Chapter 8

Dura

I am bluffing. Of course I am. That would be easy for Marvik to discern if he knew anything about me. Orcs do not kill innocents; there is no glory in taking down weaker prey. But though we have been together for two months,? one of those with him awake and aware, he has done his best to keep his distance. He doesn’t know me and, frustratingly, I do not know him.

Nothing is how I wanted it to be. When my parents met, my mother had the Recognition almost immediately and my father’s Mating Instinct awoke. They instantly became a team with ties thicker than blood. It was them against the world. When my mother’s people rejected her for mating with an orc, her parents not believing she could have an Ash’ka who was not an elf, my father was there to hold her as she wept. And when my father Claimed her and lost his position and prestige as cousin to the king, at the order of his tyrant ruler, my mother stayed with him the entire time, the prize that more than made up for his loss.

Their story is not mine. I have an Ash’ka who disdains me, who willfully ignores the fact that I gave up everything for him. And the worst thing of all is even as much as I resent him now, no matter what I said before in my anger, I still want him. My body still tunes to his, the Recognition pushing me to be constantly aware of him, and my Mating Instinct growls and rages, wanting to be close to him.

But I am not ruled by any instinct. I am a shieldmaiden of Orik. I led armies and crushed enemies. And if I am at war with my Ash’ka , I will win and he will never know how his continued rejection pains me.

Still, I cannot help but think I have made a mistake, a misjudgment, as I see his body language change after my threat. The gulf between us is even larger now, with no hope of shrinking. But I have to keep him with me. If he leaves to seek his revenge, either Rognar will die or . . . Marvik will. Both outcomes are unacceptable, and threatening to harm innocents is the only way I can think of to tie him to me without bonds.

Marvik considers my question, then grudgingly asks, “Where is this cave? In relation to Fort Attis?”

“South,” I reply, crouching down and taking out one of my knives. I draw a rudimentary map in the dirt, a box for Fort Attis, the hills I passed to get here and the cave itself. He crouches down as well and holds his hand out for my knife. I merely frown at him.

After a moment, when it becomes clear I have no intention of giving him a knife again, he shrugs his shoulders and uses his finger to draw in the dirt.

“The edge of the forest is about a full day’s march north of the fort.” He makes a squiggle on the ground, about a hand-span above the box I drew. He makes another box. “This is Kingsbury, one of the larger towns in the South. We should head there to get supplies.”

I shake my head. “We cannot be seen. If there are orcs there and they recognize me . . .”

“What would they do?” Marvik asks curiously. “If they caught you, I mean. I’m an enemy soldier, so I know they would probably kill me or at the least imprison me, but what would they do to you?”

"They would publicly humiliate me, strip me of my titles, and then banish me to the southern deserts with only the clothes on my back and a single knife," I say flatly.

The human merely nods. “That isn’t as bad as Adrik. Under King Yorian's rule, a deserter was drawn and quartered.”

“Drawn . . . and quartered?”

He nods again. “The deserter is held down while ropes are tied to his arms and legs. Then the ropes are attached to horses. When the signal is given, all the horses are set to a gallop, pulling the victim into four pieces. Drawn and quartered, see? ”

I shudder at the mental image. “And the fair races call orcs barbarians.”

“It’s a terrible death, true. Your banishment seems more merciful. At least there is a chance you will survive.”

I do not tell him the sentence in Orik is as good as an execution. A cruel one. No one can survive in the Killikar , the deserts where there is only sand and no food or water. The knife is so that the deserter can take their own life when the thirst and the sun become too much.

Instead, I just say, “I cannot risk being recognized. Any orc that sees me alive will likely know what I am.” Deserter , the word hisses through my mind for the thousandth time. But the longer I have lived with it, the easier the voice is getting to ignore, like a wound scabbing over.

“You can wear my cloak,” Marvik argues, irritatingly reasonable. “You have to admit our current circumstances are not sustainable. Winter will be in what, one month? Two, at best? We have no changes of clothes and one cloak and only what food you can hunt. If you insist on staying in the wilderness to avoid being seen, we at least need to get supplies.”

I hate that he is right. We are living hand to mouth here. I could never leave him for long to hunt, at first because he needed nearly constant healing, and then because I never knew if he was going to figure out a way to escape. We have no tools out here, and certainly no luxuries, like extra clothes. I dream of being able to change out of my war clothes into something more comfortable. Or having a bath. That is a dream.

