2k words
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Roderick wandered until he found a crate to sit on, cradling his head in his hands. “Where are you, my friends?” he muttered to himself. Wilfred had the wisdom of the Conclave at his back, he’d know how to put Von Kessel on the right path. Skyseeker would put his thoughts at ease, she knew how to make things seem so simple with her unique outlook on the world. He could barely remember the feeling of her fuzzy arms wrapped around him, and he had to strain to hold back a tear of regret.
The more he stayed still, the worse it felt, so Roderick hurried off in search of something to occupy himself with. Perhaps a stroll along the river would help calm his thoughts. As he navigated the half-raised tents and pavilions, he saw that several smaller groups had set up a series of campfires along the bank, and there was a general merriment in the air as he passed them by. The men were glad to be home, it seemed, the conversations a little more lively than usual as meals were cooked and shared. Von Kessel had been right about the morale, if nothing else.
The men called out to him once he was noticed, Brettonians and sailors alike breaking bread in close-knit groups. Part of Roderick wanted to be left alone, but he was lacking in companionship these days, and in the end he joined with them.
His reputation had come to proceed him. Some recognised him from the defence of Cassel, others had been riders in his scouting company, and word had spread of his ability to keep the way clear for the main force. With him leading the charge, Marienberg would be relieved in no time, they said.
Those words were troubling. Even Kessel’s own men were not aware of his change of plans, but would they all be on the same page when they reached Antorpe? Hard as it was to admit, but perhaps if there was infighting among the sailor’s ranks, some of them could be persuaded to continue the fight. Mutiny was an ugly word, but it had to be at least entertained if the Empire was to be saved, and Kessel had only himself to blame if it turned out that way.
Soon a keg was pulled off from the wagons, and Roderick was offered a mug of beer. There was nothing like a stiff drink to take one’s mind off things, and Roderick accepted it, taking a hearty gulp and finishing it just a few moments. More of the weary men were coming down to the river to partake in the small feast that was brewing, some of them bringing along cooking pots and other implements to have their dinner right on the shore.
The chorus of conversation quickly rose, the lapping of the waves providing a soothing undertone. Even as the men became livelier, Roderick found contentment in his drinks, and it wasn’t long before he was a handful of beers deep into a buzz with no intent of stopping. One of the Brettonians offered to make a game of it to see who could keep on their feet the longest, Roderick seeing no point in objecting. The Knight must not have realised they were drinking proper beer, not some fruity wine, as he only lasted a few rounds before tapping out, much to the amusement of the sailors who’d come to watch.
The inebriation helped to quell Roderick’s darker thoughts, and the more he drank the easier it was to forget Von Kessel’s venerable rug-pull, though he found himself staring wistfully out to the river, wondering what would come next. It was only two or three days’ ride to Antorpe, and he would sooner die than join Von Kessel on another seaward journey again. Where else would he go, with his companions gone?
The answer lay at the bottom of his next drink, but Roderick had to search hard throughout the camp for a spare keg, stumbling between the tents as shaky legs. It seemed their stores of drink had been hit hard, and Roderick had done most of the heavy lifting on that front.
He eventually found a sailor who helped him find a supply wagon with another keg in the cart, the men revelling when they saw them haul it back to the lake. It was a good thing Mazkha had saved that cart from sinking into the lake, Roderick thought, or else they’d be pressed for drinks right about now. A marching army had many needs, but ale for the thirsty was almost always the most important.
As he helped himself to another round, his thoughts turned more and more to the she-orc. How she’d lifted that wagon on her own had been nothing short of astonishing, he’d never met a woman who could lift something so heavy. Those muscles on her were the envy of any strongman or body builder, and the way the water had glistened against her olive-green skin. Her body must feel like chiselled stone, though she still possessed an hourglass figure that plucked at the strings of his male instincts.
He remembered all the times she’d teased and flirted with him, and for a heartbeat he wondered why he’d rebutted her advances all without fault. No woman had ever tried to advance on him so strongly, not since Skyseeker, but if the ratwoman was truly gone, then…
He wiped his bleary eyes with a hand. Why he was so longing for company, when Mazkha was only a short walk away? She’d jump for joy if he just uip and walked up to her right this moment, she practically said as much from the very beginning. Maybe he needed more relief than just a stroll and a drink, though would he even be able to do much with Mazkha? She was near twice his size and could snap his spine with just the one hand.
He downed the rest of his drink, using the contents as liquid strength. Mazkha was his closest companion in this place, there was no point in pushing her away, not when they soon may part ways when they reached Antorpe.
The orc half of the camp was only a short walk north, the Warrgh raising their huts in the cover of the forest nearby. The guards received him with amiable greetings, a gesture of Mazkha’s influence no doubt, and aside from a few curious looks he walked their camp in relative peace.
He paused to stop a wondering orc warrior for directions, asking after Mazkha. “In that tent over there with the steam,” he grumbled in a low voice, nodding off to the east. “But good luck gettin’ in, no boyz are allowed in, and believe me we’ve tried.”
