Chapter 18
Kof
“Eight bits of silver?” Archie raised an eyebrow.
“Maybe you’d have your pick at a slaver’s tent.
But if this Pilgrim is as cunning as you say he is, you’ll need to make him an offer he can’t refuse.
Something so outrageous, you could act phenomenally insulted and make a huge scene if he didn’t accept. ”
We were in my chambers. As Archie looked on, perched on a natural ledge, legs swinging, I sorted through my belongings.
I was honor guard. Even as captain, I didn’t collect the sorts of trophies amassed by my counterparts in the chieftain’s entourage.
I served the shaman out of loyalty, not the promise of trinkets.
I unearthed a well-made dagger and held it up hopefully.
Archie shook his head. “I’m sorry, Kof. You won’t pry the man out of his master’s grasp for anything short of gold.”
My heart sank. If anyone understood people’s unspoken machinations, it was Archie. I knew he was right. “Then it’s hopeless. Four days we’ve been preparing for the pig roast. The crescent of the moon grows wide. Soon it will be full.” And soon, Eli would be gone for good.
And not only that…but when Pilgrim had shown up back at the river, Eli’s scent soured with fear. Outwardly, he’d shown nothing but resignation. But the smell of a man doesn’t lie.
Archie tutted. “Don’t give up hope just yet. You might not have a fortune at your command, but the shaman does. And how should he use it, if not to help his most devoted person—aside from me, that is?”
I would never be so presumptuous. Asking the shaman to dip into his treasury? What Archie spoke of simply wasn’t done. It was practically blasphemy. But before I could convince him otherwise, he hopped from his perch and slipped away down a tunnel.
Archie can navigate them surprisingly well now. And he’s very light on his feet. Not to mention the fact that his scent is everywhere.
By the time I finally found the human, he was already in Droko’s ceremonial chamber, where the costumes inherited from generations of shamen before him lined the walls. The shaman himself stood before a looking glass, scowling at his cloudy reflection.
“There’s a time to be coy,” Archie was telling him, “and a time to make a statement. With the Lost Clan here among us, Ul-Rott needs you to act especially shaman-y. And that means dressing the part.” Archie draped a necklace of finger bones over Droko’s head.
“See? Magnificent! Creepy…but magnificent.”
Droko flinched and plucked at the necklace.
“These are ridiculous.” He tossed the bones onto a nearby table laden with ceremonial trinkets, then swatted some brightly colored plumes affixed to his broad shoulders.
“And these feathers—they’re annoying.” He shrugged them off, sending a small cloud of dust swirling into the air. “I told you, I’m not Taruut.”
“While I’d definitely vouch for that,” Archie’s voice was laced with amusement, “you really do need to make a few concessions. A bit of flair never hurt anyone, especially when the Lost Clan is at the table.” Turning, he caught my eye and cocked his head for me to approach.
I took a knee. “Droko the Mystic, my spear is yours.”
“This again?” The shaman turned to me with a few tufts of feather clinging to his topknot. He looked nothing at all like the starry-eyed prophet who’d spoken on the frozen river. “When it’s just you and me—and Archie—call me Droko.” He scowled. “Well? What is it?”
Words wouldn’t come. Service was its own reward.
It was unheard of to ask the shaman for even a single copper.
I looked to Archie, silently pleading for him to intervene on my behalf.
But he crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes, making it clear that either I spoke for myself, or the words would remain unsaid.
“Shaman, I…” I swallowed dryness. “Eli. The human. I want to buy him. I…need gold.”
Droko’s brow furrowed even deeper. After an awkward silence, Archie said in a rush, “What a wonderful idea. It would be refreshing to see another human face around here for a change, don’t you think?
Besides, dearest, it’s not like you’ve got anything else to spend your fortune on.
Why, even yesterday you were telling me there was too much furniture everywhere—”
“Enough.” Droko didn’t raise his voice, but it echoed with authority nonetheless. “Kof can’t buy the human.”
