Chapter 5 #2
Orcs have a weird aversion to sitting, and the only time you’ll catch a chieftain on his ass is at a feast—well guarded.
The rest of us had to squat. We settled onto our haunches.
I adjusted my awkward sarong. Orcs don’t do subtlety.
Around us, the Red Hand Clan muttered to each other as they cast furtive glances our way.
Across the fire pit, I spotted the human woman from earlier squatting among a cluster of orc children, most of which towered over her.
She looked perfectly at ease as she chastised one of them to settle down and wait his turn—and he actually listened.
I envied her that ease, that sense of belonging, even as my gut twisted at the sight of her slave brand.
How could she stand it? Living among these brutes who saw us as less than animals? Then again, who was I to judge? Here I was—just as much a slave as her, despite the lack of a scar on my cheek.
The Red Hand orcs stopped their grumbling as their chieftain arrived.
They all stood and thumped their chests and shouted, “Praise Ul-Rott.” The Lost Clan stood too, as it would’ve been seen as a hostile action for them to stay low.
But they rose a fraction of a heartbeat later than the others, slouching indolently, and didn’t do the chest thump.
Their chieftain looked as big and mean as they always did.
Rank passed through bloodlines, but strength kept it.
No firstborn stayed on top without proving they deserved it.
This one was older than most I’d seen before, with steely gray threaded through his grizzled hair, and he walked with the odd, rolling gait of a sailor.
Smeg muttered, “If that don’t prove that orcs got no business riding horses, I dunno what does.”
Sure. Tell that to the feuding clan they’d recently demolished.
The chieftain’s table was long enough to accommodate a dozen important orcs, and each of them had a guard stationed behind them.
Their chieftain took the place of honor at the center.
Once Ul-Rott settled himself at the table, he was presented with an elaborate bowl, roughly the size of a trough, filled with the first and finest portion from the cauldron.
He gave the contents a good sniff, then picked up a huge spoon and poised it to dig in.
Then he paused, leaned in to address the orc seated beside his wife, and said, “Well, get on with it and say the rites.”
The one he’d spoken to was young and strong—a huge hillock of an orc—with long hair in a topknot and a streak of white paint across one cheek.
He stood, looking unused to speaking to a crowd.
I noticed a few small feathers dangling from his deerhide vest, and it dawned on me that he was the shaman.
Orcish witch doctors are usually decked out from head to foot in layers of fetishes and feathers.
This one looked more like a warrior toting around a good luck charm.
His voice was stiff, as if he was reciting lines from another language whose meaning he didn’t quite grasp, when he said, “The moon has risen, and so we greet the Lost Clan as our temporary kin. As long as the moon remains, so does our hospitality.” He paused, thought for a moment, nodded to himself, and sat.
“Good enough,” said the chieftain. “Let’s eat before all the bones go soft.”
The spoon was nearly to Ul-Rott’s mouth when Pilgrim elbowed Smeg, who acted as his mouthpiece to keep up the ruse of there being no particular leader. Smeg dutifully stood up and said, “Hold up there, chieftain. The Lost Clan’s got a lil’ somethin’ for ya. To thank you for your hospitality.”
As Ul-Rott squinted in our direction, Smeg grabbed me around the biceps hard enough to bruise and yanked me to my feet.
The chieftain sniffed the air. “What’s that—a human? I need another human around here like I need a second asshole.”
Smoothly, Pilgrim put in, “The Lost Clan wouldn’t think of burdening the Red Hand with another belly to fill, especially with winter at your door. No need to keep him on. But this human is a particularly good flagoner...and you can use him as you like.”
That last bit was delivered like he was inviting the chieftain to slice me open and feast on my pulsing guts. Lucky for me, Ul-Rott hardly registered my presence. With an impatient gesture, he said, “Fine. Get on with it, then. I’m hungry.”
Or maybe not so lucky. If he didn’t want me, I’d need to find another way into his household.
