Ava tested the bow in her hand. It had a comfortable grip, was surprisingly light for its size and seemed to be well crafted.

It came a week before the snow season started in earnest. The messenger boy bearing it stammered, “M-m-malgorn wants you to have this,” before thrusting the cloth-covered package into her arms and fleeing back the way he came as if the Reaper himself were on his heels.

The weapon was a marvel, created from diamond-crust obsidian; a valuable, rare, and very expensive commodity. If the smith had the skill to mould this stone, the resulting craft would be far more versatile than plain old steel or wood. And, like all obsidian that spewed from the belly of Archaicron, it could shape, modify, draw from, or dispel magic. How did Malgorn get his hands on something so precious when he could barely pay a dwarf to build a ship?

The bow’s outer layer had the clarity of clear-cut ice but became frosty white at its centre as if snow itself were trapped inside. The limbs arched forward and broadened toward the grip. But what made this bow unique was not what it was crafted from; it was the razor-edged blades that curved out along the limbs.

A hybrid weapon, both bow and sword, of unmistakable orcish design. Minervin marvelled at it with her, testing the bow in his hands, impressed by the innovation and craftsmanship. Until he learned that Malgorn gave it to her, then he threw it down as if the feel of it burned his hands and demanded she take it back.

She put off returning it until the snow season was done, and fortunately for her, the season was uncommonly long. Now, five months after she received the bow from Malgorn’s messenger, she could not quite bring herself to walk over to The Outpost and give it back. At least, not without trying it out first.

Ava pulled a diamond-crust arrow from the quiver. It was serrated with red and black fletching and nocked it. The arrow whistled through the air when she loosed and pierced straight through the hay target. The bow had twice the speed and power of her old longbow. It was a fine weapon. I will make good use of it.

“Ava!”

She turned as Minervin stomped towards her, his brows bunched and his robes flapping about his legs. She hid the bow behind her, unable to think of another way to appease his wrath on such short notice. He was in such a foul mood lately, snapping and barking at everything and Malgorn’s bow seemed to be the main focus of his odd temper.

“It was a gift. It is not fair that I must give it back,” she told him defensively.

“A gift with strings no doubt. Return it before he expects more of you than you are willing to give.” Minervin heaved a sigh at her crushed look and pouty lip. “I am not doing this to hurt you, Ava. You are worth more than a pretty bow and a ship.”

“Fine, I will take it back,” she mumbled, marching over to grab the arrow from the ground and put it back with the others. She walked past Minervin without a word.

She spotted Beast among the hills, awaiting her in ambush. He grew a lot in these five months and reached just above her hip now, far too large for the sparse brush he was hiding behind to conceal him completely. Ava walked as if she did not notice him there.

‘Mother!’ He growled, leaping from his cover, only to find that she slipped out from under him, and landed with a grunt. Ava regained her feet and jumped on him, struggling to tip him over to his side. He easily rolled out of her grip and sat on her, pawing harmlessly at her face.

“I give! I give!” Ava called after a while, breathless with laughter. He plopped down onto her chest and licked his nose.

‘Where is Beast and Mother going?’ he asked, his yellow eyes gleaming.

Ava was not sure when she first started hearing the sabre cat’s voice in her head, only realizing it when Minervin noticed the odd exchange and brought it to her attention. She explained it as best she could to him. It puzzled him greatly, and he often muttered, ‘I was certain she had no magical abilities,’ to himself whenever he witnessed the exchange again. Ava paid it no mind. She knew something troubled Minervin, bigger than Malgorn’s bow or her strange behaviour with Beast. He would tell her eventually when he was ready.

“To the Outpost, Beast. To buy a bow.”

#

There would be space aplenty at the Outpost when the next ship of exiles came in. There were bodies piled atop a pyre at the gates, victims of starvation, sickness, and the cold. Far too many for the smothered flames licking out between them to consume. Ava retched from the heavy black smoke that bellowed out from the burning corpses. Any remains left once the fires die down will be thrown to the Frozen Sea and their spirits will be left to find their way to the Eternal Lands or wander the seas until they are claimed by The Deep, or The Other.

