Honor Among Orcs (Orc Saga) (30 page)

Her eyes narrowed, and she gave him a slanted look. Not quite an argument in and of itself, but an objection to be sure. No, he did not wish to test her, scared stiff and stumbling with exhaustion was no way for the Gothi and his bride to arrive in the village. He laid his hand on her thigh, and she covered it with her own, holding tight. It was forgiveness of a sort, and he was glad of it.

“I did fall once,” he admitted. “In my sixteenth summer. Climbing a sheer cliff as a shortcut home. I broke my leg and three ribs, one piercing my lung, but a Vala found me in time. I have no wish to suffer the same again.”

Her face paled. “I thought the Hrimthursar climbed before they walked.”

“Can’t climb without risking a fall, my father always said. The ones who fall too often don’t live long enough to marry, but most of us fall at least a handful of times.” Heidrek grinned. “Bolvarr was always slipping, as I recall it. Never seen an orc so bruised so often and still survive it.”

“Where did Bolvarr go?” Arianna asked, and by the sound of her voice, Bolthorn thought she was grasping for safer ground. Perhaps he should not have told her about his fall after all, but she must realize he would not risk her. “You said he’d come and gone already.”

“Oh, he crawled up the mountain some nights ago, though he was meant to spend the winter with the Vidthursar, and Bolvarr of all people to make that climb—well, we thought he’d gotten rime-addled like the Gothi.”

Heidrek’s lips twisted apology and Bolthorn nodded for him to go on. The loss of his wits had been open knowledge even before he’d left. A Hrimthursar freezing in the snow could only be explained by some kind of illness. Orcs knew better.

“He met straightaway with the council for, oh, half the night at least. When he came out, everyone looked grim. They sent us looking for your body, then, Gothi, and Bolvarr took some men to open the passage we spent all that time sealing, though the council didn’t seem all that happy about it. They stopped arguing about whether or not you’d defied the Ancestors after that, said you’d had a true bond with the girl—I mean, with you, Gythja. And I can see as how you’re both marked now…”

“Our thoughts laugh together,” Bolthorn told him. “I could not turn my back on such a gift, nor should the Vala have asked it of me.”

Heidrek’s eyes widened and he studied Arianna even more closely, then. Her lips twitched and she pushed back her hood, lifting her chin to show the tattoo beneath her jaw. “Whatever I was once, I’m Hrimthursar now.”

“You are that, Gythja,” Heidrek said. “No question.”

They left Heidrek to his watch the next morning, though this far up the mountain, the sky did not take on the purple of twilight as it had below, remaining dark as ever. Arianna followed close to Bolthorn, stiff and sore from so many nights on the ground. It was colder, too, even with the cloak, and Bolthorn’s skin was so white with rime she did not dare to touch him.

In the summer, it must have been beautiful, for they seemed to have left the shale behind, treading on grasses thick with ice and frozen earth. The clouds floated so near they seemed to kiss the mountain with wisps of fog, milky in the dark. Rock outcroppings dotted the meadow, collecting patches of snow at their roots, and Arianna wondered if it ever melted fully. Then the fog parted ahead of them and she saw the village.

Unlike the Vidthursar, there did not seem to be any method to the arrangement of small round huts and larger longhouses, built of stone and turf. They nestled snugly up the slope of the mountain, fit between the rocks already there or scooped into the earth itself. The stonework was as fine as any she’d seen in Gautar, closely fitted and mortared, if not nearly as spectacular. The Hrimthursar had no towers, no fortified walls beyond pens for their livestock. Shaggy goats and ponies huddled together for warmth inside shelters of the same construction, and children sat with them, bundled in thick hides and heavy wool, glowing orange by their fires.

It was the first time Arianna had ever had cause to think the Hrimthursar might suffer in the cold, for Bolthorn still showed no sign of it. Perhaps the linen shirt he wore had been woven with some magic to keep him warm, like the cloak Fossegrim had given her. Heidrek had been swaddled in leather and fur, too, now that she thought on it.

