Thank you to my friend TheInducer on Reddit, who shares my passion for Homeric epics. He yes-anded this fic into existence over Discord, and figured out how to adapt many of the major plot points of The Odyssey to the glimpses of orc culture we get to see in the Elder Scrolls franchise. This story would not exist without his contributions, encouragement, and deep knowledge of Elder Scrolls lore.
Thank you to my beta, muldezgron, who whipped the story into shape.
Dear guest, will this offend you, if I speak?
It is easy for these men to like these things,
harping and song; they have an easy life,
scot free, eating the livestock of another—
a man whose bones are rotting somewhere now,
white in the rain on dark earth where they lie,
or tumbling in the groundswell of the sea.
If he returned, if these men ever saw him,
faster legs they'd pray for, to a man,
and not more wealth in handsome robes or gold.
–Homer, The Odyssey: Book I, lines 190-99. Translated by Robert Fitzgerald.
3rd First Seed, 4E 195
The sun was at its zenith in the southern sky, but frost still glittered in the short grasses of the Reach; shadowed hollows behind jagged boulders and scrubby juniper bushes held snow drifts that would not disappear until at least Second Seed. In the saddle between two hillocks, a hart snorted as he worked at breaking the ice over a small pond, before lowering his head to sniff at the exposed water.
As he moved one foreleg forward to brace against the slick surface, an arrow pierced his lung and heart. He fell dead to the ground without ever getting his drink.
Borgakh of Mor Khazgur slowly lowered her bow and finished exhaling.
"That was well shot," said her brother Olur, lowering his own bow, the arrow still nocked. "At least we'll be eating something other than rabbits for the next week."
The pair rose from the clump of tall, frost-yellowed fescue they had been using as a blind, and approached the deer. "It was well-tracked," Borgakh said. "I thought we'd lost it over the rocks, but I should have known to trust you."
Olur snorted. "At least some part of my time in the Legion is being put to use." He helped Borgakh haul the carcass out of the pond and wedge the antlers between two tall rocks before straightening. "I'll bring Kharag."
Borgakh grunted in displeasure, but did not argue. Her fingers, exposed for shooting, would have to wait for her warm mittens until the messy business of dressing the deer was done.
The orichalcum blade Shuftharz had given her on her last name-day made the work quick as she opened the belly and peeled the hide back. Despite the large size of the animal, she was able to cut from pelvis to jaw in a few short minutes, and soon had the organs out of the carcass in a steaming pile, setting aside the heart, liver, and kidneys to cool. She was tying a hide cord around the hind legs when a branch snapped behind her.
"It's almost ready for you to hang—" Borgakh fell silent when turned and saw that it was not Olur, but a human woman standing on the other side of the small pond. The woman's face was tattooed with an array of lines, her hair was decorated with pheasant feathers, and a large sabre cat tooth hung from a hide thong around her neck. For a moment she and Borgakh stared at each other.
"Greetings, orc." The woman bared her teeth in a smile. "How kind of you to fell the deer we've been tracking for us."
Borgakh thought about the shield stashed safely under her bed in the stronghold.
"Greetings. But you are mistaken, Reachman. This meat is for my stronghold. You will have to track another deer."
"I don't think there is another deer in Karthald," the woman said bitterly, the smile vanishing. She spat upon the ground. "Your people have driven all game save a few rabbits out of these hills. Since you keep taking more than what you need, we'll be taking this."
A tall figure stepped out of the thicket beside the woman—a man, unnaturally still and silent, with an antlered headdress covering his face. Borgakh knew that if he shed the thick furs wrapped around his torso, there would be an angry, raw wound in his chest where his heart had once been. She surreptitiously switched the hunting knife to her left hand.
"My stronghold has no quarrel with your kind," Borgakh said, in a last attempt to avert violence. "I don't know why you would change that now. My grandmother's potions have saved many of your warriors after run-ins with the Nords."
"We can't eat potions."
The briarheart went from stillness to strike in an instant. Borgakh parried the sharp obsidian axe blade with the knife, and as the briarheart's momentum carried him past her she drew the sword from her back. In the next moment the man had rounded and was swinging his axe again. This time Borgakh was able to bind his axe with her sword and knife in tandem and she aimed a savage kick at his groin with her sturdy hobnailed boots.
There was no reaction—not even a grunt.
Do those birds cut off their nethers at the same time as they cut out their hearts? Borgakh thought giddily as the excitement of battle surged through her. Her mother, Mor Khazgur's Shield-Wife, had trained her since she was able to grip a sword-hilt, and this was what she loved to do.
Almost too late, Borgakh jumped out of range of the clumsy spear-thrust the woman had tried too early to be a true flanking maneuver. Before the woman could recover Borgakh kicked out again at the briarheart, this time connecting with his knee and producing a satisfying crunch even though he still uttered no sound. He lurched forward, one hand grabbing Borgakh's sword-arm in a vise-like grip. She let herself be pulled towards him; he had been expecting resistance and his good leg slipped on the muddy bank. In the next second Borgakh's hunting knife was buried in his spleen. She felt the blade scrape the underside of the briarheart's ribs as he let out a soft grunt and his knees buckled.
She could not free the knife in time and his falling body twisted the blood-slick hilt out of her hand as his grip on her sword arm pulled her to the ground.
A cry of rage from behind her had Borgakh scrambling to disentangle herself from the stricken briarheart—she could not get her sword up in time as the woman, face twisted in fury, raised the spear above her head to deliver the killing blow.
