Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
Alwyn
As the hours wore on, Alwyn had never felt more like a caged animal. He paced the narrow confines of his tent restlessly, wondering how long it had been and how much longer it would be until he was released.
An hour or so after he’d seen Krujha, the tent flaps opened up. The guard that blocked the way said nothing to him, though, and only shoved a cup of water and a bowl of lukewarm porridge into his hands.
He ate begrudgingly. It was bland and tasteless, but he doubted he would get anything better for now. When he was done, he had nothing else to do but start pacing again.
Occasionally, he would risk feeling outward with his magic, and each time there was at least one orc standing motionless near his tent, clearly keeping watch. He didn’t dare reach much further out, remembering Krujha’s warning about the druid.
He hadn’t given that factor much thought until now, but Krujha had seemed genuinely unsettled at the confirmation of the magic-user’s presence.
Orc mages were uncommon. Typically, those who had some measure of magic were not especially powerful, particularly compared to a mage like Alwyn, who had been training in the Library all his life.
Korik, the orc healer who had saved him, was the most adept orc mage that Alwyn had ever met, or even heard of.
He hadn’t seemed especially powerful, but Alwyn had sensed his magic reaching outwards once or twice a day, performing some task he had never quite figured out.
It was what had caused him to distrust the orc, although Commander Petkas had brushed the concern away, reminding him that he owed his life to the healer—the memory still irritated him when he considered it.
Underestimating the rebel orcs had gotten him into that mess the first time, though, so he would not make the same mistake again.
He had to assume this druid was just as powerful and competent in his magic as he was.
As he paced the short length of the tent, he practiced drawing his magic into himself, making it small and distant, the way he had learned with Krujha.
It was difficult to tell if it was working when he didn’t have the wash of another person’s magic over him to judge; but to him at least the well of magic seemed more difficult to access, which he hoped meant it would be harder to detect.
The tent was dim, but even the faint light from outside eventually faded, leaving him in total darkness.
The thought of sleep felt impossible with how anxious he was, but he forced himself to lie down on the rug all the same.
An extra blanket was rolled up in the corner; he used it as a pillow, wrapping himself in his cloak and warming it with a small trickle of magic.
He couldn’t sleep, staring up at the darkness of the canvas surrounding him.
His wrists were still bound, and the discomfort of not being able to move his arms was making his shoulders ache.
There was no way he could get any rest with so many thoughts racing through his mind; but if he didn’t try, he might be all the more vulnerable when the rebel warlord finally decided to interrogate him.
He had gone through interrogations before, but never in a situation where the wait seemed so indefinite.
He thought of Krujha, and the warm smile that would stretch around his tusks, setting Alwyn’s heart racing.
His fingers on Alwyn’s cheek had been so gentle it hadn’t even hurt despite the bruise he could still feel, tender and swollen.
The orc had worn such a grieved expression when he’d told Alwyn he would keep him safe.
He was certain now that the Krujha who wanted an end to the war and saw Alwyn as a true companion was the genuine one.
Gorza had trusted him so completely with this final stretch of the mission; and the way Krujha acted after talking with his old clan member, Jekha, was the first time Alwyn was sure he’d seen all the masks slip away.
So he believed the orc spy truly wanted to keep him close and safe; after all, it would give him the best chance of avenging his clan and completing his mission.
Still, he wasn’t entirely convinced that the warm touches and lingering glances were for anything more than gaining his trust, and that dead or alive, Krujha only cared about what the elf mage could do for him.
It should have been the same for Alwyn. He should only have considered their connection as a means to an end, necessary until it wasn’t.
But he wanted to believe there was more, and that the Krujha who had wormed his way into his heart was more real than all the rest. He squeezed his eyes shut and imagined that Krujha was here with him now, a comforting presence promising he’d be safe.
Eventually, he managed to fall asleep, though it didn’t feel restful.
At some point, movement near his feet startled him awake.
A mouse had crawled into the tent, but scurried away as he kicked on reflex.
