“What?”
The orc snaps his head around and frowns at his companion.
A sick feeling blooms in my gut, though my tired, sluggish brain has trouble comprehending what’s going on.
“It says, Steagor, son of Torg.” The male turns the letter in his hands, then pries at the wax seal. “I wonder what’s inside.”
“Don’t,” the male barks and jumps to his feet. “Give that to me.”
He reaches for the letter and snatches it from the other orc’s hands. He breaks the seal easily and unfolds the paper, tilting it toward the fire to read it.
“No, don’t.” I struggle weakly to get to my feet. “It’s not for you, it’s meant for someone—”
The world lurches to the side, and I stumble, landing roughly on my hands and knees.
“Ow.”
I groan, then tip away from the fire in an effort to sit, but my arms go out from under me, and I end up sprawling on the forest floor, my face in the dirt.
“What are you doing?” The male hurries over to my side. “Why are you falling over?”
I let him prop me up against a tree trunk because I don’t have the will to do it myself. The rough bark scrapes the back of my head, but I don’t care anymore.
“I’m tired,” I tell him. “And hungry.”
Remembering the letter, I reach feebly for it, trying to grab the paper, but he holds it out of my reach.
“I wasn’t done reading it,” he says.
“I didn’t know orcs could read,” I retort, then slap a palm over my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I mumble through my fingers. “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
My father didn’t raise me to be rude, not even to someone like this orc.
He scowls at me. “But you were thinking it.”
Denying it now would be useless, so I shrug. He shakes his head and stands again, then motions for his companion to hand him something. I close my eyelids—just for a moment. It’s so warm here by the fire, and I haven’t slept well in so long.
“Here. Eat.”
Something touches my palm. I open my eyes and peer down to find one of the bread rolls in my hand. I dart my gaze from one orc to the other, wondering what they’re playing at. Maybe they’re trying to fatten me up to eat me. Or is it ogres who eat humans? I feel like I’ve fallen into a horrible fairy story, so maybe I shouldn’t eat their food, anyway. Every child in the realm knows not to eat or drink what fae creatures offer you.
Then I chase away the thought, ashamed. They haven’t hurt me and they’re giving me food, which is more than I could have expected from two travelers I tried to rob. I wonder if humans would have treated me the same.
I tear a chunk of bread from the roll, stuff it into my mouth, and chew slowly, watching them. The older orc frowns down at me, then holds up the letter to the light once more. His expression doesn’t change, only his eyebrows draw closer together as he reads my father’s message.
I swallow another mouthful of bread and say, “Please, this is a private letter. It doesn’t concern you.”
“It is addressed to me,” he barks, not tearing his gaze away from the paper.
Appetite deserts me at the finality of his words. “You’re Steagor?”
At last, he lowers the letter. “Aye.”
“And you’re sure there’s no other Steagor in King Gorvor’s lands?” I insist, desperate.
Because this can’t be it. I traveled across the kingdom of Styria and spent almost a week roughing it in this damned forest—all to throw myself at the mercy of this orc?
“I am the son of Torg,” he says with awful finality. “And I know your father.”
I clutch the rest of the bread in my lap, unintentionally crushing it in my fist. “Knew.”
“What?”
“You knew him,” I repeat. “He has…passed away.”
The orc—Steagor—crouches in front of me. “I am sorry. Poppy. That is your name?”
I give him the tiniest of nods. Talking about my father is still hard, even months after his death.
“Have you read this?” Steagor lifts the letter.
“No,” I answer truthfully. “But my father explained everything.”
His black eyebrows climb up his forehead. “Did he?”
“Yes, he said you could help me. That you were a kind man,” I say, then correct myself, “a kind orc, and that you’d…”
I trail off, not knowing exactly how to finish that sentence. I’m not sure what my father meant by help. The day it became clear that his illness wasn’t going to magically resolve itself, he’d written that letter, even though it had cost him dearly to sit up at his work desk and painstakingly pen the words. But he’d known even then what would happen after his death, I think. He’d been married to my stepmother for years by then, so he must have at least suspected how she would act toward me, or he wouldn’t have given me this fail-safe of a plan.
“I don’t need much,” I tell the orc. “I mean, I can earn my living—I didn’t come here for charity.”
“Is that so?”
He stands again and walks to the other side of the fire, where his companion has now busied himself with carving up the roasted meat. The scents wafting off it have my mouth watering, and I follow his movements with hungry eyes.
Steagor, son of Torg, reaches for another one of the bread rolls, slices it open with a quick swipe of his hunting knife, and takes a juicy cut of meat from his friend. He puts the meat between the two halves of the bread roll and brings it over to me.
I stare at it, watching the droplets of fat drip from the crispy meat. Then I remember my fear.
“Um.” I swallow, my hands trembling from the effort of keeping back. “What kind—what kind of animal…?”
“Human, of course,” the younger orc quips from the other side of the fire.
We both turn to stare at him, and he cackles, throwing his head back in delight.
“Neekar,” Steagor snarls. “You are a fool.”
I glance back up at my father’s friend. “So…it’s not human meat?”
He lets out a harsh oath. “No. We don’t eat human flesh. We are not beasts. It’s deer.”
