"The relationship of the body to the practice of magic has long been understood. From the graceful, almost dance-like, movements of the elven enchantresses to the complex gestures of the monks of the Lilac Tower, magic has been enabled, controlled and directed in a range of ways intimately connected with the physical form. It should come as no surprise, then, that sexual acts – acts which the Holy Church teaches have both spiritual and physical significance – should form the basis of perhaps the most powerful and mysterious magic of all." – Marianna Lafayette,
An Introduction to Erotomancy, published in the Second Year of the Resting Ox
"Of course the orcs use sex magic. They're orcs. Like pretty much everything they do, their magic is brutal, visceral, crude and terrifyingly effective..." – attributed to Boris Henck, Second War Mage of the Imperial Expeditionary Force, at some point during the Third War of Subjugation
GREVESHKA
Their brisk march having become a slower, wearier trudge half a day's journey into the winding passes of the Skyscratchers, Grun, Greveshka and the other two orcs finally passed through the sturdy wooden gates of the G'naaarsh tribe's main encampment. A couple of hours before, they had passed beneath the stony-faced sentinels manning the southern watchtower at the entrance to the Serpentstone Pass and the network of caves, tunnels and fissures to which it led.
Or, as Greveshka sometimes thought of it, home.
The G'naaarsh tribe had occupied this location for as long as Greveshka could remember and it wasn't difficult to see why. Accessed by a relatively narrow defile, which widened into a stony depression that formed a natural amphitheatre, and surrounded by the hard stone walls of the mountains on three sides, the location possessed not only an easily defensible position, but also, with the network of caves and tunnels riddling the mountains, more storage and living space than the tribe would ever need. Although it was true that the soil was thin and gritty, and poorly suited for the raising of crops or the grazing of livestock, the lack of food necessitated the kind of frequent raiding – of both human lands and other orcish tribes – that hardened orcs and moulded them into devastatingly efficient warriors. Over the years, the orcs had developed methods of curing and preserving that would doubtless have impressed an Imperial Provisioner – although the orcs' lackadaisical approach to food hygiene would have probably given him palpitations.
G'naaarsh accommodation consisted of either sturdy wood and animal skin yurt-like structures or, for clans of lesser status, the dubious comforts of communal caverns deep in the mountainside. Greveshka smiled. She knew where she would be spending the night tonight and it would not be in the mountain's grim embrace.
Walking through the main thoroughfare of the orc settlement, pushing past a group of orc females haggling with a beleaguered trader whose wares seemed to consist mostly of half-rotten vegetables, Greveshka felt a strange contentment swell within her. This place – its familiar harshness and ramshackle charm – meant something to her. The ever-present hubbub of young warriors boasting and yelling challenges, of females announcing their availability in the most lewd and explicit ways, of grizzled veterans chuckling at the foolishness of their younger counterparts and heatedly reminiscing about past glories: this had been the background music of her childhood. As much as the sweet-sour scent of frying rock lizard and the powerful stink of unwashed orcflesh, it possessed the power to remind her of her childhood, remind of how far she had come. This place had not always treated her gently, she knew, but that was the orc way and, in any case, she had survived her adversities, overcome them, been hardened by them. Despite her softer outward appearance, she knew she was strong.
"
Vuk
whore return," a basso voice nearby growled, shaking her from her reverie.
Greveshka looked around and saw a large orc, clad in the comfortable leathers of a scout, staring at her, huge arms folded across his massive chest. Varn. One of the more unpleasant members of the tribe. A master scout, to be sure, but also a bullying braggart and one of the orcs for whom she had developed a particular hatred growing up. He glared at her, his small eyes sharp and gleaming with malice, his tusks bared in an openly aggressive manner. She stiffened and opened her mouth to reply.
And found she didn't need to. Stepping between her and Varn, Grun swung a meaty fist at the unsuspecting scout, connecting with his jaw and sending him sprawling. Grun stood over Varn and his hand twitched at the axe strapped to his waist. He waited until he knew that he had the other orc's full attention.
"She have value for this tribe." He jerked his thumb at her. "More than you." He glowered at the prone orc who returned his gaze with a hatred that seemed to curdle the air between them. Grun let the moment of tension stretch, daring the other orc to reply.
Her clan-brother had just made an implacable and wily enemy, Greveshka knew. And he had done it for her. She tried to keep her face carefully neutral, but it was proving to be extremely difficult. She felt a fierce pride and awe grow in her breast. She and Grun had not made
vuk
again since that night by the stone, but, despite his continued external gruffness, the experience had clearly changed
something
about him.
"I remember," Varn said, eventually – just as Grun began to turn. He made no effort to get up, however, and Grun contented himself with snarling contemptuously in the other orc's direction as he moved away, Greveshka by his side.
