Chapter 2
Kof
In the wooded clearing at the edge of our broadest hunting territory, Droko the Mystic waded through a tangle of fallen fighters. A few green-skinned. Most not. A harsh coming winter was on the air, and a hobgoblin raiding party had planned to help themselves to what stores we’d set aside.
Though we’d driven them away, the hobgoblins were better off now.
Fewer mouths to feed.
The battle had been brief. Thank the ancestors. I don’t know what I’d do if an extended campaign broke out. I’d been trained to guard a shaman, to preserve him at all costs. But that shaman had been an old, blind man content to hole himself up in a cave.
The new shaman had his own…ways.
“Kof!” Droko called out when he saw me. I still had to stiffen my knees and stifle the urge to genuflect.
The shaman only put up with such gestures when he had to.
He grinned and hefted a bloody staff in triumph.
He was as strong as any warrior, and just as eager to defend his clan…
even though they’d stolen him from own family.
Droko had been Two Swords for the first twenty years of his life, and Red Hand only months.
And yet, he fit right in with the rest of the clan.
Sometimes it seemed he fit even better than I did.
“You should stay in my sight,” I reminded Droko. It wouldn’t do any good, but I had to try.
He bared his teeth and clapped me on the shoulder. “In the heat of battle every blade sings its own song. Or…staff.” He hefted the heavy weapon as if he might someday find a keen edge, if only he brained enough opponents. “How many hobs did you get, then? Three? Four?”
Maybe more. But I didn’t keep count. I was the captain of the honor guard, and all that mattered was killing anyone whose blade was aimed for Droko. I wiped the blood from my spear tip on the grass with a noncommittal grunt.
“Gather the dead,” the shaman told our soldiers. “Our warriors died protecting the clan. They’ll get a proper pyre.”
Not only was he an outsider, but he was very young. And still, our footsoldiers hastened to do his bidding.
None were fool enough to disobey Droko the Mystic.
As the dead were being sorted, a half-dozen draft horses whinnied, stamping through the clearing and rolling their eyes.
Their riders, the Chieftain’s guard, barked commands meant to calm them.
Orcs might relish the copper tang of blood, but prey animals do not.
Though for prey animals, the massive beasts surely intimidated any orc who encountered them. Even their riders.
While the semi-controlled steeds pranced around us and their riders muttered and swore, I planted myself beside Droko.
I stood a respectful half-step back, flanking him from a position where my single eye had a better chance of spotting an attack.
The threat had been beaten back, for now.
But duty is duty. And “shamaning,” as Droko claims, is mostly for show anyhow.
No doubt there is wisdom in his words. Still, I suspect he has a lot to learn.
The sound of hooves shifted as the largest creature in the clan’s stables joined its herd, stomping like a troll. Destroyer was massive enough on his own, but with the chieftain on his back, he was a mountain in motion.
Ul-Rott approached, but didn’t dismount—not without the stepstool his groom built for him, back at the stables.
“Praise Ul-Rott,” Droko said automatically, and we all made a fist and struck our hearts—even him.
Knowing Droko, he would chalk up the gesture to meaningless pomp.
But like most traditions, it was grounded in meaning.
We would take a blade for the chieftain, if necessary.
And there was no greater pledge than that.
“A good battle,” Ul-Rott decreed.
Droko cut his eyes to the growing row of orcish corpses.
Ul-Rott waved dismissively. “Yes, a shame. Hartha over there just had twins—no doubt her neighbors will welcome the extra two pairs of hands—and Torpf made captain only last month. But that’s the life of a warrior. What really matters are the signs.”
After an expectant pause on the chieftain’s part, Droko said, “What signs?”
“Haven’t you heard? My throwing axe cleaved off a hob’s right hand—then kept on going and took down a stag!
If that’s not a good omen, I don’t know what is.
The hunters keep telling me deer are thin on the ground this year, and I hit one without even trying?
Hah! If you’ve seen a finer omen than that, speak up! ”
Droko took in the blood-churned clearing. “If the axe struck true, does it matter if it was skill or fate?”
“Hmph. I suppose not.” Ul-Rott shrugged and shifted in his saddle, and gestured vaguely at the dead. “Appease the ancestors, then, so we can get going. It’s a long ride back to the village, and I’m hungry enough to swallow that whole stag myself.”
Droko stood by—arms crossed and covered in blood, both hobgoblin and orc—as the soldiers finished laying out their brothers and sisters in arms. Swords, armor, and other gear were salvaged, either to return to the families, or to squabble over among the troop.
Everything of value was taken but their boots, no matter how fine they might be.
Only a fool would knowingly walk in a dead man’s shoes.
“These warriors died defending their clan,” Droko announced, as the troop’s captain lit a sacred torch and approached.
The shaman went on to speak of both their bravery, and their duty.
Not their skill, I noted—if a hobgoblin were able to fell them, they must have needed more practice.
Though this particular band of hobs had fought with a desperate ferocity.
The bodies were doused in oil, and as soon as the flame touched the first fallen orc, the fire took, and spread. Only once it was clear that nothing would be left of the orcs for the wildlife to feast on did Ul-Rott prod his horse to head back to the village.
The riders reined in their mounts to keep our group together, just in case the hobgoblin band had been some kind of ruse.
It was doubtful, since no hob would volunteer to act as decoy if they were guaranteed to be slain.
But a good warrior doesn’t let down his guard outside the safety of his clan’s walls.
The shaman, marching home beside me, was silent.
Unlike his predecessor, Droko often went for long stretches without speaking—especially if his talkative human wasn’t around.
I read nothing into his demeanor until he surprised me by leaning in and murmuring, “Is it true—what the chieftain claimed? That the hunters are coming up empty-handed?”
While I did live in the caves with Droko, since I oversaw his table, I spent a good amount of time in the clan’s larder. A dwindling supply of fresh meat would not have escaped my notice.
Unless the quartermaster had saved the choicest bits for the chieftain and the shaman, while the rest of the clan ate gristle.
I was no hunter. I lived in the tunnels—and, besides, I had only one eye. But the Red Hand Clan was strong. Especially now that Two Swords had finally learned their place. If we were short on meat, a few warriors could be spared to track down game.
And, why not? Most fighters hunted for the joy of it anyhow. They’d be eager for the chance to show off. We had plenty of good warriors—the village would be fine without them. Not only was Two Swords no longer a threat, but our walls were stout. No one got in or out without the chieftain’s say.
Speaking of Ul-Rott…we approached a small rise and found that he and his other riders had stopped, some steeds prancing in place, some cropping grass, and some pawing the ground.
“What now?” Droko said, as the chieftain, twisting around awkwardly in his stirrups, motioned his shaman forward. I fixed myself to Droko’s side, spear ready, as he approached the chieftain.
Ul-Rott cocked his head in annoyance. “As if the boil on my ass isn’t enough, now I’ve got to deal with this nonsense. Which reminds me—my choad is acting up again.”
Evidently, life in the saddle took some adjustment.
“Come to the caves once your horse is seen to,” Droko said. “I’ll handle it.”
As we stepped up and crested the rise, the wall of our village came into view. The gates were shut tight. But the clearing in front of it was definitely not clear.
It wasn’t hobgoblins sieging the walls while their decoys lured away our warriors…but a lazy band of orcs lounging all around. Dozens upon dozens of orcs. Men and women in piecemeal armor and rags. They weren’t warriors, and they weren’t up in arms.
Even so, a chill dread settled in my belly.
I’d rather it be a band of bloodthirsty hobs at my gate than the Lost Clan.