An arrow sprouted from the woman's neck with a wet thump. She stayed frozen for a moment, face still twitching, as blood and foam bubbled from the corner of her mouth. Then she stumbled back, clawing at the arrow that still lodged in her spine before dropping to her knees.
Olur came jogging up out of the brush, another arrow halfway out of his quiver, the stronghold's horse, Kharag, trotting behind him. When he saw the woman, he drew his Legionnaire's sword and with one quick thrust to the base of her throat sent her to join her comrade in death.
"Well-shot, brother," said Borgakh when she had caught her breath and could trust her voice not to crack. The small pond was now full of blood, all trace of the clear water it had previously held gone. Borgakh stepped around it and wrenched her knife free of the briarheart.
"Are you injured? What was that about?" asked Olur, dragging the woman's body from the pond.
"I'm fine. They wanted our deer," Borgakh said, breathing hard. The cold mountain air cut into her lungs with every inhalation. "What a waste."
"The Reachfolk have never tried to steal a kill before." Olur cut the thong holding the sabre cat tooth from the woman's neck and placed it on his belt. "We've always left them alone. They've done us the same favor."
Borgakh did not answer, instead she worked at the hide lace that tied the furs to the briarheart's body. The furs themselves were ruined with blood and gore, but his headdress would have useful items.
"Do you think these two are from the river or the mountain-top?" Olur asked as Borgakh handed him the antlers from the briarheart's headdress. "I think their comrades will recognize weapon wounds. Now we'll have even more trouble."
"Maybe that cat leaving tracks around the camp will make itself useful and clean this up for us."
"Perhaps." Olur knelt down and finished tying the cord between the deer's back hooves. "We don't have time to hang this. We should leave."
Despite Kharag's calm and willing nature, it took more time than either of them would have liked to prop open the deer's body cavity and secure the carcass on Kharag's back. When they were done Borgakh wrinkled her nose in disgust at the fouled pond. Her hands were cold, and she desperately wanted to put them back in her fur-lined mittens, but not with the gore left on her hands from dressing the deer and searching for anything of value on the two Reachfolk.
"We'll find a spring soon. Come on," Olur said, guessing what she was thinking.
"Wait, one more thing while I've still got bloody hands," said Borgakh. She approached the man's body again, and lifted his furs. So they don't cut it off, she thought as she reached for her goal. The briarheart in the man's chest was cold, and green shoots wound themselves around his ribs. Borgakh's knife made as short work of them as it had the deer's skin and viscera.
"Sabre cats don't cut those out," Olur said, his voice wary. "Give it here, I'll give it to grandmother along with the rest."
"If a sabre cat does get at their bodies, the Reachmen are welcome to look through its scat. You know grandmother would box my ears if I passed up an opportunity for one of these."
"You're too big for that now, Borgakh," Olur grunted, and they turned in the direction of the trail towards Mor Khazgur. "You're going to be as tall as my mother by next winter."
Borgakh did not need familiar landmarks to tell her they were getting close to the stronghold. She could smell it.
The daylight was waning as the mountains of the western Reach swallowed up the sun, casting long blue shadows over the land. Olur had spotted a clean spring for Borgakh to wash up, and there had been an untouched patch of wild winter radishes growing in the clay near the bank. They had picked all that they could fit in their packs and in Kharag's saddlebags—all in all, a much more productive hunting excursion than either of them had made for many months.
They crested the final hillock; Mor Khazgur dominated the shallow valley below. When she had been younger, Borgakh had often imagined the longhouse was a lazy cat asleep on a bright green rug, curled up against the rocks of the Druadach Mountains. When the stronghold's goats were pastured in the glade, they played the role of mice scurrying about under the cat's nose.
Now there was no bright green rug, no herd of goats browsing the first buds of spring; the ground in front of Mor Khazgur was a frozen mud pit.
Tents with various clan symbols painted on their canopies and sides crowded around the stronghold stockade with no semblance of order. The first arrivals set up their lodgings without care for the foot paths, winter forage, or even well-tended herb beds outside of the walls. Latecomers followed suit, until every bit of grass and brush had been ground into the dirt.
Then the thawing rains came and the winter snow melted. The broken mess turned into a mire.
Borgakh could hear shouting from the central bonfire of the camp, the one thing the orc men seemed to be able to work together to maintain. The stumps of the trees used to feed it stuck up from the ground where thick copses used to be.
"We should go around the side to the gate," she said.
Olur continued to lead Kharag down the slope to the main entrance of Mor Khazgur. "We meet our fates head-on, like Malacath commands, Borgakh. I for one won't slink in like a thief to my own stronghold."
Borgakh sighed, her stomach starting to knot. Coming home to Mor Khazgur used to be a source of comfort, a safe refuge from the harsh environment of the Reach.
Father used to be here.
Now every time she approached she had to run a gauntlet. Kharag snorted at the mud, picking his feet up high with each step.
I don't like it either friend, she thought and reached out to pat his neck. We'll be through it soon.
Olur pulled up sharply, peering down into the crowd below. Borgakh followed his gaze, and saw what had caught his attention.
An orc leading a spotted mule and a human man were at the gate to Mor Khazgur. They were surrounded by angry orc men. Borgakh could see some reaching for weapons.
"Pit, that's Pavo and Gat—" Olur said before breaking into a ground covering jog, throwing Kharag's lead at Borgakh. Borgakh swore and followed him, pulling a protesting Kharag behind her and loosening her knife in its sheath as she did so.
