XXVI. Homecoming

"They know we're here," Vladan called as he spotted a fire flaring to life on the ridgeline. "Probably a signal."

Holland nodded as she studied the flickering light. They were well into twilight, the setting sun barely a sliver on the horizon. The conversation had flowed by her since they left the Vale largely without input from her. She was trying to organize her thoughts still and keep herself calm. There were other people relying on her and so she kept her stone face even though she felt like she was about to crack down the middle. "Good," she said finally. "I doubt they would appreciate a surprise."

There was a thud as Zajar hit the ground in a landing, Khagra on his back. Clearly she'd seen the signal as well. "We're near," the orc said. "I flew right over the first of the camps so close Zajar almost hit one with a wing. There aren't a lot of dragons flying around with orcs on their backs, so I think Murdak will know it's me."

Ardashir chuckled a little bit, letting his lance rest against his shoulder. He was relaxed as they made this approach largely because of how confident and happy Khagra seemed. Apparently she'd parted with her brother to study with the priests of the Denah on good terms, even if Murdak considered it a waste of time. "Maybe they'll even feed us."

"If they don't, I'll damn well feed Murdak to Zajar," Khagra said before turning to Holland. "Is it alright if I stay down here with you lot?"

"I think I'd prefer it," Holland said. "Your brother knows your face. He certainly doesn't know mine."

"Better not be a fight," Vladan muttered.

Khagra raised an eyebrow at him. "You? Bothered by the idea of a fight? Do you feel feverish? I have vervain and willow's bark."

Vladan grunted. "This is your kin, Khagra," he said. "It's bad luck to be a kinslayer. Just looking out for you."

"There won't be a fight unless you pick one, you big brute," the orc said. "So mind your manners."

"Smooth sailing?" Ardashir said hopefully.

"Didn't say that," Khagra said. When Holland gave her a questioning look, the orc shrugged. "Goth—a warleader—can only lead because they've proven themselves. If Holland's going to be Goth, she's going to have to work for it."

"I'm not volunteering to be their leader," Holland said. "That's Murdak's job. I'm no general."

"You're the one saying march. Doesn't matter whose mouth you say it through. That means you're Goth. Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying my brother's going to hand you the keys to the kingdom or however it's done in the south. Can't take that away from him. But they do have to know you're worth following." The orc patted Zajar's neck as the drake moved forward, keeping pace with their horses and Vladan. His walk was a strange affair since he was really more designed to fly, almost a swift crawl aided by the hooked talons on his folded, bat-like wings.

"How did your brother become Goth?" Ardashir asked curiously. "Was your father?"

"Skolg? Gods, no," Khagra said with a laugh. "Clever orc, but madder than a rabid wolverine half the time. It was the rage. Not every orc can handle it—I had the same problem before Dunak broke me out of it. Skolg was a scholar when he was out of it, but that was less often than not. Murdak never had that problem. Took to berserking like a fish to water. He figured out how to channel it by the time he was old enough to walk. Used it to thrash the living daylights out of anyone who looked at him sideways. That's how he became Goth. He wasn't the biggest, but he had the most fight. Took command in one of the battles. When the half-wit captain demanded it back, Murdak hit him so hard he was picking up tooth fragments for days. Did the same to everyone else who had an issue with it. Pretty soon, tribes were flocking to his banner. Doesn't use his words much in front of anyone besides blood, but when he says he's going to crush an enemy line, their bodies hit the field like cut wheat. Orcs like results."

Vladan chuckled. "Seems reasonable. Makes more sense than bloodlines. At least this way you know your leader isn't afraid to take a hit and can dish a solid one out."

"So is Holland going to have to...?" Ardashir said. The idea of his friend having to take on all comers in the middle of an orcish war camp was a little nerve-wracking.

"Murdak will know. There are other ways with the same amount of respect. Gods love my brother, but he's not a wise one and so he took the simplest path. Cunning, but not wise. Tradition demands only a demonstration of prowess. Since my brother's the sitting Goth, he'll probably set a task for Holland. Something that requires skill, strength, and fortitude. Less for him and more for the warriors." Khagra grinned suddenly when she saw movement ahead in the dusk. "They're here. Faster than I thought." She jumped out of her saddle and took the lead when she saw a familiar face at the head of the warriors approaching. "Thadash! Did Murdak send you?" She was using the common tongue for her friends' benefit.

