Chapter 6
Kof
I stood frozen, clutching the flimsy bit of fabric in my fist. The man’s scent hit me like a blow to the gut—a heady mix of human sweat, fear, and something else. Something both strange and familiar. My nostrils flared as I inhaled deeply, trying to capture that scent again.
The human stood just as still, clutching the other end of the cloth. His cheeks burned red, but his eyes were filled with defiance. He set his jaw and shifted his grip.
His fingers brushed against mine, sending a jolt through my body.
He yanked the fabric away and the contact was broken.
The human snapped the fabric open and wrapped it around himself with quick, angry motions. “What are you staring at?” he hissed.
That brought me back to my senses. “I am captain of the shaman’s honor guard—and you’re standing between us.
” I shifted my spear and wedged it between him and Droko meaningfully, striking the butt into the ground with a solid thump.
“You don’t approach him unless he summons you.
And I don’t care how weak you are. No one touches his food or drink but me. ”
“Fine. Suit yourself.” The man edged away, but his scent lingered in the air, taunting me.
I inhaled again, attempting to place the smell.
It reminded me of something... something from long ago.
A memory tugged at the edges of my mind.
But as the human took up his flagon and turned his attention to serving Ul-Rott’s sons, the connection slipped away before I could grasp it.
I was so focused on placing that smell, Droko had to actually turn in his seat and snap his fingers to get my attention. My focus was always the shaman. I should have noticed even the smallest summoning twitch of his fingers.
What was wrong with me?
I bent toward the table, and Droko spoke for my ears only. “Don’t worry about that human. He’s harmless. If anything, his people are using him as a distraction. That’s what I would do.”
Unlike most shamans, Droko had been trained in the ways of war.
Though…we weren’t at war with the Lost Clan, I reminded myself. Until the bright of the next moon, they were not just our guests.
They were our clan.
They were us.
But they didn’t feel like us, regardless of what tradition might say. The Lost Clan was so aimless and lazy, they were hardly orcs at all.
The tattooed human worked his way down to the far end of the table, where Ul-Rott’s younger sons and semi-favored generals spared him a glance and then proceeded to ignore him.
Maybe they would have thought of him as a novelty, once.
But that was before Quinn tamed Destroyer and became one of Ul-Rott’s most trusted men.
According to grumblings I’d heard, all but Marok preferred things before there was a human among them, continually spouting his strange human opinions.
But Quinn was useful and they gave him no insult.
If the chieftain’s lodge was different now that the humans were here, the shaman’s caves had changed even more. Not only did we have a young warrior for a shaman, but a human consort whose presence was foretold by Taruut’s visions.
Come to think of it…. “Where is the Bearer of the Prophecy?”
Droko said, “He stayed in the infirmary. The archer is back again, and he claims she needs watching. I think he was leery about what would be on the menu.”
For creatures who couldn’t smell worth a damn, humans were picky eaters.
I scanned the crowd. Quinn, too, was absent from Marok’s side tonight, off tending to a foaling mare.
That meant the only human among us now was the female, Bess.
But I couldn’t tell if she was as particular as Archie about her food.
The young ones she minded saved her only choicest bits from their plates, hoping to gain her favor.
It’s said she’s well aware of their tactics, but lets them carry on regardless.
Children are children the world over. Though at what age they become the person they will be—industrious and proud, or lazy and feckless—I couldn’t say.
Maybe I was at the crux of my own becoming when I lost my eye…and maybe that loss made me the man I became, instead of the boy Ulka remembered.
Droko clapped his mug down meaningfully on the table.
How long had he been waiting for me? I hurried to refill it from the aleskin at my waist. As I bent close, he said, “You don’t think Archie coddles the sick too much, do you?
He says healing takes time, but we do no one any favor if they leave our caves strong in body but weak in spirit. ”
“Why ask me?” I wondered, as Droko took a long swallow of ale. “I’m just a guard.”
“Captain of the honor guard.” The shaman wiped his mouth.
“So, Taruut saw something in you—and so do I. You think before you speak. You have good ideas. And you pay attention to what’s going on…
usually.” He shook his nearly-empty mug meaningfully, and I filled it again.
“If you think something’s wrong, you will tell me about—”
There was a huge clang to my blind side, and I swung into position to shield the shaman from attack. But there was no blade or club, no attacking Lost Clan member, no threat. Just an old goblin covered in fish stew where the flagon he’d dropped upended the bowl of the chieftain’s fourth son.
I hadn’t been the only one to react. The guards who’d watched it all unfold just sniggered, but others had their swords at the ready, and even the chieftain himself had shifted his eating knife into an attack grip.
But he didn’t startle easily. And when he spoke, his voice was calm and matter-of-fact.
“Take the goblin out of earshot and have him beaten,” he said, and turned back to his stew.
***
The rest of the meal went well enough, though a soldier accused one of the Lost Clan of taking her bread.
When neither could prove their case, Ul-Rott ordered the loaf split in two instead of letting them fight to first blood.
Unusually diplomatic of him. No doubt there’d be grumbles in the barracks about it later.
Back at the caves, I set to re-checking our stores to see if the larder’s last delivery had been its usual amount.
There was venison, but the delivery had come a few days ago, so this deer wouldn’t be the same one Quinn had made a fuss about with the quartermaster.
Still, I gave the meat a good sniff to make sure it smelled the way it should.
I was scrutinizing the dried jerky when one of my guards approached. “Hroginda is here.” Hroginda was an ogre—a regular who came around to service the men every few weeks. She didn’t do much while she was getting plowed, but she didn’t complain, either.
“She may enter,” I said. This was a formality. Hroginda knew her way around the caves better than most Red Hand orcs.
The guard paused, then said, “And will you put your scent on her first?”
Usually, I did just that, as was my right. But tonight, I had too much on my mind. I waved him off and went back to tallying our provisions.