I suspected Archie might have continued to argue, but it was my case to plead. Bowing my head, one hand over my heart, I said, “Shaman—Droko—I have served you faithfully since you stepped into these caves. If you could find it in you to—”
“Enough,” Droko repeated, more firmly now.
It would’ve been his right to have me beaten for not listening to him, but instead, he chose to explain.
“I don’t care about the gold. But you have to understand the Lost Clan.
Remember, I’ve seen how they work. And to leave one behind—even one as inconsequential as a straggling human?
Forget whatever nonsense you’ve heard about them cutting anyone loose.
They can’t afford to let anyone slip from their grasp.
How do you think they keep their numbers from dwindling? ”
Maybe not, but we had to try. “When Gorgul turned the weaker guards against you,” I reminded him, “I never wavered.”
“I know.” Droko sighed heavily. “But it isn’t just a matter of keeping up their numbers, Kof—it’s a matter of pride. The Lost Clan leave a valued member behind? No.” He paused and picked up a ceremonial staff topped with a crudely carved raven’s skull. “They’d sooner gut him themselves.”
In a clatter of unwanted bones and beads, Droko turned and stomped out of the chamber. Archie paused at the threshold, turned back to me open-handed, and mouthed, “I tried.” Then he hurried after the shaman, leaving me there alone.
I suspected what Droko had said was true—the Lost Clan could never give, only take.
But then I remembered the way Eli had looked back on the island when the others rejoined us.
The way his wintery eyes clouded and his face fell blank.
I may not have known many humans in my life, but even I could read his expression.
It was the look of a man who’d lost all hope.
And then my gaze fell on something that lay beneath a pile of discarded feathers and bones. Something that glinted.
I nudged the shaman’s feathered regalia aside gingerly, as if it might rise up and sting me.
Beneath it, tossed aside like a soiled tunic, lay an intricately tooled golden collar.
It was dwarvish work—thick and heavy. There was enough gold in the piece to buy not only every slave in the market, but the tents, carts, and horses, and probably the slavers’ wives, too.
Yet, when the collar’s links folded in on themselves, it fit so neatly in the palm of my hand.
And even better in my belt pouch.
My shaman would not only be in his rights to have me beaten for this…
he could take my head. He would look weak if he didn’t—but he wouldn’t stop me from making the trade.
We had to present a unified front to the Lost Clan, so the consequences would come later.
And even when he did demand my head once they were gone, at least then, Eli would be free of Pilgrim.
***
I trailed Droko to the feast. The occasional crunch of snow beneath my boots outside the caves was a reminder of the storm that had ravaged our hunt.
In the village commons, most of the snow had been shoved aside, but blinding white mounds surrounded the clearing.
The cold, too, still lingered. It bit at my nose and ears.
I searched for humans but only found Bess.
Archie had remained at the caves and Quinn was off negotiating with horse traders.
But all the orcs in the village, as well as the Lost Clan, had gathered, and they seemed immune to the weather.
Everyone’s faces were faces aglow with anticipation—due to the smell that permeated the commons.
Meat.
Quartermaster Trawg had been busy. He’d butchered the boar and steeped it in herbs for two full days while a pit was dug.
A huge fire blazed into the night, but only when it was banked to red hot coals had the beast been laid upon the charcoal.
The whole thing was then buried to smolder until the fat rendered through the muscle.
Such a roast was a rare delicacy. And though it wasn’t a usual feast day, I suspected the fact that we’d succeeded in our hunt was reason enough to celebrate.
Between the spent coals, the smoke, the rendered fat and the roasting meat, the air was alive. But I had no stomach for it. Because I’d stolen from the shaman. And the crime would cost me my life.
The golden collar was heavy at my hip, but I couldn’t just fling it at Pilgrim and rid myself of the burden. I had to wait for the right moment. Right now, everyone was focused on the boar. For the plan to work—for Pilgrim to be cornered into the trade—I had to have all eyes on us.