Perhaps if we are careful, going into town would not be such a bad thing. I still have my Amulet of Invisibility, a tool Marvik doesn’t know about. If we conclude our business quickly so that I am out of sight when the charm ends, things should be alright. “Fine,” I grind out grudgingly. “But how will we get supplies? I did not bring any coin to war with me and you didn’t either.”

“Your earrings are gold, aren’t they?” Marvik gestures at my hoops. My hands touch the rings unbidden and I feel a slash of sorrow. Sell my earrings? They were a gift from my mother, the only ones I have with me. That makes them infinitely more precious.

But surviving must take priority and I ignore the ache in my chest when I say, “So we sell my earrings in town. Then what? Where will we go after this Kingsbury?”

“We can figure that out later,” he replies. A little evasively to my mind. His scent shifts, supporting my theory he is hiding something. He continues, “Right now we should focus on getting out of the Deep Wood. Now that the werewolves have our scent, they’ll be able to track us easily and know whether we have left. I don’t feel like testing their threat. We should leave as soon as possible.”

I nod in agreement and head back into the cave. There is not much to pack up, but I get the bedroll and cloak off of the bed of leaves and retrieve my dragonhide bracelets, winding them up my arms again. I glance in the corner and see Marvik’s chainmail shirt and uniform bunched uselessly in a pile. They are too heavy to carry for the pace we are going to have to set, for Marvik is too weak after his long injury to wear them again while running and they are too big for me. So they stay. I grab my mess kit and the burnt rabbits off of the fire and we are ready to go.

???

It takes longer than I remembered to go over the hills and through the forest. Perhaps I am not moving as quickly because I do not feel as desperate now as I did then. Or maybe because Marvik struggles to keep pace with me, even though I am not going my fastest. He never complains and never lags totally behind, but he is breathing heavily and sweat makes his tunic stick to his chest and arms. Truly, his endurance is impressive after staying in the cave for so long. It makes me wonder what he is like in his peak condition. A few times I consider slowing down for him, but we cannot chance it. Once we are past Fort Attis, I will no longer know where I am going and Marvik will have to lead. We will have to slow down as a matter of circumstance, so it is best to cover as much ground now, while we can.

The sun is almost completely set as we pass Fort Attis. Marvik is a few feet behind me, so I stop and wait for him to catch up.

“Where to now?”

He comes to my side and looks up at the sky, considering the vanishing horizon line before pointing. “We’ll head in this direction. If we keep heading northeast, we should reach Kingsbury eventually. I have made the journey before, so I know some landmarks that will show us we are going in the right direction.”

I nod and gesture for him to go ahead of me. He hesitates for a moment, looking at me with his same strategizing gaze, then steps forward. Marvik takes the lead with the surety of one who is accustomed to leadership. Even as he still strains and sweats, each step is confident. I let myself lag a few steps, taking up the rear. My hearing is better than a human’s and I focus behind us, seeing if I can tell if we are being followed or not. So far I haven’t heard any signs, so the werewolves are keeping their promise.

We travel for a while, the moon high in the sky when we come to a pond, its still water reflecting the heavens above. It is small, but the clearness of the water reveals that it is surprisingly deep. Marvik stops as we arrive and begins taking his clothes off.

“What are you doing?” I ask sharply, my alarm growing as more and more bare flesh appears to my eyes.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he asks with a deceptively placid air. He knows what he is doing is out of the ordinary. “I’m taking a bath.”

“We don’t have time for this,” I growl, even as my eyes cannot move from the muscled expanse of his back. I do not allow myself to dip any lower; it feels like a trap .

“I’ll be quick. When we get to town, if we look like vagabonds, we’ll be run off. No one will do business with us,” he says reasonably, walking into the water. Unbidden, my gaze drops to his ankles and starts rising with the water, to well-shaped calves and knees, to thick thighs dusted with just the right amount of hair, to . . .

I turn around, cutting off my view. Definitely a trap. I hear the light splashing of water as he goes deeper and finally a deep, contented sigh. That sigh does things to me. I feel my core go wet and growl again in frustration. And maybe a little frustrated lust.

