Chapter 7
Eli
As we straggled back to the house we’d commandeered, Pilgrim’s expression revealed nothing. It would be easier if he just laid into me. But he wouldn’t even meet my eyes.
I knew he must be seething. It was bad enough that the Red Hand Clan had offered no venison at their welcome feast. I’d failed to charm the chieftain—and even managed to repulse his beast of a wife. And yet, for all I could tell, Pilgrim was just thinking about the ale.
He gave me nothing to read, and that unsettled me more than if he’d raged. When Pilgrim went quiet like that, it meant something was turning over in his mind—something bad. I couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d already decided what came next, and I just hadn’t caught up yet.
Even when orcs ambled along aimlessly, their gait was longer than mine. My ridiculous sarong hitched down as I walked with great strides. As I caught the fabric and tugged it higher, I saw that Smeg was watching me clutch the damn fabric around myself…and he leered.
A cold fear settled in my gut. Pilgrim didn’t share his belongings. But after tonight’s failure, he might make an exception.
Just as our new home base came into view, I blurted out, “I have an idea.”
Pilgrim slid a bland look my way.
I said, “The quartermaster took a shine to me. I could tell by the way his nostrils flared.” This was a bald-faced lie.
The only thing that had transpired between that warty old orc and me had been a snippy command to not spill the beer.
“I’ll make an inroad with him and find out if Ul-Rott was holding out on you tonight. ”
Pilgrim’s eyes narrowed. Considering my idea? Or sensing the lie?
“I can check out the clan’s stores,” I hurried on. “Get a sense of just how full they are. Winter’s coming—”
I sounded desperate, even to me, positive that Pilgrim must see right through this so-called idea of mine.
But just when I thought he’d shove me directly into Smeg’s filthy paws and tell him to use me as he liked, he nodded once and said, “You do that. And find out if the fish stew was meant as a boast or an insult.”
My stomach flipped in relief. But as I turned to go, he added, “And don’t get any smart ideas about running off. This village is surrounded by a wall twice as big as you.”
Smeg chortled and added, “And some of the piked heads outside looked like they might’ve even been human.”
For once, I was glad I’d missed the scenery on our way in. “Even if I could slip the gate somehow,” I said, “where would I go?”
A flicker of satisfaction crossed Pilgrim’s face. I did my best to act like I hadn’t seen the fleeting look. It was easy enough to act like I’d given up hope—because there truly was no way out for me. I’d made my peace with it.
All that mattered was that when I did eventually go down, I took him out first.
I stole off to the larders without challenge.
Orc villages were strange that way. In all the normal human ports I’d seen, there was always some sort of militia or night watch—some trying to keep the peace, others just hoping to score a bribe.
But orcs learn young that when punishment comes, it’s swift, and it’s brutal.
Because of that, their settlements are surprisingly safe.
Unfortunately, the Red Hand Clan apparently drew the line at leaving their food stores unguarded.
An armed orc stood beside the door of the thatch-roofed building, while another marched around its perimeter.
And as soon as I rounded the corner and sighted them, the cutting night breeze carried my scent to their ugly snouts.
Well, the harmless human card had gotten me this far. Might as well keep playing it. “E-excuse me—is this the pantry? I was looking for something to eat but then I got all turned around.”
The door guard motioned me forward and his pal joined him. Given that they all look the same, I immediately forgot who was who. “How ‘bout that? Little pinkie here is hungry.”
They both looked pointedly at my crotch and sniggered.
Of course they’d been at the welcome feast. The whole clan had been there.
I swallowed down my humiliation. “Please—I didn’t get anything to eat tonight.”
Hopefully I hadn’t laid on the pathetic act too thick. Because what kind of idiot would ever expect compassion from an orc?
“Not my problem,” said one. “Take it up with your chieftain.”
I nearly said that Pilgrim was the one who’d sent me, but quickly course-corrected, since we supposedly have no chieftain. And then I thought of something even more likely to get me what I wanted. “I’m with the Lost Clan—your chieftain is my chieftain. So, I should go ask Ul-Rott?”
The guards glanced at each other uneasily.
Invoking the Lost Clan gets that reaction a lot.