The mud was slippery and it was difficult going; Olur quickly outpaced her, breaking a trail through both the muck and the crowd. As he reached the knot of people at the gate, the shouting crescendoed and one of the orcs struck the human across the face, knocking him into the logs of the palisade.
The orc leading the mule was on the one who had struck the blow in an instant, his larger mass bearing the other to the ground with a thud that Borgakh felt through her boots. Olur had reached the man, and hauled him to his feet just in time as the orc men formed a circle around the grappling pair, stomping and yelling encouragement and insults.
The orc that had assaulted the man was one of the newer arrivals; Borgakh did not know his name. It would probably not matter in a few minutes, not with the way Gat was driving his fist into his face.
Despite the blows he was taking, the other orc managed to get his axe free from his belt and swung it at Gat's head. Gat intercepted the blow, and with a practiced twist jerked it out of the other orc's hand and flung it away. Several of the onlookers were forced to dodge as the axe flew by at eye-level.
Borgakh pushed her way to Olur and Pavo. Pavo's split brow bled. The mule brayed as the crowd grew wilder, adding to the din.
"We just came to trade—" Pavo was swaying on his feet, despite bracing himself on Olur's arm.
"Can you get him inside?" Olur asked, transferring Pavo's grip from his arm to Borgakh's shoulder.
Borgakh, who had just grabbed the mule's lead to prevent it from bolting, looked at him in annoyance. "How many hands do you think I—"
"Stop this at once!"
The authoritative voice cut through the noise and chaos, and silence descended on the crowd.
Gat landed another blow before standing, and turned to the stronghold.
Sharamph, Wise Woman of Mor Khazgur and grandmother to Borgakh and Olur, stood on one of the scaffolds that lined the inside of the stronghold defenses. She surveyed the assembled mass of orc men with a sneer.
"The wives of Mor Khazgur are still in seclusion. Fighting over the Chieftainship before it has ended is an affront to them and the Code!"
"I apologize for the disturbance, Wise Woman," said Gat, ignoring the other orc who was just now staggering to his feet. "I have no desire to fight for the leadership of Mor Khazgur, merely to extract Blood-Price from the one who insulted my Blood-Kin."
"And are you satisfied?" Sharamph asked.
Gat only now looked over at the orc he had bested. Blood was oozing from his nose, and smeared around his mouth. Borgakh guessed he would wear the bruises of his defeat for a fortnight at least.
Then Gat turned to where Pavo was leaning against Borgakh, holding a hand to his head. "Yes, I am satisfied."
"If they aren't competing for the right to be chief, then send them away! They have no business here." Ansug gro-Yufethz, one of the first to arrive and declare his intention to fight for the right to be chieftain of Mor Khazgur, stepped forward and addressed Sharamph. "If you allow unrelated orc men in your stronghold during seclusion, then what meaning does that word have?"
"You have not protested the entry of other orcs for trade during the time you have been here. Pavo and Gat have come and gone before. You know this."
"We have allowed passage of other orcs for trade because we did not want to unduly burden the wives of Mor Khazgur during their time of grief," said another orc, stepping forward.
Borgakh narrowed her eyes at him. Uremak gro-Bolimurz' tongue was as silver as the ore veins that ran through the Reach. But Borgakh did not trust his words.
"We allowed it when there were only a handful of challengers, because we knew the journey would be long and arduous for many. After all, the wives of Mor Khazgur deserve to have as many worthy challengers for their chieftainship as possible!" There were some murmurs of agreement from the crowd.
"But now there are many of us, and we are growing sick of the wait," Ansug said. "It is well-past time to set the day and manner of the tournament. If this goes on much longer, one must start to wonder if the wives want a chief." There were more rumblings in the crowd. "Until then, we say that the tradition should be upheld: no unrelated male orc may enter the stronghold."
"He is not an orc, and he has come to trade," said Sharamph, indicating Pavo. "We need supplies after the winter, and the miners of Kolskeggr have always trusted our smithy for their tools. If you deny him entry you are only weakening the stronghold you wish to lead."
Ansug narrowed his eyes and glared at Pavo, but after a moment scowled and stood aside, clearing the way to the gate. Borgakh was relieved—he was the largest and most influential among the candidates for Chief, and if he agreed, the others were likely to do so as well.
"Very well. The Imperial can enter for trade. But the orc must stay outside!"
Sharamph nodded once and disappeared behind the pointed timbers of the stronghold wall.
"Gat, I don't like this—" Pavo said as Gat returned to his side.
"I'll be fine," Gat said, quickly removing a pack and a bedroll from the mule's back. "I've slept in rougher places than this, you know that. I've got rations and our tent, and there's no elves slinging firebolts at us. What more could I want?"
"But—"
"Olur, I think Juniper lost a few nails from her near-hind shoe in the mud." Gat interrupted Pavo. "Will you be able to take a look while Pavo trades with Shuftharz?"
"Of course. Take them inside, Borgakh."
The heavy gate swung open as Borgakh clicked to Kharag and Juniper. Pavo was standing on his own now, and Gat put a hand on his arm and bent down to whisper something in his ear. Pavo nodded and Gat gave him a comforting pat on the shoulder before hefting his pack and bedroll and disappearing into the crowd.
As she passed through the threshold of the gate, Borgakh felt tension she had not realized she was carrying leave her neck and shoulders.
"Ghamorz, get the packs from the mule and bring them inside," Sharamph said to the orc that shut the gate behind them.
"Do you really think Gat will be alright out there?" Pavo was already turning around and was staring at the closed gate. "They've never cared about him coming inside to trade before—" He was interrupted by Sharamph gripping his chin and turning his head in order to cast an experienced eye on the cut over his brow.
