Page 4 of Bound By Blood
The question hangs between us. Around us, both sides watch and wait. Sir Edmund shifts beneath my protection, probably preparing to resume fighting the moment I move.
"Especially those," I answer.
Chief Drokhan smiles then with a brief expression that transforms his weathered features completely. For an instant, he looks almost approachable.
He barks an order to his warriors. They step back, weapons lowering. Several actually sheath their blades entirely.
"We came for supplies and to test your defenses," he tells me. "Both objectives are complete."
He turns as if to leave, then pauses.
"The boy with fever in your healing tent will recover fully by tomorrow's dawn. The remedy you used, my grandmother taught it to your mother, years ago, when such knowledge could still pass between our peoples."
My breath catches. "You knew my mother?"
"I knew of her. She was respected among the Stoneborn." His gaze meets mine one final time. "As are you now, Lady of House Thorne."
Then he's walking away, his warriors falling into formation around him. They move with the same deadly grace they showed in attack, but now purposeful withdrawal rather than aggression.
At the broken gates, Drokhan stops and looks back.
"Tell your captain, the next raid will come from the eastern passes, three days hence. Unless tribute is paid." His voice resounds clearly across the courtyard. "Twenty bushels of grain, ten casks of ale, and safe passage for Stoneborn trade caravans through the spring."
"And if we refuse?" Sir Edmund calls out, struggling to his feet.
Drokhan's smile returns, predatory this time.
"Then I return with a war host instead of a raiding party."
They disappear through the breach like smoke dispersing, leaving only bloodstains and silence behind.
I remain kneeling in the courtyard, hands still shaking, as the full impact of what just happened settles over me. The Chief of the Stoneborn knows my name. Knows my mother's history. Knows secrets I've barely understood.
And somehow, in the space of heartbeats, everything I thought I knew about the boundary between civilization and barbarism has crumbled like poorly mortared stone.
The boy with fever sleeps peacefully when I return to the healing tent, his breathing deep and steady. Color has returned to his cheeks, and when I press my palm to his forehead, the skin feels blessedly cool. The Orc remedy worked exactly as it should have.
As my mother said it would.
I move between the cots methodically, checking wounds, changing bandages, dispensing pain relief where needed. Sir Edmund requires the most attention with three cracked ribs and a gash along his sword arm that needs proper stitching. He endures my ministrations in stoic silence, though I catch him wincing when he thinks I'm not looking.
"You shouldn't have protected me," he says finally as I tie off the last suture. "That creature could have killed you."
"Thatpersonshowed me mercy when he could have taken my head." I clean my bone needle with practiced efficiency. "Perhaps we should consider why."
Sir Edmund's jaw tightens. "They're raiders, Lady Eirian. Murderers and thieves. Today's restraint means nothing."
I don't argue. There's no point. But his words sit uneasily as I finish treating the wounded.
Hours pass before the last patient is settled for the night. Ser Mael has proven capable enough, following my instructions precisely and asking intelligent questions about treatment procedures. The tent grows quiet except for the soft sounds of sleeping men and the murmur of guards discussing the day's events.
My mother's scroll calls to me from my personal effects, obsidian ink on parchment that feels ancient between my fingers. I've carried it for years without fully understanding its significance, but Chief Drokhan's words have stirred something loose. Knowledge that wants to surface like bubbles rising through still water.
The night air feels cool against my skin after the tent's close warmth. Stars scatter across the sky like scattered grain, and a full moon bathes the courtyard in silver light bright enough to read by. I settle on a wooden crate near the broken gates, my healer's bag my feet, a habit so ingrained I barely notice the weight anymore.
The scroll crackles as I unroll it, revealing my mother's delicate script alongside symbols I recognize as Orcish runes. Her handwriting describes herbal preparations, ritual components, healing ceremonies that bridge the gap between human knowledge and Stoneborn wisdom.
"The mountain spirits respond to offerings of blood and bone,"one passage reads."But they demand respect, not subjugation. Those who approach with humility find doors opened that remain closed to conquerors."