He tried to fall back asleep after that—and might have dozed for an hour or two—until light filtered through the gaps in the canvas walls again.
Still, he continued to lie where he was until rustling near the tent opening made him sit up quickly. The same orc guard appeared, with the same bowl of porridge and cup of water for him. He handed it to Alwyn silently and reached for the dirty dishes Alwyn had left near the opening.
“Wait,” Alwyn said quickly, trying to scramble to his feet. “When can I see the warlord?”
The guard only glanced at him, but said nothing as he stepped back out of the tent and sealed it back up.
Alwyn gritted his teeth in frustration. Part of him wanted to just abandon their plan, force his way out of here, and get to Zesh with no regard for how many other orcs he might have to kill in the process. It would be the easier thing to do.
But it would be as good as signing a death sentence for himself and probably Krujha, too. He could stay patient for a little longer.
Pacing wasn’t helping him feel any more relaxed, so he sat down cross-legged, closed his eyes, and tried telling himself the story of the Blythe Everwood novel he’d just read.
It was fresh enough in his memory that he could remember it well—it helped that he’d already reread it, twice—and he rehearsed each scene in his mind as if it were a stage play.
When he opened his eyes again, there was another mouse in his tent, sniffing the bowl that held the scraps of porridge Alwyn had left behind. Scowling, Alwyn shooed it away—he should have expected a camp like this to be full of vermin.
Before he could settle back down, though, the tent opened again. Alwyn winced in the sudden light, but could immediately tell this was a different orc.
“Get up,” the guard said. His voice was gruff, hinting that he would take no argument or questions.
Alwyn stumbled to his feet as quickly as he could, but the orc still grabbed a fistful of his robe to push him out of the tent, keeping the tight grip as he led Alwyn through the camp.
He could barely keep up with the orc’s longer gait, stumbling through a maze of tents and fences—he tried to keep track of the way they went, his eyes darting all over, but was too disoriented to retain most of what he saw.
Finally, he was shoved through the opening of a large tent covered in a multitude of garishly colorful panels. The inside was dim, and Alwyn had to blink hard to get his eyes to adjust to the light once again.
The room came into focus around him: it looked almost like a war room absent of all decoration, save for a long table in the center, taking up most of the space, surrounded by chairs with a map spread out on top.
Sitting at the head of the table was an orc with dark hair shorn close to his skull, watching Alwyn with a wary expression.
Behind him, on a chair pressed up against the back wall of the room, was an ancient orc with a mess of gray hair falling down his shoulders and deep lines carved across his weather-worn face.
Alwyn became acutely aware of the presence of a deep magic, as if the mountains surrounding the camp had grown eyes, turning to peer down at him all at once.
Sweat beaded on the back of his neck as he forced down an involuntary shudder at the sudden focus.
This had to be the druid—and he was exerting his magical prowess as a show of force to intimidate Alwyn.
He wasn’t sure if it would be better to act cowed or defiant. But he wanted to gain their trust, so he shrunk in on himself a bit, forcing himself to look away from the druid and instead focus on the orc sitting at the table.
“Your name?” the orc said, his voice flat.
Alwyn blinked, hesitating. This had to be Zesh, but considering all he had heard of the rebel warlord, he had been imagining a greater threat, the wellspring of a vicious force that would unbalance the newfound peace between their two nations.
He couldn’t quite reconcile the image with the orc that looked at him now with only a tired distrust, as if Alwyn’s presence were simply an inconvenience he was eager to be rid of.
He cleared his dry throat before speaking. A pitcher of water stood on the table beside the orc, making him wish they’d given him more than just a cup of the tepid liquid with his breakfast. “Alwyn Alara. And you’re the warlord, Zesh, aren’t you?”
A tired, joyless smile crossed Zesh’s features. “Yes. You came in with an orc, who said you claimed to want to speak with me.”
“It’s true,” Alwyn said, nodding quickly. He started to step toward one of the empty chairs, but the guard who brought him in tightened his grip on Alwyn’s robe to hold him in place. He huffed in annoyance, but remained where he stood.