Kovok-mah turned to Dar. “They have said you are mother. Now, will you serve?”
“Hai.”
As Dar dipped the ladle into the kettle, she felt the eyes of the orcs upon her. She wasn’t naive; she knew her victory was a small one. But it’s still a victory.
When Dar returned lugging the empty kettle, she was met by Taren. “What happened with the orcs? Neena was scared out of her wits.”
“What did she say?” asked Dar.
“That you said somethin’ that riled them.” Taren shook her head. “Dar, your tongue stirs up trouble.”
“Not this time.”
“How can you say that? Neena said they almost killed you.”
“They wouldn’t do that. Orcs respect women.”
“I’ve seen them slay plenty,” said Taren. “Maybe they’re fond of their mothers, but they’re not fond of us. If you hang around them long enough, you’re goin’ to get killed.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I do,” said Taren. “You’re scared of men, so you run to the orcs. You’d be safer with your own kind. Murdant Kol’s not so bad.”
“I can’t believe you’re saying that!”
“Maybe you don’t fancy men, but don’t jump from the pot into the fire. If you’re careful, you won’t end up like Loral.”
“Care is useless when others run our lives.”
“So men look to their own wants first,” said Taren. “Why would orcs be any different?”
“I’m sure they’re not,” said Dar. “But they want different things.”
“And what might they be?” asked Taren.
“Not our bodies,” said Dar. She looked thoughtful. “Perhaps it’s our blessing.”
Taren snorted. “You’re daft!”
Fourteen
It was mid morning when the thunderstorm hit, instantly drenching everyone. The road filled with water, but the march continued. Dar scanned the sky. It was uniformly dark, and she guessed it would rain for a long while. The heath they were traveling through offered no shelter. There were only a few stunted trees and no habitations at all. It was easy to see why people shunned the place. Springtime had barely touched it, and the bleak landscape remained a somber brown.
Dar heard heavy footsteps and turned to see Kovok-mah splashing up the road. He slowed when he reached her. “Tava, Dargu.”
“Tava, Kovok-mah.”
“This weather makes us think of washuthahi,” said Kovok-mah, who then turned and rejoined the orcs.
Taren watched him go with a surprised expression. “Well, that’s a first.”
“What’s washuthahi?” asked Dar.
“Those black seeds,” said Taren. “I think that orc was hintin’ they’d fancy some.”
Dar considered Taren’s idea. If orcs believe mothers own the food, they may think it’s improper to ask for it directly. “I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “I’ll give them some.”
Dar jogged up to a wagon and found the box of seeds. She placed some in a bag and waited for the orc column to march up to her. When it did, she gave each orc some washuthahi. Kovok-mah was marching at the column’s rear and when Dar approached him, he slowed his pace so they walked apart from the others.
Dar held out the seeds. “Muth la urat tha saf la.”
Kovok-mah’s large, clawed fingers delicately plucked the small black spheres from Dar’s palm. “Shashav Muth la,” he said. Then he added in a softer voice, “Shashav, Dargu.”
Dar didn’t know what to say next. She looked at the huge orc walking beside her, his frame made even more massive by rusty iron plates, and she thought of how alien he was. An iron helmet hid most of his face, and the portion she saw was unreadable. Yet she knew that she must make some connection. Dar racked her brain for something to say. Eventually, she said, “Mer nav falfli.” I am wet.
Kovok-mah looked at her. “Hai, zar falfi.” Yes, very wet. After a silent moment, he spoke to Dar in her own tongue. “I think we should speak of things other than weather.”
“Hai,” said Dar. “You were angry with me last night. Are you still angry?”
“I do not know washavoki word for how I feel. You are very strange.”
“You are strange to me, also,” said Dar. “Perhaps when I learn your speech, you will be less so.”
“I think not,” said Kovok-mah. He paused. “You spoke wisdom last night. There is difference between woe mans and hairy-faced washavokis.”
“Do the others believe that?”
“They said you are mother.”
“Saying something and believing it are different things.”
“How could that be so?” asked Kovok-mah. “Such speech would have no meaning.”
“People lie all the time.”
“What is ‘lie’?”
“It’s saying something you know is not so.”
“On purpose?” asked Kovok-mah.
“Of course on purpose.”
“Washavokis do this thing?”
The question seemed so naive that Dar thought Kovok-mah was teasing. Yet he wasn’t smiling, and it dawned on her that he was serious. She was so surprised, it took a moment for her to reply. “Why, yes…we lie all the time.”