"This will need cleaning," she said. "Come with me."
"Thank you, ma'am, but I should really see to Juniper first—"
"Borgakh will see to your animal. Your goods will be safe in the longhouse, but your blood is still flowing; much more and Gat will be compelled to extract further Blood-Price from that idiot to make up the difference."
That seemed to fix Pavo's indecision, and he followed Sharamph to the little pavilion that housed her alchemy station, breaking into a jog every few steps to keep pace with her long strides.
Having finished securing the gate, the orc that had let them in approached and began untying the packs from Juniper's saddle. Other than Sharamph, Ghamorz was the oldest member of the stronghold and his craggy face and rough hands attested to his long service in Mor Khazgur's mine. He smiled at Borgakh.
"I haven't seen you bring back a deer this large since before mid-winter. Who brought it down?"
"I tracked it, Borgakh fired the arrow," said Olur, moving to the far side of Kharag to release deer's hind hooves.
"I will come help you with the hide when I've put Pavo's things away," said Ghamorz.
Olur shook his head. "I know you have done your work for the stronghold today, I can take this to hang in the larder. It's still cold enough that the hide will keep for the night."
"When Sharamph is done, the wives will be haggling with Pavo. I dug up the ore, but the business of it is dull. I'd rather help you."
With the last of the ropes securing the deer released, Olur hauled the carcass off of the saddle, and hefted it over his shoulder.
Ghamorz did the same with the heavy packs from Juniper and turned to Borgakh. "You are becoming as good with your bow as you are with your sword, Borgakh."
Borgakh flushed with pride, but did not allow it to show on her face. Instead she acknowledged the statement with a short nod before turning and leading Kharag and Juniper to the byre.
The gate from the shed to the small paddock was closed, and two of the three does the stronghold had in milk looked out at her.
"Out of the way, beasts!" The goats' ears flicked back simultaneously and they disappeared as the gate swung open and Gul came out, carrying the evening's milk in buckets on a yoke over one shoulder. Borgakh immediately grabbed the gate and shut it behind Gul when she was fully clear.
The buckets were barely half-full.
"The goats are drying up," said Gul, "We need to get them out on pasture. Did you see anything suitable today?"
"The nearest forage takes half a day on foot to reach. But we found some winter radishes." Borgakh reached into the saddlebag and pulled out one of the hairy white roots.
"Well, the tops will be good for them. Give it here," Gul held out her free hand and Borgakh handed over the saddlebags before tying Kharag and Juniper to the rings bolted to the side of the byre.
When Gul was out of earshot, Borgakh reached out to pet Pavo's mule. "It is good to see you again, Juniper." Juniper nosed around Borgakh's waist pouch, but after finding no evidence of anything good to eat, allowed Borgakh to reach up to the base of her ears. Borgakh smiled at the way Juniper's eyes closed and her lip curled while having her favorite spot scratched.
There was a snuffling sound from within the byre, and one of the piles of straw moved as a long, ice-blue, scaly snout poked out and sampled the air, mouth opening slightly and revealing a long row of sharp teeth.
"It's good to see you too, Sogra." Borgakh reached out and scratched the durzog on the nose. With a heaving grunt and wide yawn, Sogra pulled herself to her taloned feet, shaking the bits of stable dirt out of her white, downy feathers. She blinked six sleepy eyes at Borgakh.
"You have to stop sleeping in the barn, Shuftharz will never let you in the longhouse like that."
Sogra just sniffed at Juniper, who snorted and stamped, but did not shy. When Sogra had satisfied her curiosity about the new arrival, she stretched and trotted off, likely to beg for some morsel from Olur or Ghamorz.
Working quickly, Borgakh untacked Kharag and Juniper, giving their harnesses a quick once-over with oil soap and rubbing them down. This task was one she usually dawdled over—in the longhouse, there was hardly ever a time when she could be alone with her thoughts. But Pavo and Gat had not come by to trade since before midwinter, and the prospect of hearing the latest rumors and stories from beyond Mor Khazgur's remote corner of the Reach had a stronger pull than a few moments of stolen solitude.
When she had supplied fresh fodder in the manger and ensured the water trough was full, Borgakh left Juniper and Kharag snorting happily into their feed and secured the gate. She stopped to remove her heavy furs and drew a bucket of water from the well to wash up. The water was frigid but refreshing, and she scrubbed her hands and face with the lump of hard soap kept near the well until they felt raw.
When Borgakh crested the small rise that led to the longhouse, dusk was well and truly settling in the Reach. Lamps blazed around Sharamph's alchemy shed, where she was carefully suturing the cut on Pavo's head with a length of their precious gut thread. Pavo had his belt doubled up between his teeth, and his knuckles were white where they gripped his knees. Every time she finished a stitch, Sharamph dabbed at the injury with a small square of linen gauze she dipped in a bowl filled with a clear spirit, and Pavo winced.
Gul was standing nearby with a steaming basin of water at hand. After securing the last suture, Sharamph smeared a strong-smelling ointment over the line of neat stitches and nodded to Gul. The basin and a few threadbare but clean linen towels were set in front of Pavo.
Shuftharz looked up at Borgakh. "Good, you're back. The stew should be ready. Take our guest inside and feed him; he can use your bed and you can sleep by the hearth."
"I appreciate Mor Khazgur's hospitality," Pavo said after taking his belt out of his mouth and refastening it around his waist. "I don't want to turn Borgakh out; I really am prepared to camp outside the walls with Gat—"
"Don't be foolish," said Sharamph. "There's no decent place left outside the walls for the better part of a league. The… candidates would probably try to eat your mule, too."