Bolthorn stopped, giving her time to look, then extended his hand. She glanced at it dubiously, and though his palm held no ice, his fingers were still thick with frost.

He grimaced at her hesitation and cupped his hands over his mouth, blowing and rubbing briskly to warm them for her before offering his hand again. This time, she took it, sure her skin would not stick.

“I should have asked the Vid-Gythja to bring you gloves.”

“I should have thought to ask myself, but the cloak was warm enough below.”

She had learned quickly that cold burned just as painfully as fire, and her fingers were blistering from it, her hands cracked and bleeding at the knuckles. Bolthorn had been amused at first, then appalled, and promised to ask his mother for a healing salve. She wondered how much of his grim silence was for her pain. Too much, probably. He had never wanted her to suffer the cold, even before they had left Gautar, and without Fossegrim’s cloak, she would never have made it this far.

What kind of Hrim-Gythja would she be if she could not stand the freezing, sunless winters of the mountain? She grimaced at the thought, forcing it aside. The Vid-Gythja had believed she would make a strong leader and Bolthorn did too, fear of heights, cracked skin, and all. Now was not the time to doubt it, meeting his people for the first time.

Bolthorn exhaled heavily, his breath a puff of white, and together, they continued toward the village. It was not long before one of the children saw them and raced off shouting things she didn’t understand. Bolthorn’s fingers tightened around hers, warm still, and by the time they reached the first of the huts, Hrimthursar had begun to gather outside their doors, eyes gleaming and glowing in the dark.

“Who comes?” a male voice called from somewhere farther up the slope.

“Bolthorn!” he called back, pausing between the lowest two buildings.

There was another cry, and a female orc stepped out from the shadow of her hut, then stopped short. Arianna felt her searching gaze and straightened, pushing the hood back from her face to show the marks on her forehead and cheek. She could not make out the tattoos of those around them in the poor light, but she knew the Hrimthursar could see hers easily enough.

“And who travels with you?” the male voice called again.

Bolthorn snorted, and she could feel the tension in his body leaking into hers. His hand held hers so tightly she feared she would have bruises atop her blisters. “I bring my wife, Arianna, late Princess of Gautar and now Hrimthursar. Will you welcome us home, or is your Gothi to be treated as a stranger among his own people?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Well?” Bolthorn demanded into the silence that followed. He would not show them weakness, nor would he be shamed by their foolishness. The Gothi should behave with honor in all things, and he had done so in searching for Arianna. The Ancestors had known it, and his people would too.

Shuffled feet, eyes slipping away from his. He grunted, allowing his gaze to linger longest on the elders who suddenly found the snow and dirt more important than their Gothi’s return. He did not see his mother among those watching.

“Hyndla,” he called softly. They had been friends since childhood, the daughter his mother had not had. He had heard her cry earlier, though he did not know why she had held herself back from greeting him.

Hyndla hesitated another moment, then took a step forward. She did not speak, and her eyes remained on Arianna at his side.

“Hyndla, please tell Eistla I am come home.” Hyndla nodded, her lips twisting, and left at once.

Arianna’s hand tightened around his, her fingers cold. He released her that she might warm it in the cloak, and placed his hand at the small of her back instead, guiding her up the mountain toward his own hut.

When he spoke again, it was for the benefit of all the Hrimthursar who still stood silent. “My mother will not forget her duty, even if the rest of this village has. I hope you will forgive me, Arianna. The Hrimthursar do not usually behave so dishonorably.”

Princess that she was, Arianna did not turn her gaze from the orcs around them, forcing each who stared to meet her eyes as they passed. “I am sure it is only shock,” she said. “When I realized you lived after believing you dead for so long, I did not remember my voice either.”

Bolthorn smiled. Very gracious. Even when they slighted her, she offered them peace. How could they not see her strength already? “Then we will wait for them to find their tongues in my hut. Perhaps this time I need not whisper to the blackrock to build our fire.”

She gave him a sidelong look, her lips twitching. “Perhaps this time you will not need my hair for kindling to persuade it into burning.”

