Page 41 of Bound By Blood
"How many did we lose?" I ask as she settles beside me on the spring's stone rim.
"Three. Garok, young Thesh, and..." Her voice catches slightly. "Mirin. She was barely sixteen."
Mirin.One of the healer apprentices who'd stepped forward when I asked who would fight. She'd held a kitchen pot for a shield and died protecting a fallen human guard from an Ironmaw blade.
"Her name will be carved in the memorial stone," I say quietly. "Beside the greatest warriors."
Eirian nods, understanding the honor in that. Among Orcs, the memorial stone doesn't distinguish between death in glorious single combat or death holding a shield wall. Courage is courage, regardless of the weapon that channels it.
Lady Jazmin approaches with a leather flask, her movements careful but not fearful. Fear would be understandable after what she's witnessed, but this woman possesses the steel that bends without breaking.
"Dwarven brandy," she says, offering the flask. "From my late husband's private stores. Seemed appropriate for the occasion."
I accept the offering, taste the liquid fire, and pass it on. The flask moves around our circle, Orc to human to Orc again, each drink a wordless acknowledgment of shared survival.
Ritual emerging from necessity.How many clan traditions started exactly this way? A moment of quiet recognition between those who'd stood together when standing alone meant death.
"Never thought I'd share drink with Orcs," Lord Edran says, not with malice but with the honesty of exhaustion. "Never thought I'd fight beside them either."
"First time for everything," Gorth rumbles, accepting the flask from Edran's weathered hands. "You swing a decent blade for a ceremony soldier."
"Ceremonialofficer," Edran corrects with mild offense, then catches himself and almost smiles. "Though I suppose after today, the distinction matters less."
The spring bubbles softly around us, its mineral-rich waters carrying away the day's blood and grime. Steam rises where heated stone meets cool air, creating shifting veils of mist that soften harsh edges and make everything seem dreamlike.
Not a dream, though. Real. All of it.
Eirian's hand finds mine beneath the water's surface, fingers intertwining with casual intimacy that somehow feels more profound than our passionate encounter in the moonlit chamber. This touch speaks of choice made in full awareness, with witnesses, without the excuse of overwhelming desire.
She's claiming me. Publicly.
The realization should terrify me. Chief of the Stoneborn Clan, bound to a human healer while her noble family watches. Political suicide, if viewed through the lens of traditional clan politics.
But watching Lady Jazmin methodically sharpen her blade on a whetstone she's borrowed from one of my warriors, I wonder if traditional politics died today along with Ironmaw ambitions. The world shifts beneath our feet, and those who refuse to shift with it get buried under change.
"Gorthak won't give up easily," I say, breaking the comfortable silence. "Today was testing, not full commitment. He'll return with more fighters."
"How many more?" Jazmin asks without looking up from her blade-work.
"As many as he can gather without leaving his own territory undefended. Sixty, perhaps seventy." I calculate quickly, drawing on intelligence reports and old knowledge of Ironmaw capabilities. "But not for several weeks. Time enough to prepare."
"Prepare how?" Edran sets down the flask, his expression thoughtful rather than panicked. "My guards fought well today, but six men won't hold against seventy."
Interesting. He's thinking strategy, not escape.Something stronger has overwhelmed whatever fear drove him here. Pride, perhaps, or paternal protectiveness. Maybe just the warrior's satisfaction of testing himself against real danger and discovering he doesn't break easily.
"Alliance," Eirian says quietly. "Not just between our clans, but everyone."
It’s a misty air incantation. Alliance. Not treaty or truce or temporary cooperation, but the deep binding that makes separate tribes into single nations.
Ambitious.Also dangerous, revolutionary, and probably insane.
Also necessary.
"The Church won't approve," Jazmin says carefully. "Formal alliance with Orc clans would be considered..." She searches for diplomatic phrasing. "Theologically problematic."
"The Church isn't here," Eirian replies with quiet firmness. His eyes land on his daughter and her hand in mine. "And theology didn't save us today. Shared courage did."
She's learning.The sheltered noble lady who arrived as my captive is discovering the difference between abstract principle and lived reality. Battle accelerates that education in ways no amount of religious instruction can match.
