Chapter 2 Vargath
VARGATH
The blood on my gauntlets has long since frozen, cracking like rust-colored ice with each flex of my fingers around the reins.
My warg snorts beneath me, breath steaming in the bitter air as we crest the final ridge before Azhgar.
Behind me, twenty warriors follow in loose formation, their mounts picking careful paths through snow that reaches past their fetlocks.
Home. The word tastes bitter as old leather.
The stronghold sprawls below us like a wound carved into the frozen earth.
Smoke rises from a dozen forges, and the skeletal remains of human towers pierce the grey sky like broken bones.
I can smell the familiar mixture of coal smoke, roasting meat, and the sharp tang of worked metal that marks every orc settlement.
"You're grinding your teeth again."
Gargan guides his mount alongside mine. My second-in-command has the annoying habit of reading my moods better than I read them myself.
"I don't grind my teeth."
"Right. And I don't scratch my arse when I think nobody's watching." He shifts in his saddle, leather creaking against the cold. "What's eating at you? We won."
The victory feels hollow. Twenty dead humans, their blood painting the snow red, all because Korrath wanted to test my resolve before the spring negotiations. Political theater played out with real corpses. They never posed any threat to the likes of our clan and Korrath knew it. I knew it.
"Just eager to get this over with."
"This being the formal welcome? The feast? Or the part where they parade you around like a prize bull before the mating ceremony?"
I shoot him a look sharp enough to cut stone, but Gargan just grins. His broken tusk gives the expression a lopsided quality that would be comical if I didn't know how he'd earned that particular scar.
"Careful, Gargan. Your tongue's getting loose in your old age."
"Old age, he says. I'm two years older than you, you overgrown whelp." He scratches his jaw where a dark elf blade had carved a furrow years ago. "Besides, someone needs to remind you that scowling won't make Korrath's daughter any prettier."
The mention of Zharra sends a familiar twist of dread through my gut.
Not because she's ugly—she's not—but because she represents everything I've been trained to want and nothing I actually do.
A political alliance wrapped in the ceremony of mating, designed to bind two clans together with bonds stronger than steel.
"She's perfectly adequate."
"Adequate." Gargan rolls the word around like he's tasting spoiled meat. "There's the romantic spirit that'll sweep her off her feet."
Before I can respond with something appropriately cutting, voices drift up from the base of the outer wall. Harsh orc syllables, but with an edge of excitement that makes my steed's ears prick forward. I hold up a fist, and the warband draws to a halt behind us.
"What's that about?"
Gargan shades his eyes with one gauntleted hand, peering down at the cluster of figures near the gate. "Guards. Looks like they've found something."
Or someone. The figures shift, and I catch a glimpse of something small and pale crumpled against the dark stone of the wall. Too small to be an orc, too still to be moving under its own power.
"Probably another refugee." I nudge my mount forward, beginning the descent toward the gates. "The winter's been hard on the human settlements."
"Since when do refugees rate this much attention?"
He's right. The guards cluster around their discovery like carrion birds around fresh meat, and their voices carry the particular tone orcs use when discussing something that amuses them.
Not the respectful wariness they'd show a genuine threat, but the cruel entertainment they find in others' misfortune.
We draw closer, and details sharpen through the falling snow. A woman, definitely human, wrapped in a cloak that might once have been brown but now looks closer to grey. She's unconscious—or worse—and her position against the wall suggests she's been there for some time.
The guards notice our approach and straighten, hands moving instinctively to weapons before they recognize my banner. One of them, a scarred veteran named Thorgak, raises his hand in salute.
"Warleader! Welcome back to Azhgar!"
I don't return the greeting. My attention fixes on the figure at their feet, and something cold that has nothing to do with the weather settles in my chest.
"What's this?"
"Just some human refuse, sir. Probably froze to death trying to find shelter." Thorgak nudges the still form with his boot, and I have to clench my jaw to keep from snarling at him. "We were about to dispose of—"
"Don't touch her."
The words come out harsh, and every guard within hearing distance goes still. Gargan shoots me a questioning look, but I'm already dismounting, my boots hitting the frozen ground with enough force to send up small puffs of snow.
I step closer, and the world tilts sideways.
The face beneath the frost-matted hair belongs to someone I never expected to see again. Someone I'd convinced myself I'd forgotten.
"Seris."
Her name escapes like a prayer, barely audible above the wind.
The human translator who'd spent three months at the winter negotiations.
The woman who'd challenged my assumptions about her people with every conversation.
The one who'd seen that I was more than just another orc warleader playing politics.
The one I'd left without a word.
My eyes drop to her body, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush. Her cloak has fallen open, revealing the unmistakable curve of her belly. Even through the layers of clothing, there's no mistaking what I'm seeing.
She's pregnant. Very pregnant.
"Hah! Look at that," Thorgak sneers, prodding her again with his boot. "The little human bitch was trying to sneak in and dump her bastard on us. Probably hoped we'd—"
"Shut your mouth."
The words come out as a snarl, low and dangerous enough to make every guard take a step back. Thorgak's hand drops to his weapon, confusion flickering across his scarred features.
"Sir?"
"I said shut your mouth before I shut it for you."
I drop to one knee beside her, my gauntleted hands hovering over her still form. This close, I can see the blue tinge to her lips, the way her breathing comes in shallow, rapid puffs. She's been out here too long.
"Vargath." Gargan's voice cuts through the roaring in my ears. "What are you doing?"
What am I doing? Good question. The smart thing would be to let the guards handle this. To pretend I don't recognize her. To walk away and let politics be politics.
Instead, I strip off my gauntlets and press my fingers to her throat, searching for a pulse. It's there—weak but steady—and some tension I didn't know I was carrying releases from my shoulders.
Her skin burns with fever despite the cold, and when I brush the hair from her face, she stirs slightly. Her lips part, forming words too quiet to hear.
The child she carries could be anyone's. Should be anyone's. The timing...
The timing fits perfectly.
"I found you," I whisper, the words meant for her alone.
"Sir?" Thorgak's voice holds a note of impatience. "Should we dispose of the body? The cold will finish what—"
I surge to my feet, and the guard stumbles backward. "Touch her again and lose the hand."
The silence stretches like a bowstring. Twenty warriors watch their warleader cradle a pregnant human woman like she's made of spun glass. I can practically hear their thoughts grinding away, trying to make sense of what they're witnessing.
Gargan moves closer, his voice pitched low. "Vargath, you need to think about this."
"I am thinking." I slide my arms beneath her shoulders and knees, lifting her against my chest. She weighs almost nothing, all sharp angles and hollow places where there should be curves. "I'm thinking she'll die if she stays out here."
"That's not what I—"
"I know exactly what you mean." I turn toward my mount, Seris cradled against my armor. "And right now, I don't care."
My warhorse stands patient as stone while I figure out how to mount with my arms full. It takes some maneuvering, but I manage to settle into the saddle with Seris positioned across my lap, her head resting against my shoulder.
The gates of Azhgar loom ahead, and beyond them, a hundred complications I'm not ready to face. But her breath is warm against my neck, and for the first time in months, something that feels almost like hope stirs in my chest.