“Were you not the one that said we’ll have to set a grueling pace to get out of the Deep Wood before the wolf’s deadline? We can worry about prettying ourselves up after we leave the forest.”

There’s more splashing and I imagine he is rinsing his body. “Do you see the soapnut bush under that tree?” he asks, ignoring me entirely. “Can you hand me a few?”

“How do you know it is a soapnut bush? Humans can’t see well at night.”

“I’ve bathed here before. This pond is one of the landmarks I mentioned.”

Giving up, I glare at the trees until I see the bush that he is talking about and stalk toward it. Ripping several off the tender twigs, I turn around and see Marvik standing waist deep in the water, holding his hand out to me. He’s too far away to just hand them to him, but I do not want to step into the water with my boots.

“Catch,” I say, still sounding irritated, and toss my handful of nuts to him. He catches them easily and before I can turn around again, I see him crack the shell in just his hands to get to the soft, spongy nut on the inside. That does things to me too. Firm, big, muscular hands on a male. But the last thing I need is to be more drawn to him, so I whip around and stare into the woods.

More splashing sounds and then some silence.

“Are you done yet?” I inquire, every muscle tense. If his strategy is to throw me off kilter, it is working .

“Yes,” comes the answer, much closer than I was expecting. Instinctually I whirl around, my hands going to my knives, but instead all I see is tall wet male. My mouth goes dry. One would think that after recovering from such a grievous injury for so long that he would have lost some of his bulk, but I suppose the exercises I have caught him doing in the cave paid off. For his chest is well-muscled and broad, marred only by the scar my blade gave him. His stomach ripples with muscles and a trail of blond hair leads the eye down. Taken unawares, I finally give in to temptation and look.

His manhood is long and thick, even hanging flaccid, a match to his physique. It has a bulb on the bottom of a shaft, similar to an orc’s. Not that I would know firsthand. I have never taken a lover before, my other duties too important. It looks like it would feel . . . well I don’t know how it would feel. But I am growing more wet just looking at it. Would it be good? Painful? Who can tell? But as I stare at it, I feel like I see it twitch.

“Are you done yet?” he asks, a teasing imitation of my own words. My eyes fly up to his and I see that though his mouth is still in a straight line, some amusement dances in his returning gaze. Which immediately puts my guard up.

“Are you doing this on purpose?” I demand, taking a step back.

Marvik leans down and grabs his clothes. “Doing what?”

“You! You! You are . . . trying to entice me!” I accuse, before whirling back around. I do not need to watch him cloth himself.

“Why would I do that?” His voice is that same calm, reasonable tone that makes me want to strike him.

“I do not know! But you never do anything without a reason,” I argue, feeling my face flush. I don’t even know why. Embarrassment? Anger? Desire? Some new emotion made of all three?

“What reason can I have to entice you? I have nothing to gain. If you are feeling enticed, I am afraid that is entirely you.”

Entirely me? “I’m not the one that stripped down in plain view and bathed in front of another person!” I exclaim, turning around to verbally thrash him some more. But he is standing in just his boots and trousers, his still-bare chest making me speechless for a moment. He is fingering the hole in his tunic where I stabbed him. There is still a blood stain going down the front as well. Ignoring me again, he crouches down by the water and starts washing his tunic, lathering what is left of the soapnuts in his hands.

“I don’t suppose that you would lend me your knife so that I could shave, would you?”

Again not answering my arguments. It is infuriating. But if he won’t answer for his behavior, what can I do?

“I’m never giving you my knife again,” I say, letting an angry chill coat my words.

He keeps washing the tunic, the blood stain getting lighter, but he cocks his head as if considering my words. Then he sighs, “I suppose that makes sense. I don’t have a mirror besides. Do you know how to shave a man?”

“Yes,” I answer curtly. I used to help my father shave when I was little. He said it was good practice, being delicate with a blade. But what is Marvik on about?

“Would you shave me?”

That brings me up short, distracting me from my anger and annoyance for a bit. “You would trust me to do that?”

“If you wanted to kill me, you would have already.”

That is a fair point. I think about his request while he pulls his tunic from the pond. It is impressively improved, the stain now a faint outline. Marvik wrings it out and walks over to a tree to hang it from its branches.

“We cannot wait for it to dry,” I point out.

“But if you are going to shave me, then we are going to delay a little longer and it can dry a little in the meantime.” The human goes back to the soapnut bush and picks some more nuts, breaking them open in his hands.