The male orc was slightly larger than Khagra and painted with the same woad-like patterns they'd seen on Dunak. Instead of armor, his chest was bare. Every movement rattled as carved bone talismans clicked together. He wore what had to be at least a hundred of them, various shapes and sizes all mingled together. The bear-hide he wore like a cloak fit over his bulky arms like sleeves and he wore the paws like gauntlets. Ardashir saw the gleam of iron where its claws should have been. "Yes, imp," Thadash said, enveloping Khagra in a hug. "He wanted to know why his fool sister was trying to take the heads off his warriors with a dragon. That's what axes are for."

"I didn't hit anyone," Khagra said.

"Not for lack of trying, from the sounds of it," Thadash said as he released her. His yellow eyes took in the group with her. "So why are you with soft meat?"

"They're friends. And not so soft." She leaned against her dragon's side. Zajar seemed pleased to see the orc greeting them, judging from the deep humming sound he was making.

"Try a bite, orc," Vladan growled. "I'll choke you with it."

Thadash grinned. "I like your bark, beast-man," he said, studying the anthroparion. Vladan was larger than him, but they were both unquestionably powerful warriors. "Never seen your kind before."

"He's mage-made," Khagra said.

Thadash looked puzzled by this information. "I thought they were little things."

Vladan's dark eyes were amused. "I grew. Good food."

It made the male orc laugh. "What's your name, mage-made?"

"Vladan," the anthroparion grunted.

"Good name. Short. Easy to remember," Thadash said. He looked at Ardashir. "An eastern knight with northern looks." Then his eyes focused on Holland. He sniffed the air, catching her scent just like Dunak had. Yellow eyes narrowed. Khagra doubted he had ever encountered a demon—as far as she knew, there was only one orc warrior in their tribe who had ever battled one and lived to tell—but he would be able to recognize that there was something more than human in Holland. "There's death in that smell." He looked back at Khagra. "What's going on, girl?"

"The knight is Ardashir," Khagra said. "And the woman is Holland. They're friends. As for the rest...we can talk about it when there aren't a score of warriors milling about on the road behind you. Don't they have spears to sharpen or something?"

Thadash nodded and waved a hand to indicate to the others that they weren't needed, but his eyes stayed on Holland. He was watching her carefully. "I'm Thadash of the Thunder, first shaman of the Arau-Kin." He straightened up to his full, intimidating height. Behind him, the orc warriors were headed back to the camp.

Khagra was right there to ruin it for him. "He let me braid flowers into his hair when I was seven," their orc friend said, stifling a laugh when he glared at her. "That's why it's all cut off now. He knows better."

"Deep dark take you, Khagra!" Thadash growled, running a hand over the short stubble on his head. "You're almost as bad as your brother."

"Yes, but you don't have to share a bed with me," Khagra said. She looked pleased with herself. "How is Murdak?"

"Well. He's almost recovered from the last time we saw you," the shaman said as he motioned for them to follow him back towards the campfires. "Funny how his stomach pains vanished the same time you took off."

"He and Holland can share horror stories. She's had to make me behave for months," the dragon-rider said. She looked perfectly at ease, which gave her companions plenty of cause to relax.

"Oh?" Thadash said, giving the penitent an appraising look. He still didn't look certain of what to think of her. "How did that go?"

"She's a lot easier than Vladan," Holland said dryly.

"I resent that remark," the anthroparion said. He grinned when Thadash looked at him, showing his sharp teeth. "It's too true."

The shaman chuckled before glancing back at their dragon-rider. "It's good to have you back, Khagra," he said. "Murdak is pleased."

"Yes, well, after we get done talking, he might reconsider." Khagra shrugged a little bit. "South's bad, Thadash. Storm's coming. Can't see the lightning, but we can hear the thunder. That's why we're here."

"Not just me then," Thadash grunted. "Gods know that's never a good sign."

"You felt it?" Ardashir asked. He wasn't too surprised, however. Khagra had told him that her people's shamans and njoshari possessed magic. If the Leyans had felt it and seen it, why not the orcs? Something as big as demon lords on the march was surely hard to miss.

"Sure as I can feel storms roll in off the sea," he said with a nod. "Whispers have been coming along the coast of fires in the Wild Reach. So many even the stars hide. Seems it's heading north, slow and steady. Get close enough, they say, you hear the beat of a waking beast's heart."

"Cadence," Holland said automatically as she swung down out of her saddle.

Thadash snorted. "Not like any army I've heard of. Too slow. Sailor tapped out the rhythm for me."

"The Imperial legions don't rush," the penitent said. "They know the end of the world isn't going to happen without them."

The shaman stiffened. "Demons." His voice was quiet, worried. It took a lot to put fear into a creature like Thadash, but they would do it. He paused for a moment, then nodded. "That'd do it." He frowned deeply at Khagra. "Stay away from trouble, we said. I could have sworn you weren't deaf, girl."

