Chapter 11: Keesahn

Rian spent the better part of the day working. The Orcs all came to retrieve their tables and return them to their huts, giving him the space to start dismantling the decorations. He carefully took down all of the totems and returned them to their place in the shaman’s hut, where they were wrapped in fabric for safekeeping, then began to remove what remained of the logs from the bonfire. They had burnt down to ash in the night, and there was little left to salvage, so he buried most of it when he filled in the hole he’d dug.

The Orcs had never been cruel to him before, but they seemed to acknowledge him more when they passed him now. More than once, a group of Orcs would catch his eye while he was filling in the hole or pulling down a totem, giving him a nod or greeting him by the name keesahn. Sharog hadn’t been exaggerating – their view of him really had shifted.

He was able to watch Urami spar as he worked, pausing to lean on his shovel. Just like the last time, she had joined a small circle of Orcish warriors in the courtyard a short distance away, and they were taking turns beating the stuffing out of each other. They were not in armor this time, and they had no weapons, simply using their bare hands and brute strength to subdue their opponents. Urami was as ferocious as ever, all tusks and fury as she bested opponents her equal in size, no less deadly without her spear. She was dressed sparsely in spite of the cold, her tan skin soon glistening with sweat, the strands of her dark hair glued to her forehead.

Rian felt that he understood her a little better now. This sparring was a kind of penance, if the Orcs knew of such a concept. She had enjoyed herself during the festival. She had eaten good food, drunk fine wine, and allowed herself to relax for a time. To her strict warrior’s sensibilities, such things were unnecessary. She needed no custard tarts or mulled ale, and wrestling in the dirt was her way of making amends for her lapse. A few fresh bruises might make her feel like herself again.

When he finished up, she was still sparring, and he skirted around the circle on his way back to the hut. There was still plenty of washing up to do after the feast, so he set about cleaning the stacks of wooden boards and rinsing out the tankards, filling a large pail with soap and scrubbing them with a rag. Ghorza and Sharog had gone out hunting, so they likely wouldn’t return until nightfall.

After a little while, he heard the door open, looking up from his work to see Urami enter. She must have just finished her sparring session, because she was soaked in sweat, marching over to the keg of ale to fill a cup.

“Good workout?” Rian asked, pausing to dry off his soapy forearms with the rag. “Sparring must really get the blood flowing.”

“Exertion feels good,” she replied, taking a large gulp from her cup. “I do not want to become complacent.”

“I hardly think that enjoying one festival makes you complacent,” he continued. “You’re allowed to relax and have fun sometimes. I don’t think there are any laws against that.”

“Then I become soft like you,” she chided, giving him a sideways glance as she sated her thirst.

“Maybe I’m not as soft as you think,” he replied. Wary of engaging her in an argument, he quickly changed the subject. “Can I get you anything? I could draw you a bath, cook you something to eat. Something more to drink, maybe? I’m sure there’s still some mulled wine left over from the feast.”

“No more wine,” she grumbled. “It dulls senses.”

“Ghorza’s senses were only dulled because she drank too much,” he chuckled. “It’s fine in moderation. You don’t strike me as the kind of person who overindulges in anything.”

“Sharog says you clean now,” she continued, walking over to where he was kneeling beside the pail and a stack of boards. “She say you understand Orcish ways. I do not think so.”

“No?” he asked. “You seemed to enjoy the feast. Everyone told me that I did a good job, and none of the Gods struck me down or cursed me or anything of the sort. Sharog says they’ve accepted me into the fold. If it’s good enough for the Gods, isn’t it good enough for you?”

She was even more intimidating while he was kneeling, Rian having to crane his neck to look up at her. She was wearing her sparring gear, made up of a simple linen wrap that covered her chest, and a pair of leather pants, the material clinging to her tree trunk thighs. They looked like they had been painted onto her, just like the blue pigment on her skin, her toned muscles easily visible beneath them. Around her waist was a belt laden with a large scabbard that was presently empty, and she was wearing large leather boots lined with fur. Her hands and forearms were wrapped with linen bandages to protect them, and above each bicep was a tight band of decorative leather. She planted her hands on her wide hips, peering down at him with a scowl. She had a few cuts and scrapes from her session, and she was developing a black eye, but it didn’t seem to trouble her.

