Chapter 23
Kof
Damn the useless hollow where my eye used to be. In the chaos that resulted from my warning about the Wrack, I lost sight of Eli. And once things calmed down, he and Pilgrim were gone.
I pushed my way through the throng of orcs and hurried out from the lodge as quickly as I could, but Eli was nowhere to be seen.
Or smelled.
A light snow was falling now, and the air was crisp and clean—masking all the scents I could normally rely on. I stood, chest heaving, and scanned my surroundings. But all around were nothing but half-melted snowbanks and half-frozen boot prints. I huffed in frustration…and then I smelled it.
Eli’s scent.
Not the musk of his human arousal or the tang of his fear, but the peculiar scent that clung to his hair.
A smell like leather and old resin. Back on the island in our snow hollow, the scent was so faint that I almost forgot it was there.
But now it lingered in the air…growing stronger as I wended my way to the district of smaller one- or two-family houses the skilled warriors called home.
The foreign smell was strongest in front of a house that was shuttered tight, with small tents pitched around it and bits of discarded wood and bone scattered around the doorway.
The Lost Clan had obviously claimed it. I didn’t know whose house it had once been—I spent all my time in the shaman’s caves and had no time to worry myself about the village goings on.
Or maybe it was more like no inclination. After Taruut claimed my service as a boy, they’d always treated me like an outsider. I was lucky the guards had heeded my warning about the Wrack today. I sensed they very nearly hadn’t.
I approached the house. Beneath the undignified mess, the building itself was still in good repair, though the Lost Clan had only been there a fortnight. I should probably be glad their time with us was nearly up. But when they left, they would take Eli with them.
Unless I stopped them.
I shoved through the door. The wooden bolt holding it shut snapped like dry kindling.
All around, orcs had been lounging carelessly on the floor.
They scrambled to their feet, drunk or half-asleep.
Had I been trying to kill them, I would have run through at least a few by the time they’d gained their feet.
But I wasn’t there to attack. I was there for Eli. And his scent was strong.
At least…I thought so. Until I caught the source of the scent and held it, rolling it across my palate—and saw that its source was a battered wooden chest. Large. And yet—
It should be bigger.
I remembered it was bigger.
As I stared, the orcs around me challenged my presence.
“What the hell?”
“You can’t just barge in here!”
“The moon isn’t full yet! We’re still the same clan!”
The Lost Clan scrabbled for rusty weapons, but when I made no move to attack them—when I just stood there like an idiot staring at the wooden chest—they couldn’t figure out what to do.
“Maybe the human really is a witch,” one of them whispered.
“Don’t be stupid,” said another, but shadows on the wall danced as they all backed away from me, giving me wide berth.
From the second room, another orc joined us. I saw him from the edge of my crippled vision. A big one—and he stunk. And unlike the others, he acted as if he’d been…expecting me.
“It took you long enough.” He sent the others away, then sauntered over and planted himself beside me, grinning expectantly. “And you’re still fixed on that old larkwood box. What you can see of it, anyhow.”
The speaker had approached my blind side. It was an honor guard’s instinct to line up a potential threat where I could see it—but even so, the pull to keep my eye on the wooden chest was strong. I had to wrench my gaze away from the thing to see the stinking orc.
The other orc smiled. It was an ugly expression. “It always did make your skin crawl.”
“What are you talking about?”
The orc had status. He raised a hand, and the others hurried outside, leaving us alone. He looked meaningfully at the chest…and then at me. “Don’t act like you can’t remember.”
I stared back at him blankly.
“What, you need a reminder? Fine. Our wretched ol’ man locked you in for opening yer yap when you should’ve kept it shut.
Oh, he hated you, almost as much as I did—such a know-it-all, so much smarter than everyone else–and you couldn’t help but let him know it every chance you got.
Three days and nights, he left you. Covered in your own shit, you were, and half dead with thirst. But you never spoke out of turn again. ”
It was like Ukla’s childhood story of pulling tails off rock lizards. A recollection so old, I had no memory of it.
Except the icy finger of dread that crept down the back of my neck every time I looked at that box said different.
And then there was the glint of the sword on the orc’s hip—a sword far too fine for a man like him…a sword fit for a chieftain….
