Sabledrake Magazine
May, 2003
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Windfall
Copyright © 2003 by Dara Williamson
The sky went velvet-blue over the low roof-tops this side of Mreshth. Gleshthrah smirked up at the stars, leaning her back against one of the solid stone pillars that held up her roof and thoroughly enjoying the warm, summery breeze from the west.
Her roof. Her grin spread wider, exposing knife-sharp teeth as her eyes crinkled smugly, and she rubbed her muscled shoulders cat-like against the smooth worn surface. Bought with her own hard-won coins, won with her own scars and twenty years of her life; thus well and truly hers, by the bindings of blood and stone. This house was just one sign of how Gleshthrah, the daughter of Brakash and granddaughter of Brug, tusked child of the Boar orc-clan, had come up in the world.
The wind slid over her bare arms that were crossed over her chest and left displayed by the orcish cut of her loose, comfortably worn tunic. It jangled the gold, brass and copper rings in her pointed ears, and ruffled the proud spikes of her scruffy bangs, threaded with silver. A little shiver passed through her ribs and back, but she ignored it to smirk up at the stars a little longer.
She'd been a mercenary for half her life, building up her fortune in the company vaults reserved for those who'd pay for a lock. Her reputation had become legendary for always managing to come home to Mreshth alive, and the joke had run that she did so because, if she were to fall, where oh where would she finally spend her money? There'd always been teasing and rib-poking over things like that, in so many varieties it was joking matter if someone didn't have anything worth ribbing them over.
But all her saving and tenacious hold to life in a dangerous trade had paid off- and all thanks to that one last battle. A simple job, when three seasons past her merc company had been hired to capture a pack of herd raiders rustling hrethen, stupid beasts that thrived in pouring rain.
She'd managed through the fighting, though the damp cold had been making her forty-year-old bones hurt. And finally, when all was said and done, dozens of raiders had been captured and bound, ready and waiting to be sentenced and hung by the local courts.
Gleshthrah remembered the day with a clarity that reminded her it was getting chilly out here, too. She rubbed her clawed fingers over her biceps, the leaf-green skin tightening in the changing air. But she grinned again at the memory, mere months old, slogging through the mud during one of the few dry-skied moments in the camp toward the pen of tied prisoners.
He'd been in the corner, head bowed and water dripping down the spiky crest of his hair. She'd thought she might have remembered him in the midst of fighting, or perhaps he was just one of several orcish men among the rustlers she'd seen bashed over the head in order to increase the pay (the more left to face the local justice, the larger the share of loot).
Gleshthrah had watched him as her fellows had watched, calculating just how much their employers would thank them and grinning over the phantom gleam of copper and gold. Until he'd looked up.
Stared her right in the eyes, grim set to his young jaw, acceptance and despair and courage in a pair of bark-brown eyes under an angular browridge. He knew he was going to hang, and didn't even try pleading or threatening, as some of the others were doing to the amusement of their captors.
It had been far more than the slow, glowing burn one could find just looking at a reputable brothel's residents. It was a hook in the gut, a tingle in the chest; the sudden, startled breath like a gasp with a shut mouth, and the tremble in the belly and spine that made all reputations of toughness, all legends of temper and viciousness and bloodthirst, futile.
She'd told herself it was because he was so young. For about an hour. Then her own way of thinking had forced her to admit she liked his face first, and then thought that such a young man shouldn't be hung for so small a thing. Hells, even her branch of the Boar clan got up to some cattle raiding every now and then!
But whatever it was, Gleshthrah had done her good deed for a lifetime and traded her portion of the pay in exchange for another form of loot, recognized by any company with a majority of orcs serving- a war-husband.
It was only later, when the surprise had sufficiently leached from his gaze to let his eyes narrow again, and after she'd bitten his ear and marked him with a pair of her own rings, that she'd learned his name was Bruzthrek.
Gleshthrah pulled herself from her musings to realize that the wind had turned cold, as it did even in western Mresth at night; and now her shoulders ached fiercely, protesting the brutal working they'd been given in their forty-one years of service. She gave a soft growl, but continued remembering.
He'd been willing to face the noose with the bravery that had intrigued her, meaning to be proud even if he'd gotten himself taken prisoner. But, given his options, Bruzthrek had become a partner to her, shrewdly and somehow unintentionally making himself invaluable to her. She'd fully intended, realizing the folly of trading her share of the loot for a male she liked too much to force, to let him go in Mreshth and fend like any other citizen.
Nuh-uh. It was not going to happen. That had made itself apparent the evening of her stealing Bruzthrek from the gallows, when she'd gone from aching fiercely to unable to sleep for the pain, and had finally reconsidered what exactly she wanted in the immediate years. Gleshthrah refused to admit if he'd been the deciding straw, but his presence had certainly been an influence.
She'd retired quickly, having admitted that while she still had the thirst to fight of the orcish legend Bloody Hair, her bones held the top vote. Bruzthrek had followed her and insisted on honoring the bond of war-mate, being grateful without being fawning, and following the orcish rules of honor more closely than anyone she knew in the city or back in her home mountains. Together they'd built a business, intimidated swindlers, and turned her life's earnings and his cleverness into a home in the warm west of the Mreshthan city-state.
