Page 44 of Steel & Thunder
“What happens now?” I try not to sound panicked.
“They will be taken back to the station for the night and then in the morning brought to the camp to be processed,” he replies casually. “Redwish is likely explaining everything to them now.”
“Can I talk to them again?” I ask hopefully.
“I am afraid not.” He shakes his head, looking apologetic. “We can talk more on the way home.”
I nod numbly, the leash suddenly feeling heavy hanging from my neck. By the time we’re outside, it feels like the collar is choking me.
“I know it sounds bad, but all things considered, two months is...” Ironstorm starts talking, but I’m not really paying attention. My mind is stuck on my friends and their sentences.
Two months in a labor camp? Two months in a prison I would understand but a labor camp? Labor camps, also known as work camps, are where prisoners of war are sent to be worked to death. It doesn’t matter how long your sentence is because there’s never any intention of actually letting you go. They just work you until there’s nothing left. They were discussed in detail in our history lessons at the academy, but more than that, my dad and granddad would talk about them all the time because my granddad spent four months in one. His brother, my great-uncle, died before they could be rescued. And now my friends are going to die in one too. I can’t just...leave them in there. I have to—
“—avid. David?” Ironstorm nudges my shoulder to get my attention. “Are you alright?”
“Sorry.” I look around and see we are almost home already. “Just preoccupied.”
“I understand.” He gives me a sympathetic smile. “You are concerned for them. Two months is still a long time.”
“Yeah.” That feels like an understatement. “I’m still not even sure I understand what exactly happened.”
“It is a lot of new information to process.” Just as we reach the front door, a voice behind us gives us pause.
“Kritar Uzi’gar!” I catch something being said from across the street and a few doors down. It’s the woman whose kid I saved, Mrs. Skycaller I think is her name, and she is holding a cloth-covered basket.
The two orcs speak animatedly before the woman turns to me, saying something as she shoves the basket into my arms. Then she quickly pulls me in for a hug and kisses my forehead.
“Um, thank you?” I hope she knows I can’t understand her.
“She wanted to thank you for saving her daughter. She baked you something.” Ironstorm translates for me, then presumably does the same for her. After a few more words, a smile, and another hug, she leaves us.
“Come. We will make some lunch, you can ask me some questions, and then we can keep your mind focused on other things.”
I nod and follow him inside. I leave the basket in the kitchen while we disrobe in the bedroom, both in our underwear, though his solid black briefs certainly cover more than my red jockstrap. Then we are in the kitchen. Starting to think this guy might specifically have a thing for cooking in his underwear.
“First, let us see what we have here.” The cloth covering the top of the basket is lifted off, revealing the contents. “Ah, dar-buk.” He smiles down.
In the basket are at least a few dozen of these small, round, cake-bun things. They look fluffy.
“These are delicious. They are made with two kinds of flour: wheat and corn.” He takes one out of the basket, tearing it in half. “Sweetened with tree sap and then stuffed with a jam made from berries that grow in the forest.”
He shows me the gooey red contents of one half, before moving it toward my mouth. I’m getting a little too used to being fed, but I still take a bite. Mmm. They are fluffy. And sweet, especially the jam. Damn.
“Those are good.” He lets me finish the half I’ve bitten into. “What did you call them again?”
“Dar-buk.” He recovers the baked goodies and sets the basket to the side. “We can have more after lunch.”
I pout as he moves about the kitchen. She made those for me! Then I remember that while I’m sitting here basically eating cookies, my friends are waiting to begin what will likely be the roughest two months of their lives. Fuck, what am I doing here? I can’t just stand by and let this happen. I have to think of something. Anything.
...Right after lunch.
Chapter Twelve
“I am making soup for lunch—a family recipe.” Ironstorm is already grabbing a cutting board and vegetables. “My father says that a good soup can heal wounds of the heart.”
“Did your father do a lot of cooking?” I don’t think my dad was ever in the kitchen.
“Still does. Insists on it. This is his stock, in fact.” He holds up a jar of brown liquid retrieved from over the stove. Then he pauses, giving me a faux-serious look. “If I give you a knife for cutting vegetables, can I trust you not to try and kill me when my back is turned?”
