Author's Note: Thank you to Liter Knight for her careful editing!
Chapter 2
Ronan shifted in his saddle as he rode through the dim light of the early evening. It was the third day of their patrol and so far it had not been the adventure he was hoping for. Their party of four thraka and thirty orcs made their way south along the ambiguous, uneven border between the lands of the Vay and the man-infested wilds beyond at a slow pace. Sometimes they used one of the country roads that crisscrossed the landscape, but they also meandered into the scrubby, untamed fields and low, rocky hills that made up the new frontier. Occasionally they'd pass a farm, orcs hard at work threshing summer wheat while the women and specially trained orcs gleaned the grains, a farmvay or a thraka overseeing the work. When they passed a farm, Declan would speak to the farmvay, asking if there had been any sign of human raiders. So far there had been nothing, but the vay they spoke to were always reassured by their presence, and Ronan was glad that at the very least they were giving the farmvay on the edge of the frontier a sense of safety.
They stopped the first night at one of the farms. It was run by two unbound vay who were more than happy to offer room and board for the night to the savay and their orcs. The vay were hoping for a savay to give them a litter for the next season. One of them, a plump little vay with pine skin so dark it was almost black and beautiful ruby eyes, took Declan into her bed. The vay only wanted a single litter this season, so Ronan spent the night alone, trying not to think about what was going on in the bedroom down the hall.
They awoke the next day to cloudy skies and thunder on the horizon. The rain had begun a few hours after they set out; a gentle, constant shower. As they rode through the rain, Ronan silently thanked his father and Rathnait, his father's makervay, for his new jacket and pants. Raithnait had given him the tough blue cotton jacket just before he had left for the hillfort. It had taken her a month to make the jacket, weaving the threads of cotton together herself. As she wove she had sung the Song of Making, infusing the jacket with her magic. The jacket always kept him warm when he was cold and never felt hot when it was warm. It never got wet in the rain, never got dirty or wrinkled, and would never rip or tear. The coat had the symbol of his sept, the burning eye of Mordha encircled by the golden ring of the Giftgiver, embroidered in the breast, and Raithnat had used the makersong to make the eye flash red-gold in the sun. Rathnait had told him the coat might even stop a bullet but it was better not to test it. His pants had the same magic sung into them and showed none of the road dust that caked his orcs and thraka. The coat and pants were a great gift, representing many hours of expert songwork, and Ronan had given Rathnait a big, sincere hug when his father had presented them to him as a gift for his first patrol.
The rain picked up in the afternoon, thunder and lightning flashed in the sky and the rain was fierce and heavy. It was one of those summer storms that lasted an hour and could soak you in a minute. They took shelter in a forest to wait it out, but the party was still soaked through by the time it was over. Ronan had used a song to evaporate the water off him and his orcs but he still felt wet for the rest of the day. By the time the early evening rolled around it had gotten cold for this time of year.
As the sun was nearing the horizon, Declan pulled up to him on his own horse.
"There's a farm a few miles up the road," he said, "it's a little early but we can stop for the night there."
"Sounds good to me," said Ronan, "I feel like I'm soaked under my skin."
Declan nodded, then hesitated a moment before speaking.
"If the vay at the farm are looking for a litter, you want to handle it?"
Ronan resisted the urge to agree immediately.
"It's alright, I know this is your turf. I don't want to poach."
"That's kind of you, and having all the vay to myself was one of the perks I was looking forward to when I heard dad's plan, but... I've patrolled with my dad before so I know what it's like to spend the week with another savay who keeps all the vay for himself, and it fucking sucks. I don't want to do that to you."
"Yeah... I have to admit, I wasn't looking forward to a whole week of sleeping alone while you have all the fun."
"Exactly," said Declan.
"If you're sure."
"Please, before I change my mind."
"Alright, thanks. I owe you one," said Ronan, "You'll have to come to Cathar Brean. I'll show you where all the nice vay can be found."
Declan grinned.
"Deal."
...
Ronan sat at the table with Fedelma, head of this farm's household, trying hard not to grimace. Fedelma was leaning forward, eyes alight with predatory hunger. Her dress was so low cut and she was leaning forward so much he couldn't see her dress at all, just the vast expanse of the tops of her lime green breasts and the canyon between them. Fedelma was on the cusp of late middle age, when a vay stopped bearing litters, and she was one of those vay that refused to admit that age was finally catching up to her. Vay like Fedelma, who hunted young savay like the tyrant beasts and raptors of the waste, were common enough that it was a recognized stereotype among the savay. Some younger savay loved the attention of these older, experienced vay, but Ronan was not one of them.
Ronan had to admit Fedelma wasn't unattractive. She had dark curly hair that she took care of and a strong jaw. Under the right circumstances Ronan would have been interested. The real problem was her complete lack of tact. Vay like Fedelma, who tried to seduce younger savay to prove they were still young themselves, were known to be very aggressive, and Fedelma took it to extremes. She had pinched him like he was a prized steer, squeezed his forearms to check his muscles, and ruffled his hair. Now they were at dinner and she had drunk more than she should, and the visit had become actively painful.
Declan was sitting to his left and whenever Ronan glanced over at the other savay, he was fighting not to laugh. Ronan had realized as soon as the vay of this farm had come out to greet them that Declan had set him up. Declan had quickly made it clear through not so subtle hints that Ronan, the son of the great warlord Balor Mordha, was ready to help with any whelping that was needed by the growing farm. Fedelma had taken one look at him and Ronan knew he was doomed. The naked lust on her face was terrifying to behold. Ronan had to admit Declan's little prank was pretty funny even while he promised himself he would exact terrible vengeance as soon as possible.
"I knew your father, you know," said Fedelma, "before the war."
"That's wonderful, vayné."
"We spent many passionate nights together."
Ronan fought a gag. He wasn't sure how that was supposed to make her more appealing to him.
"I'm happy for you both," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral.
"You're taller than him," said Fedelma, somehow leaning forward even more. Her breasts filled his vision, like an avalanche.
"That is true, vayné. I get my height from my mother."
"She is a good vay," said Fedelma. "Always had a temper. I think your father likes that."
He gritted his teeth, "So I've seen."
A short, pretty woman with pale blond hair refilled Fedelma's wine, eyes downcast. Her cheeks were pink from blushing. Ronan cursed her silently for giving the vay more wine.
"Your father likes a strong vay," said Fedelma.
"Indeed."
"A savay needs a strong vay."
"I've always thought so," said Ronan.
"With big tits," said Fedelma, her voice heavy with wisdom and experience.
"Ummm... what?" asked Ronan. The conversation was turning surreal; he felt trapped in amber, he wondered if this was actually a nightmare.
"To feed the whelps. These babies..." she leaned back and actually lifted one of her breasts so it almost popped out of her dress, before letting it flop down, it sank farther than he expected, almost coming to rest on the table, "....can feed five whelps in one sitting, one after the other, without going dry."
"Wow," was all Ronan could think to say.