"Never did listen well, though," the dragon-rider said.

"What about them?" Thadash asked, jerking a thumb at the others.

"Demon-slayers," Khagra said with a grin. "Come on, I want to see my brother."

Murdak was waiting for them at the edge of the encampment. He looked like the kind of orc who could play hit for hit with Vladan: as tall as the anthroparion and just as broad. His whole body was crisscrossed with scars. The line of his square, jutting jaw was uneven, as someone had struck him in the face with a mace somewhere along the line, crushing the bone. The tusk on that side was gone, but a healer had done a game job of piecing the jawbone itself back together. Imperfect and lumpy, potentially because pieces of the mace were still embedded in his face, but certainly better than an open wound. Claw marks scored the top of his head, creating furrows in his short hair. His armor was the only good steel Holland had seen on any of them, but it looked like it had been battered and bent into shape rather than forged hot. She recognized the shine of the material in the places it wasn't painted. The orc was wearing the hide of a demon. A lesser one, but a demon was a demon. Do not make him angry, Holland reflected.

The warleader limped towards them, his madman's grin showing yellow teeth. His weapon was slung over his back, but Holland could see the great-sword's hilt. It was ebony, its grip a complicated wire wrap, and of finer make than any orcish weapon by far. Murdak was carrying a demon's blade. She sincerely doubted the demon had given it willingly.

Definitely do not make him angry.

Khagra broke into a run, colliding with her brother hard enough to drive some of the breath out of him in a puff. "Oaf!" she said, delighted.

"Imp," he greeted as he hugged her tightly. "Welcome home." He pried her off after a moment and held her at arm's length to take a look at her. "Well, they've been feeding you alright. Looks like you've got some new scars on that armor, too. Still too pretty in the face, though. Good fights?"

"I've hit a fair number of humans, dwarves, elves, and I'm working my way up to bigger game," Khagra said. "It's been a good time."

Murdak looked exceedingly pleased. "Who are your friends?" he asked, draping an arm around her shoulders.

"Vladan, Holland, and Ardashir." Khagra pointed them out in turn.

Ardashir bowed his head to Murdak, feeling extremely self-conscious. "Broshan, Goth." He wasn't certain that the big orc would be nearly as friendly if he let on that he was quite fond of Khagra.

The warleader chuckled. "Broshan, Ardashir. Not bad orcish. Khagra must be buzzing it into your head. Worse than a gnat, our imp. Sir Ardashir?"

"Ardashir," the knight said with a shake of his head. He wasn't going to ask anyone to use his title, particularly not Murdak.

"Humble. I like it," Khagra's brother said. "I am Murdak War-Son, provided you didn't know that from the imp already. And you've already met Thadash, my house-bond."

"Husband," the dragon-rider corrected with an exasperated sigh. Apparently this was something she'd tried to teach him before.

Murdak shrugged. "Same thing." He studied the three of them. "Any friends of Khagra's are friends of mine. Welcome to Ash Kordh, homeland of the orcs. This is the southernmost of the hunting camps."

"What are you hunting?" Vladan asked curiously.

Murdak's eyes gleamed. The subject was one he found highly enjoyable. "Raiders. Filth from the sea come inland to plunder. They made their last mistake. Not a proper challenge, but it keeps the blood up. Keeps us sharp."

"Raiders?" Khagra said, surprised. "This far north?"

"They've been pushed here," Thadash said. "They are the ones who told us of the fires in the south." The shaman turned worried yellow eyes to Murdak. "There is much to discuss. Khagra's friend spoke of demons."

"I...might not have come home just to come home. We are here with a purpose," Khagra confirmed. "Holland can explain."

Murdak nodded, looking somewhat more serious now that he'd seen Thadash's concern. He motioned for them to step inside a large tent that had smoke rising from the top. There was room inside for all of them to sit comfortably around the rock that was being used as a low table, crude maps of the area spread out on it and pinned down at the corners by flagons and a dagger made out of some beast's bones. The better part of mountain goat was roasting over the coals off to the side where they also heated the room. The floor was strewn with pelts and furs that made it more pleasant to sit on. "Let's get some food in you and you can talk all you like. Don't they feed you humans down south? You're so...little. Probably can't even lift those swords you carry. At least the furry one looks like he can pack it away."

"They're not as fragile as they look, Murdak," Khagra said with amusement.

"Strong, then?"

"Hard to kill, at least," Holland murmured.

"Hah! I like the thought!" Murdak said with a grin. "Come off it, woman. You're a waif of a thing. Turn sideways and you'd disappear."