“Do you do this?”
“I’ve never lied to you,” said Dar, hoping that answer would satisfy him.
Kovok-mah lapsed into silence, as if he needed to ponder what Dar had said. He put one of the washuthahi seeds in his mouth and chewed it. Eager to change the subject, Dar asked him, “What are those seeds for?”
“Washuthahi is very good. It makes warmth.”
Dar reached into the bag and pulled out one of the black, wrinkled spheres. After turning it in her damp fingers and sniffing it, she popped the seed into her mouth and bit down gently. Its shell cracked, releasing a pleasantly spicy flavor that gave the impression of sweetness. “This isn’t bad,” she said. “Do you eat it?”
“Keep in mouth and chew.”
As Dar chewed the seed, its flavor grew more pronounced and was accompanied by a sensation of warmth. The colors around her became more vivid, and the damp air smelled rich and fragrant. The rain no longer bothered her. She grinned broadly at the orc. He curled back his lips in return. “You not washavoki now.”
“Hai. Dargu nak thwa washavoki,” said Dar, showing off her limited Orcish.
The conversation turned to language, and as Dar walked with Kovok-mah, he pointed at things and named them. Dar repeated the words, then Kovok-mah corrected her pronunciation. After a while, he began a new lesson. “We put words together to make new ones. Here is sense of ‘urkzimmuthi.’ ‘Zim’ is child. ‘Urkzim’ is more than one child.”
“We’d say ‘children.’” Dar looked puzzled. “You call yourselves childrenmother?”
“Thwa,” said Kovok-mah. “Muth is mother. “Muthi means…” He paused to think. “…‘of mother.’ We add sound at end of one word to show it speaks about another word.”
“So ‘urkzimmuthi’ means ‘children of mother.’”
“Hai.” Kovok-mah held out a washuthahi seed. “‘Wash’ means ‘teeth.’ ‘Uthahi’ means ‘pretty.’”
Although Dar thought the seed looked somewhat like an orc’s black tooth, she was amused that it was called “teeth-pretty.” She suspected that chewing these seeds had affected her mood, for she felt lighthearted despite the foul weather.
That mood persisted when the lesson was over and Dar headed to rejoin the women. She grinned broadly as she splashed up the road. Taren, Kari, Neena, and Loral didn’t share Dar’s cheerfulness. They looked bedraggled and dispirited as they slogged along. Neena was shocked when Dar smiled at her. “Dar!” she said. “What happened?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“Your teeth are black!” said Neena.
“Let me see,” said Taren. Dar opened her mouth and Taren peered inside. “They’re as black as any orc’s. You must have done something.”
“I chewed a few of those seeds,” said
Dar. She suddenly understood why “washuthahi” meant “teeth-pretty” and laughed.
“I don’t see what’s so funny,” said Neena, “You look awful.”
“Not very kissable,” said Taren, “though I guess that doesn’t bother you.”
“Not in the slightest,” said Dar.
“Ugh!” said Neena. “Why would you eat orc food?”
“Those seeds aren’t food,” said Dar. “They’re something else. A kind of magic.”
“That’s even worse,” said Kari. “Maybe you’ll turn into an orc.”
Dar playfully flashed a broad, black-toothed grin. “Maybe. I should ask about that.” She turned about and headed toward the marching orcs. When she reached Kovok-mah, she curled back her lips in an orcish smile. “Nuk merz wash uthahi?” Are my teeth pretty?
Kovok-mah seemed pleased that Dar had returned. He smiled back. “Therz wash nuk zar uthahi.” Your teeth are very pretty.
“If ‘washuthahi’ means ‘pretty teeth,’ what does ‘washavoki’ mean?” asked Dar.
“‘Avok’ means ‘dog.’”
“So washavokis have the white teeth of dogs?” asked Dar.
Kovok-mah hissed with orcish laughter. “Dargu nak thwa washavoki. Darguz wash nuk uthahi.” Some of the other orcs joined in laughing.
Dar mentally translated. Weasel is not dog-teeth. Weasel’s teeth are pretty. She smiled. Maybe they are, she thought, to an orc.
The rain stopped falling in the afternoon, but the sky remained dark. By then, Dar’s buoyant mood had faded, and she was as tired and miserable as the other women. Loral suddenly gasped. “My pains are worse!”
“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 we
t 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.”
[Queen of Orcs 01] - King's Property Page 9