“You are acting very sure that I will do what you want.” I am more bemused than annoyed at this point. What is his game? I take in his scent to check for deception, but all I smell is calm, clean male.

“If you and I are going to be together forever, then I am going to have to learn to live with it and stop fighting. There’s nothing I can do, right? So, that starts with some trust and some reasonable requests.”

His words are logical. Too logical. This seems too easy, him giving up after fighting me in a battle of wills for almost a month. Especially after my earlier threats. But again, I smell no lies in his words. I am puzzling over his intentions, trying to ascertain the true purpose behind them, while Marvik is lathering the soapnut in the water and then rubbing it onto his face. He then sits on a rock and looks at me expectantly, his soapy, wild beard looking comical.

Alright . I suppose it won't hurt and, short of me tying him up again and dragging him through the forest, ?the fastest way to get on the move again is to entertain his sudden nonsense.

I step forward, taking out my left knife. The move could be seen as threatening, but Marvik stays still, no hint of fear in his eyes or scent. I put up my other hand and sheathe my claws, using the soft tips to tilt his head so I can begin.

His eyes widen slightly. “I did not know they did that.”

I start the first stroke, firm but gentle, the razor-sharp edge of my blade cutting a smooth swathe in its wake. “My claws? You thought they must always be out?” How does he think orcs have sex? While giving each other bloody, painful gashes?

“They always have been, the whole time we have been together.”

“You have never given me reason to be soft.” I do not mean the words to sound accusing, but as they hang in the air between us, they are.

Marvik is silent, and I keep working. I tilt his head back and work on getting the stray hairs from his neck. He is looking up at the sky when he says, “I suppose that is true. I’ve not been a good Ash’ka , have I?”

I stop working and look at him incredulously. “ Now you believe that you are my Ash’ka ? After everything?” I leave everything unspoken; the escape attempts, the tying up, the threats. All the ways I have behaved shamefully as an Ash’ka , though Marvik did not give me a choice.

“I believe that you believe it. Though I am not sure about soulmates, I am smart enough to admit that there is a lot about the world that I don’t understand. Fate and magic and gods are some of them. So who's to say that you aren’t right?”

He is overplaying his hand. He’s being too agreeable now, and it just makes me suspicious. There is a subtle shift in his scent, the first sign that he is lying. Now I am almost certain he has a plan to get rid of me and continue his quest for revenge. What that plan is, I cannot say, but I know it is there. Telling me what I want to hear, enticing me and keeping me off-kilter must all be a part of his plan.

So I don’t acknowledge his words or show the yearning that they have created in me. Instead I just say, “I’m about to do your upper lip. No more talking.”

The silence yawns between us. I finish my task, brusk but gentle. His face is clean now, his strong jawline once again visible. He looks better this way, more himself, like that day at Fort Attis when I first saw him, brawny and impressive. I knew even then, I realize, that he was mine. It’s why I didn’t want anyone else to fight him.

As I look, I see that I have nicked him slightly. Without thinking, I reach out and brush his face with my hands, my claws still sheathed, and let my healing magic flow into him. His body welcomes it, recognizing my magic and eagerly moving to serve it. My magic has gotten stronger these past few months, as I have used it so often. I direct the healing to the cut, and it vanishes before my eyes. Marvik’s eyes close and he lets out a little sigh of pleasure.

“It feels good when you do that.”

I pull my hand away from him as if his skin burns me. The scene feels intimate. Too intimate to be having with someone I know plans to betray me. His eyes open and search mine.

“What’s wrong?”

I cannot put into words what’s wrong. That I want to touch him too much? That him liking my healing feels . . . flattering? That I am more sure than ever before that he will stab me in the back when he gets a chance? I will not give him more ways to hurt me when that inevitably happens.

So I say none of that out loud. “We have wasted too much time,” I say instead, my voice a little shaky, betraying my thoughts. “We need to get moving. Sunrise is not far away.”

Marvik looks at me, a searching look. He captures my eyes with his and I worry he will see the panic and heartache I am feeling. Whatever he sees, though, makes him rise from his perch. He bends down and splashes some water on his face, washing away the stray soap and hair that still sticks to him. Then he puts his tunic back on and turns to me.

“Alright, let’s go.”