[Queen of Orcs 01] - King's Property (5 page)

After Loral banked the embers in the cooking pit, she led Dar to the women’s tent. Its floor was covered with straw and bodies. Although it was only a little past dusk, all the women there were asleep. Loral and Dar carefully picked their way through the crowded gloom to a space large enough to lie down. Though Dar’s cloak was still damp from washing and covered with muddy footprints, she was too exhausted to care. She wrapped it around her and sank down on the trampled straw.

Loral touched her shoulder. “Share my cloak,” she whispered. “Yours is wet.”

Dar cast her damp cloak aside to be enveloped by Loral’s dry one. She felt Loral’s bulging belly briefly press against her back and recalled lying next to her pregnant mother. It was the last of her happy memories. After Dar’s older brothers died in an avalanche, her father had become obsessed with replacing his male heirs. Only when Dar’s mother conceived again had peace returned. Yet what came afterward convinced Dar that her mother hadn’t swelled with life, but with death instead. Dar shuddered, reliving the bloody night it had burst forth. She pressed her back against Loral, wishing her a better fortune.

It was still dark when Neffa entered the tent. “Up!” she shouted. “Up! Up! Where’s Memni? Is Memni here?”

“She’s with Faus,” answered a sleepy voice.

“Taren, then,” said Neffa. “I doubt
she’s
tupping. Taren!”

“Here,” answered a voice.

“Show the new girl how to make porridge,” said Neffa. “Rise, girls. The Queen’s Man is back. The men will be up early.”

The women slept in their clothes, so dressing consisted of little more than slipping on shoes. Lacking these, Dar was one of the first out of the tent. A woman emerged soon afterward, spotted Dar, and stopped. “Scabhead, you know how to make porridge?”

“Of course,” said Dar.

“Have you made it for a hundred?”

“Only for five.”

“Well, there’s a big difference,” said the woman, who Dar assumed was Taren. Her appearance was the opposite of Loral’s; she was bony, with a sharp, pockmarked face, and long dirty-blond hair, which was plaited into a single, greasy braid. She bore the same worn and hardened look as Neffa, which made it difficult for Dar to judge her age. “Come on, scabby,” she said. “I’ll show you how it’s done.”

“My name’s Dar.”

“So? You’re still a scabhead.”

Taren led Dar over to the fire pit. “First, you roast the grain over embers. You know how to do that?”

“Of course.”

“Then light a fire. I’ll get the grain.”

By the time Dar had a fire going, Taren appeared, struggling with a heavy sack of grain. Dar went over to help her. “Do we always rise before dawn?”

“When you tup a soldier, you get to sleep in.”

“Neffa allows that?”

“She has no choice. If she stuck her nose in a man’s tent, he’d whack it off.”

“Well, I’m used to rising early,” said Dar.

“You’ll get to sleep in,” said Taren. “Men will choose you.”

The bitterness in Taren’s voice surprised Dar. Then she regarded the woman’s ragged clothes and shoeless feet. They made her recall Loral’s remark about needing men’s generosity.
Taren’s seen little of that
.

When Dar’s fire burned down to embers, she and Taren placed a large kettle upon it. Roasting grain for a hundred turned out to be little different from doing it for five, except it was harder work. The mass of kernels had to be stirred constantly to keep from scorching. As she had in the dark highland hut, Dar judged when the roasting was done by smell rather than sight. When the grain had a toasted aroma, she pulled the kettle from the embers and Taren gave her a large wooden pestle to pound the grain in preparation for making porridge.

By then, the sky had lightened. Disheveled, sleepy-eyed women left the soldiers’ tents and went straight to work. Memni approached. “Is that grain ready to cook?”

“Almost,” said Dar.

“I’ll get the water,” said Memni, grabbing a pair of buckets.

Taren came over after Memni left. “You two friends?”

“We served porridge to the orcs together.”

“If you whore about like she does, you’ll serve every night. Neffa’s not blind.”

Before Dar could speak, Taren walked away. Memni returned shortly afterward. “Build up the fire,” she said, “while I mix in the water.”

Dar piled wood on the embers as Memni added water to turn the toasted and pulverized grain into a viscous paste. Then the two women dragged the kettle back over the flames. “Dar, would you stir?” asked Memni. “I’m beat. Sometimes I think Faus sleeps all day just so he can tup all night.”

“And you submit to that for a handful of
roots
?”

“He gives me other things as well.”

“Like those bruises?”

“They’re not his fault; I shouldn’t make him mad. Faus
loves
me.”

Dar was about to reply, but changed her mind.
Her nights are probably easier if she thinks he loves her.

The sun rose to the shouts of murdants rousing the men. Soon, soldiers carrying wooden bowls began to cluster about the cooking tent, waiting to be fed. Dar’s job was to ladle out the porridge. She had served the orcs during the soldiers’ evening meal, so this was her first encounter with most of the regiment’s men. Though she expected crudeness, she was unprepared to be the focus of it. Word had spread that there was a “fresh birdie,” and the men were eager for a look. Some didn’t confine themselves to looking and made free with their hands. Even more were free with their tongues. Their frank appraisals of Dar’s looks and whether she was “worth tupping” were made as if she were deaf or, at least, unfeeling.

Dar tried to ignore the comments and fend off the advances as best she could. They roused a mixture of anger and humiliation that showed on her face. That only increased the attention she received. Soon, she felt like a wounded animal harried by a flock of ravens. Finally, when one man grabbed her breast as she was serving him, she snapped and threw porridge in his face.

A soldier laughed. “Well, Varf, it seems that birdie pecks.”