They walked together in a comfortable silence for a few seconds, past a group of striplings wrestling on a platform of hard-packed dirt and Vorkun, the leatherworker, sitting on an old wooden stool, putting the finishing touches to a cuirass, guiding the needle and gutstring with surprisingly nimble fingers, despite the cold mountain air. He stared up at them as they strode by, a not entirely unpleasant look of understanding lingering on his face.
"I go to Van Kor tonight," she said finally. She glanced up at him. His expression had not changed. "I come to you tomorrow." She glanced away. "If you want."
Grun did not break stride for a second or two. Then he stopped.
He looked around him. There was no one nearby. The mouths of the worg caves yawned empty; the great fire – a huge wooden pyre that formed the communal meeting place for the tribe's adult members – was unlit and untended. He turned back to her.
Grun had given Greveshka his underjerkin the morning after their
vuk
by the stone, having determined that she should not travel bare-breasted once they arrived at the mountains. The garment was frayed around the edges but of unusual quality and it hung loosely around her body. It may have offered protection against the biting mountain winds, but it offered none against Grun's questing hand, which he slipped under the cloth, feeling the warmth of her flesh underneath. He stayed silent, fixing his gaze on her, as his hand squeezed and caressed. A thrill of pleasure ran through her, as her nipple stiffened under his rough touch. She returned his gaze, a sensual challenge gleaming in her eyes.
"Yes," he admitted. "I want."
He withdrew his hand and turned away. Greveshka watched him head towards the chieftain's hut near the great fire. Doubtless he intended to report to Z'Dar, the tribe's chieftain, on the success of their mission. She, however, had a different destination. Her cunt beginning to tingle at what she knew was to come, she turned towards the yurt of her mentor, Van Kor.
*****
The dwelling of the chief shaman of the G'naaarsh tribe would have been considered spacious were it not so cluttered. Greveshka entered through the yurt's central opening and sniffed cautiously. It was better to do everything cautiously around Van Kor. The wily shaman was a hoarder, litterer and inveterate – and relatively fearless – experimenter. Greveshka had, for some time now, believed that the mere fact of his continued existence in this plane of reality was proof that he enjoyed the favour of the orcish gods.
She stood just inside the large tent's opening for a second, letting the flap fall shut behind her and allowing her eyesight to adjust to the interior gloom. To her left, a pair of battered chests stood half-closed, too full for their lids to be shut properly. What was stuffed in them was unclear (the light from the central fire pit didn't reach far enough to illuminate them properly), but Greveshka smelled the cloying sweetness of decaying meat and decided to leave them alone for now. They hadn't been there when she'd left for the human lands a few days ago and, knowing Van Kor, they probably wouldn't be there much longer.
She turned her attention to the main workspace beyond the fire pit. Divided from the main living space of the tent by a threadbare curtain of cured animal skins, it was where the shaman spent the vast majority of his time. It was also, thought Greveshka, probably the most dangerous place in the whole camp.
"Van Kor!" she called, stepping forward hesitantly. The flickering flames of the fire pit warmed her as she moved closer and she sat down on the bed – a large wooden-framed piece of furniture that the shaman had, tribal legend had it, demanded as a payment for services rendered after a particularly daring raid deep into human territory. It had taken three warriors to carry it back through the mountains and Van Kor had endured several days of grumbling from the rest of the expedition as a result. He seemed to view this as a fair price to pay for his comfort and, having shared the bed with Van Kor on many an occasion, Greveshka had to admit that she could understand the shaman's insistence. It was very... comfortable.
Keeping her eye on the curtain beyond the fire, she called again. If Van Kor was engaged in one of his experiments, it was best not to wait for him to come to her.
Quite unexpectedly, she was rewarded with a muffled grumbled cursing. From
underneath
the bed. Instinctively, she sat up, drawing her legs up before her and watched, bemused, as, accompanied by much shuffling and groaning, the shaman emerged from under the bed, his hair its customary wiry grey tangle, his one good eye staring at her sharply, while his clouded eye was fixed on some other part of the tent entirely or, if the rumours were to be believed (and Greveshka strongly suspected they were), some mystical, magic-drenched dimension in which the gods made bare their plans and schemes.
"What..." gasped Greveshka.
Van Kor scowled and clambered on to the bed next to her. He appeared to be holding a thin paint brush in his hand.
"Blessing bed," he croaked. And then gave her a gap-toothed grin that probably at some point much earlier in his life someone had told him was charming. "We
vuk
. Seal the magic."
Greveshka had expected something like this. Van Kor may have been half way through his sixth decade, but he was no less lusty for that.
"Seal magic?" she said, dubiously.
The shaman nodded. Like many of the tribe's elders, his skin was grey and wrinkled and his body was thin, but possessed of a wiry strength. "You