He let himself laugh, though it did nothing to ease his tension as they climbed the mountain slope. It would be at the Gothi’s hut, he decided, watching the elders gather before it. The hut commanded a view of the rest of the village, above all but the shrine to the Ancestors, to remind the Gothi of his place as their servant. Claiming it again as his own when they had refused to acknowledge him was sure to rile them, but he would not show his concern. The place was his. He had earned it time and again, leading his people with courage and honor. If they no longer wanted him, let them come to him in the same way—with courage and honor and honesty.

“This way, Princess,” he said, when she seemed to slow. He pointed to the hut, large and round and built into the mountain itself with a turf roof, whitened with snow, and a redwood door carved and burned with the markings of his clan and bloodline. “All the way up.”

The other Hrimthursar were following. He did not have to look to know it. Arianna glanced at him again, and he felt her uneasiness, but her face showed nothing but serenity. Of course, at Gunnar’s knee she would have learned to train her expression, but it twisted his heart to know she must use those skills among his people.

And when Gymir, one of the elders, stepped in his way, Bolthorn growled. The orc stepped back, eyes wide, then straightened again. Too late to hide his weakness.

“This is the Gothi’s hut,” Gymir said.

“And I am the Gothi,” Bolthorn replied, the hand at Arianna’s back becoming a fist in her cloak. “No smoke rises from the roof. Had you chosen another in my absence, there would be some sign long before now. Or will you refuse us even a bed to sleep upon? Do you mean to send us into exile, Gymir?”

The orc’s face paled, but he did not soften. “The council has not chosen a new Gothi yet. The hut belongs to no one.”

“If the council wishes me removed, they have the right to call the vote, and I the right to defend myself, but until that time, this is my rightful place. Unless you mean to abandon the ways of our people? If so, I would call it to question before all the Hrimthursar. That is not a decision even the council of elders has the right to make alone.”

Gymir scowled, but his gaze shifted over Bolthorn’s shoulder. Too many Hrimthursar stood behind him. Too many Hrimthursar, who, though they might be unhappy with their Gothi, would not support the elder in this. Tradition was important to the clan. It was why they did not trust his bond to Arianna, why they had fought him at every turn when he called for peace with the humans. But he had treated them fairly, brought every change to vote, spread word of what was done to each of the four villages who looked to him, that they might question him. And he had always respected the old ways, even when he altered them.

Bolthorn brushed past the older orc, keeping Arianna before him. “If any others wish to speak with us, we will be melting the rime from our skin.”

Then he pushed open the door and led Arianna inside.

It was the first door she had seen since she’d left the mountain stronghold of the Vala, made of wood much finer than anything in Gautar. She recognized the symbols from the marks on Bolthorn’s face and now her own. Clan first, and she had to close her hands into fists to keep from reaching out to trace it, and then bloodline. She lacked the latter, though the marks of their bonding said enough. She was part of Bolthorn’s bloodline now, just as she was Hrimthursar, and their child would bear the proper marks for both.

Bolthorn shut the door firmly behind them, though it did little to help the cold. A bucket of blackrock waited by the hearth in the center of the room, and dry turf for kindling. Bolthorn went to it at once, his expression falling into grim lines. Sparks flared from the flint and steel in his hands, catching quickly, and he fed the blackrock into the fire as if their lives depended upon it.

The hut held little else inside. A proper bed, strung with rope to support a thick mattress that looked too soft to be filled with straw, covered with furs. A chest of drawers not unlike Fossegrim’s, and several cook pots, knives, and spoons. A bundle at the foot of the bed drew her eye, but she could not tell what was inside it. Not far from the door, a heap of woven mats waited with a few stools. Nothing more.

“Come,” he said, glancing up at her once he was satisfied with his work. “Warm your hands. I’ll fetch water. If nothing else we can have warmed and softened goat meat, rather than frozen and hard as stone.”

The fire was hot enough that the coat of ice on his skin cracked, and he rose. She brushed a large chunk from his shoulder, but he caught her hand and kissed it before she could knock any more of the rime from his body. “You need warmth,” he said softly. “Not more cold against your skin.”