Pavo held up his hands. "Of course. Gat would never let me hear the end of it if Juniper ended up in a stewpot."
"Wash yourself, and come into the longhouse. When you have eaten you can tell us the latest events from Markarth."
"I thank you for patching me up, and for feeding me." He stood, and started scrubbing down his arms. "It's more than you had to do, and I appreciate it."
Sharamph grunted, gathering up her equipment before taking her leave. "Remember your appreciation, if we ever call upon you to do so."
Pavo was clearly puzzled, and watched Sharamph retreat into the gloom. He then turned to Borgakh.
"Borgakh, it is good to see you again. You get taller every time I visit. And I hear you're the one that took down the deer Olur was dragging to the larder." Pavo extended his arm in greeting, and Borgakh clasped it. She liked that he always greeted her with the same respect that he greeted the older members of the stronghold, even if she was not technically fully grown.
"It is good to see you too, Pavo," Borgakh said. When she was a child and Pavo and Gat had first arrived at the gates of Mor Khazgur looking to trade, Borgakh had been apprehensive. So many of the stories she had been told of the history of strongholds in Skyrim involved humans and elves trying to destroy them. But Pavo was Blood-Kin to Gat; even if he had puzzling and strange Imperial manners he was someone new to speak with and could be trusted to uphold the Code while within the walls of the stronghold.
"I really will be fine on the floor—"
Borgakh waved her hand. "I'm the youngest. I have slept on the hearth before, and I will do so again until I take my place as a wife in a new stronghold."
Pavo seemed to accept this.
When he was done washing up, Borgakh led him to where the ancient twin mammoth tusks framed the entryway to the longhouse. A warm orange glow spilled out into the blue dusk when Borgakh opened the door, and her chilly wash made the heat inside all the more welcoming.
"Your things are there by the fire." She motioned to where Ghamorz had placed Pavo's packs and bedroll in one corner. "My bed is the first next to the door in the sleeping quarters."
"Thank you again, Borgakh. It's been a long journey. I'm glad to be under a roof tonight." He knelt down to pull something out of the little knapsack while Borgakh shed her outer layers until she was wearing only her woolen under tunic and breeches; she then put away the thick furs that had guarded her against the chill during the hunt.
She returned to the common room, grabbed a bowl and lifted the lid of the pot. Inside was a bubbling green porridge, with chunks of salt pork rising to the surface before sinking back down to the bottom. She ladeled out a generous portion, but when she turned, she saw Pavo was not looking at her, but was instead examining the long banner draped around the rooms of the longhouse.
"Here you are," she said, pulling Pavo's attention back from the tapestry.
"Thank you, Borgakh." He accepted the bowl and ate eagerly. She served herself and joined him. "This one is your father, isn't it?" He traced a delicately stitched figure on the tapestry, the armor and helm marking it unmistakably as Mor Khazgur's last chief. The figure sat at the unfinished end of the tapestry; the last in a long line of chiefs, warriors, and distinguished wives stretching back to before the second era.
"Yes, that's him." The figure sat proudly, framed by the mammoth tusks that guarded the door of the longhouse. "Grutha finished that figure just before—" she stopped and swallowed, making sure her voice would be steady and strong in front of an outsider. "—she was killed."
"It's coming up on three years, isn't it?" Pavo said quietly.
"Yes. Grutha was a talented Hearth-Wife. Despite the rest of us trying, we all fall short of filling her place in the stronghold. Morgash's too."
"Aye, I remember Gat saying he thought Morgash would be able to track a fish across the ocean, once."
Borgakh did not have much time for grief, but for a moment she felt it keenly. She missed Grutha's stews, and Morgash's laughter when she brought back a kill. She missed the rhythmic clacks of the shuttle on the loom in the corner as Grutha worked in the evening, and how she would tell Borgakh stories as her fine silver needle darted in and out of whatever bit of mending she was working on like a fish leaping out of a still pond. Of course, now Borgakh was much too old to listen to made-up stories such as the ones Grutha liked to tell, but she wondered what she and Grutha would have talked about, now that she was almost grown.
Morgash was to give the stronghold another child in the season following her death. She had been thought past her bearing years and Borgakh still remembered how happy her father had been. Would the child have enjoyed learning how to fight from Borgakh and her mother? Would they have gone hunting together?
She motioned Pavo to take a seat at one of the tables, and sat beside him.
"Have there been any more attacks?"
Borgakh thought about Olur's complaints that humans always wanted to talk instead of eat, and how he was never able to have a meal in peace while in the Legion.
"Since Grutha and Morgash? Not that we know of." She paused for thought, and then added, "Not that we can say for certain were vampires."
"But… otherwise?"
Borgakh sighed. She was clearly not going to get to eat at the pace she was used to until the others came in.
"I'm going to be a Shield-Wife, not a Hunts-Wife. I can't tell if a goat had its throat ripped out by a sabre cat or a bloodsucker."
Pavo swallowed. "Are you sure Gat will be safe—"
"No one is safe in the Reach," said a voice from the doorway. "But I don't know of anything that prowls the hills that would risk attacking a camp full of male orcs in prime fighting condition, who have nothing to do but spar and eat. That is a much different prospect than two wives out harvesting oysters alone."
Bagrak stood on the door saddle, her heavy armor filling the frame, before taking a step inside and shutting the door behind her. Borgakh stood in deference to her mother, and hurried over to the hearth to prepare a bowl of stew.
