I’VE BEEN IN BLACK CLAW Village for just over a week and I am no closer to finding a lead on my brother than when I first arrived.
Jessica is the one I try coaxing information out of the most. Since that first day we met, she has come to help make the Frost Cough medicine three times. We work together at the table, and I see her grow a little more comfortable with me each time.
During her last visit, she shared about the life she had before she came here. Her father had died when she was a baby, and her mother had tried her best to keep a roof over their head but she soon fell ill as well. Jessica was sixteen when her mother died. After her mother’s death, she worked odd jobs in different towns until a man approached her with a position doing housework.
It was a great distance away, but the pay was unbeatable.
It was also a lie. He stole Jessica, tied her up and put her in the back of a wagon to take her up the mountain. She said she nearly froze to death on the journey. When they arrived at Dread’s Keep, Bazur was there and saw what was about to happen to her. He had been able to convince Vorgak to give Jessica to him and Bazur brought her here.
That’s it, that’s the whole story.
A few of the women, some of the other town healers, tell their stories in similar ways. There was their life before they came to this village and their life here now. Both are tales they are willing to share but how they got here is never revealed. Just that Bazur saw them and brought them here. Simple, straightforward.
But none of them can quite meet my eyes when they say it. Lady Myren gets a sharp look on her face whenever one of them even mentions coming here. There is something more to their stories, but I will have to be patient and wait until they let whatever it is slip. If only I could convince one of them to teach me orcish. I’ve picked up a few words here and there but nothing substantial that would clue me in to what they are saying when they whisper to each other and cast glances my way.
Jessica is close to giving birth and said she won’t be around much anymore. The temperature has been dropping as the first true frost approaches. Because of this, a lot of the other women have started staying home too to tend to their own patients on their side of the town.
Their absence leaves me and Lady Myren together for endless hours a day in stiff silence. She respects my skills and capabilities, but she has no great fondness for me as a person. Regardless, she has given me some trust this week when she leaves me alone in her home while she collects supplies in town. Obviously these errands are tests—ones designed to see if I’ll flee.
I don’t. And each time she returns I get the sense she’s disappointed that I’m still here.
In her absence I have started tending to patients who walk in on my own. Soothing sore stomachs, resetting bones, tending to scraped knees has helped me become more familiar with the orcs and humans who live here. And they are all so kind and grateful to me for helping them.
Most surprising to me is that I haven’t been dragged down by an old memory since the one last week.
Although I’m still wary of everyone here, Mornga may have been right: these orcs aren’t at all like the ones who attacked my village. That much is evident and my stomach sours thinking about how I categorized them in the same way. In truth, Bazur is the most unpleasant of them all, but even so, he treats me with his own form of kindness. Despite the distrust that shines in his golden eyes.
Bazur. He is the most interesting orc of all.
A week has passed since the start of us sharing a home and we still barely communicate. Sometimes I catch him staring at me, a funny look on his face. One that is quickly replaced with a glare. He still calls me that name, akorzag, though it’s uttered under his breath. I guess his annoyance with my presence is understandable. Bazur is a young male, unmated I have learned, and he has a human female he can’t stand being around living in his home and sleeping in his bed.
Him scurrying off after mealtimes started at the end of our third dinner together. I’d hear the front door close after I had turned out the light and crawled into bed. Where he goes at night, I don’t know. But if I had to guess, it is to visit one of the females in town.
I’m not blind to the looks they give him. Human and orc females alike bat their eyelashes and flash demure smiles at him every time he leads me to Lady Myren’s.
Bazur can do what he wants with whomever he pleases.
I suppose I should be grateful he doesn’t fuck them on the first floor. That would be awkward, and upsetting to some very, very small part of me. A part that demands we get a glimpse of him when he’s in the bathing pool.
A part that I will ignore the entire time I’m here.
Quite suddenly, the front door blows open, the wind whistling through the house and chilling my back. I’m standing at one of the tall oak bookcases shelving a thick leather bound herbology book. Lady Myren has taken my advice on planting some riverheart seeds before the frost hits and has gone into town to retrieve small ceramic bowls, which they grow the best in.
She hasn’t been gone very long so I’m surprised she’s back already.
“Do you want these cataloged too? Bronwyn dropped them off while you were—”
The sound of large, shuffling footsteps steals my attention from the bookcase. The glass jar of seeds I’m holding almost slips from my hand as I take in the sight before me. Lady Myren isn’t back. It’s Bazur. His massive frame is leaning against the doorway and his large hand is pressed against his side, a crimson stain soaking through his wool shirt. His dark hair has escaped from the leather strap at the base of his neck and clings to his sweaty forehead.