“If only the clan marks had thickened my hide,” she said, offering a smile. “If your people believe I am weak—”

“My people shamed themselves today. You must believe me that this is not our way. We are not a cold people, for all we live half our lives in winter. Vanadis has sewn her rot here, that is all, and I will see it burned away. The Hrimthursar will not serve her.”

She stroked his cheek, warmed now with his own heat. “If I judge your people at all, it is by the example you have set. By the honor and courage in your heart.”

“I only hope they will remember the feel of it in their own breasts. If it were not for Vanadis—” Bolthorn gathered her into his arms, burying his face in her hair. “If it were not for you, I am not certain I would have the strength to fight this, Arianna.”

“The orc who did not flinch before King Gunnar would have found the will, even if he thought his strength unequal to the challenge.” She combed the stray bits of ice from his black hair with her fingers, ignoring the sting of her cracked skin. There were more important things now, and what his people had done today had cut him more deeply than the cold had bit her. She felt the hurt of it in her heart. “You serve, Bolthorn. The Ancestors and your people. You would have found the strength required.”

He lifted his head, tracing the mark beneath her jaw with his fingertip, so light it tickled, sparking another kind of heat beneath her skin. “Who taught you such faith, Princess?”

She smiled, glad to see the warmth in his eyes replace the pain in his heart. “It must have been you, husband.”

“Hm.” But his smile faded before it formed and the tension returned, his gaze sliding to the door. He sighed, releasing her. “Hyndla and my mother come, with another. I fear it will be dried goat this night, after all. At least Heidrek was kind enough to share his mead. Offer them nothing.”

“I would not offend your mother, Bolthorn,” she objected. “We have little, I know, but surely—”

His lips twitched. “It is the honor of those who call upon the Gothi to offer him food and drink. We begin as we mean to go on.”

“Oh.” She unpinned the cloak, warm enough at last to remove it. Nor did she want his mother to think she could not stand the cold. “You might have said as much.”

He chuckled softly, though she did not think his good humor more than show. “And so I have.”

A knock sounded on the thick wood and Bolthorn answered it. She could not see through his shoulders to the orc women on the other side of it, but the lightness left Bolthorn’s voice before he had even greeted them, his body stiffening and his heart lurching faster beside her own.

“Vanadis,” he growled.

Arianna froze, her hands stretched over the heat of the fire, and Bolthorn shifted just enough to reveal the elf in his doorway. Her fingers curled into fists. How the witch had beaten them up the mountain, she did not know, but it was an ill wind that brought her so far, so fast.

“Good evening, Bolthorn.” Vanadis smiled with false warmth, her eyes finding Arianna behind him. They narrowed just slightly and Bolthorn moved, blocking the door completely once more. “I hope you’ll forgive my intrusion, but I thought to give your mother my condolences for the loss of her sons.”

“As you see,” Bolthorn’s voice was low, the words thick with fury. “I live.”

“And we are all much relieved by the news,” Vanadis said. “But I fear your brother Bolvarr was not so fortunate.”

Bolthorn kept his fisted hands at his sides, but only barely. Bolvarr! It could not be so. She had been wrong—perhaps even lied—about his own life. He would not believe that Bolvarr was gone until he saw his brother’s body.

“Where is he?” he demanded. “What have you done to him?”

Vanadis’s eyes widened with innocence. “I would not harm any orc, Bolthorn.”

“No,” he sneered. “You would only lead them to their death with your silver tongue.”

“Bolthorn!” His mother’s hand pressed against his chest, pushing him back. “Control yourself,” she hissed.

His jaw tightened, but he nodded, his gaze flicking over the mountain slope below. Others watched, listened. If he gave them further reason to question him, it would only cause more grief. He took a step back, then another, allowing them inside.

“Princess,” Vanadis said, her surprise as false as her warmth. “The cold has not been kind to you, my dear. You see now, perhaps, why I feared for you. Just look at your hands and your cheeks. How you escaped frostbite only the Ancestors know.”