The Lost Clan (Claimed by the Red Hand #3)

Chapter 1

Eli

The Lost Clan isn’t lost at all. Despite the name, it knows exactly where it’s going. A claim costs nothing, which is why people make so many of them.

I’ve learned that the hard way.

We trudged down the forest trail, me and several dozen green-skinned wanderers. Anticipation was in the air. I could feel it. Tonight would be the dark of the new moon—and tonight, the Lost Clan would tap a fresh vein.

The group traveled light. It made for an easier march. Orcish tradition decreed the Lost Clan was welcome to share in anything belonging to their host, so why haul around what you could simply take?

One cart, small enough to be dragged by a single plodding ox, bore the Lost Clan’s meager belongings. Some rusted tools, a few bundles of hardtack, a dwindling keg of ale…and a single, empty chest.

Officially, the Lost Clan had no leader. But orcs, like sailors, follow a pecking order—and everyone knew that the one who called himself Pilgrim was in charge.

Pilgrim looked like every other orc: green skin, broad features, and way too many muscles. It was the way he held himself that set him apart. Shoulders just a bit straighter. Gaze a bit shrewder. And a self-satisfied smirk always hovering at the edge of his tusks.

He fixed me with a look and said, “You know the drill.”

I steeled myself, climbed onto the wagon bed, and pushed open the lid of the chest. It was a quality piece of craftsmanship from the North.

The dense larkwood had tight joints and a graceful bit of ornate carving on the lid, and though it was older than any of us, the fragrance of the sap still permeated the wood.

I still hadn’t decided if the chest was my refuge, or my prison.

I slung a leg over the side and lowered myself in. I fit, mostly, though I’d hardly call it comfortable. But at least they couldn’t paw at me if I was inside.

Too bad the last thing I’d see before the lid closed was Pilgrim’s smug face.

The smirk that had been threatening now stretched wide, all for me as he reached into the chest and curled a lock of my hair around his blunt orcish finger.

“Look at you, tempting little thing, hair like ink and eyes like the sky. I can still remember, down on the docks, how even your own kind sized you up like they were planning which of your holes to use first. But you’re mine, now, and no one gets to see what I keep inside my treasure chest. Not unless I feel generous. Don’t forget that, human.”

And then he shut the heavy trunk lid with enough force to rattle my teeth.

Human.

I’d had a name, once. Eli. And I had my freedom…or so I’d imagined. Wind in my hair, salt on my skin, and nobody telling me who to be. But even the steadiest tide can turn when you’re not watching the current.

Now, I was simply human. And I rode around like cargo.

The chest was nearly long enough to stretch out, and for that, I supposed I should be grateful. And the ancient larkwood still carried a hint of its old exotic scent. But given the overall size, shape and closeness of it, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d just been buried alive.

The worst part about the whole thing? I was almost used to it now.

Whenever the Lost Clan approached its next target, Pilgrim tucked me away. Then, if he suspected our hosts would lust after a captive human, I would be deployed when I’d make the greatest impact. If not, I’d remain locked up for the whole of our stay.

Cramped muscles, head throbbing with lack of water, eyes stinging from the light….

But maybe it was easier to stay sharp in the dark. No distractions. Just the stillness, the isolation, and the promise I whispered to myself over and over.

When it’s my time to die…I’m taking him with me.

For now, as we made our way to our next destination, I tried to get my bearings from inside the box and picture where we were, since conversation had died down and there was nothing to overhear.

I probably got some details wrong, since forests all looked the same to me.

But I did note the road we’d traveled was long.

This was unusual, since the Lost Clan wasn’t in the habit of sightseeing.

Like a school of silver herrings stripping a reef of plankton, the clan flooded each orc village in its path, picking it clean down to the bones.

But a soothsayer we’d met on the open road claimed this next winter would be brutal, and the Lost Clan wouldn’t survive without great sacrifice.

Thus, the ambitious journey that gave everyone’s laziness an edge of desperation.

Except me. The long marches and cold nights made no difference. Leeching off a settlement or trekking through the woods…either way, I was still stuck in this mob of orcs with zero hope of escape.

If I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend I was belowdecks again. The rocking, the groan of wood, the smell of dampness and stale sweat. All I had to do was ignore the low rumble of orcish voices…and pretend the man I’d devoted myself to hadn’t utterly betrayed me.

He was my captain—my first real anchor in the world.

I used to watch him from the rigging, the way he stood at the wheel like the whole sea answered to him.