Flagoning for orcs is hardly a challenge. I’ve navigated the Coral Coast on a starless night by nothing but a compass and a prayer. That took skill. An orc can only drink so fast, though. Faster than a human, maybe. But not any faster than I could pour.
Though, it wasn’t really about the pouring. Leaning in, rubbing up against them, letting them get a good whiff of me…that was the whole point. All of it with the understanding that they could drizzle me in ale to lap straight off my body, if that’s what they had in mind.
My throat fluttered queasily at the mere thought.
“Don’t screw up,” Pilgrim said under his breath as Smeg yanked me away. Smeg dragged me over to the quartermaster, who looked none too pleased with me. The old goblin slave I’d be helping looked at me skeptically, though the mongrel I replaced was glad enough to take it easy.
The chieftain’s table was long and broad, with his wife at his side and their offspring all around them, plus whoever was in favor that day.
No one would drink until the chieftain did, so I edged around the table.
As I leaned in, I made sure Ul-Rott would get a good whiff of armpit—it drives them crazy, so I’m told—and filled his mug.
For all he noticed, I might’ve been the old mongrel. Ul-Rott was too busy prodding through his stew. “See that head?” he asked his wife. “Now, that’ll be good and crunchy.”
The missus, however, had a canny eye on me. And not in the way Pilgrim might have hoped. I filled her mug next. And as I made to move on to the next orc, she said, “Not so fast, human. Get back here.”
It sounded like she just wanted a heftier pour. But she wasn’t looking at the pitcher. And as the chieftain reached for his drink, she put a hand over his and forced the mug back down to the table. “The Lost Clan is quick to offer service. Since when?”
“I’ve been with the clan a year.” I hated that this was true. “I can’t speak for their history.”
She looked me up and down. “And what’s all this scrawling and scratching supposed to be?” Quick as you please, she caught me by the wrist, licked her thumb, and tried to smear off the tattoo on my forearm.
“They’re permanent,” I gritted out, somehow managing not to tell her what she could do with her thumb.
“None of the other humans here have them.” The chieftain’s wife elbowed the awkward shaman. “Do they?”
“Not that I’ve seen.” The shaman said.
She grunted. “No two are ever alike. Dealing with humans is like trying to turn a lock with a dozen different keys. No wonder they’re always getting themselves captured.
” Turning back to me, she said, “Don’t go thinking I’m fooled by your slovenly ways.
You can’t slip anything into the soup without hurting your own people.
But in a pitcher bound for the chieftain’s table… .”
Ul-Rott just wanted to eat. “You see danger where there is none. Give him a drink from the cup he just poured and have done with it. Your food’s losing its bite.”
Never taking her eyes off me, the missus handed me Ul-Rott’s mug.
I took it from her and drank deeply. Orcish ale is thick and bitter, but even so, it reminded me of better times.
Of exploring taverns on shore leave and waking up the next day with a well-earned headache and a half-invented story to tell.
Ul-Rott grabbed the mug from me, sniffed the contents, and knocked back the rest himself.
“There, satisfied? No poison.” As I refilled the cup, he said, “Besides, look at what he’s wearing—if he had a vial of poison, where would he even put it?
” Ul-Rott chortled, slurping up a big spoon of stew. His sons all joined in the laughter.
But his wife’s eyes went to my sarong.
Before I knew it, the fabric was a wad in her fist and the night air was slicing across my ballsack. Her sons laughed harder.
She glanced down disdainfully at my shrunken manhood, then met my eyes and said, “I still don’t trust it.” She tossed the wrap to one of the guards behind her and turned back to her stew. “Don’t get any clever ideas, human. I’ll be watching you.”
It wasn’t humiliation that burned my cheeks—it was rage. But at that moment, I could only swallow my pride and bide my time.
I whirled around and grabbed for my sarong. Only once I had my hand on it did I register that the other end was in the grasp of the biggest, scariest, one-eyed orc I’d ever seen.