It didn’t’ take long to find the tent he’d meant. It was the biggest one in the area, aside from the warboss’ own hut, which was decorated with wooden stakes on all sides and a crude metal sign above the entrance. This tent was different, maybe forty feet long and half as wide, and the covering tarp was raised up into two tall spires that narrowed towards the top like chimneys, a pair of holes cut out so that blankets of steam escaped into the air.
An orc stood to one side of the entrance, his beady eyes tracking Roderick warily. He held up a giant hand as Roderick approached, coughing into his other before he spoke.
“Whatcha want, ‘umie?”
“To see Mazkha,” he replied, the orc sputtering as he suppressed a laugh.
“Aye, you and me both. But she put standin’ orders not to let any boyz in, and that goes for ‘umies too.”
“Tell her Roderick is here to see her,” he insisted.
“Are ya deaf, mate? I stand guard, that don’t mean I’m except from Miss Mazkha’s rules.”
“So call her out,” Roderick replied, growing frustrated.
“And disturb her and the other orc wives? That’s askin’ for trouble, that is.”
“Mazkha!” Roderick called out. “It’s me, tell your man to stand aside.”
The orc’s tiny eyes grew to the size of fists, silently waving for Roderick to shut up. There was movement from just inside the tent, and the orc turned to look, taking a step back as though preparing for some monster to emerge through the flap.
After a delay, Mazkha pushed aside the tarp, and when she saw Roderick she beamed at him. It was the first time he’d seen her without her weapons, though she still wore her usual leather vest and knee-length pants.
“Couldn’t keep away could ya, little knight?”
“You do persist to the point of annoyance,” Roderick chuckled. “Though your guard tells me this is no place for men. Care to make an exception?”
“For you? Always.” She turned to the guard, who looked as uncomfortable as an orc could get. “You been given Roderick here a hard time? Don’t you realise who this ‘umie his? He’s a guest of mine, he goes where he wants. That understood?”
“Y-Yes, Miss Mazkha,” the guard said, stepping aside. “Apologies for botherin’ ya, ‘umie.”
“It’s fine,” he replied, sidling up to Mazha’s side, and gesturing. “Shall we?”
“You don’t’ know how many times I’ve imagined you sayin’ that, little knight.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder, guiding him through the flap. A wall of fragrances washed over him as he ducked into the tent, strange oils and perfumes he’d never smelt before making his nose twitch. Beyond him was a space cramped with dividing blinders breaking up the tent into several smaller sections, packed with wicker baskets and tubs full of steaming water, the wisps trailing up into those chimneys he’d seen from the outside.
“You’ve got a bathhouse?” Roderick asked, rubbing the perspiration from his face.
“You sound surprised. Orcs gotta clean themselves up to, you know. Well, maybe not the boyz, but the girls have got standards.”
They were not alone in the bathouse. Through the thin mist of steam, several pairs of yellow eyes peered back at him, from around the dividers and along the aisle were several female orcs. They were not unlike Mazkha in appearance, with building muscles and stone-hard abs building from beneath beads of sweat, each taller than him by at least two feet each. They were in various states of undress, most sporting cloth towels or undergarments not unlike what human women wear, some were even naked from the chest up as they lounged on benches around pits of heated rocks. Now Roderick knew why males were not allowed to enter…
One of the more curious orcess’ strode towards him, and she was just as endowed as Makzha was, wearing nothing but a loincloth and a sling about her chest, yet if she had any doubts about letting Roderick take an eyeful of her then she didn’t show it, placing her hands on her wide hips as she looked Roderick up and down.
“Who’s this you’ve brought to my baths?” the woman asked, her husky voice as soothing as flowing honey. “Have we met, human?”
“I am Roderick Erdmann, and I’ve not had the pleasure, madame.”
“Madame? There’s a new one. Mazkha’s told us a lot about you, Roderick. You don’t look as squishy as the other humans,” she said, exposing her sharp teeth in a smirk. “Are you here to have your aches and wounds soothed?”
“The next I need healing, you’ll be the first to know.”
“Hey! Eyes off him, Durzel, he’s mine,” Mazkha added, guiding Roderick down the aisle. He bid Durzel goodbye the orcess giggling as she watched them go. “What’s gotten into you all of a sudden?” Mazkha asked him. “I’ve been chattin’ you up all this time and got table scraps, and you flirt with Durz in all of two seconds?”
“I did no such thing,” he protested.
“Then what was all that madame stuff?”
“Where I come from, bathhouse proprietors are referred to as madams,” he said.
She narrowed her eyes at him, her nose twitching as she sniffed at the air. “Have you been drinking, little knight?”
“How else am I to work up the courage to woo you?”
“Woo me?” She laughed. “That’ll be refreshing. I’ve been chasing your tail this whole time, it’ll be good to be on the other end for once.”
She led him into one of the vacant ‘booths’, a heated tub surrounded by a few stools and wicker baskets, the dividers helping to give some semblance of privacy. The tubs on either side were occupied, Roderick greeting the one they passed with a friendly grin and nod.