Chapter 26
Kof
I pulled on my breeches, my boots, my leathers.
Anything to avoid Eli’s earnest eyes. But finally, the weight of his gaze forced me to say, “Don’t be so fast to take a brand for me.
You don’t know what I’ve done.” The words felt heavy on my tongue, but I forced myself to speak them.
“I betrayed the shaman’s trust. Not in a small way. In a way no one comes back from.”
“The specifics don’t matter. But I know exactly what you did—you saved your clan. You deserve a reward.”
He was wrong. All that mattered was honor. And I’d done away with mine the moment I stole from my shaman. Maybe humans invented rules as they went along and hoped all would be forgiven if they managed to make things right. But I was an orc. My code was something by which I lived—or died.
I couldn’t predict whether Eli would be turned loose to find his own way, or end up in the slave pits.
Both roads would be rough, especially at the verge of winter.
My intervention would soon be worthless, so I’d left him with the only thing I could: my scent.
Outside the gates, it might protect him from predators.
And as for the slave pits…hopefully any new master would be reluctant to couple with a slave who bore the stink of a traitor.
With a heavy heart, I took up my spear in one hand and the damned gold collar in the other. I turned away from Eli and strode out of the chamber. My steps were heavy with purpose. The burden of the collar weighed on me. Eli trailed behind me, his questions falling on deaf ears.
“Kof, what is it? Where are you going?”
I couldn’t bring myself to answer. The truth would come soon enough.
We reached my destination, and I pushed through a curtain of clattering bones and beads.
Arcane objects filled the dim natural chamber, remnants of old Taruut’s tenure.
Droko looked out of place among the relics, more warrior than mystic.
He was perched on the edge of Taruut’s litter with his ancestral blade across his lap.
The scrape of stone on metal filled the air as he sharpened it with a sure, even stroke.
“Shaman,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “There’s something I can no longer keep from you.”
Droko looked up. His eyes were unreadable. He set aside the whetstone but left the blade balanced across his knees.
I swallowed hard and held out the gold collar. “I disobeyed your orders. I had to free Eli, any way I could. So, I took this from you. I…stole it.”
Droko’s gaze flicked between the collar and my face.
“I know the gravity of my actions,” I continued. “I disobeyed a direct command. I betrayed your trust. I’m prepared to face the consequences, even if that means death.”
“Death?” Eli blurted out. “No, that’s not—you can’t—”
I motioned for him to stop talking, which he did, likely because his objections were falling on deaf ears. The young shaman was paying him no attention. Droko had eyes only for me.
His gaze was inscrutable. The silence stretched between us, thick and oppressive. I stood my ground, awaiting judgment. Eli shifted nervously behind me, but his role in this was done.
“It took you two days to confess,” Droko finally said. I realized with a start that he not only knew that I’d taken the collar, but exactly when I’d done it. “Two strikes with the haft of your own spear.”
A punishment fit for…a child.
“But…I went against your direct—”
The shaman spoke over me as if he hadn’t even heard.
“This jeweled blade of my grandsire’s….” He hefted the sword from his lap.
“It’s a poor weapon. The grip is riddled with gemstones.
The balance is all wrong. It’s too heavy for quick strikes, too light for a proper blow.
And it dulls faster than a goblin’s wit.
” He ran a thumb along the edge. “It looks impressive, though, doesn’t it?
All that fancy metalwork. It’s not meant to be practical.
It was made to inspire awe.” He set down the sword, and stood.
“But I’d take a keen blade over a gilded one any day. ”
I folded to one knee. My voice went thick with emotion. “Droko the Mystic. My spear is yours.”
“I suppose so.” Droko plucked the weapon from my hand, lightning quick, and twirled it like a warrior.
Eli gasped and staggered back so fast that a stack of baubles and relics clattered to the floor behind him.
Paying him no mind, the shaman rapped me first on the shoulder and again in the opposite leg.
