your clan with honor, Gythja.”

“I only wish I might have served your wife, Hrim-Gothi. The path the Vala chose upset us all. Am I right to think she is the reason you’ve come?”

“You are not wrong.” He held back a branch, careful not to snap it. “I will not give the Vala excuse to steal my wife from my arms a second time. We have been bonded by blood and body, but it is not enough. I would have every orc who looks upon her know our vows, that there will be no confusion again as to her fate.”

“You come to be marked. But how—?” The Gythja stopped on the other side of the bare trees.

Arianna stood beside the spring, her fingers twined into the brook horse’s mane. Of course she had called to it, and wisely, not knowing who came. Her hand fell at the sight of him, and she smiled, relief coloring even her heartbeat, beside his own.

“You will have my gratitude, Gythja, if you would help us.” Arianna said. “My husband promises me you have a deft and gentle hand.”

“A brook horse!”

“It was a wedding gift from a friend of my great-grandfather’s,” Bolthorn said. No need to name Nykur yet, though the name would change many a mind if it came to that. No orc would argue against the word of the last king. “Once he knew her in Tiveden against her will, he saw her safely back to me. I mean to keep her free, Gythja. It was my vow to her when she helped me to escape and I will not be forsworn by my own people.”

“No orc or elf should ever have tried to take it from her to begin with,” Menja said fiercely. “Not even Vanadis has the right! But did not Bolvarr tell you the rest? It is not just your wife she means to bewitch. She meant to send Arianna back to her people with magic to Persuade them.”

The branch in his hands cracked, then shattered. “Persuade?” He searched Arianna’s face. “She said this in your hearing?”

“That was her word,” she said, her forehead creased. “But of course magic would persuade them—power of that kind is rare, and my people have no defense against it.”

“No, Arianna,” he said slowly, for it was clear she did not understand.

And why should she, not having been raised with Elvish magic, Elvish philosophy and principles. When she had learned the way of the world at Gunnar’s knee. For that man, persuasion had meant nothing more than brute force and cruelty. But among the elves, when applied to magic, it became something else altogether.

“She meant for you to charm them, to strip away their choice and bind them to your will,” he told her, watching the blood drain from her face. She went white as the horse beside her and clutched at Isolfur’s mane. “She meant for you to make them into slaves.”