[Queen of Orcs 01] - King's Property (13 page)

“How long have you had them?” asked Dar.

“Since this morning,” said Loral.

“And you’ve been walking all this time?” asked Dar.

“They’re not going to stop the march for a woman,” said Loral.

“Can you hold out a little longer?” asked Taren. “We’ll probably be haltin’ soon.”

“I don’t know,” said Loral. “I’ll try.”

Taren regarded the others. “Who of you knows ’bout birthin’ babes?”

No one answered.

“Come on, all of you had mothers,” said Taren. “Did you ever see her give birth?”

Both Neena and Kari shook their heads.

“How about you, Dar?” asked Taren.

Dar didn’t want to say in front of Loral that she had watched her mother die. “It was a long time ago.”

“Then you’re the closest thing we’ve got to a Wise Woman, here. You’ll have to do.”

“But I won’t be any help,” said Dar.

“At least you can stay with her if she gets left behind. She shouldn’t be alone.”

“Yes, I can do that,” said Dar, fervently hoping it wouldn’t be necessary.

“Come with me,” said Taren. “I want to show you something.” She led Dar to the supply wagon and pulled out a kettle the size of a bucket. Packed inside were a flint and iron, the cloth Taren had torn from the serving robe, two full water skins, and a loaf of bread. The bread, which had been baked on the tolum’s orders, was burned and nearly flat. At the time, Dar had taken vindictive satisfaction at the failure of their baking. The prospect of eating that same bread was less pleasing. “If Loral’s time comes while we’re marchin’, take this kettle.”

“I see you’ve planned in advance,” said Dar. “Why don’t you stay with Loral?”

“Because I’ve never watched a birth. At least you’ve done that.” Taren scanned the desolate countryside. “What a Karm-forsaken place to have a babe. Let’s hope it doesn’t happen here.”

“Yes,” said Dar.

“If it does, move away from the road and hide your fire.”

“I will.”

“If it goes poorly, and you come back alone, burn the brand from her forehead first. That way, no bounty taker will disturb her body.” Taren sighed. “That’s all the advice I can give.”

Dar and Taren rejoined Loral and the others. They had walked but a little farther when clear liquid suddenly flowed down Loral’s thighs. Loral halted, staring at her dripping legs with consternation. “Dar! What’s happening?”

“It’s time to leave the road,” said Dar. She grabbed the kettle Taren had packed from the wagon, then took Loral’s hand. “Come.”

Loral’s eyes widened with panic. “No! I can’t do it!”

“Yes, you can,” said Dar.

Loral burst out sobbing as Dar led her into the damp, waist-high heather. The soldiers kept marching, ignoring the two women. Dar and Loral moved slowly, for there was no path and Loral’s pains forced frequent stops. The terrain undulated, and the low parts were boggy. Skirting the damp areas, Dar headed for a clump of scrubby trees far from the road. They were in leaf and promised some shelter if it rained again. After what seemed forever, the two finally reached the trees. Dar pulled up bracken, shook it as dry as she could, and laid it by the largest tree trunk. Then she turned to Loral. “Lie down here.”

Loral lay on the makeshift bedding. “What’s going to happen, Dar?”

“Your baby’s coming out.”

“Don’t I have to do something?”

“I don’t think so,” said Dar. “The baby does it on its own.”

“How? How can a baby get through my womb-pipe?”

“I don’t know. It just does.”

“But it hurts. It hurts a lot.”

“Yes,” said Dar. “It hurt my mother, too.” Dar glanced at the sky. “I should gather firewood before it gets dark. Will you be all right?”

“Don’t go!”

“I’m not going far. You’ll want a fire later.”

Loral pleaded further, but Dar ignored her and left. As she headed for some dead trees deeper into the heath, she felt relieved to get away and guilty that she had those feelings. When Dar reached the top of a slight rise, she saw the trees were standing in water, their trunks and branches silver gray against the bog that had killed them. Dar descended the rise and waded into the black pond. “Oh well,” she said to herself, “at least the wood will be dry.”