Malgorn’s hut was tucked away at the far end of the Outpost, surrounded by seemingly uninhabited rickety shacks. Unlike the small, single orc huts she passed on her way here, Malgorn’s home had two other similarly sized huts connecting to it and each other. Smoke rose from the chimney of the foremost hut and a long, sharp shrieking filled the eerie silence when she walked up to the door and knocked.

The shrieking stopped and the door swung open. Malgorn’s face scowled down at her, turning quickly to puzzlement, and then he looked at the area behind her suspiciously.

“What are you doing here?” he grumbled, retreating deeper inside before she could answer. The shrieking started once again.

“Wait here, and do not get into trouble,” she told Beast before she entered.

His home was a wonder. Every inch of the wall held an orcish weapon of some kind; swords, scimitars, axes, maces, and Warhammers, each exquisitely crafted but none crafted from obsidian like her bow. At the centre of the hut a forge burned hot and red, accompanied by bellows, an anvil and a workbench holding tongs, hammers, and other strange-looking implements. Malgorn himself sat at a grindstone sharpening a scimitar.

“You made all of these?’

“Eh,” Malgorn grunted. He looked almost embarrassed by the admission.

“And the bow too?”

“Eh, your bow as well. All orcs must learn how to craft a decent weapon before they can learn to wield it, to strengthen the bond.”

“Why do you not sell them to Crastius? You have expert skill, I'm sure they would fetch a great price...”

“Gahg!” he snorted, standing from the grindstone, and placing the scimitar on the wall with an odd sense of reverence, then moving to his workbench to straighten his tools.

“You would make more money to pay for your ship.”

“Ne, Malgorn does not sell the weapons he makes.” He waved a giant hand to stem any more of her outbursts on the matter. “Why did you come?”

Ava ground her teeth at being so thoroughly dismissed, unable to understand the orc’s unwillingness. Why was he struggling so when he could make more gold with his skill and reach his goal much faster? She sighed defeated at his stubbornness.

“How much do you want for the bow?”

She jumped back a pace when Malgorn upturned the workbench, his smithing implements scattering everywhere. He raised his fists to his forehead, the muscles in his arms bunching before he let them drop to his sides. “Gahg! You annoy me like no other!” He spat at her in orcish.

She gaped at him first, taking a moment to recover from his tantrum. “Well, considering that I am in one piece and the workbench is not, I will take it that it annoyed you more.”

Malgorn chuckled at her reply. The tension immediately left his body.

“Did your wizard not teach you orcish culture? He taught you our tongue well enough. Malgorn is a warlord, he does not sell his wares like some common labourer or merchant. It is enough that I must hunt for my food and protect that fat fool whenever he feels threatened. Do not insult me further. The bow was a gift.”

“And what are your intentions behind this gift?” she asked, holding the bow in question before him.

He gave her a lopsided grin. “You have spent too much time among humans. If I wanted a whore as a wife, I would have asked one of Crastius’ women instead and resigned myself to the life that has been shoved on me here. The bow was only a gift, a small token to show you what you will receive once I reclaim Bloodgore Stronghold. Throw it away, keep it or give it away, but do not offend me by selling it or leaving it here.”

He turned away from her and sat at a small dining table, eating the food he found on the plate before him. The conversation, for him at least, was over.

“So, this is your way of courting me?”

“Ne, this is the orcish way of courting, as you say. To make you more receptive to my offer once my ship is built, I will expect an answer only then.”

Ava turned to leave but found that she could not. She swore to herself when she first entered his hut that she would not ask and now the question bubbled up again, too overwhelming to push back down.

“You can smith any kind of weapon, yes?”

Malgorn twisted in his seat, staring enquiringly over his shoulder, a dark brow raised at her question.

“Eh, I can.”

“Even human swords, like the Sabre in Crastius’ shop?”

“Eh, I can even smith that one, but I will not,” he told her, turning back to resume his meal.

“Oh, why not?” Ava whined. Why were these men so intent on not letting her have that sword?

“Because it is a weakling’s sword, only good for thrusting. Humans, slow and heavy in their armour, will probably make good targets for this sword but no orc worth his training will stand still while you try to poke at him with a blade, no matter how pretty it looks.

“Besides, it is too long and heavy for you; it will slow you down and throw you off-balance, especially when you insist on climbing trees like an elf monkey. Now leave me to eat in peace.”