“We together,” I told her, honestly glad that she spoke Trade. I knew a few hundred words of her language and had a loose grasp on grammar and syntax (which made me about as fluent as the average orc, really), but I have a delicate elven throat. A day of choking on those rough and barbed consonants would rip it to shreds. Even if she knew some of my native tongue, she’d never get the subtle intonations around those huge tusks. Trade was a good compromise.

I stepped past her, deeper into the tent. The rancid stench of pus overlaid the bitter tang of medicine, drawing bile up to my throat. I forced it down; I’ve lived in worse and I needed to know just how bad her care had been. Blood-soaked rags told of crude surgery, a cup showed they’d at least tried some sort of remedy for either her pain or her fever. The dregs were a greenish-brown color; it was indeed a painkiller. Hell, a cup that size would knock me on my ass.

Neither the dose nor the actual medicine were anywhere near sufficient for an orc. “We go get clean water,” I answered her other question, nodding at the frustrated growl. Yup. Bitch work. I didn’t like it either. I was willing to bet that my brother had arranged for me to have something simple, close to dozens of warriors bristling with weapons, and relatively safe. They’d probably put the orc with me because they didn’t trust either of us and if we went and got ourselves killed (or killed each other), they really didn’t care.

I grabbed a couple of empty pails on our way out, leading Erirag toward the forest and digging into a pouch at my hip. I brought out two pieces of rough bark, each as big as my hand. I offered them to her. “Willow bark, from Corone. To help with pain. Good for fever."

Though using Trade, I still spoke like an orc, a little low, a little harsh, with very simple words and barely-there sentence structure. After all, if I were half-crippled by injuries and infection, I’d appreciate someone who used language I could understand, especially if I were going out of my way to speak their tongue.

We left the camp behind, letting its clamor and bustle slowly dim to nothingness beneath the forest’s sinister rustles. White tents and colorful pennants gave way to crimson foliage and a sea of thorns. When I could no longer hear the snap of orders or the screams of wounded, I dropped the buckets and turned to Erirag.

“Fuck those bastards and fuck their horses for good measure.” Both the expletives and the suddenness of them brought a smile to my companion’s face, but nowhere near as much as my next words did. “How would Erirag’s blood sing to smash Pode’s teeth down her throat?”

She wanted to fight. I wanted to fight. Together we were going to kill.