Page 6 of Bound By Blood
This is a community, not just a military outpost.
The hand over my mouth has loosened slightly during our climb, but I don't dare attempt speech. Not yet. Better to observe and learn than provoke a reaction that might end poorly.
We climb stairs carved directly from the mountain's stone, passing levels that branch off into what must be living quarters, workshops, storage areas. The air carries scents of cooking food, weapon oil, leather, and something else, herbs and incense that remind me of my mother's healing chambers.
Do they have healers here? Do they practice the same arts my mother learned from them?
The thought brings a curious comfort. If they value healing, perhaps they'll have use for my skills. Perhaps this capture isn't the death sentence I feared.
We stop finally at a heavy wooden door bound with iron bands. My captor knocks with three short raps followed by two longer ones. The pattern seems familiar, though I can't place where I might have heard it before.
The door opens to reveal a chamber lit by more oil lamps and dominated by a massive wooden table covered with maps, scrolls, and carved tokens. Chief Drokhan looks up from studying what appears to be a detailed survey of the borderlands.
He shows no surprise at seeing me, only mild interest as he takes in my disheveled state, the scroll still clutched in one hand, my healer's satchel still hanging from my shoulder.
"Lady Eirian Thorne," he says in accented but clear Common tongue. "Welcome to the Stoneborn stronghold."
The hand over my mouth withdraws, though the arm remains. I work my jaw carefully, tasting blood where I accidentally bit my tongue during the journey.
"Was an invitation too much trouble?" I manage, proud that my voice comes out steady.
Drokhan's laugh rumbles like distant thunder. "In truth, I wished to speak with you away from watching eyes and listening ears. Your people would not understand such a meeting."
"And kidnapping seems perfectly reasonable?"
"Koreth was instructed to bring you safely and quietly. If he used excessive caution..." Drokhan shrugs massive shoulders. "Better safe than sorrowful."
The warrior holding me, Koreth, apparently, speaks in rapid Orcish. Drokhan listens, then nods.
"He says you fought well when seized. And that you protected your healing supplies even when threatened. Admirable priorities."
I become conscious of the satchel's weight against my hip, the precious vials hidden within. Do they know what I carry? Is that why I'm here?
"You mentioned my mother," I say carefully. "You said she was respected among your people."
"She was." Drokhan gestures, and Koreth finally releases me entirely. I step away, rubbing circulation back into my ribs where his arm pressed. "Please, sit. We have much to discuss, and the night grows short."
A wooden chair sits beside his table, sized for human proportions. I settle into it cautiously, keeping my satchel close and the scroll in my lap.
"Your mother came to us twenty-three summers past," Drokhan begins, settling into his own chair, a throne-like construction of carved oak and iron fittings. "She sought knowledge that her own people had forgotten. Healing arts from the time before the borders hardened into walls of mistrust."
"She never told me about visiting your stronghold."
"She gave her word to speak of it to none save her heir, and only when that heir proved ready to understand." His gaze drops to the scroll in my hands. "You carry her final gift, yes? The teachings she preserved?"
My fingers tighten on the parchment. "Some of them."
"Some." He leans forward, and lamplight catches the intricate tattoos covering his arms and throat. "She promised more. Knowledge too dangerous for writing, too precious for casual sharing. Secrets that live only in trusted memory."
The chamber feels suddenly smaller, the air thicker. Around us, the mountain's weight presses down with almost physical force.
"What kind of secrets?"
"The kind that could heal our wounds," Drokhan says. "Or deepen them beyond all hope of mending."
He stands, moving to a stone shelf lined with clay vessels and glass bottles. When he returns, he carries a small cup of liquid that glows softly in the lamplight, not luminescence, but the deep amber of honey held up to flame.
"Drink," he commands, offering the cup.