And that, Gleshthrah concluded with a frown, a shiver, and a wince, was quite enough remembering for one evening.
She turned and grunted as the slightest shift in her position made her shoulders groan, biting her lip with needled fangs, and cursing her own nostalgia, the wind, and the changes of temperature that were more suited to lower southern Mreshth. What she needed, now, was that warm bed with furs and feather-quilts. A lovely, lazy rest with the knowledge that tomorrow she need only spend one of the many mornings of her retirement pleasing herself and bribing her old body with heat and other treats.
A small, deliberate noise warned her sufficiently that she did not attack when a gentle hand came to rest at the middle of her back. The shadowy figure slid out from the darkness to slip around in front of her, curving an arm about her ribs and waist as he faced her.
He'd given up on being polite and platonic about the third time she'd pounced on him, making his own advances once in a while, but he still had a smooth and gentlemanly way of courting her in the evenings. Bruzthrek, with his hook-in-the-gut face and growl-worthy body, made an art form of frustrating and making her impatient with his reserved and gentle flirtations, and then turning around and proving just how lucky she'd been to keep his neck from the gallows.
But for now, he simply leaned down to nuzzle her face silently, jaw to jaw, and cheek to browridge.
She smiled lopsidedly. He returned with a soft, shy grin belying the man beneath, just the tips of his sharp teeth pale as ivory spearpoints against the dark olive of his lips, and started to guide her toward their own chamber.
The hall was dark, but easy enough for them to pad through without waking any of the servers they employed. Bruzthrek kept an arm about her waist that was at once possessive and protective, though she considered such things old-fashioned and overly humanish. But . . . she didn't tease him over it, not too much. She smirked to and at herself. In a way it was . . . enjoyable. And she was retired; who was going to say she'd gone soft and lost her edge?
Their door swung open under Bruzthrek's broad hand, thick dark oak moving aside in a well-oiled motion to reveal the couple's own lair. The fire danced and writhed without noticing them, lighting amber and gold at the edges where the shadows ended. But it still did its job, making it a little easier to see, and making Gleshthrah purr at the thought of easing onto the scattered cushions and letting the warmth sink in around her joints.
Gleshthrah crouched and then flopped onto her favorite over-stuffed monster of a pillow, the firelight lending some dignity to its horrendous pink and orange pattern as it settled under her mild bulk. Bruzthrek sat beside her, laying a hand against her hip and starting a low, inaudible rumble in his chest. His mate lost her gaze in the fire, smiling drowsily and emitting a thready, erratic purr.
Bruzthrek watched her drift and shifted his hands to her upper back in concern, sculptured brow furrowed. Her shoulders again. Even here in the west of the Mreshthan city-state, the nights could get cool enough in this season to make her uncomfortable.
As much as it was in his best interests that his war-mate was happy, he also liked it when she was so. It had nothing to do with the gratitude of trading a noose for a new pair of piercings and a permanent mate- Gleshthrah herself was a constant fascination to him; most times sharp as a throwing-dagger and bold, as plain and practical and solid as the ground they walked; and others, just a few stray moments hidden behind corners and in veiled glances, as mysterious and sly, as elusive and wise as the Cavemother herself. One thing he could be stone-certain of: life with her would never, ever get boring.
But for now, she lay easing the aches of middle age and hard service. He worked at her spine patiently, flexing what was too stiff to loosen itself. Gleshthrah's half-purr lapsed into a silence of breath and sigh. Minutes and the long sweet stretches in between ticked away like fine sand, the fire still dancing before its audience with a grace that plainly stated it thought no one was watching.
The warm air was filled with smoke-scent and the gentler tones of the cleaners on the furnishings, but not enough to overcome the sweet, musky scent of a drowsy orc-woman he loved. Bruzthrek drew in a breath that seemed to encompass the whole of the hidden outside sky, letting her smell wreak its havoc on him as her back became pliable under his hands.
Some of the musk-inspired thoughts sliding into his mind halted his ministering to her sore joints. Gleshthrah murmured sleepily and he jerked his head and moved swiftly to continue; she turned to face her back to the fire and reached out to catch his hand. He didn't tense- Gleshthrah was not one to act out violent nightmares, having few regrets of her proud and oft-bloodied past.
Bruzthrek let himself be pulled down into her arms, and shifted his touch from her shoulders to the curve of her back. Her eyes slitted open and the ruse of sleep fell away to the rising growls in their throats. He nuzzled the line of her jaw and settled his cheekbone against hers, drinking deeper than ever of the well of scent behind her ear.
The nuzzle continued to a full caress down the side of her neck, while she trailed her fingers down his back, careful of her claws. Bruzthrek's fingers slid beneath her tunic, and she returned the favor as they teased one another unmercifully, hearts beating triple-time and sensitive skin arcing with soft lightning.
For a moment they drew back, looking at one another in the firelight. He saw his bold urulg-mthresh, wise fighter, her scars gilded and eyes glowing amber, clear and deep and open to him. She saw her rek-gaz-shreth, meaning something like an unexpected windfall, or more literally, something that is stolen and then discovered to be more valuable than first thought; his sweet clever face and leanly-muscled broad frame bronzed like a statue.
Soft laughter rang in the heated air, and they bound themselves to one another once more, each considering themselves one of the luckiest orcs in the whole of the world.