It might ache later. But it hurt nothing like the horrible burden he’d lifted. He bade me rise, and when I found my feet, he tossed my spear back into my waiting hand.
“Remember, Kof, my father was chieftain, so I know how negotiations work. I’ve seen warlords bargain—and make no mistake, Pilgrim might be dressed in rags, but he’s as much a warlord as Ul-Rott.
Bargains are never simple trade—they’re a power play.
If you had tried to buy your human, things would only be worse for him.
Pilgrim would have exploited your desperation.
Every scrap of power would have gone into his hands. ”
“What will become of Pilgrim now?” Eli asked the shaman.
What would become of Eli, I wondered.
Droko pulled on a towering feathered headdress that made him seem even more formidable than he already was. “That’s what we’re about to find out.”
The full moon cast its pale, ghostly light over us as we joined the assembly of orcs.
Apparently the Lost Clan would take their leave this night after all.
I was at the lead by the shaman’s side, and Archie, as the Bearer of the Prophecy, flanked him on the other, wrapped in furs.
The common square, usually bustling with activity, was eerily silent.
The Red Hand Clan members’ faces were bathed in silver as their breaths misted in the cold.
And the Lost Clan—the outsiders—stood in a straggling line, bound hand and foot.
Even if one of them tried to attack, they’d be cut down in an instant.
And if they chose to run, there was nowhere to go.
But the bonds were the outward sign of their defeat, and they stood before us, demoralized and vanquished.
Except for Pilgrim. He was defiant, even in chains. Truly, as Droko had said—he was a warlord. I’m not sure how he hid his leadership of the supposedly leaderless clan for so long. But now that he was exposed, he was clearly too proud to beg. His life was forfeit anyhow.
It was the orcish way.
Ul-Rott conferred briefly with his shaman, but they came to agreement at once.
And then the chieftain’s voice rang out, resonant and unyielding.
“Pilgrim, of the Lost Clan, you have broken tradition and abused the hospitality of the Red Hand. You have brought dishonor to yourself and endangered us all. Have you anything to say?”
“You call it abuse of hospitality. I call it taking what we need. I won’t apologize for keeping my people alive.”
Ul-Rott nodded to his guards, who shoved Pilgrim to his knees. As Ul-Rott approached, his rolling gait looked nowhere near as ridiculous as it usually did. It looked menacing. “It wasn’t necessity that drove you, but arrogance. And now, you pay the price.”
The chieftain’s sword was no ceremonial blade, and the sound it made was like a cleaver through a thick haunch of meat.
Pilgrim’s head hit the cobbles, followed by his body. A few orcs in the Red Hand Clan uttered, “Praise Ul-Rott,” but the Lost Clan was silent to a man. But a low moan, very human, came from my blind side. It wasn’t Archie, who was watching the proceedings with grim resignation. Eli, then.
And what would be his fate?
Ul-Rott considered Pilgrim’s headless corpse, then brought his boot heel down on the neck, where the edge of bone glistened white.
The spine gave off a satisfying crack, reminding everyone just how he’d earned the title Spinecrusher.
With a vague gesture toward the head, he told his guards, “Mount that front and center over the gate. I’m tired of those hobgoblin heads stinking up the place. Now…as for the rest of his people—”
“Chieftain,” I said—and my voice boomed across the square.
As Ul-Rott raised his ponderous eyebrows in surprise, I realized I had no idea what I’d meant to say—and no time at all to formulate any sort of persuasive argument.
But Eli’s fate was tied to that of the rest of the Lost Clan.
And I couldn’t let it be decided by Ul-Rott’s brutal whims.
With so much at stake, I struggled for words.
I immediately sensed the chieftain’s patience wearing thin.
While I scrambled to find my footing, another voice interjected on my behalf.
Droko’s. “My captain may not be the quickest thinker—but he’s strategic.
And smart. A good man to have by your side. Hear him out.”
