The feast is over. The women have retired, their voices fading. The yard is silent, save for the crackle of the dying fire and the cold night wind. It carries the distant, howling challenge of a worg pack—a reminder that our small, warm light is a fragile thing in the vast, hungry darkness of Rach.
I find Othic on the porch, staring north, his hand gripping the hilt of the slaver's sword. He still hates that blade. I can see it in the way his knuckles are white.
I come to stand beside him. He doesn’t look at me, but his arm finds my waist, pulling me against his solid, warm side. I lean my head against his chest, feeling the steady, slow beat of his heart.
"They will be safe, Othic," I whisper, my gaze on the dark, repaired barn. "You taught them well. Myra knows how to set the snares."
"It is not the snares I worry about," he rumbles, his thumb brushing the back of my hand. "It is the two-legged beasts."
"We will find your brothers," I say, my voice a solid, unwavering promise. "We will find Gruk and Mogor. We will bring them back. And this," I gesture to the small, warmfarmhouse, the first real home he has known in this land, "this will be waiting."
I feel him look down at me. He does not offer comfort. He does not lie. He just squeezes my hand, his heart a heavy, aching weight.
He looks north, toward the cesspit that awaits.
"Tomorrow," he rumbles, his voice grim, "we enter the darkness."
I squeeze his hand back. My hand is small, but my grip is iron.Together.
21
OTHIC
The pre-dawn air is cold. It is sharp in my lungs, carrying the metallic smell of frost and the faint, greasy char of last night’s roasted taura. The laughter from the feast is gone. The music is gone. There is only the wind whistling through the new, solid gate I built, a high, mournful sound.
My body is whole. The numiscu poison is a memory, the wound on my shoulder just a puckered, angry scar. I am strong again. I roll my shoulders, feeling the smooth, healed pull of the muscle. My hand rests on the hilt of the slaver’s broadsword. I still hate this blade. It has no weight, no soul. It is a clumsy piece of human iron, a reminder of what I have lost. But it is all I have.
"Othic."
Aurora’s voice. She is at my side, a small, pale shadow in the gray light. Her pack is on her back, her hair tied back with a leather strip. Her face is pinched, not with fear, but with a cold resolve. She is not the cowering maid I pulled from Privis’s halls. She is a warrior.
The farmhouse door creaks. The rest of the women follow, huddled in the doorway, their breath pluming in the cold. Theyare wrapped in cured hides, their faces pinched with sleep and fear. They have come to see us off.
Myra, the eldest, steps forward, her arms crossed tight against the cold. Her gaze meets mine, human to orc. There is no fear in her eyes. Only a deep, practical respect.
"It needs a name," she says, her voice rough. She jerks her chin toward the repaired barn, the crude but solid fence line I taught them to build. "A proper name. So we can find our way back. So we can tell others, if any find us."
A name. I am a warrior, not a poet. I look at the barn door I re-hung. I look at the sharpened stakes I set in the earth. I look at the women, standing in the open, not cowering, their hands resting on the hilts of the knives I taught them to use. They are not victims. They are the shield. This place is the fortress.
"It is a Scildborg," I rumble. The Shield-Fortress.
The word hangs in the cold air, heavy and old.
"Scildborg," Myra says, and a slow, grim smile touches her lips. She nods once, a look of deep satisfaction. "Aye. That it is. It will hold."
It is time. There are no more words.
Jessa runs forward, her face crumpling, and shoves a small, crudely carved suru into Aurora’s hand. "For luck," she whispers.
Aurora pulls her into a fierce, tight hug, then moves to Myra, and to each of the others. A farewell of whispered promises and held-back sobs. I stand apart, a stone in their river of grief. They are her family.
Myra finally turns to me. Her eyes are hard. "You taught us to be strong, Othic. Now bring her back."
"Or bring our brothers here," Aurora corrects softly, her hand finding mine. Her small fingers slide into my massive, calloused palm. A perfect, impossible fit.
I look at the women. My clan. "Hold the Scildborg," I command.
Myra nods. "To the last."
