Chapter 11
Eli
At sea, a funeral would involve a turnout from the crew, a word from the captain and a moment of silence before the body was surrendered to the embrace of the waves.
Here, in the orc village, the corpse of the dead archer smoked on a heap like a suckling pig for nearly four days.
If there was any upside to the rank haze that settled over the village, it was that no one was sniffing at me trying to catch my scent, because if they did, they’d end up with a snootful of their dearly departed.
Pilgrim probably suspected that Kof hadn’t “put his scent” on me.
The baggy tunic and breeches had done me a favor, though, since I smelled enough like orc now that he couldn’t say for sure whether or not I’d made any headway with the captain.
And it would be totally unlike him to come right out and ask.
That would be way too direct, and Pilgrim always liked to keep me guessing.
Still, sooner or later, the pyre was going to snuff itself out.
So, when Pilgrim announced that he wanted to take a dip in the nearby river, I tagged along to try and stay in his good graces.
The river curved along the eastern border of the village, not deep enough for a barge, but too wide and swift to navigate by foot.
The river protected the village from their neighbors across the water without need to maintain a wall, and fishing nets and crayfish traps were staked along the shoreline.
The bank was rocky and slippery with algae, and the water was frigid.
But I’d bathed in worse—and I was eager to erase whatever trace of scent I might (or might not) have been carrying.
Smeg lumbered over and immediately emptied one of the traps onto the rocks, stuffing the wriggling crayfish into his mouth.
A pair of slaves were hanging clothes to dry downstream—a bored gnoll, and the goblin flagoner from the other night, moving gingerly.
They watched Smeg crunch through the catch, but quickly looked away when they saw I’d noticed them.
Slaves are invisible to orcs. Probably because the beasts are so good at breaking their captives’ sprits.
But I always took an interest in anyone wearing an orc’s brand.
It was a reminder of what I’d become if I ever let Pilgrim win.
Maybe they were just as interested in me as I was in them…if the murmur of “witch” I heard when I tugged off my tunic was anything to go by.
Pilgrim chuckled. “Who knew all those doodles on your soft pink skin would come in handy?” he said.
I hung my clothes on a bush to keep them dry, ignoring him.
“Maybe you should do something ‘witchy,’” he suggested. He and all his toadies shared a good laugh.
Let them. I’d heard him late at night talking to Smeg from the confines of my box. This clan’s fear of me was something he could turn to his advantage. It was probably the main reason I hadn’t been punished for not coming back from my meeting with Kof reeking of orcish spunk.
The cold water stung, but I forced myself to stay in, neck deep, as I scrubbed myself with a handful of reeds.
“Be careful the current doesn’t take you,” Pilgrim called from closer to shore.
I hadn’t even considered it, truth be told.
But now I saw that if I took a deep breath and allowed the current to have its way, I’d hardly need to swim at all.
For just a moment, I let myself imagine that the rapids to the south didn’t kill me…and I saw myself crawling from the river downstream. Cold, wet, naked…and a free man.
But while I might be free, Pilgrim would still be alive.
He’d find me again if it was the last thing he did…and he’d truly make me pay.
All too soon, the chill of the water leeched into my bones, and I could stay in the river no longer. Even the short amount of time I’d been bathing, the current had nudged me a good bit downstream.
I could run. I have a head start.
Maybe so…but my feet were bare and the rocky shore was slimy. And a motivated orc can move a lot faster than you’d think.
And, most importantly, my chance to finish Pilgrim would be gone.
I waded out from the river, water dripping from my hair, and trudged back toward the Lost Clan. Pilgrim was watching from the corner of his eye, making sure I didn’t get any bright ideas, so he hadn’t yet noticed that the slaves had paused in their washing to point at something on the far bank.
Across the river, a doe stood poised, its large brown eyes fixed on us. She was full-grown but thin, ribs showing. Still, there’d be more than enough meat on her to go around.
I slogged up the bank, pulled on my clothes, and joined the gathering.
By the time I got there, Smeg and the others were already in a heated discussion, their voices hushed but urgent.
One claimed he could take it down with a good spear—which we didn’t have—and another was already complaining we’d have to share it with the Red Hand.
“I could make that throw with this,” Smeg said, with his hand on the hilt of his eating knife.