Dar pulled off branches and carried them to dry ground. After she had broken off all the branches she could reach, she took an armload back to the campsite. Loral sat against the tree, her face a mask of pain and fear. Dar dropped the wood and rushed to her side. Loral grabbed her hand and squeezed it so tightly that Dar’s bones ached. Gradually, Loral relaxed her grip. Her face relaxed also. “When will this end?” she asked.

“Soon, I hope.”

It did not end soon. Dar tried to get the remaining firewood during the intervals between Loral’s birthing pains and was forced to run as the intervals grew shorter. By the time Dar had a fire lit, the pains were coming frequently. It grew dark. Though the pains continued and grew more intense, nothing else happened. Dar felt completely useless.

As the night wore on, Loral broke into a sweat, though the air was chilly. She moaned, “Oh my back!” She hiked up her shift and assumed a squatting position. Blood trickled from between her legs.

“What are you doing?” asked Dar.

Loral glared at her irritably. “I’m trying to get comfortable.” She grimaced and her face turned red.

“Loral…”

“I’m pushing. I need to push!”

“Push what?”

“Will you shut up? Go away!”

Dar remained. She hoped that Loral’s urge to push was a sign that something was about to happen. Nothing did. The urge to push continued to come at regular intervals. Though Loral strained with each effort, as far as Dar could see, the only result was to spend her strength.

As time passed, Loral’s legs trembled, and her eyes grew wild. Loral’s moans took on a sharper note. She had hiked her shift above her waist, and the space between her legs began to part. A bulge of dark, wet hair appeared. A moment passed, and the bulge became a hemisphere and then a little head. Shoulders came next. Dar cradled the head as the wet body followed, dark in the firelight.

Dar had forgotten there would be a cord attached to the child’s belly. For a moment, she didn’t know what to do. Dar held the baby, not wanting to tug at the cord. Finally, she recalled that someone—she had forgotten who—had cut the cord when her mother had given birth. Lacking a knife, Dar grabbed the flint Taren had given her. It had no sharp edge, and she was reduced to gnawing the cord until it parted. Blood poured from the severed end. Dar briefly panicked, then tied a knot in the cord.

Though the baby was born, Loral wasn’t yet finished. After a little more effort, a strange object emerged. It was attached to the other end of the cord and resembled a piece of raw liver. Dar had no idea what it was. With its appearance, Loral relaxed and lay back on her weedy bed. “Is it a boy or a girl?” she asked.

Dar looked. “A girl.”

Loral seemed disappointed, but she said, “Let me hold her.”

Dar used the scrap of cloth to wipe the child clean before placing her in Loral’s arms. The tiny girl seemed to stare at her mother. Loral gently touched her little face, then burst out crying. “What’s going to happen to her?” she said between sobs. “What’s going to happen to me?”

Dar was wise enough not to venture an answer.

Fifteen

Dar did what she could to make Loral comfortable. She cleaned her, gave her the baby to nurse, and wrapped mother and child in her own cloak. Then she built up the fire with the remainder of the wood. When she finished, Dar lay against Loral on the side away from the fire. Soon, both women were asleep.

Loral’s shivering woke Dar when there was only a faint glow in the eastern sky. “Are you all right?”

“I’m c-cold,” said Loral in a groggy voice.

Dar got up. The fire had died to embers. She pushed the unburned ends of the branches together and blew on them. A yellow flame appeared. Then she uprooted some heather and tossed it on the flame. The fire flared up. “Is that better?”

“I’m still cold and wet.”

In the firelight, Loral’s lips looked dark. Dar bent over to stroke Loral’s brow. It was clammy. “You’ve been lying on damp ground,” Dar said. “It’s dry closer to the fire.”

Loral said nothing; she simply stared at Dar, looking confused. Dar took matters into her own hands and dragged Loral to drier ground. The place where Loral had lain appeared black in the dim light, like a permanent shadow. Dar touched the large, dark spot and drew back her fingers.
Blood!
Loral had been lying in a pool of it.

The discovery plunged Dar into despair.
She’s been bleeding half the night.
Judging by the quantity of blood, she guessed that Loral was dying and wondered if Loral had guessed it, also.
Should I tell her?
Dar couldn’t bring herself to say the words. “Loral.”