Nights, he’d pull me into his quarters and do things to me that made me shudder in ecstasy.

Yet, it wasn’t just the physical closeness I craved, but the things he’d say.

Especially when he told me I was his guiding star.

And like a fool, I believed him.

I might’ve been a na?ve farm boy, but I still knew how the world worked. Sentimentality is an indulgence. And things that outlive their usefulness are culled. After all, every old hen ended up in the stewpot eventually, so the laying hens had more feed.

And yet, I still let myself believe I mattered more than what the captain stood to gain.

When it came time to choose, he did it with no hesitation at all.

Turns out, you don’t need a guiding star if you’re familiar with your route.

“Are we almost there?” Smeg’s grumbles carried through the chest. Smeg wasn’t the orc’s real name, of course. Everyone just called him that because you could smell his reeking dick from a mile away—according to the orcs, anyway.

But orcs like things that stink. It’s when they scent something that they gain the upper hand. And if anyone always had the upper hand, it was Pilgrim.

“We’ll be there when we need to be,” he said.

But we must be close, I figured, if he was rehearsing the tactic of making a mouthful of nothing sound wise.

Smeg, however, wasn’t exactly receptive to his so-called wisdom.

Smeg was huge, even by orc standards. And if his stink and his swagger didn’t announce him, the massive sword on his hip would.

Beneath years of neglect, it glittered with filigree and gems. I’d never once seen him oil the blade—but he was as proud of that thing as he was of his own stench.

He said, “We’ve been plodding down this road so long, my boots are worn through.

” Not to mention the heavy sword that slapped his thigh with each step.

“We coulda taken our visit to the Wolf Head clan without going so far out of our way. Everyone knows they keg twice as much ale as they can drink. Even the dwarves stop at Wolf Head.”

“It takes more than just ale to fill a belly,” Pilgrim answered.

“But it’s a damn good start,” Smeg muttered. But orcs are orcs, and Smeg was only second in command. He might grumble. But he always fell in line eventually.

They trudged ahead. The cart jostled along the rutted trail.

I grew weary of picturing the tree canopy passing by overhead and instead imagined I was watching a dramatic starry sky unfold at sea.

But the shuffle of boots was a poor substitute for lapping waves, and the judder of the cart wheels was nothing like the sway of a hammock.

I never did know whether I should hoard my memory of the sea and only troop it out when I felt desperate, or if I should practice so it didn’t fade forever.

It hurt to recall something so wide, so unreachable.

Like pressing on a bruise to be sure it’s still there.

Maybe one day I’d forget how it felt to stand on deck with the stars above and nothing in front of me but the wind.

But maybe that was mercy.

I was wondering whether I even remembered the constellations correctly when my cart creaked to a halt. The lazy murmur of orcish voices went quiet, and an expectant stillness settled in.

Only once he had the stage did Pilgrim intone, “Greetings, brothers and sisters. Fortune smiles on you. The Lost Clan has come to bestow upon you their blessing.”

A gate creaked a short ways off, and a confident footfall approached.

“I am Marok.” The voice was calm and deep, and most definitely orcish. “General of Red Hand Clan’s army. Who is the chieftain of your clan?”

“Seeking to trip me with my own spear?” Pilgrim asked casually. “The Lost Clan has no chieftain.”

“So I take that to mean that I’ll be dealing with you.”

“As you see fit, General. You speak for Ul-Rott the Spinecrusher, then?” A pattering of chest thumps surrounded us as the name of their chieftain was uttered. The Red Hand had plenty of guards, then. No snoozing sentries here. “Can he not speak for himself?”

“He can. But since he’s currently busy using some hobgoblins for target practice, you’ll talk to me.”

The smallest of pauses as Pilgrim changed tack. He’d been hoping for Ul-Rott—a brutal warlord, but a predictably conceited one. This General Marok was unknown.

“There’s fresh water not a hundred strides from where you sit now,” the General said, “and plenty of space for you to bide your time while you wait for Ul-Rott to welcome you himself. Rest easy. Our guards will make sure you’re undisturbed.”

The veiled threat was clear—we’re watching you—and the tone brooked no argument.

For a moment, I almost smiled at the thought of someone standing up to Pilgrim. But then I remembered who I belonged to, and what happened when his ego took a hit.

Some men lash down the sails when a storm is coming. Some pretend the sky is still blue. Pilgrim was the kind who smiled while the clouds gathered, then hit hard when the sails hung in tatters.

And when the blow finally came, it could only land on me.