“I do not need you tempting me with comforts,” she growled. “Before you came, we live as warriors. We eat roast meat off the bone, drink simple ale, and sell fine silks and spices to traders. We not spend hours in hot bath getting shoulders rubbed, or eat spiced food made by foreign slave. Warrior of Krak’tul does not need comforts such as these. What is next? Shall we wear silk like you do? Shall we lay down weapons and tend dirt?”

“It doesn’t make you less of a warrior,” he muttered, not sure how to respond. If he stood and tried to look her in the eye, he would barely reach her chest. “You should listen to Sharog. She knows these things. She said that Raz’kal brought me to you. I am keesahn – spoils of conquest. The Gods sent me here so that I could serve you, and so that you could enjoy me.”

“This is what Sharog thinks,” she confirmed.

“Didn’t you like the nice food? Didn’t you like the hot baths and the shoulder rubs?”

“Do not tell others about that,” she grumbled, her cheeks starting to warm.

“Why not? They did it too. They’re not here right now anyway,” he added with a gesture to the empty hut. “Why not let me draw you a nice hot bath, and we’ll get you cleaned up. Let me treat those cuts and scrapes for you. Some packed snow wrapped in a cloth will do wonders for that shiner you have coming in.”

“Warriors do not need such things,” she growled, some frustration creeping into her voice now.

“Alright,” he conceded, backing down. “I just want to make sure you’re healthy and happy, is all.”

“Why?” she demanded. “You are not Orc. What reason do you have to love your captors?”

“Wasn’t that the whole point of this?” he complained, standing up straight and tossing the rag aside. He did his best to meet her gaze, but he still had to lift his chin, which somewhat lessened the effect. He switched to Orcish, her yellow eyes widening as her guttural language came from his lips. “I completed the rituals of cleansing, I served the whole village during the feast, I have learned your tongue and adopted your ways. I follow your Gods and obey your laws. I do all that you ask of me without question, but still you doubt my loyalty.”

“How long have you been able to speak Orcish?” she demanded.

“Long enough, ” he replied. “I am your captive by the laws of Raz’kal, and I am without honor by the laws of Krak’tul, but I have earned your respect. Sharog said as much. I will serve you in any way you ask, but do not scorn me.”

Her hand shot out to grab his face, and all Rian had time to utter was a surprised squeak. She leaned in close, her breath washing over him as her yellow eyes examined his neck.

“Any way I ask, ” she repeated, gripping his cheeks tightly. “You think I do not know what you have been doing, slave? You think that I do not have eyes to see how Ghorza smiles and laughs around you – how her gaze always lingers? You think I do not notice how she always finds excuses to be alone with you? Maybe Sharog, too. I cannot be sure what you two are doing when you are alone together. They have both argued that we should take you as our concubine.”

He tried to reply, but he couldn’t speak, flinching as she peeled open the collar of his silk shirt. She exposed his neck and shoulder, reading his collection of scrapes and scratches like they were words on a page.

“You did not get these from tree branches,” she snarled. “Even you are not so clumsy. Look at this – like a favorite bone gnawed by a wolf. Their lust is written on you just as clearly as the runes on your chest.” She tore open his shirt to expose him, running her fingers across the names and sigils that Sharog had painted there. “Their names are here. My name... ”

She loosened her grip enough to let him speak, and he saw that her face was burning, her cheeks flushed an amorous pink. Her gaze was predatory, expectant, her golden eyes peering into his own as she waited for him to try to justify himself.

“I... ”

“Do not lie to me, keesahn, ” she hissed. “Obey me.”

“There is no law that says we can’t, ” he replied. “There is no shame in it.”

“I will not have a keesahn quote the law to me,” she snarled. “Little foreign whore. Fucking my kin in secret, thinking I am too stupid to realize. Tempting me with comforts. Very well. You wish to learn? I shall teach you what it means to obey your captors.”