Varf’s hand shot out and seized Dar’s wrist so firmly she gasped. He pulled it upward while squeezing until she dropped the ladle. After it hit the ground, the soldier drew his knife and moved the blade toward Dar’s face. “Let’s see how well she pecks without a beak.”

A hand gripped Varf’s shoulder. “The girl was clumsy,” said a steely voice. “I’m sure she’s sorry. Aren’t you, scabby?”

Before Dar could mumble “yes,” Varf put his knife away. “I was just teasing, Murdant,” he said.

The man who had intervened was older and harder-looking than the other soldiers. His leathery, sun-darkened face made his pale blue eyes seem more piercing. Those eyes fixed on Dar, but they didn’t rove over her body. “Serve the man,” the murdant said, “and this time mind you get it in his bowl.”

Dar picked up the ladle and wiped it on her shift before serving Varf. Her hand shook so violently, she feared missing the bowl. Varf scowled, but the murdant’s presence seemed to temper his anger.

“All right!” said the murdant in a loud voice. “Stop gaping and eat up. The lazy days are over. The Queen’s Man has issued orders. I want all the murdants to report to me.” He turned to Dar. “You’re new. What’s your name?”

“Dar.”

“Well, Dar, watch where you serve the porridge from now on. The men will have their fun, and it’s not wise to rile them.”

“Yes, Murdant.”

The murdant stepped away, then turned, as if seized by an afterthought. “Come to the Queen’s Man’s compound when you’re done here. There’s some work for you. Ask for me, Murdant Kol.”

Dar finished serving. After the porridge-throwing incident, the soldiers were less free with their hands, and their comments were more subdued. From the way the other women regarded her, Dar suspected some regretted that Varf hadn’t carried out his threat. She recalled the enraged look in his eyes and felt certain he hadn’t been teasing. She touched her nose and silently thanked Murdant Kol that it was still there.

After the soldiers departed, the women grabbed hurried meals before beginning the next round of chores. Dar headed for the Queen’s Man’s compound. It lay at the edge of the encampment, for the general who commanded the regiment’s orcish and human soldiers stayed apart from both. His compound reflected his high rank. The tents there were large and finely made. Each was sewn together and fitted over a frame so it resembled a cloth house with vertical walls and a pyramidal roof. Dar guessed the largest one belonged to the Queen’s Man. As she approached it, a soldier barred her way.

“What are ye doin’ here?”

“Murdant Kol told me to come. He said there was some work.”

“Wait here. He’s busy with the murdants.”

As Dar waited, she thought she heard Murdant Kol’s voice coming through the wall of a nearby tent. “…all shieldrons must be at the assembly point by the end of this moon. Take it easy; the Queen’s Man wants the orcs rested for the campaign. Murdant Teeg, you’ll have…”

“So birdie,” said the soldier, “what does Kol want of ye?”

“I don’t know.”

The soldier grinned. “Can’t ye guess?”

When Dar blushed, the soldier’s grin broadened.

Dar’s inquisition was interrupted when a group of men emerged from the closest tent. Dar recognized Murdant Teeg among them. Murdant Kol strode out last, with the assurance of a man with authority. He glanced in Dar’s direction and smiled. “There are some hares in the cook tent,” he said. “The officers got them hawking and want their pelts for helmet liners. You’ll skin them and scrape their hides for tanning.”

“I’ll have to soak the hides for at least a day before scraping them,” said Dar.

“A day is all you’ll have,” said Kol. “We’ll be breaking camp day after tomorrow.”

“Then I’ll be sure to finish them by then.”

“Good,” said Kol. He led Dar to the tent where food was prepared for the officers. It was much smaller and better made than the one Dar worked in, featuring sides that could be rolled down in bad weather and a vent to let smoke out yet keep rain from entering. Two branded women were there, one tending the fires and the other pounding grain. Three men were preparing a meal. Kol addressed one of them. “Dar, here, will be skinning the hares. Give her a liver for her trouble.”

Murdant Kol left, and Dar began to work. There were seven hares and she took extra care skinning and dressing them. When she was done, a cook took the carcasses. Dar reminded him that Murdant Kol had said she could have a liver. Irritation crossed the man’s face, but he handed Dar one. “Take it, birdie, but don’t cook it here.”

Dar cupped the morsel in her hand and carried the pelts to the river. There, she waded out to a submerged boulder, spread the pelts on it, and weighted them down with rocks. That done, Dar skewered the liver on a stick and headed for the fire pit. It was crowded with women busy preparing another meal. Dar halted, imagining their reaction if she roasted her reward while they worked. Dar moved out of the women’s sight, then removed the liver from the stick and ate it raw.

Dar was wiping her bloody fingers on the grass when she noticed Murdant Kol watching her. He sauntered over. “You’re a fierce one,” he said. “No wonder you rile the men.” Kol eyed Dar’s body as if he were judging a horse. Dar tensed under his scrutiny and Kol acknowledged her reaction by smiling. “Yes,” he said. “I’m certain of it—your face looks better with a nose.”

Dar frowned but did not reply.

“You show too much spirit,” said Kol. “It causes trouble.”

“So?”

Kol shook his head. “With that attitude you won’t last long.”

“So I should become a whore? I’d sooner die.”

“You need do neither. Just don’t provoke the men.”

“And let them abuse me?”

“If they try, tell them you’re my woman. They’ll stop.”

Dar stiffened. “
Your
woman?”

“Yes.”

“So you’re claiming me, as if I were plunder.”

“No,” replied Kol. “I’m offering my protection.”

“Why?”

“Out of kindness,” replied Kol. He smiled. “Is that so surprising?”

Dar thought it was. She studied Murdant Kol’s face, trying to divine the reason for his smile, but his pale eyes offered no hint.

Six