Thadash shot his husband a sharp look. "Be careful where you cast your stones, Murdak. It only takes a pebble tossed to start an avalanche," he said. "The waif smells of darkness."

Murdak pulled in a deep breath, clearly intrigued by that comment. The grin fell off his face as he looked at the quiet penitent. "I know that smell," he said. He was watching her very closely now. "But not a demon. You have living eyes. You are...what do they call them? Deathless? What did they name you? Your demon lord, not your comrades."

Holland met those yellow eyes without wavering. "Invicta."

For a brief second, Murdak's face was that of an orc who had felt someone walk over his grave. "You?" he said, looking her up and down. "No, that is not possible. You are a fragile little thing."

"Murdak, what's wrong?" Khagra asked. A frown was forming on her lips to match his.

The warleader was shaking his head. "No," he said again.

"She smells like truth," Thadash said grimly. "There has only been one Invicta within the past three hundred years, and I doubt she is older than that even with the sorcery that marks the Deathless. Ilex Calida." When he saw Khagra's confusion, the shaman sighed. "She has another name in the north, imp, one that the Oameni gave her."

"An Imperial name for an Imperial scourge," Holland said. She knew where this line of questioning was going. "Cruciata."

Khagra went pale, but recovered herself quickly. "That is not Holland," she said with certainty, looking at her friend. "I have been in battle beside her. She is a warrior, not a monster. She has honor. Mercy and compassion are in her nature."

"Imp, good table manners do not make a cannibal any less a cannibal," the shaman said. It was harsh, but he'd been raised on stories of the battles due south. Even orcs had lines they wouldn't cross. From what he'd learned, the same could not be said of the Imperium. He wanted to protect Khagra from that.

Murdak held up his hand, watching Holland. She hadn't flinched from what Thadash had said, but he could see emotion in the lines of her face, which was an alien concept to the creature of nightmare who bore that name. Foremost among them was one he knew well: pain. "Names have power," he said calmly. "We all know this to be true. Khagra says your name is Holland, Deathless. Does she speak truly?"

"Yes." Holland's voice was soft, but genuine. "Cruciata drowned in a storming sea many years ago, her bones shattered by the servants of her master. If I could, the same fate would befall even the memory of the name."

Thadash hesitated. Orcs placed great importance on names and they expected the same of others. For someone to wish theirs dead and gone, forever forgotten, was to say most certainly that they had turned their back on every part of it. The shaman was watching her face as well. He saw the same thing Murdak spotted. He let his hands unknot from the fists they had formed and looked at Khagra. "You speak for her?"

"I do," Khagra said without hesitation. "She has been my shield on the field of battle and I hers. That should be enough."

Murdak looked to his husband and the shaman shrugged. "The nature of the world is change," Thadash said as he relaxed. "I see a woman before me. A formidable one, to be certain, but a woman. Not Deathless, not Imperial, not Cruciata. Given time, the waves that bash against the cliffs will one day render them to sands. Why could they not erode away the stains of the past?"

The warleader nodded in acceptance and the tension in the room eased considerably. "What brings you to this place, Holland? You and your friends are far from home, if the accents are anything to go on," he said.

"The Imperium is marching in the south," Holland said. "We are going to fight them, but we cannot do it without you."

Thadash groaned. "Gods, don't encourage him to make fool decisions. He'll get us all killed." He turned to Murdak. "Give it thought, Murdak. We are not welcome in the south. The humans will see the tribes moving towards them and start screaming about barbarian hordes. We do not need that. And if we did go, what would we do so far in the south? Raid for supplies? Warriors do not march well on empty stomachs, but that would make us no friends."

"We are prepared to accept the help..." Ardashir started to say immediately, but he trailed off when he saw that Murdak was focused entirely on Holland. The warleader's yellow eyes were measuring, evaluating. There was a definite cunning to him, even if he wasn't the wisest creature in the world, but there was also a gleam in those eyes. Ardashir recognized it: zeal. Somewhere deep inside of Murdak, there was a fanaticism that burned as hot as a mountain's heart. Every knight knew that kind of fevered light in the eyes.

Murdak was the kind of man—orc or not—who answered to one god above all others: War.

"Will it be a good fight?" Murdak asked as if oblivious to his husband's despairing look.

"An impossible one," Holland said honestly.

The orc warleader grinned. "My favorite kind." He leaned forward, putting his face near the penitent's. The grin widened when she didn't flinch. "We march the moment you're Goth, Holland. That is, if you've the spine for it."

Holland met the stare without faltering, a faint smile forming on her lips. "I look forward to it."