His words are angry, his gaze forbidding. I’ve upset him with my prejudice, and another wave of shame floods my veins. I drop my gaze to my lap.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s… Where I come from, orcs don’t have the best reputation.”
He shoves the bread and meat in front of my face. “Eat.”
This time, I accept the food. At the first bite, I close my eyes and chew slowly, savoring the flavor. The meat is tender and salty, and they must have rubbed it with some sort of spice because it’s delicious and cooked just right. I tear pieces off with my teeth, swallowing too quickly, but my hunger awakens with a roar, and I want to jump up and snatch the rest of the meat away from Neekar.
Steagor seems to know what I’m thinking. He brings me another piece of the meat and slices a pear for me, coring it with efficient cuts of his knife. I eat, swiping the grease off my chin with the back of my hand.
The orcs eat as well, more slowly, taking big bites of the meat and crunching the pears with their sharp white teeth. Their tusks gleam in the firelight, accentuating their strangeness, but I’m the uncouth one here, eating like an animal, without even trying to be ladylike.
Embarrassed, I lower my food to my lap. My dress is stained from days of being on the road, and my damp cloak is filthy because it served me as a bedroll and blanket all in one. I must smell horribly, too, but my nose is stuffy, so I stopped noticing my odor a while ago.
“Do you want some mead?” Neekar asks.
I shake my head, because the thought of drinking that strong stuff turns my stomach. Instead, I take another bite of the meat and chew more slowly, trying to decide whether I want another pear or maybe some more bread.
But the roiling in my stomach doesn’t let up—instead, it churns more and more.
“Do you have any water, please?” I croak.
Steagor wordlessly offers me another full skin, and I take small sips in an effort to calm myself. It doesn’t work. Bile rises in my throat, and I put my hand over my mouth.
“Oh, no.”
I surge to my feet, the world rolling around me, and stumble into the bushes just in time. I throw up everything I ate, the cramps painful and relentless until I’m dry heaving and coughing. My throat is scraped raw, and tears stream from my eyes, blinding me.
Then someone brushes my hair from my face, and a strong arm comes around my waist, propping me up.
It’s Steagor, and through my tears, I see his fierce frown as he surveys the mess I made.
“I’m sorry,” I sob. “I’m so sorry. I’ll clean it up—I mean…”
My brain is muddled, and I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. I can’t clean up the forest floor, obviously.
“I can throw some dirt over it, look.”
I want to crouch to push some of the needles and rotting leaves over the remains of my dinner, but he doesn’t let me. Instead, he picks me up like I weigh nothing at all and carries me back to the fireside. He deposits me on the sleeping furs and hands me a damp cloth to clean my face. Neekar stares at us with round eyes, half risen from his place, as if he wanted to help but got stuck midway.
“Are you ill, human?” Steagor demands.
I shake my head, then stop quickly because it sends the world spinning, and I don’t want to be sick again. “No, I just haven’t had a lot to eat the last couple of days.”
“So you need more food?” he asks, frowning.
I try to remember what I should do, but I’m too tired. “No, not now. I need to rest.”
Still scowling, Steagor smoothes out the furs and helps me lie down. In spite of the rocks and roots poking me in the ribs, this is the most comfortable I’ve been in ages.
“Then you slept in some strange places,” Steagor rumbles.
I must have spoken out loud, and I want to explain more to him, but my eyelids are heavy, and I can’t muster the will to lift them again.
So I let myself sink into sleep, my exhaustion pulling me under.
The next time I wake up, I’m moving. It’s a strange kind of feeling, to be sleeping and moving at the same time, but I’m comfortable, so I don’t complain. Shivers rack my body, but I’m pressed against something warm, so I turn my face toward the source of the heat and slip into my dreams again.
“Gods, what is that smell?”
A woman’s voice, close by and horrified, is followed by sounds of retching.
“Get her away from her,” a deep voice orders. “…infirmary.”
A growl, coming from somewhere nearby. The furnace I’m squished against is growling.
“I’m sorry,” the woman cries, “I didn’t mean it like that, Steagor, it’s just this baby has made my nose so sensitive.”
More movement around me, but I can’t open my eyes. I whimper, fear cutting through my sluggish thoughts, but someone brushes my hair, and I relax again, lacking the will to do anything more than sleep.
Then someone is pressing something against my lips, and I choke as warm, salty liquid fills my mouth.
“Drink, human,” someone demands.
I want to be good and obey them, but I can’t, I can’t…
“Wait, don’t do that.” It’s the woman’s voice again. “Let me. Yes, I’m fine. I have nothing more to throw up anyway, so I’ll—oh gods, Steagor, she’s…”
I drift in and out of consciousness. More voices arrive, creating too much noise. They tug and pat and prod me, and every time my terror crests at being so helpless, my brain protects me by blacking out.
“…aren’t meant to be this hot. Humans are fragile.”
It’s another woman’s voice, followed by something cold being placed on my forehead. They force more liquid into my mouth, and I choke on most of it, spitting it out, but some of it slips into my empty stomach, and it cramps painfully.
A loud crash is accompanied by angry words I’m too tired to make out. Then a warm, rough palm closes around my hand, and I sink into sleep again.