A toadie snorted. “This far off? You’d be lucky to hit the side of a house.”
Voices had grown louder. But the deer, seemingly unbothered by our bickering, remained frozen in place. Why hadn’t it bolted yet?
Smeg, tired of the jeering he was now being subjected to, picked up a nearby stone and hurled it at the deer.
It was a hard throw—he almost made it—but the river was wide.
The stone landed in the water with a splash, close enough to the deer to send out ripples that touched its hooves.
The deer startled, as if from a trance, then turned, stumbled, and loped off into the trees, leaving us all staring after it in silence.
Was it injured? I hadn’t seen a wound, but then again, it had been some ways off…
An orcish whoop sounded behind me and I turned to find a couple of the toadies splashing away through the shallows toward a massive fishing net. A huge catfish thrashed hard. But the more it struggled, the tighter the stranglehold.
I wasn’t about to wonder whether I might learn something from its example.
“That’s a nice fat one,” Smeg said. It was so strong, even two orcs could hardly manage to subdue it. Smeg waded out to help them, and between the three of them, they got hold of the thing and bashed its head in on a rock.
“The net,” the gnoll slave called out, pointing.
Too late. As soon as the toadies had let go of the fishing net to conquer the catfish, the current snatched the net away. It was already far downstream.
Fishing nets are vital to feeding a ship’s crew. The same could be said for this clan.
Especially at the cusp of winter.
The net snagged briefly on the branch of a protruding log, but before anyone bothered swimming out to retrieve it, the river took over…and the net was whisked away by the moving waters.
Pilgrim summoned me with a sharp whistle. “Someone will have to tell the quartermaster. You have the honor, since he’s so taken with you.”
I glanced back at the river, where the toadies were giving the catfish a few more good whacks, and arguing about who’d get which part.
I said, “It’ll go a lot smoother if I bring him the fish.”
Pilgrim might be cruel, but he wasn’t stupid. He ordered his men to hand the catfish over. I could feel their seething hatred wash over me as they glared at me with their beady little orcish eyes. Good thing I didn’t care what any of those beasts thought of me.
I trudged my way back to the larders with the brained fish dead weight in my arms. The guards were amused when they saw me. “That fish is as big as you,” one of them chortled, while the other one mockingly offered, “Need help, little man?”
“Is Trawg here?” I asked. “I need to see him.”
One of the guards chuckled. “Why? You want him to meet your new girlfriend?”
It was a weak insult. Besides, I hardly thought we were comrades—but humiliation burned in my cheeks nonetheless.
Worse yet, even as I swallowed down my anger, a guard’s foot shot out to trip me. I stumbled, but didn’t go down. Catfish scales are smooth, which makes them especially slippery, and I struggled to keep the thing from landing guts-down on the gritty flagstones.
Ignoring the guards’ barks of laughter, I got the fish under control, toed open the heavy wooden door, and stepped into cool dimness of the larder.
The shelves were just as full as before, brimming with baskets and jars, with kegs lining the walls, and dried herbs and jerky dangling from the rafters like wind chimes.
By the light of a lantern, the quartermaster Trawg stood by a chopping block with a pile of charred bones at his side and a massive cleaver in his hand.
He brought the blade down and a thick bone cracked open wide, revealing ruby red marrow inside.
He glanced up at me in annoyance, then brightened when he saw I was struggling with a fish big enough to feed several orcs.
“The head is pulped,” he complained, but I suspected it was just because he was unwilling to seem grateful to a human. “Well, set it on that counter and I’ll get to it next,” he said, then went back to his bone-cracking.
I heaved the heavy fish onto the counter, then cleared my throat. “The thing is,” I said, “we did gain a fish—but in his struggles, he tore the net loose.”
Trawg paused mid-chop, cleaver raised. His hand trembled.
I backed up a step. Orcs aren’t known for controlling their rage.
“We were lucky the fish didn’t get away too,” I said.
With a heavy sigh, Trawg set down the cleaver. Either he was more self-possessed than I’d thought, or not nearly as angry. “Well, your people lost the net—and don’t give me that nonsense about us all being the same. You can replace it.”
“But—”
“There’s cording and sinew behind the armory.”
I headed over and reminded myself I was lucky he hadn’t had me flogged.