“Who in the hells are you?”

 

Aithne snapped back from the abyss when the orc spoke; his pale green skin and incongruously high-pitched voice shattered the Borkul illusion and left her struggling to hold back a giggle. It took her a couple attempts to be able to say, “My name is Aithne.”

 

“She just saved your life, Nyatt,” the orc woman interjected. “Show some respect.” The woman knelt beside Aithne and bowed her head. “I am Chyehye, by the way.”

 

“Aithne,” Aithne said again. “How are the other two?”

 “I’ll make it.” A deep voice, more orc-like; one that sent a trill down Aithne’s spine. One of the other males limped forward from somewhere behind Aithne, rubbing his head. He was of a medium green hue and stood, from Aithne’s estimation, nearly as tall as Borkul had. “Ṭåmmåm was not so lucky. Half his head got ripped off by those ba-ṭːa-tswas. No healing in Nirn is bringing him back.”

 

Aithne bowed her head. “I’m…sorry.”

 

“Don’t be. It was a good death. He is at the Ashen Forge and will battle in Malacath’s realm for eternity with his thousand wives at his side.”

 

Aithne blinked. “Thous…”

 

“I am Dyaj gro-Pyum.” The deep-voiced orc bowed. “Much as I envy our fallen brother his afterworld gains, I am happier to still be alive. You have my gratitude, as well as that of Kwåim Narzulbur.”

 

“I…” Aithne shook herself and tried to match Dyaj’s semi-formal tone. “I am Aithne…” She paused, her married name on her lips; perhaps she should not use what would clearly be an orcish name when she had no proof in this world she merited it. “…Shae.” Her maiden name – or, in this world, just her name – felt foreign to her lips, it had been so long since she had spoken it. “We are glad we could…”

 

Another pause as the word “we” sparked a memory, and she cried out, “Merks!” She jumped to her feet and whirled around, only to find her nemesis-turned-servant standing on wobbly legs next to Chyehye. “You are okay.”

 

A rush of relief took a nosedive into a range of emotions tangled into knots she could not begin to untie and she fought to shove them somewhere deep as Merks nodded and said, “My Lady.”

 

Dyaj motioned. “Nyatt, are you able to walk? We should leave. The ba-ṭːa-tswas will likely be back.”

 

Aithne asked, “The what?” as Nyatt levered himself to a sitting position with a grunt.

 

Chyehye stood and held out a hand to Nyatt. “You would call them werewolves.” She helped Nyatt stand and Aithne blinked as the orc rose and then seemed to keep rising, until he towered over Dyaj and would have been, in her estimation, a head or more taller than even Borkul.

 

“They are more than that.” Dyaj held up a shield. It bore an unfamiliar insignia – a white wolf’s head against a black background.

 

Unfamiliar to Aithne – to everyone else (including Merks), it seemed to mean something. Chyehye growled while both Nyatt and Merks cursed.

 

Aithne glanced around in growing concern. “I don’t know that coat of arms. Whose is it that causes this much…” She stopped, not wanting to say “fear,” but her intention was written well enough on the faces of the others.

 

Chyehye sighed, a resigned sound. “They were Companions.”

 

At Aithne’s continued blank look, Nyatt supplied, “They are a guild of mercenaries. Doughty warriors, all.”

 

Merks’ unexpected voice chimed in. “Apparently these had the misfortune of fighting werewolves recently and were turned themselves.”

 

“Perhaps.” Dyaj looked troubled as he began to lead the way away. “There have been…unsavory rumors about the Companions for years. I hope this is an isolated incident and the ones that got away are just feral beasts. If they are not…”

 

^deep fear^…then we have witnesses that will lead the rest of them down on our Kwåim, his thoughts finished.

 

Aithne had a fleeting moment, as she followed, to ponder how she could understand his thoughts – surely they were in his language? – but her speculation was interrupted by Nyatt, who angled his pained-looking gait to walk next to her.

 

“I did not get a chance to properly introduce myself. My name is Ug Hwow Mmenyått, but you may call me Nyatt.”

 

Chyehye snorted. “Do not let him fool you. Nyatt’s name is similar to nyått, which means ‘to seek’ in Orsimari, so he has taken to calling himself ‘One who seeks.’ He should instead be called Ug Hwow Mmechti Snikheg, ‘One who is pretentious.’”