"Olur tells me you bloodied your sword today." Bagrak's voice was even, as if she was remarking on the weather. Borgakh paused in spooning stew into the bowl before straightening up and presenting it to her mother. Bagrak did not take it.
"I bloodied it for Mor Khazgur, mother," Borgakh said, throwing her shoulders back and looking Bagrak in the eyes. "One of the Reachwomen and a briarheart tried to steal the deer I shot. Olur and I extracted our Blood Price."
"I am not sure one deer is important enough to be covered by the Code," said Bagrak. "When their clan discovers them killed with orc weapons it will cause more trouble than one deer is worth. Now you will have another enemy to watch for when you are outside the walls."
Borgakh clenched her jaw in frustration, but kept her tone respectful. "They would have never been happy with one deer, and then they would have known Mor Khazgur was weak. What if they had wanted Kharag too? Is a good horse not covered by the Code?"
Bagrak's eyes narrowed, and she seemed to be sizing up her daughter. But just as she opened her mouth to speak, the sound of Pavo clearing his throat came from the table in the corner.
"Ah, I have to say, the Reachmen have been getting bold up and down the Karth. They've started coming by Kolskeggr looking to 'trade' but it always turns into them trying to shake us down. Gat has always been able to run them off, and they stop after a while. I think Borgakh made the correct decision."
After a moment, Bagrak's expression softened. "Perhaps you are right, Pavo, Blood-Kin of Gat gro-Shargakh." She placed one hand on Borgakh's shoulder, and accepted the bowl of stew. "I am proud of you, my daughter. You are fulfilling the role of a Hunts-Wife and a Shield-Wife. I anticipate many strongholds competing to have you join them when it is time to marry."
The rest of the meal passed in silence, with the other members of the stronghold filtering in as their evening tasks were completed. Afterwards, Pavo produced a bottle of wine from his pack that he had brought from Markarth, and shared it around. Borgakh was given a honey nut treat: slightly squashed, but still delicious.
Olur cleared the meal while Borgakh left to stuff a spare tick with clean straw for her bedding by the hearth. When she returned, the tables and chairs had been pushed to the sides of the common area, and Ghamorz was seated cross-legged on the floor, tuning his lyre. Sharamph was accepting a measure of hackle-lo from Pavo and preparing her long horker tusk pipe. Borgakh arranged the tick and some furs in a corner close to the hearth before removing her boots and taking her customary place seated on the floor by the wall, leaving the best spots for the other members of the stronghold.
When everyone was settled in their places, attention slowly turned towards Pavo. Finally Sharamph was finished tamping her pipe to her liking, and lit the hackle-lo with a tiny tongue of flame from her finger, sending a thin ribbon of blue smoke up to the ceiling of the longhouse.
"So, Pavo Attius of Kolskeggr, you say you bring the season's rumors from Markarth?" she said after taking a few puffs.
"Aye," Pavo answered. "Quite a few, actually." He pulled out his own pipe and began preparing it. Borgakh wished he would get on with it, but as the youngest member of the stronghold, it was not her place to speak unless spoken to, and the others seemed content to let Pavo tell his story on his own time.
"The jarl," he said as he lit the bowl, "was murdered."
The statement did not have quite the impact he was probably hoping for.
Gul snorted. "Nords are always killing each other. What makes this death special?"
"He was murdered by the Forsworn." This elicited several impressed grunts and murmurs.
"How did he manage that? I thought they were all driven out of the city after all those Nords in blue uniforms came marching through our territory," said Shuftharz.
"He went to one of their camps! A big one to the south, where they've taken over an old Nordic ruin. Apparently thought he could talk them into peace."
"Peace after sending all those soldiers to raze their outposts? I remember the smoke filling the sky for days." Ghamorz chuckled. "Leave it to a Nord to do something so foolish. Who's the new jarl of the Nords?"
"Hrolfdir's son, Igmund, naturally. There were some rumors about Hrolfdir's brother possibly taking the Mournful Throne, but he supported his nephew's claim."
Sharamph stared into the fire, tapping her pipe stem on one tusk. "One Nord jarl is the same as another to me. But if the clans killed one with no reprisal, they will become bolder about encroaching into our territory. Then the Nord soldiers will come through again. And too few of them care to distinguish between a stronghold and a Reachfolk camp."
"Hmph," Ghamorz said, continuing to pluck tunelessly at his lyre. "Maybe if they start burning things again it will clean up the filth outside of our walls."
Laughter rippled around the assembled orcs, but there was not much mirth in it.
"Borgakh," Sharamph said suddenly. "I want you to go to the high pasture and bring some of the does back. Do it soon, and they shouldn't be so far along that they'll drop their kids on the way."
"Yes, grandmother."
Sharamph nodded to Pavo to continue.
"I was also told that Igmund has been saying he's going to get all settlements in the Reach to pay their lawful taxes." One corner of Pavo's mouth twitched up in a smile as the orcs now began laughing in earnest.
Sharamph, though chuckling herself, quieted them with a wave of her hand. "Now, Mor Khazgur has always been a lawful settlement. We'll be happy to pay the jarl's Nord taxes… as soon as he comes and gets them himself."
The laughter this time was even louder, and Pavo himself joined in. Borgakh grinned, imagining a puny human with a quill and a ledger fighting their way through the wilds of the Reach to knock on the stronghold gate and ask for taxes.
"Enough of Markarth. Are there any new happenings in Karthwasten?" asked Ghamorz.