As the Lost Clan filtered in, I scanned the crowd until I caught sight of Eli.
He had a patchy, worn cloak draped over his shoulders.
No tattoos showing…though the Red Hand orcs gave him a wide berth anyhow.
His dark hair fell loose around his face, and the firelight caught his wintry eyes as they darted around the gathering, never settling in one place for too long.
Pilgrim kept him close, one possessive hand wrapped around Eli’s upper arm.
The sight of Pilgrim touching him made my jaw clench, especially when I recalled the finger-shaped bruises on Eli’s arm.
Eli’s gaze finally found mine across the crowd.
For a heartbeat, the mask he wore for everyone else slipped.
I saw no relief there. Just resignation.
That look steeled my resolve. The shaman’s collar was more than just gold—it was Eli’s freedom. And I’d gladly trade my honor, my position, maybe even my life, to give him that chance.
Soon. Soon I’d make the trade, and Pilgrim would have no choice but to accept. The clan would witness it, and the deal would be struck.
Eli looked away first, his blank mask sliding back into place as Pilgrim yanked him toward the commons. That brief moment of connection, though, was enough. I knew what I had to do.
But then the chieftain stood at the head table and clapped once for silence. And if I interrupted Ul-Rott, I’d be hauled away and punished before I could put my plan into action.
The chieftain pointed directly at me, and my heart stuttered. He knew of the great insult I’d perpetrated by stealing from my shaman. I truly would be dead before I even had the chance to plead my case.
And then I realized it wasn’t me he was pointing at, but Droko. “Come on, then, shaman, speak your blessing so we can get this feast started before the meat goes cold.”
Droko stood from his bench, rolled his neck uncomfortably in his ruff of bones and spiky pheasant plumes, and cleared his throat.
“This game is a symbol of the strength of the Red Hand. Even with the skies themselves against us, we provide for our own. May we celebrate our strength together as hunters and warriors…” his eyes fell on the Lost Clan, “for these moments together change like the seasons, and our time draws to a close.”
Was that just an acknowledgement that soon the moon would be full? Or was he hinting that he knew what I’d done, and my own time was up?
No. Droko was a blunt man. He didn’t hint. He declared.
I felt as though everyone knew about the collar—Droko, Ul-Rott, even the old goblin slaves dusting the ashes off the roast boar.
That they were all just taunting me, putting on some kind of show to drag things out until I was finally exposed for what I’d done.
Shame roiled in my gut. But I’d come this far.
I was determined to do whatever it took for Eli—and then pay the price.
Droko sat back down, flicking feathers like a grouse settling beneath a bush, and then Ul-Rott pushed back from the table.
“Well, that’s that.” He lowered his voice and added, “Your brevity, as always, is appreciated.” He stood, hand on the hilt of the short sword at his thigh, and lurched toward me.
I froze, rooted to the spot, fully prepared for the last thing I saw to be my clan spinning past as my head toppled from my body.
But then Ul-Rott tipped the other way, in that peculiar, rolling gait he’d developed, and ambled over to the fire pit to make the ceremonial first cut.
Although old Trawg was now shivering from the cold, he beamed with pride as the chieftain approached. Normally, the quartermaster would portion and preserve the game, not serve it whole. But this meal sent a message, as something the Lost Clan would not soon forget.
Ul-Rott approached the great beast, nearly as big as he was, even skinned and roasted. The chieftain drew his sword smoothly and held it high. “Let it be known that the Red Hand is as strong as ever, and we claim our ancestors’ blessings.”
He thrust the sword into the boar’s side. But instead of herbed juices, what seeped out was a tarry, black ooze.
Even above the smell of woodsmoke, it stank of rot.
Ul-Rott’s eyes bulged. He turned to Trawg, livid, surely about to take the quartermaster’s hands, if not his very head. But before Ul-Rott could bellow a command, Trawg jabbed a finger toward the Lost Clan—toward Eli—and cried out, “The boar was cursed—by the witch!”