Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Krujha
Krujha’s heart thudded painfully in his chest as he followed the guard through the rebel camp.
He should have been paying more attention to where he was being led, memorizing the camp layout, but his thoughts remained fixed firmly on Alwyn.
He had to stop himself from wincing in sympathy when the guard struck him; and the genuine fear on the elf’s face when he realized they were being separated had been nearly enough to break him.
But they each had a job to do. Krujha had to trust Alwyn would be alright on his own for a little while until he could get a better understanding of where they stood here. They’d known it would be like this.
He pushed the worry to the back of his mind as the guard brought him to one of the larger tents, then turned to face him.
“Wait here,” the guard said, then disappeared into the tent.
Krujha turned in a slow circle, taking in the scale of the camp.
A stable boy had taken both their horses when they’d entered; he could catch sight of a pen from here, making a note to get their things from the saddlebags when he had the chance.
He stood outside the tent for what felt like twenty minutes or more, unable to hear anything from within that might give him a hint as to what was going on.
It took all his restraint just to keep from tapping his foot impatiently as he waited.
Instead, he paced slowly in front of the tent, peering in all directions to get a better sense of where everything was situated.
There was nothing to do but observe and wait.
Finally, the tent opened again, but it was a different orc this time. This one was thick with muscle and had a shaved head, with two gold caps gleaming atop each of his tusks. He eyed Krujha up and down for a beat, then gestured for him to come in.
“You’re lucky,” he said, his voice gruff, as Krujha stepped in beside him.
The tent had several cloth panels set up inside, creating various rooms within the large tent.
Krujha could hear voices from further within, but couldn’t see anything from the entrance.
“The warlord’s here, and he wants to speak with you. ”
Krujha’s heart stuttered in his chest, but he forced himself to grin. “I’m honored.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” the orc grunted.
He led Krujha through the makeshift hallway and into a spacious room on the right-hand side of the tent.
It was set up as a comfortable sitting area with many plush pillows and blankets arranged on chairs and benches.
On the far side, a long table was set with trays of fruit and cured meats, interspersed with pitchers of water and wine.
A small brazier of glowing embers near the center kept the room warm, and standing on its other side was Zesh himself.
Krujha felt himself shudder involuntarily at the unexpected sight of the orc, but luckily the warlord was looking down pensively at the smoldering fire as they entered.
“Warlord Zesh,” the guard leading him announced. “This is the one Nogan told us about.”
At that, Zesh finally lifted his head. Krujha had never seen him before.
He didn’t look especially fearsome, or charismatic, or like the leader of a rebellion that threatened the peace built painstakingly by two nations.
His dark hair was cut close to his skull, and his eyes were sunken in, making him look as if he hadn’t slept well in days.
He was broad, hinting at strong muscle underneath his fur-lined cloak and heavy coat; but as he turned to face Krujha, he could see the right-hand sleeve was empty and pinned to his side to keep it from shifting as he moved.
That had been how King Zorvut had ended the first attempt on his throne—Zesh had challenged him to single combat and failed.
Rather than killing him outright, his half-brother had instead taken his dominant arm.
All the stories seemed embellished to Krujha—that King Zorvut had called down lightning bolts and sharp icicles, or chopped the other orc’s arm off in a single swipe of his fiery sword.
He doubted any of it was true, despite the king’s obvious propensity for magic.
Still, Zesh stood before him now with only his left arm remaining, seemingly undeterred from making a second attempt at the throne.
Krujha bowed his head low in respect. “Thank you for taking the time to see me, Warlord. I am honored to be in your presence.”
“Nogan told me your name is Krujha,” Zesh said, his voice a deep rumble.
There was a detached, flat affect to his tone that left Krujha unsettled.
He had expected a warrior consumed with rage—spurred by his passionate determination to take back what he felt he was owed—but the man before him seemed world-worn and exhausted. “He did not tell me your given title.”
Krujha’s smile cracked, and he let some of his true pain show through. “My clan members had all died before I was old enough to be given one. So I have always just been Krujha of the Shifting Sands.”
