Queen of Embers

VII. Worse than Witches

"Where did the witch go, anyway? Ekaitz said they were with you," the orc said, scratching at his heavy jaw.

"Out healing," Sorne said. "Though given what Amets is apparently capable of, I would be leery of letting them look at my wounds. I've never even heard of anything like that. Leyan blood magic is one thing, but..."

Vridash chuckled. "Given that Ekaitz has switched from calling Amets 'the witch' to 'the creature', I can only assume whatever happened was not good." He studied Vipsania for a moment. "So, Not-Kith, do you go by another name?"

"Sexta Vipsania Drusa. It is good to meet you," the western warrior said, offering him a deep nod. "I hope we will be allies long."

"Sounds like a plan. I'm Vridash of the Wind, Sorne's roguish tagalong." He stood up again. "Shall we find ourselves a witch before someone starts splitting the firewood?"

Sorne sighed. "Probably. I'd hate to see what would happen to the poor bastards who tried."

Vipsania looked over at the notes and papers. "What should we do with this? We do not know what it says."

"It might have answers," Vridash said.

"It definitely has answers," Sorne said, studying the notes and the books. "I'm just concerned with who would like to make use of those answers. Power like this.... I'd like a world that doesn't try to burn itself down every few years."

"Have you met humans?" Vridash said with a grin. He bumped Sorne with his shoulder. "We survived one war."

Sorne felt that old, powerful ache at the center of her chest. "At a cost," she said quietly. "Everyone in this room lost something."

The orc nodded slightly, more somber. "Fair enough," he said. "But we have a witch, and they might be able to make use of the notes."

"I don't think Amets is the book type of mage any more than I am. We probably shouldn't burn it yet, but...Vipsania, would you please grab his main notebook? I don't want anyone running off with it." Sorne sighed a little bit, looking up at the ceiling for a moment as she convinced her eyes not to tear up. It was hard to even think about what had happened that day on the battlefield. What other people turned into song and story, she found herself picking apart. What did I do wrong? What could I have done? 

Vridash had told her many times that there had been no other way. It was, after all, a suicide mission.The only reason any of us survived is because you stood back up. You took down a Prince of Iron. 

"Sorne?"

She blinked, realizing she'd been lost in her own thoughts and missed whatever question Vridash had asked her. "Sorry," she said quietly. "It's been a long day. Let's just see what Amets has to say."

The orc took it in stride. He cared, but he knew that Sorne dealt with grief in her own way. If they were in Sakana, she probably would have headed out to the woodpile to drive an axe through logs until she was tired. It went without saying that they had more than enough wood when the weather turned cold. Unfortunately, that way of working through it wasn't an option at the moment. He understood that in many ways, being in Mauléon was grinding salt into old wounds. After all, he remembered her as the hurting girl who left this place and knew that the cruelty of men marked her hands. "So what's your story?" Vridash asked the western woman as they walked.

Vipsania paused for a moment, considering. "I was a soldier," she said finally. "Now I am here."

He chuckled. "Feel like I should have brought my crowbar."

The western woman seemed puzzled by the apparent non sequitur. Sorne wasn't certain she was ready for Vridash's humor, nor was he probably ready for Vipsania's. The Princes of Iron likely imprinted a different variety of amusement on their followers. "Why?"