“Oh my gods,” I cry, hurrying to him. “What happened?”
He winces as I sling his arm over my shoulders. Bazur is heavy, too heavy. Trying to support his weight is near impossible. Together we shuffle to the nearest cot. As gently as I can, I sit him on the edge while I assess the damage.
“Training.” His response is barely more than a grunt. I collect the necessary supplies to treat the injury: Lady Myren’s antiseptic, clean cloth to bind the wound, and a needle and thread are all placed on a clean tray that I take over to Bazur. The amount of bleeding alone tells me it will need a stitch.
“Why didn’t you have someone send for me?” My face heats and I distract myself by pulling up a stool. “I mean Lady Myren. You may have agitated the wound by walking all the way over here.”
“It’s just a scratch,” he says, and I can’t help but roll my eyes.
“Well, I need to see this scratch.” Reaching for a pair of scissors I gently cut along the side of his shirt. My mouth goes dry. His injury is gruesome to be sure but that’s not what my eyes linger on. He’s so…burly. Hard muscles stack on top of each other under tough, green skin. There are raised scars along his abdomen and along his pectoral muscles. How many ab muscles does he have? Eight? That’s an obscene amount.
Totally medically unnecessary if he wants my expert opinion.
My fingers itch to trace them, to lick them, to feel them press into the softest parts of me. His scent tickles my nose and my thighs grow damp.
I took his shirt off for a reason. What was it?
“Kaethe,” Bazur bites out my name and my eyes flutter shut. My face is burning with fire. Be a professional. He is a patient. Nothing more. This is a male body. I’ve seen the male body. Many, many times. Bones, skin, muscle, and tissue.
“Sorry, your heinous wound gave me pause.” This time he rolls his eyes, but I notice them dip to my mouth as I speak. That does nothing but make more heat curl in my stomach.
Taking a clean cloth soaked in antiseptic, I knock his hand away and press it against the open wound.
He barely winces as I clean the gash. After a few moments the bleeding stops long enough for me to begin stitching. Orc skin is thick, tougher than human or elf skin so it requires a special needle. I pierce through his green flesh and sew it back together as quickly as possible. Again, Bazur gives very little reaction.
“The scar from this will be prominent,” I explain, trying to keep my mind on my task and not on his muscles.
“I’ve had worse before,” he says, using his free hand to gesture towards his face. Thankfully the wound was deep but not long. I sew the final bit of skin together and slice and snip the thread, before securing it in a knot.
“This’ll add to your whole battle-hardened-warrior look you have going on,” I say, wiping my hands off on a clean cloth. Bazur lowers his brow, appraising me from head to toe.
“Was that—were you making a joke?” he asks quietly. He’s so serious, so literal. That alone makes me chuckle softly.
“Yes,” I say.
Bazur smiles slightly at my laugh, his tusks pressing into his upper lip. He should do that more often, it’s a pleasant expression. I would die before I suggest such a thing to him. Besides, he’d probably think it was some poorly executed seduction tactic to get him to lower his guard long enough for me to make off with the great secrets of this town.
Or whatever he thinks I’m here to spy on.
“You are good at jokes,” he states, wincing slightly as I help him sit up. “Zarod has always been better at them than me. Better at recognizing them too.”
“You’re funny in your own way,” I say, placing a bandage at the wound and reaching around his midsection to secure it. It is quite the feat, given how bulky he is. My cheek presses against his side as I secure his dressing. I try not to breathe in too deeply, acutely aware of my breasts pillowing up along his side.
Is it my imagination or is he more rigid than usual? It’s undoubtedly my imagination. He’s shown me no interest in that way. Not that I want him showing me interest in that—it would needlessly complicate things and fighting off romantic advances is not something I’ve ever had to worry about. Having that become a problem here and now would hinder my mission. And I already feel like I am falling behind on that front.
“I don’t think a female has ever called me funny before.”
“I wonder why that is.”
“It’s because—you’re joking?” Bazur asks. I nod, wrapping the bandage around him one final time and securing it in place with a fastening. “You confuse me, Kaethe.”
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up when he says my name.
“You confuse me too, Bazur,” I confess. We’re so close to each other. Closer than we’ve been since sharing a saddle. I can feel his warm breath ghost over my face. I watch his eyes dip to my mouth again before snapping back up to my eyes as if he were embarrassed. “Is that why you think I’m annoying?”