Children were identified only by the name of the clan they were born into; when they came of age, a parent, or sometimes a clan elder, would give them a title fitting their personality, or skill, or some notable deed.
There was no one to title Krujha when he was old enough to receive one, and so it had never been given.
He could have lied; could have given himself his own title and left the childhood identifier behind.
But there would be no more children of the Shifting Sands; the title would die with him, so he had decided many years ago he would hold on to it until then.
“Where is that clan?” Zesh asked after a beat, considering Krujha with wary eyes.
“We were a coastal clan to the west,” Krujha answered. “But it doesn’t exist anymore. That’s part of why I’m here.”
Zesh regarded him silently for a long while, then stepped closer to the table and reached for a goblet of wine with his one hand.
“Feel free to have a drink or food,” he said, lifting the goblet to his lips. “Then tell me why you’ve come and brought an elf into my camp.”
Krujha took the pitcher of water and poured himself a cup. It had been flavored with orange peel, but he could still taste the hint of wood from being stored in a barrel. This was a test, he was certain, so he considered every word before speaking. He drained his cup, then met Zesh’s eyes again.
“When I was twelve, your father summoned the adults of my clan to fight for him,” Krujha said.
He could not stop the emotion from breaking through his voice as he spoke—but in this, it would be a point in his favor.
All the most believable lies had some element of truth in them, a lesson he had learned long ago.
“They left behind only me and two women with newborn children. When the rest of them never came back, I vowed I would someday have my vengeance on those who took the lives of my family, my clan.”
Zesh’s face had remained impassive as Krujha spoke, but he blinked when Krujha let out a humorless laugh. “And I think your rebellion is the best chance I have at killing more elves. I was too young to fight for your father, but I can fight for you.”
For a moment, Zesh remained silent. Krujha held his gaze until finally a small, weary smile cracked the other orc’s features.
“I will always have need of warriors,” he finally said, then took a long drink of his wine. “But tell me about this elf you brought with you. Why not kill him if you’re so eager?”
“The elf was a coincidence, mostly,” Krujha replied.
“He was looking for your camp, too. I think he’s got a death wish.
His magic seems strong—he fought me off at first, but then he said he’d work with me if I would bring him to the camp.
That he was sick of seeing orcs in Aefraya, and would work directly with you if that was what it took to get them out. ”
Zesh let out a bitter laugh at that, his eyes flickering in the direction that Krujha had come.
“There is some convoluted logic to that, I suppose,” he said, then added a bit louder, “What do you make of this, Yarug?”
Krujha turned. Zesh was not addressing the guard who had brought him here, who was now nowhere to be found.
In his place stood the oldest orc that Krujha had ever seen.
His long hair was entirely gray, and he was bundled up against the cold, so only his face was exposed.
The skin Krujha could see was deeply lined, weather-worn, and leathery—a swampy green dotted with age spots.
Krujha had not seen or heard him approach; but now that he saw him, he knew without a doubt this was the druid.
There was something in his presence that exuded magic in a way he had not experienced before.
For a terrifying moment, he wondered if the presence, which he now felt so acutely, was the druid somehow peering right into his mind.
After a moment, though, the druid took a slow and faltering step into the room, settling in one of the many open chairs near Zesh. That overbearing sense of being intensely watched faded, but Krujha could still feel his heart hammering anxiously against his ribs.
“I did sense a mage,” the druid finally said, his voice raspy with age. “It could be an elf. A strong one. I will examine him further.”
Zesh nodded. After a beat, Krujha turned back to him and broke the silence.
“I didn’t think you really had a druid working for you,” he said, sounding incredulous. Zesh only shrugged, seeming to deflect.
“We’ll keep the elf separated for now and look into this tomorrow,” he said, glancing over at Krujha again. “Welcome to the camp. You can go see Glasha near the dining hall, and she’ll assign you a place to put your tent, along with your duties around the camp.”
“Thank you, Warlord,” Krujha said, bowing his head again. Zesh turned away from him; recognizing the dismissal for what it was, Krujha slipped back out the way he came.