[Queen of Orcs 01] - King's Property by Morgan Howell Read Free Book Online

had never started. Dar caught their surreptitious glances and sensed she was the subject of whispered conversations. Their behavior reminded Dar of her stepmother’s after learning her new husband had abused his daughter. Thess blamed me, not him. These women are acting the same way.
    As the afternoon wore on, the pace around the cooking tent picked up. Neffa ordered Dar to make porridge for the orcs and serve it to them as well. When the porridge was ready, Dar headed for the washing tent. There, she found Memni scrubbing off the grime from a day of lugging firewood. She looked exhausted, but smiled when she saw Dar. Dar smiled back, relieved she wasn’t ostracized by everyone. After Dar washed and dressed, she joined Memni outside. “I’ve got porridge duty again,” Memni said with a sigh. Then she grinned. “I hear you got a man!”
    “Who told you that?”
    “Everyone. Word travels fast.”
    “It’s not what they think,” said Dar. “At least, I hope not.”
    “Hurry,” shouted Neffa. “Don’t make the orcs wait.”
    Dar and Memni slid a pole through the kettle’s handle, lifted it, and joined the women bearing food. They had nearly reached the circle of straw shelters when they heard a drunken voice shouting, “Stop! Stop, ya bitches!”
    Dar turned to see a soldier staggering up the slope, his bowl in hand. His comrades warned him to come back, but they kept outside the circle of branches. Dar thought they seemed afraid to enter it. The soldier with the bowl ignored their calls. Instead, he kept stumbling toward Dar and Memni.
    “Can’t ya hear me? Stop! Gimme some tuppin’ porridge.”
    “You can’t have this,” said Memni. “It’s for…”
    The soldier swung at Memni, but missed. Memni dropped her end of the pole, nearly causing the kettle to tip over when it hit the ground. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do,” said the soldier as he dipped his bowl into the steaming porridge.
    Garga-tok appeared so quickly that Dar saw only a flash of movement before he gripped the soldier. The man gave a startled cry as he was lifted in the air and plunged headfirst into the kettle. What followed next was eerily quiet. The soldier’s upper torso disappeared into the porridge and the orc held him fast as he thrashed about. Whatever screams or pleas the man attempted were silenced by the hot, viscous grain. All the soldiers and women were too cowed to speak; moreover, Garga-tok seemed beyond entreaty. He held the soldier, without apparent effort, until the man went limp. Only then did Garga-tok lift the soldier from the porridge to toss his corpse beyond the circle of branches.
    Garga-tok turned his yellow eyes on Dar. “Pot dirty.” He kicked the kettle, sending it rolling down the slope. “Make more.”
    Dar and Memni hurried to obey, glad to flee the murderer. Only when Garga-tok departed did the bystanders begin to talk. Most of the voices were hushed, but Dar heard one soldier laugh. “I always said drink would kill him.”
     
    The other women were asleep by the time Dar and Memni had more porridge. The moon had yet to rise, and the two women needed torches to light their way to the orcs who sat immobile in the dark. Dar called out the words Neffa had instructed her to say. “Saf nak ur Muthz la.”
    The night thundered with the orcs’ response. “Shashav Muth la.”
    Torch in hand, Dar hurried to serve the orcs, reciting the words she had learned the previous evening. All the orcs received their food in silence until she came to one whose eyes reflected green in the torchlight. After she recited the phrase, he said, “Tava, Dargu.”
    Dar froze.
    “Tava, Dargu.”
    It occurred to Dar that “Tava” might be a form of greeting, so she repeated it. “Tava.”
    The orc curled back his lips. “Theef maz nak Kovok-mah.”
    Dar stared at him, puzzled by his behavior. When she headed toward the kettle to refill her ladle, the orc said, “Vata, Dargu.”
    As Dar walked away she said