Still gripping his cheeks, she drew him in, her tusks grazing his face as she locked her soft lips to his own. This was nothing like Ghorza’s teasing embraces, or Sharog’s doting, affectionate kisses. There was an urgency in Urami, desperate and unbridled, her hand trembling as it held onto him possessively. She kissed him like she owned him, her powerful tongue quickly filling his mouth, staking its claim as it mapped him out with greedy lashes. Like a partner in a sparring circle, she was fighting to win, barely giving him a moment to breathe. Her tongue coiled around his own, subduing it, pushing deep enough to tease the back of his throat. Her tusks scratched his cheeks, but he welcomed the sensation, that wonderful sting already familiar to him.

Her hand left his face as she explored him, sliding beneath his silk shirt and running her fingers through his hair. She was ravenous – insatiable, as though all of the longing and curiosity that had been building over so many days was being released in a single flurry of kisses and groping. How long had she been holding back this secret desire? How many times had she almost succumbed to what she saw as his temptations, only to pull herself back from the brink? How long had she been wrestling with propriety and law while the other women tried to offer him to her on a platter?

He squirmed as she ran her hand across his chest, his skin still slick from his work in the courtyard. She broke off her deep, ruthless kiss for just long enough to let him breathe, then took a stinging handful of his hair and drew him back in again. Her sudden assault had his heart racing, and he reached out to touch her in kind, planting his palm against her beautifully sculpted belly. Her hand snapped to his wrist and pulled him away, her hot breath washing over him as she broke off again, panting.

“Did I give you leave to touch me?”

“N-no, Urami, ” he stammered.

She leaned in again and caught his lower lip between her teeth, giving it a painful tug.

“Did I give you leave to use my name?”

“N-no, ” he gasped. “My apologies. What should I-”

“Have you learned the word for captor?”

“Keesa, ” Rian replied. The word keesahn was derived from it, like captor and captive in his own language.

“Good, ” she chuckled. “You will call me Keesa. May it remind you of your place, keesahn.”

More kissing, his eyes rolling as she hooked a muscular arm around him to bring him close, her lurid embrace sapping his strength. Her first protest had been wholly performative, and she didn’t repeat it as he slid a hand up her belly, feeling the muscles in her core tense as he passed over them. How he had admired her physique while applying the pigment that still lingered on her hot skin, and now there was no need to restrain himself, sweat from her sparring session leaving her wet and slick. He moved higher, roaming past her tightly wound linens and up her neck.

He brought his hands to her face, feeling the warmth of her cheeks as he cradled them, along with some of the firm bumps of her scars. Unlike Sharog and Ghorza, she made no attempt to stop her tusks from scraping his cheeks, and it made him wonder how two Orcs kissed. Did they lock tusks like rams locking horns? Was being able to kiss so deeply and so freely a novelty to her?

Her hands were all over him, tearing off his silk shirt and tossing it aside, her green fingers mapping his body just as her tongue mapped his mouth. She kept him close all the while, her lips locked to his as though she needed it to survive, like he was a pocket of air and she was drowning. It was overwhelming in the best of ways. Her pace was rough and demanding, manhandling him such that all he could do was lean into her arms and accept whatever she gave him.

She found his belt and unfastened it, leaning down to maintain her frenzied kiss, and Rian felt it come loose. One of her hands slid around behind him, cupping his rear through his silk breeches. Their lips finally parted, and she let out a low growl of desire.

“Look at the way you dress, ” she hissed, squeezing his cheek. “Always parading yourself around in these tight, soft clothes. Always trying to draw my eye.”

“You dressed me this way, ” he chuckled. She gripped his face again, leaning close and stopping just short of resuming her kiss.

“Do not laugh like that, ” she growled, running her thumb across his lips. “You are cute when you laugh like that. It maddens me.”

Wrapping both of her powerful arms around him, she pulled him close, Rian’s face pressing into the linen sling that was wrapped tightly around her chest. It smelled of her soap and exertion, the scent and the subtle softness beneath the fabric only making him more eager. He felt her hands on his wrists, and only then did he realize that she still held his belt.

“Keep still, ” she grunted, roughly winding the strip of leather around his wrists. She tugged it tight, binding his arms behind his back with such speed and skill that he was certain she’d done it before.

“W-what are you doing?” he asked, his chuckling taking on a nervous tone. “Urami?”