I duck my head to enter the farmhouse. The kitchen is crowded. It isclean. The filth of the slavers, the old grime—it is gone. The women have scrubbed the floors. They are bustling, their faces bruised and pale, butalive. They are passing around a skin of stolen zhisk, slices of bread, and roasted meat.
They are having a meal.
I stand in the doorway, completely baffled. The women freeze. The laughter dies. They stare at me, the monster in their new home.
Aurora sees my face. She is in the corner, her hair a wild tangle, a beautiful flush on her cheeks. "Othic! You... are you hungry? We found the larder!"
One of the younger women, Jessa, her eyes giddy with relief and zhisk, nudges Aurora, her voice a loud whisper that fills the entire kitchen.
"So, Aurora... you gonna tell us?"
Aurora stops, a slice of bread halfway to her mouth. "Tell you... what?"
Jessa grins, her eyes flicking shamelessly to my tusks, to my massive, two-armed frame, and then back to Aurora. "You know," she whispers. "What's itlike... withhim? An orc." She leans in. "Is it... amazing? I bet it is amazing. But... not for the faint-hearted, right?"
What?
I just stare, having no idea what they are talking about. Tell them what? The plan? That I am Iron Tusk? That I hate this human sword? What is "amazing"? The fight? My roar?
I look at Aurora. She makes a choked, coughing sound, her entire face, her neck, turning a brilliant, beautiful red.
Oh.
That.
My mind, which can process the tactics of a three-front battle, stalls completely. This is a new, strange, and terrible kind of interrogation.
The other women, hearing Jessa's question, burst into laughter. It is not a soft, polite sound. It is a high, hysterical,wildsound. It is the laughter of women who were dead yesterday and are, impossibly, alive today.
"Gods, Jessa, give her air!" the oldest woman, the one I gave the first sword to, says, her voice rough. She is the one in charge, the one who organized the cleanup. She comes toward me, her face grim but her eyes grateful, and shoves a heavy metal cup of zhisk into my hand.
"A toast!" she shouts, raising her own cup. "To the monster who saved us!"
The room goes quiet. The women look at me, their gazes a mixture of awe and lingering terror.
Aurora, her face still bright red, steps to my side, her hand finding my arm. "To Othic," she says, her voice clear and strong. "Do you not mean, 'To Othic'?"
The oldest woman looks at Aurora, then at me. She smiles, a slow, genuine smile. "Aye. To Othic!"
"To Othic!" they all cheer, and they drink.
I stand there, in the middle of this small, warm room, holding a human cup and a human sword. I am completely, utterly out of my element. I am trapped. I do not know what to do. I just nod, stiffly, my tusk scraping my shoulder. I grunt. I take a drink of the zhisk. It burns. I hate zhisk.
What is happening?
One of the women, the one Tars had... used... finds an old, battered ilya in the corner, a relic from the farmers who died here. She draws the bow across the strings. The sound is terrible—a fast, scraping, joyful,awfultune.
And they... they dance.
The women, giddy with relief and trauma and freedom, grab each other's hands. They start to spin in the small, crowded kitchen, laughing as they bump into each other. They are clumsy, half-starved, and beautiful. This is madness. This is not a tactical response. This is... inefficient.
I just stand there. A mountain of baffled, healed stone. I am Iron TMask. I kill. I protect. I build. I do notdance.
Aurora, her face flushed and bright, her eyes shining with a light I have never seen, runs to me. She tugs on my arm.
"Dance, Othic!" she laughs. "We are free!"
Dance? I look at her tiny hand, then at my own massive, blood-stained one. I... what? This is a demand I cannot meet.