"Yes, there is—they've started another mine close to the Saruanach. Not much is coming out yet, but they're following some promising veins. Silver, of course. Not gold like Kolskeggr." Pavo paused. "One of the miners and his wife had a little baby girl this past winter. I don't remember her name."
Ghamorz shrugged, indicating which bit of the gossip about Karthwasten he considered most important.
"If you have reason to travel the road to the east, Ainethach tells me he's seen Reachfolk taking up in that old pile that overlooks the road to Whiterun Hold. But none of the travelers along the road that stop in have said they've been hassled, seem to be keeping to themselves." Pavo tapped his pipe, and finding it had gone out, set about relighting it with an ember from the hearth. "We'll see how long they can do that with the murder of the old jarl."
Ghamorz finished adjusting the tuning knobs on the lyre, and began strumming a series of quiet chords with the carved bone plectrum he kept tied to one of the arms.
"I'm afraid we do not have any rumors equal to a Nord jarl dying," said Bagrak, though her voice was tinged with amusement. "As you know, we have not been able to venture far or host visitors for some time."
"Yes, well." Pavo cleared his throat. "Then perhaps the time for news is over."
"Aye," said Bagrak. "It is the hour for singing and stories, but I've heard all the songs of this stronghold a thousand times over. Can you bring us a new one?"
"Bagrak," Sharamph said with reproval. "Our guest has already done most of the talking tonight."
"Let's sing a Legion song, Pavo," Olur chimed in. "The wives have not heard any of those."
"Ha! I bet they haven't. I'm not sure what they'd like." Pavo looked at Sharamph with a raised eyebrow.
"If you are still inclined to entertain, I won't stop you. Something amusing," she said. "And bloody. We've had little enough of each this winter."
Pavo tapped the stem of his pipe on his front teeth, thinking. "Olur, did they still sing Blood Upon the Timbers when you were in?"
Olur grinned, his tusks and incisors glinting in the firelight. He rubbed at his left bicep, where his Legion tattoo was concealed underneath his woolen tunic.
"Of course! Might have some different verses nowadays from when you were in, elder."
Pavo snorted. "It had different verses depending on what day of the week it was back during the war. It was adapted to fit whomever had most recently been blasted to bits by the Aldmeri battlemages."
As if by unspoken agreement, they both launched into a rousing song that detailed the violent death of a Legionnaire who got his foot caught in a rope on an Imperial siege engine. Borgakh liked it very much, and by the final verse, even her mother and Sharamph were grinning.
"There was blood upon the timbers, there were brains upon the sling,
Intestines wrapped up in the middle torsion spring,
They poured the bile from his boots and paid his fav'rit whore,
He ain't gonna fight no more!" 1
Borgakh joined in the clapping and appreciative cheers at the end. Why doesn't Olur sing more songs from the Legion, if they're all as good as this? she wondered.
After a few more Legion marching songs (and some disagreements about the correct lyrics) Pavo and Olur lapsed back into silence, but Borgakh could tell her brother was in a much more cheerful mood than he had been in the afternoon. Her eyelids started to feel heavier.
Ghamorz's strumming became a more purposeful, repetitive melody. Borgakh leaned back and closed her eyes. With the heavy smell of the hackle-lo and the rhythmic, dissonant lyre notes in the air, she could pretend that their stronghold was whole again. Like it had been before.
When Ghamorz started singing, Borgakh drew her knees to her chest and laid her head on them, looking at the shadowed forms of her family and stronghold around the common room, their features bathed in flickering orange light from the fire.
"Goltragga Torug ne murimush lochan sim,
Goltragga Torug ne rohi Ornim lochan norgim krazak!"
Although she was eagerly looking forward to the day she would be declared grown and leave the stronghold to marry, Borgakh was struck by the fact that there were a dwindling number of evenings around the fire like this in her future.
"Goltragga Torug dek vorkhim lorak eb norgimin sim,
Torug dulg krazak eb Jur ugo sim ren tum beshkar."
Would her future stronghold have someone who could play music and sing? Would they know familiar songs, or strange new ones? Would they have different stories and legends?
"Torug gesh Glushun Zugra ugo magicka lorish,
Uba eb uba urgalick voshu Ornim tarask Torug golzarga ubeshka!" 2
As Ghamorz finished the elegy of Chieftain Torug, Pavo was leaning back against his pack, looking up at the ceiling, eyes half-closed, with a wistful expression on his face.
"Would you like a translation, Pavo?" Olur offered, after the last note had died away.
Pavo blew a smoke ring up towards the haze that was accumulating at the ceiling. "No, that's not necessary. Gat has been teaching me, I was able to follow some. Besides, I like the rhythm. It just reminded me of the first time I heard Gat sing. First time I'd heard any orc poetry. Funny how some things take you back."
Olur grunted in acknowledgement.
"You've brought us plenty of news and rumors, Pavo," Sharamph said, standing. She walked over to the fire and tapped out her pipe. "Tomorrow we will trade, and Olur will shoe your mule. But for now, I am going to rest."
Shuftharz, Gul, and Bagrak also rose and took their leave: Shuftharz and Bagrak to the Chief's bedchamber, and Gul to the dormitory. As she walked by, Bagrak ran her fingers through Borgakh's hair and smiled down at her. Borgakh smiled back. Her mother and Shuftharz were strong, and Sharamph was clever. Olur was brave and skilled, and Ghamorz and Gul worked hard. Mor Khazgur would weather the current difficulties.
Pavo, Ghamorz, and Olur continued to smoke and speak in low tones as Borgakh braided her hair into a loose queue down her back before crawling into the pile of furs on the tick in the corner.