 

Her derision was imprinted all over her features and echoed by Dyaj and even, to a degree, by Nyatt himself, though outwardly he just glared at Chyehye.

 

Aithne allowed herself just enough of a deeper peek to fill in some context: his childhood filled with hope as he quickly outgrew his peers; the hope dashed as he proved to be the worst warrior of the lot; the bullying, despair, and self-pity; the adoption of a moniker to try to protect himself, and the inevitable response as it was cast back at him - a spear forged of ridicule, not least from himself.

 

From Chyehye and Dyaj, she learned his nickname: Pyu-o-ba, spoken with ironic intent – the largest of the orcs was named half-a-man. They both wished it had been Ṭåmmåm who had survived.

 

Aithne shook her head to clear the thoughts of others and gave Nyatt her biggest smile. “There is a saying I read in an elvish book, once: Week nyu wu imě̃s muup raw tsii yaw̃k nõpfawnyiir kũ fam. It means ‘Only one who seeks can ever hope to find.’ It is a pleasure to meet you, Ug Hwow Menyatt.” She struggled through the pronunciation but her intent was clear enough. She felt his surprise and delight as he grinned back. She also felt Chyehye’s scorn, but with it a shot of guilt and a sort of cautious approval.

 

It took only a little over an hour to reach Narzulbur, but they arrived none too soon – Nyatt’s limp had grown more pronounced as they walked and, though he hid it better, Dyaj’s injuries had brought him to the edge of collapse, if his thoughts were any indication.

 

The Kwåim itself was a fortress town protected by a twenty-foot wall of spiked logs with heavy timber buildings gathered loosely around an open central space and a structure roughly the size of all the other buildings combined nestled against – and partially under – an inward-sloping cliff face.

 

Aithne noticed none of this until much later; the moment their party stepped through the gates, a roar drowned out all other sounds as dozens of orcs rushed toward them. She read it in their minds in an instant – they saw the human woman and thought she was a prize, spoils of victorious battle; and all spoils of battle, whether gold or weapons or women, were shared equally among the tribe.

 

She could not have blocked out the surge of hunger and lust aimed very specifically in her direction had she been forewarned. Blind fear rose up within her, dousing all her senses and leaving her frozen in place.

 

The wave of fear crested and crashed and entangled her, then dragged at her, pulling her toward the depths of a sea made of desperation and panic; yet it brought also an unexpected undertow of lust, an unbridled hunger of her own that flared as she imagined hundreds of orcish hands grabbing her, yanking her down, stripping her; then a never-ending litany of orcish cocks slamming into her, filling every opening she had with merciless abandon, hour after hour, day after day, until her body was nothing more than an empty husk of blinding pain. She yearned for it and yawed away from it with equal fervor; her gibbering fear and slavering lust played tug of war, neither giving ground, and Aithne hung in the middle and could do nothing but quake.

 

A sudden flash of intense heat snapped Aithne out of her stasis. She blinked and found herself staring at Merks’ back and, just beyond him, the wall (or, perhaps better, circle, since it surrounded them) of flame he had created, separating them from the oncoming horde. The rush of lust and hunger splintered into an unfocused cacophony of emotions and thoughts that she was able to filter away, leaving her once again able to think.

 

The fire flickered out a few heartbeats later, leaving the party facing the murmuring mass of orcs. Dyaj stepped forward and started speaking in a loud and clear voice in Orcish while Nyatt leaned over and murmured to Aithne and Merks, “Please accept our apologies. Outsiders are rare here. The meyge thought you were captives. Dyaj is explaining everything to them.”

 

Aithne did not trust herself to talk, so she stuck to shaking her head but, for the first time in this new Skyrim, Merks looked like…well, Merks. He glared daggers at Nyatt.

 

“Your apologies? Your entire meyge,” he said the word in a tone that dripped with venom, “dropped everything to…?”

 

Aithne sighed. “Merks, it’s fine.”