His eyes widen. “I don’t think—”
The front door opens and Lady Myren walks in. I am grateful for the interruption. Why would I ask that? I don’t care what he thinks about me. Do I? This is why I don’t like being around him. He distracts me from my mission, and I can’t allow that.
Lady Myren lets out a gasp and I spring back from Bazur, standing off to the side of the cot as she rushes over. A bag of plants and herbs lay forgotten in the entry way as she takes in the scene.
Bloody shirt, bloody sheet. Her eyes snap over to me, wild with anger.
“What happened? Why didn’t you come and get me from the market?”
“I—”
The way she is inspecting his injury is almost accusatory. Like I’m the one who hurt him. She starts asking him questions in orcish. She says a word I’ve overheard her and Mornga use when they talk about Bazur.
Bazur shakes his head and rises from the cot.
“I’m fine, Lady Myren. Kaethe stitched me up.”
Lady Myren eyes me once more and looks like she wants to argue. She swallows whatever reply she wants to give and walks over to the shelves. She pulls out a large jar of brown liquid and hands it to Bazur.
“Drink this twice a day for the next five days. It will kill anything that could cause the wound to fester.”
I roll my eyes at her obvious attempt to accuse me of not cleaning his wound properly. Even if issuing that tonic is a good idea.
Bazur nods and Lady Myren finally relaxes.
“You better take him home; he’ll need to rest. And take these. His dressings will need to be changed twice a day.” She hands me a stack of cloth and a whole bottle of antiseptic. Way more than necessary, but I don’t argue. I stuff it all into my bag and collect my cloak. I sling Bazur’s arm over my shoulder, bracing my feet to absorb his weight. He’s so warm, I don’t mind the weight because he’ll block most of the cold wind as we make our way back to his house.
“Remember, twice a day!” Lady Myren calls to us as we make our way down the snow-covered street.
The walk takes us twice as long, but eventually we make it up the stairs and into his house. The inside is cold and dark. I deposit him on the chair before lighting a log to start a fire. As I make my way back into the kitchen, I notice the limp bedroll on the ground.
He can’t sleep on that, not with fresh stitches. He’ll rip them open.
“You sleep in the bed while your side heals.” Bazur’s head snaps up at me. The shocked look in his eyes makes me avert his gaze. “I’ll sleep down here.”
There is a beat of silence and then Bazur shakes his head. “No.”
“You’ll tear your stitches lying on the floor,” I explain.
“Then you’re sleeping in the bed with me.”
My mouth falls open.
“Why?”
“I still don’t trust you, Kaethe. I still don’t trust that if I give you the freedom to make a run for it, you won’t.” He rises from the table, grunting slightly, and turns toward the stove.
“Why don’t you trust me? Lady Myren’s been leaving me alone during the day and I haven’t once tried to escape.”
“I’ll trust you when you tell me why you’re really here.” His golden eyes bore into mine. The hard set of his stubbled jaw is unflinching. I cross my arms over my chest and meet his glare with one of my own.
“Why? So, you can kill me? Is that what you’ve been waiting for? Me to fuck up so you finally have an excuse to kill me?”
Bazur’s head rears back as if I smacked him. Whether it’s my use of foul language or my blatant accusation I don’t know, but how dare he act shocked. How dare he act offended by my outburst when all he does is suspect me.
Maybe I lied about my purpose here initially, but I’m not a threat to anyone. I would never hurt these people. If he can’t see that then I don’t need to explain myself to him.
“You’re trying to distract me,” he says, turning back to the stove.
If he wants to be obstinate, fine. Two can play this game.
But as much as he annoys me, as much as I want him to be uncomfortable and suffering down here on the bedroll, Myren will kill me if she finds out I let him sleep on the floor. She’s the last person I want to feel the ire of.
“We will share the bed,” I announce, dropping into the kitchen chair. “So you can rest assured I will not make off like some spy in the night.”
I’ve faced distrust since I’ve stepped foot in this village. From my first moments walking through the doors, to the women who came to help at Lady Myren’s. I understand their wariness. I’m from a different kingdom. I ask them questions but offer very little about myself. It’s understandable they’d be apprehensive toward me. And as much as it annoys me, Bazur is right: I am keeping secrets. They won’t hurt him or his people, but I can’t explain that to him.
He sits another meager bowl of stew down in front of me and I spoon the thin liquid into my mouth. There is one thing I don’t understand as I look over at Bazur digging into his own dinner: why does his distrust hurt worse than theirs?