Technically, they should receive all the perks of being a clan member, and it’s unheard of to deny them.
The guards bent their heads together to confer.
Then one of them grudgingly said, “There’s a scrap bucket by the door. Make it quick.”
I supposed I should count myself lucky they didn’t check my bung to make sure I wasn’t smuggling in any poison.
The door swung shut behind me, and inside the building, a lantern burned low.
Orcs aren’t exactly subtle, so I didn’t even need my eyes to adjust to know I was alone.
So much for my plan to glean information from the quartermaster.
Hopefully, I could find something to report.
Any bit of information Pilgrim didn’t have before could prove my worth somehow and keep me in his good graces.
Maybe it was a relief the quartermaster wasn’t there. He’d been unlikely to help me anyhow—his disdain for me had been obvious. A tally of the stores would gain me more trustworthy information than anything I could hope to get from that squinty old orc.
I scanned my surroundings for something useful.
The larder was tidy and organized inside—most orcish buildings are—but the smell of fermenting things and strange herbs permeated the close air.
It wasn’t like sea rations, all salt pork and hardtack.
Hopefully, if there was anything useful to report, I’d know it when I saw it.
Maybe I’d find they had nothing but fish to offer.
Or maybe they truly were hiding some prize stag. Or maybe….
I rounded a corner, and there, mounted on the far wall, a rack of knives gleamed by the lantern’s light.
My breath caught.
The collection was arranged carefully, from the largest cleaver to the most slender boning knife. I blinked, as if the blades might disappear like a tantalizing mirage. But when I opened my eyes again, they were still right there…right within my grasp.
There was no need to appease Pilgrim after all. Not if I could simply end him.
Heart pounding, I crept up to the knives.
I might very well be able to roll the smallest blade into the hem of my sarong.
The garment might hang funny, but I had to try.
All I had to do was act like I had big news, which would gain me an opportunity to speak to Pilgrim before anyone noticed and took it away.
Quick on my feet, I slipped across the room.
My mind was on the knife, planning, strategizing—how to secure it, where to draw it, when to make my move—so the footfall behind me caught me entirely by surprise.
I whirled around, and there, silhouetted by the light of a lantern, lurked a big, lumbering orc.
I’d know Smeg anywhere, even in silhouette.
And of course Pilgrim had sent him to follow me.
I was a fool to think he’d give me even a scrap of trust. I cringed back into the cutting board, realizing that I’d never been so fully alone with Smeg…
and that if he decided he was done just leering at me, the guards outside wouldn’t lift a finger to help.
But as the orc stepped into the light, I saw my mind was playing tricks on me, and it wasn’t Smeg at all. Not only was that ever-present sword absent from his hip…but a wicked scar covered the socket where one eye should have been.
It was the massive guard from the feast—the one who’d been pawing at my sarong.
How had I been so sure it was Smeg? Had Pilgrim’s latest silence gotten under my skin? No—other than the eye, this one and Smeg, their statures were practically the same.
I felt a moment of relief that my reckoning with Smeg wasn’t yet upon me…but then the orc’s nostrils flared.
He could smell me. Even from ten paces away.
The plan to seduce my way into the larder had been nothing more than a way to make myself look useful, but now I might very well need to make good on that hair-brained scheme.
It wouldn’t be my first time lying with a man, of course—even before I took up with the captain, there’d been plenty of willing hands and mouths among the crew.
But I’d considered myself lucky to have spent a year among orcs without ever having to endure one’s seed oozing from my bottom.
“What are you doing here?” the orc demanded. Before I could fall back on my “I’m so hungry” act to distract from the knives, he added, “Did your master send you? Lost Clan or not—your people got their fair share at the feast. Even one from our own clan wouldn’t claim more than their due.”
Only a one-eyed orc would have missed the fact that I’d been headed straight for a weapon. I thanked my lucky stars that he couldn’t somehow smell my interest in the knife. “Pilgrim didn’t send me—I was just hoping there’d be something left over. A scrap…anything.”
The orc’s single eye traveled down my body. His gaze lingered briefly on my flat belly, then came to rest at the low-slung knot that hitched my sarong around my hips. Then he turned toward the shelves.
