The Lady Penitent

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."