Her stomach was full, and she was warm. It had been a good hunting day. Borgakh let her eyes fall closed. She thought about the things that had angered her during the day, and what she would do to extract revenge for those slights and insults. I already took care of the Reachwoman and the briarheart. Their entry in my Ledger of Grievance was written and struck in the same hour, she thought with pleasure. Malacath should be pleased—
"...have you heard nothing from your father?" Pavo's voice was quiet but his words caught Borgakh's attention.
"No," Ghamorz answered for Olur. "We received regular couriers until he crossed into High Rock. Then they stopped."
"If he doesn't return, what will you do?"
There was the sound of someone shifting on the floor. Olur was probably looking at her.
Borgakh held herself still, but not too still. She had long ago perfected the art of appearing to be asleep. After a long moment, Olur began speaking, apparently fooled by her ruse.
"If nothing changes, we will be forced to allow them to fight for the right to be Chief," he said. "Borgakh and I cannot feed the entire stronghold by ourselves. And the murimush3know it. That is why they over-hunt the game, fell the trees, and destroy our forage."
"But that's madness!" Pavo said. "Like Sharamph said, they'll be ruining Mor Khazgur just to rule it!"
"If they had any chance of overthrowing their own chiefs, they would have stayed in their clan strongholds." Ghamorz's gravelly voice chimed in. "Ruling over a ruin is preferable to not ruling at all, for many."
"They say this is what the Code demands but above all, Malacath demands strength." Olur's words were bitter. "Mor Khazgur will not be strengthened with one of them as chief."
There was silence for a short while, broken only by the occasional sound of someone smacking his lips against a pipestem and the shifting of position on the hearthstones.
"How did they find out that your father had left? He was preparing for the journey soon after the attack. I remember Gat sold him some hackle-lo for the trip."
Ghamorz sighed. "It was that damned Nord, I'll bet my left tusk on it. I never liked him. The one that comes to trade swine and cattle for our game and pelts. He is not Blood-Kin, we do not let him inside to trade. But he must have noticed our chief's absence on the walls, and made remarks when Olur returned from the Legion. He was too interested in that. It was after that the first challengers arrived. At first it was just one or two over last spring and summer—"
"Then this midwinter, here comes half of the layabouts from strongholds across the Reach and Wrothgar. They think themselves too good to swing a hammer or a pick for their own strongholds and are too cowardly to challenge their own fathers and brothers, so they show up here," snarled Olur.
"Have… have you thought of challenging them?" Pavo asked cautiously. "You're a man grown now—"
Olur snorted. "I've thought about it, and decided it would be stupid. I'm grown but I'm not old enough. I learned what skills were required of all Legionaries but my service was spent behind an anvil and shoeing horses, not fighting. Before all this Bagrak would train me, when we had time to spare, so I would be ready to defend Mor Khazgur or take my place as chief, whenever that time came to pass. But it came to pass too soon." He sighed. "Any outside chief will rightly see me as a future threat. I do not think I will see another midwinter in my home."
Borgakh was stunned. She had not thought about what a new chieftain would mean for her brother. Shuftharz needs him! He makes all the tools, and takes care of Kharag!
"I don't know if it helps, but I have always known you to be industrious and honorable, Olur," said Pavo. "Gat and I will always have work for you, if you need it."
"It doesn't, but I appreciate it anyway."
"Well, at the very least we'll have warm food to tell stories about the Legion over, eh?"
Olur did not answer, but Borgakh could hear the sounds of a pipe being tapped out.
"How is Borgakh holding up?"
Borgakh strained even harder to listen in, and hold herself still.
It was a few moments before Olur answered. "She has risen to meet every challenge and difficulty the last few years have brought: a true daughter of Malacath."
A fierce heat bloomed in Borgakh's chest. Olur was not someone given to flattery or easy compliments.
"The blood of the chief and Bagrak fight within her, and make her strong," said Ghamorz. "She will be the sort of Shield-Wife songs are written about. If she's allowed to be."
As Pavo, Olur, and Ghamorz extinguished the lamps and retired to the dormitory, Borgakh turned over what she had just heard in her mind, flitting from one thought to the next like a moth trapped in a jar.
Olur had said she was rising to meet every challenge, but if a new chief meant he would have to leave the stronghold, the stronghold would be weakened, and that would displease Malacath. If Malacath was being displeased, that meant everyone had to be stronger.
Borgakh would become stronger, and perhaps that would please Malacath enough that he would bring her father back home. Perhaps the slaves serving Grutha and Morgash in the Ashpit would bring them word of her deeds for the stronghold, and they would be proud, and intercede with the Furious One.
Having decided her course of action, Borgakh quieted her mind with an old prayer that Sharamph had taught her long ago.
God of curses, hear my prayer!
Lord of the betrayed, give me strength!
Keeper of the grudge, harden my heart!
Holder of the broken promises, ignite my anguish!
Master of the sworn oath, grant me the ferocity to overcome my enemies!
Malacath, hear my prayer! 4
She held the hot, bitter seed of grief in her heart, and found sleep.
[1] Adapted from the WWII American Airborne cadence Blood Upon the Risers. Sung to the tune of John Brown's Body and Battle Hymn of the Republic
[2] "Torug ag Krazak." The Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages (UESP), 23 July 2023. wiki/Lore:Torug_ag_Krazak
[3] Looters.
[4] "Prayer to the Furious One." The Unofficial Elder Scrolls Pages (UESP), 23 July 2023. wiki/Lore:Prayer_to_the_Furious_One