His nasty smile broadened. “Ah, now it’s all coming back.” He threw his arms wide in a mocking gesture. “Welcome home, little brother.”
Scattered images hit me like flashes of lightning.
Trudging down a road under the light of a full moon.
The chieftain’s ancestral sword held high to raucous laughter.
My older brother, bending over a wailing orcish boy—threatening me with the same if I told anyone.
The lid of the larkwood chest slamming shut.
“Osmeg,” I breathed.
He shrugged, still smirking. “It’s just Smeg, now. I like the way it makes all the wee ones cringe. And you’re called Kof nowadays, so they say—”
“Don’t.” I stopped him before he could speak some other name and claim it was mine.
True or not, the child I’d once been was long dead.
Another flash of memory: Taruut approaching with a sharpened bone, assuring me I’d hardly miss the eye—claiming I’d have a better life without it.
Another boy just my age from the Red Hand Clan, one eye covered in a bloody poultice, lay lifeless on a stone slab.
That dead boy was last thing I’d seen with both eyes.
And ever since then, I knew no name other than—
“Kof,” I said firmly. “My name is Kof.”
“And you keep right on telling yourself that,” said another voice—one that belonged to the ruler of the supposedly leaderless Lost Clan.
I swung around and found Pilgrim in the doorway of the inner chamber.
Eli was held in front of him like a shield, naked save for a wisp of silk, one arm bent brutally behind his back.
“Because your old self would be no good to me. But as it stands now, I could definitely use you.”
“Kof, don’t listen to a word he—” Eli’s warning broke off in a gasp of pain as Pilgrim twisted.
“It doesn’t matter what we call you,” Pilgrim said pleasantly as the acid pong of human fear and pain filled the room.
“Once Lost, always Lost. You might go around acting like you’re some important captain of the shaman’s honor guard, but you’re not even Red Hand.
Do you have any friends among the clan? Any family?
Face it: whatever your name is, deep down inside, you’re one of us. And you always have been.”
Hatred churned in my gut. “You’re wrong. I am no more Lost Clan than you are Red Hand.”
“Is that so?” Pilgrim asked. “Then where are your faithful guardsmen right now? You’re their leader, aren’t you? Did you command them to stay behind? Or did they simply watch you hurry off without lifting a finger to help?”
His words stung, even though I told myself my men’s allegiance should not be for me, but for the shaman. They rang true anyhow. I had always felt apart, an outsider, even among my own men.
But blood relation or not—I would never accept any kinship with the Lost Clan.
“I may not know where I belong—but it’s not with filth like you.”
“Fair enough. But let’s lay our cards on the table. I’ve got something you want. And I’m happy to let you have the human.” He twisted Eli’s arm. I could smell the flesh bruising. “But you’ll have to earn him. Just bring the shaman around to our side and the creature is yours.”
“Kof, no, he’s full of shi—” The words cut off in a gasp as something in Eli’s arm popped. His pink skin paled and he heaved up bile. Pilgrim let go and Eli folded to his knees, cradling one arm in the other.
I steeled my expression. The more I wanted Eli, the more likely Pilgrim would torture him to keep me complicit. And I was no fool. Even if I did betray my clan, Eli would never be mine. Not in any way that mattered.
But I couldn’t let them see I knew their game. “The shaman is no problem. He’s young and stupid. But I’ve already had the human,” I said coldly. A calculated risk. “What I want is my father’s sword.”
Pilgrim gave a harsh bark of a laugh. “You see? You might not know who you are—an elite guard from those stinking caves or some unwanted brat from the Lost Clan—but either way, you’re still an orc.
And it seems everyone has his price.” He gestured behind me to my so-called brother. “Come on, then, Smeg—hand it over.”
Osmeg came around my blind side, so I had no warning of his reaction…except the look of dismay on Eli’s face.
As I turned to face the orc, my spear clattered against the wall when I tried to raise it. There just wasn’t enough room to defend myself.
“You want my sword, you greedy little brat?” Osmeg snarled. “Have it—in your other eye.”
Osmeg had plenty of space to strike, and the sword was raised high.
I dodged a wild swing. The blade whistled past my ear, missing me by a hair’s breadth.
I’d always thought I’d die in service of my shaman.
Never like this. Yet there was nowhere for me to go—and no way Osmeg could miss me a second time.