“What?” said Loral, her voice as distant as a sleeper’s.

“I’ll take care of your baby.”

A faint smile came to Loral’s dark lips. “Thanks.”

“Do you have a name for her?”

“Frey.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

Loral said something that Dar couldn’t understand, then closed her eyes. For a moment, Dar thought Loral had died, but she still breathed. Dar lifted the cloak and took Frey from her. The infant woke and began to cry. Dar tore the neck of her shift until she could slip the baby down its front and guide her to a breast. The child began to suck and calmed down. “I’m nursing you with empty breasts while I watch your mother die,” Dar whispered to her. “What good am I?”

Light came to a gray sky, revealing that Loral’s dark lips were a shade of blue. They contrasted with skin that was almost white. Loral’s breathing was barely perceptible. By the time the sun rose, it had ceased altogether.

With a brand from the fire, Dar burned away the scar that had marked Loral as the king’s property. Dar took back her bloodstained cloak, for she needed it too much to leave it behind. She covered Loral’s ruined forehead with sprigs of heather, then arranged her corpse so she looked peaceful and dignified. That was the best Dar could do; she had no means to bury her friend, nor were there stones to build a cairn.

Dar held Frey so she might view her mother. “She gave you life,” Dar said to the fussing baby, “though she bought it with her own.”

Dar returned Frey to the warmth of her shift and sat down to eat some bread, soaking it in water so it was chewable. She briefly considered remaining to lead a solitary and feral life.
A baby wouldn’t last long in the wild
, thought Dar.
Returning to the regiment at least gives her a chance.
Though that chance seemed a slim one, Dar felt compelled to do whatever she could.

Tired as she was, Dar knew she must hurry to catch up with the soldiers.
They’re probably already on the march.
Dar wrapped a strip of rag around her head to hide her brand from anyone she encountered. Then she grabbed the pot and its contents, donned her cloak, and headed for the road, carrying Frey beneath her torn shift.

The road snaked through the empty landscape, bearing the marks of the army’s passing. Dar walked as quickly as she could; yet it was mid morning before she came upon the remains of the previous night’s encampment. By then, she was concerned about Frey, for she doubted Loral had been able to nurse her. Dar poured water into the kettle, wetted a finger, and pushed it into the infant’s mouth. The child sucked it vigorously. “You’re thirsty, aren’t you?” said Dar. She continued to give the baby water, one drop at a time.

With her attention focused on Frey, Dar didn’t notice the man walking on the road until he was fairly close. She was alarmed to note that, despite being dressed as a peasant, he carried a sword. Dar slipped into the heather, crouched down, and retreated into the tangled brush. She hid twenty paces from the road and waited for the man to pass. With hearing heightened by fear, she listened to his footsteps. They grew louder, then stopped.

“I saw you,” called a voice. “What cause have you to hide?”

Dar remained silent and still. She heard the sound of someone moving in the heather.

“I mean no harm,” said the voice. “Perhaps I can help you.”

Frey began to cry. Dar was trying to calm her when a man bearing a small knapsack stepped before her. His weather-stained clothes were ragged, and his bearded face was as grim as any soldier’s. He smiled at Dar, but the smile didn’t reach his wolfish eyes, and she noticed his hand gripped his sword hilt.

“You look worse for your journey,” he said, taking in Dar’s muck-blackened legs and feet. “Where are you headed?”

“That’s my own business,” said Dar, rising.

“And so it is. I never claimed otherwise.” The man gazed at the lump in Dar’s shift. “You got a babe in there?” He stepped closer. “Can I see? I’m fond of babes.”

Dar glanced down at Frey. As she did, the man tore the rag from her head. He grinned when he saw her brand. “That’s worth five silvers.”

The stranger seized the top of Dar’s shift as he drew his sword. Dar swung the kettle, striking the man’s forehead. He moaned, wobbled, and released her. She swung again, this time with such force that the kettle’s handle snapped. The man pitched face-first into a bush. Dar grabbed his sword, then turned him over. His eyes stared blankly beneath the crater in his forehead.