Before I lost my nerve, I grabbed the boning knife and slid it down the back of my sarong. I was acutely aware that with one wrong move, I would slice off a cheek of my own arse. But the blade nestled sure at the flat of my back, as if it had been honed to fit just there.
All I’d need to do is make sure I didn’t turn my back on One-Eye or the other guards until I was out of visual range.
Lucky for me, an orc’s eyesight is for shit.
The orc handed me a loaf of bread, covered in dark flecks. I supposed I’d eaten wormier dry tack.
“Seeds,” he said, as I broke off a hunk and shoved it into my mouth. It was surprisingly decent. It would have been even better if the orc wasn’t staring at me while I ate it. But now I could hardly turn away.
“What are you called?” he asked.
“Eli.”
“Eli,” he repeated, trying it on for size.
It was the first time anyone had spoken my actual name in…
months. Not “you,” or “pinkie,” or “human.” I expected the next thing out of his mouth to be a command to show my gratitude properly.
Instead, he said, “You’ll need more clothes. Winter is harsh here.”
What was that about?
Orcs expect everyone to fend for themselves. Sink or swim. Never have I seen a glimmer of kindness from any of them. “Why should you care?”
He actually considered the question. After a moment’s thought, he said, “I know of humans now. You’re not so different from us in many ways. But you’re also weak. And you have…needs.”
They’d soon learn just how weak this human was.
“I’m fine,” I said testily.
Satisfied, he watched me with that single, steely eye as I forced down the rest of the loaf, which was trying hard to stick in my throat.
One-Eye was shaped like Smeg, no doubt. All bulk and muscle, with a thick pillar of a neck and tusks that curved in the very same way.
But where Smeg’s eyes glittered with cunning and cruelty, I saw intelligence here.
But that was ridiculous. Orcs loved their ploys and schemes, but they were hardly deep thinkers. More likely, my nerves were getting the better of me.
I swallowed the last few crumbs, and One-Eye said, “How many other clans have you seen in your travels?”
“Seven? Eight?” After the first few, they all started to blend. You see one orcish village, you’ve seen ’em all.
“Was anyone sick?” he asked.
“I thought orcs didn’t get sick.”
It was enough of an answer for him. He grunted, then moved aside from the door.
I sidled toward it, thinking no sane person would turn his back on a vicious beast like that, no matter how docile it might seem.
But as I reached the threshold, he said, “Leave the blade on the table—unless you want the chieftain’s guards to use it to cut your fingers off. ”
How did he…?
His nostrils were flared.
Son of a bitch. He could smell the iron.
Afterward, I plodded back to our commandeered hut, swallowing down my disappointment with the last taste of the nutty, dark seeds. I’d never considered the telltale scent of metal would give me away, so really, I’d learned something valuable. I’d need a weapon they couldn’t smell.
I’d hoped the orcs would be sleeping off the feast by the time I got back, but no such luck. Not only was Pilgrim awake, but he gave me a good, long whiff before remarking, “The quartermaster wasn’t so sweet on you after all.”
“What difference does it make? I checked out the larder, just like you wanted.” I described the larders in detail—leaving out the knives, of course.
Pilgrim considered the information—good information. Something to scheme with. “But you made no inroad with Trawg.”
He wasn’t there, I was about to insist…but something in Pilgrim’s tone, a careful nonchalance, raised my hackles.
Punishment was coming. And it was gonna be bad.
Quickly, I said, “I did something even better—I made nice with one of the shaman’s guards.”
Pilgrim inhaled more deeply.
Shit. I would be better off if I’d blown that damn orc after all.
But then Pilgrim said, “The one with the eye?” And I remembered the guard pawing my sarong at the feast…apparently enough to put some scent on the material.
I ran with it. “Yeah, that’s him. The one who looks like Smeg.”
“Stupid human can’t tell any of us apart,” another one said, and they all had a chuckle.
“Get out of here,” Pilgrim told me. “I’m sick of your stink.”
As much as I hated the larkwood chest, it was a relief to crawl inside and shut the lid, because it meant I was safe from Smeg and Pilgrim.
At least for now.