His head snaps up. He is not defeated. He islistening. He sniffs the air, his nostrils flaring wide. His entire body goes rigid, coiling with a new, sudden tension. He has caught a scent.
He pulls me down behind a large, ice-covered boulder, his hand on my arm. "Woodsmoke," he whispers, the word a puff of steam in the frigid air. "Taura meat." I sniff, but my human nose catches nothing but pine and cold stone. He does not need my confirmation. He is already moving, a predator who has caught the trail. "Stay here. Do not move. Do not make a sound. I will see who it is."
He turns to go, to leave me in the cold. The old me would have cowered, my body paralyzed by fear, praying for his return. I am not the old me.
"No," I whisper, my hand already on my dagger. "I am your clan. I go with you."
Othic looks at me, his piercing eyes searching my face in the dim light. I see a flicker of pride, a small, almost imperceptible softening of his hard jaw. He nods. "Close. Quiet."
I move as he taught me at the Scildborg. I am a shadow. I do not step on twigs. I test the ground before I put my weight down. I am his rear guard. We creep forward for what feels like an eternity, moving from rock to rock, until the smell of the fire is so strong, even I can taste it. Othic holds up a hand, and we stop, peering into a small, fortified clearing.
It is a cabin. A small, solid cabin built of thick ironwood logs. It is a fortress. A human woman is outside, bundled in furs, kneeling in a small, frozen patch of earth.
A home.
Othic takes one more step, his boot brushing a patch of loose pine needles.
Ching-chime.
The sound is faint, sharp, and metallic. A trap.
A roar, a sound of pure, territorial rage, erupts from the cabin. "Inside! Bar the door!"
Oh, gods. Othic is walking into a trap. I raise my dagger, my heart hammering, as a new orc bursts from the door.
He is massive. Scarred. He holds a heavy, two-handed axe like it is an extension of his arm. He is a true orc warrior, his eyes wild, scanning the trees. He is protecting his home. He roars again, a challenge. "SHOW YOURSELF, COWARD! COME AND DIE!"
Othic’s whole body is trembling, not with fear, but with an emotion I cannot name. He pushes me gently behind his own body, shielding me, and steps out. He does it slowly, his hands held wide, away from his sword, just as he taught the women at the Scildborg to do to show they are not a threat.
The new orc sees him. He tenses, his eyes narrowing. He just sees another monster. He sees a filthy, blood-stained orc in rags, carrying a hated human sword. He raises his axe, bracing to charge.
"Who in the hells are you?" the strange orc roars. "How did you find this place?"
I watch Othic, and I see a lifetime of pain and hope crash over his face. He does not say his name. He says the words that will prove who he is. His voice is a raw, broken rasp.
"The ship... the fire... the Deceiver's magic... I thought I was the only one."
The strange orc'saxe-hand wavers. His eyes go wide. I see the muscles in his thick neck working as he swallows.
"What... ship?" he growls, the word low and dangerous, not daring to hope.
"TheDragon's Tooth," Othic says, his voice cracking. "The fire... I saw Kilkurk burn... I saw Pandar fall..."
The strange orc’s axe lowers, his hand trembling. He is searching Othic's face, his own gaze full of a dawning, shocked recognition.
"...Othic?" he whispers, the name a question, a prayer. "Brother?"
"You are alive... Captain," Othic breathes, and the relief in those words almost brings him to his knees.
Captain... Brother...The naga was right. He sent Othic to the "monsters of his visage"—his own clan.
The strange orc—Gruk—drops his axe. It thuds into the hard, frozen dirt. He grips Othic's forearm, pulling him into a rough, warrior's embrace.
I can see Othic's shoulders, which have been rigid for as long, finally slump in relief. The tension that has held him together like iron bands just… leaves him.
The cabin door opens again.
A human female smiles at me. "Come inside," she says, her voice warm. "You are freezing. We have ale."