 

Merks turned his glare at her. “No it is not!” After a pause, he seemed to remember who he was talking to and added, “My Lady.” But he was not done – he turned back to Nyatt and continued, “…to enslave us, I’m guessing. Which, as I’m sure you are aware, is illegal in Skyrim. Is that how you…”

 

“What?” The word sprang from Aithne’s lips without thought and Merks paused again.

 

“What what, my Lady? You saw them – they were clearly…”

 

“Slavery is illegal?”

 

A longer pause. “Um. Yes.”

 

Merks’ confusion had derailed his diatribe and before he could gather his momentum back (and before Aithne could process this surprising news), Dyaj finished whatever he had said to the meyge and turned to them, then took Aithne by surprise by dropping to his knees and bowing low until his forehead touched the ground. The entire courtyard went dead silent, save for a baby’s wail in the distance.

 

Then Dyaj lifted his head but stayed on his knees and spoke; his words were directed toward Aithne and Merks but he spoke them loud enough to be heard through the Kwåim.

 

“Your companion is entirely correct. I am ashamed of the behavior of Kwåim Narzulbur. Most outsiders shun us, revile us, think us nothing but mindless beasts. And today we have proven them right! The irony is that we acted this way toward two rare outsiders who actually believed differently, who put themselves in harm’s way to rescue us!”

 

He sighed into a silence that was somehow deeper than before; Aithne struggled to hold herself steady as a wave of regret and shame nearly as strong as the earlier lust and hunger enveloped the meyge.

 

Dyaj lifted himself to his feet and spoke softer, though his voice still carried throughout the silent Kwåim. “I had thought to honor you in thanks by throwing a feast and naming you orc-friends. It is the greatest honor our people can bestow upon an outsider. But now, that is not enough. If you are willing, I would name you Blood-Kin.” A gasp that matched a wave of shock sprang from the crowd but Dyaj ignored them, staring Aithne in the eyes. “If you accept, you will no longer be an outsider. You will be one of us, an orc by law, by name, and by blood.”

 

Aithne’s heart leapt at the thought even as she felt the wave of revulsion from Merks. He was one, she saw in a flash, who did believe the orcs to be little more than beasts, a belief only cemented by their introduction to the Kwåim; had he been by himself on the road, he would not have stepped in.

 

Aithne, on the other hand…

 

“What does it entail?”

 

“My Lady!”

 

Aithne waved an impatient hand at Merks, though her eyes never left Dyaj’s.

 

“There is little enough to the ceremony. First would be a trial of combat to find your ṭi. Then you would choose a husband from those of the same ṭi who are able to sustain another wife. Your companion, should he accept, would choose his first wife from those of his ṭi. It differs slightly by sex at this point – your companion would be named first, then his wife would take his name after the wedding ceremony. For you, we would have the wedding ceremony first, then you would receive your husband’s name. Then we would feast.”

 

Aithne blinked. She had been prepared to say “yes” no matter what Dyaj had said, but…

 

“I…have things I must do. Would I be expected to stay here?”

 

“That would be up to your husband,” were the words that came out of Dyaj’s mouth, but his mind told her the deeper truth: whoever she chose would do his duty and marry her (more wives meant more prestige, after all), but her husband would expect less than nothing from a frail human woman. He would likely not care what she did. Nor would his other wives want an ugly human in their midst.

 

Aithne raised her eyebrows as the implications of this thought process became clear: while Dyaj had felt honor-bound to offer Blood-Kin status, he did not expect her to accept it. Even if she did, he did not think she would acquit herself well in the trial. He thought her weak, as did the rest of the meyge.

 

He expected her to fail.

 

She tilted her head as this revelation rolled through her. He expected her to turn the offer down. If not, he expected her to fail. In spectacular fashion. He was already going through the list of the lowest ranking members of the meyge in his head, trying to decide who was the weakest so maybe Aithne would not die at the first blow from her first opponent.

 

Dyaj, who had been nearly killed by a werewolf - the same kind Aithne, herself, had killed with a single fiery blow – thought her incapable of defending herself. No doubt he believed Merks had been the one to defeat the werewolves.

 

Men were the same all over.

 

“I will not speak for my companion, though I think I know his answer. As for me…” A deep breath – she somehow felt she was born for just this moment. “I accept.”

 

 

Next chapter

 

Previous chapter

 

Start from the beginning