“The Lost Clan,” I began, as my voice found its strength, “they are not all…Pilgrim. Many were taken from their own clans, against their will. Young orcs, seized from their families, forced to wander. Not all are guilty of Pilgrim’s crimes.
” I gestured to the bound orcs. “Look at them. Do you see enemies? Or do you see…victims?”
A murmur rippled through the assembled orcs. One or two nodded, considering my words. Most others shifted uneasily. Ul-Rott remained impassive, but I pressed on.
“The Red Hand Clan has suffered losses. Our best archer, taken by the Wrack. Our warriors, fallen in battle against the hobgoblins. Winter approaches. Our numbers are dwindling. Our enemies watch, waiting for weakness. We can’t afford to weaken ourselves further.”
I turned to face the Lost Clan directly. “These orcs…some might be strong. Skilled hunters, fierce warriors. They could replenish our ranks. Help us prepare for the harsh months ahead. We can offer them a purpose. A chance to redeem themselves.”
I looked back at Ul-Rott, my gaze steady. “Mercy, Chieftain. Not for Pilgrim, but for those he misled. Judge them not as a single entity, but one by one. Turn our losses into gains—before our enemies do.”
Ul-Rott looked at the bound orcs skeptically. “Are there any hunters among you?”
As a few orcs raised their hands, Eli said, “The one in the doeskin vest is an archer, chieftain. And the shorter one has a knack for snares.”
“This human has lived among them,” I said. “He knows their ways.”
Ul-Rott’s gaze settled on me, heavy with the weight of my proposition.
The silence that followed stretched painfully.
I could feel the stares of my fellow orcs, their breaths held in anticipation.
Finally, the chieftain grunted, a sound that in another orc might have been the prelude to a laugh.
But Ul-Rott was not known for his mirth.
“Your words have some merit,” the chieftain said. “Tradition says the Lost Clan may give or take. But everyone know they only care about growing their ranks.”
“No, chieftain. That’s not the case—and I can prove it.” I swallowed hard. “I know they’ve left someone with the Red Hand before. Because that someone is me.”
A gasp rippled through the crowd, but I kept my gaze fixed on Ul-Rott.
“When a boy called Kof died from a festering eye, Taruut claimed me as his replacement. Taruut dug out a good eye and kept me hidden in the caves for years. Long enough that any changes in me could be attributed to the passage of time. Taruut’s reasons for doing this died with him—”
“That, I can guess,” the chieftain said. “He didn’t want anyone to know his cures had failed.”
Possibly. But I had known Taruut better than most. Maybe he’d seen the chance to give a quiet, frightened boy from the Lost Clan a better life.
“Whatever the shaman’s reasons might have been, Taruut was wise.
I have served the Red Hand Clan with loyalty in the highest of callings, the shaman’s honor guard.
And I am evidence that there is something to gain from the Lost Clan. ”
Stillness settled over the courtyard like a held breath. Everyone’s focus was on Ul-Rott, waiting for his judgment. The chieftain squinted at the scar where my eye had once been, and then his gaze shifted to the Lost Clan orcs, bound and helpless before us.
After what felt like an eternity, Ul-Rott nodded. “Very well. We will give them a chance to prove their worth. They will be watched closely. Any sign of treachery, and they will meet the same fate as Pilgrim.”
As Ul-Rott’s words hung in the air, a huge, ragged figure pushed forward from the bound orcs. Osmeg. His voice shook with false humility when he said, “Ul-Rott is wise—praise Ul-Rott! My sword is yours—even though it hangs now at the belt of the shaman.”
Eli flinched, and he recoiled from the reeking orc.
“I live only to serve,” he babbled on. “And surely my brother will agree—”
“This man preys on the clan’s young,” I said, with no need whatsoever to ponder my words. “He’s no brother of mine.”
The chieftain grimaced, then motioned to his closest guard. “Mount that one’s head beside his leader’s—”
“Wait!” I said. The quiver in Osmeg’s voice hadn’t been acting, I realized. “Don’t take his head.” Hope blazed in my so-called brother’s eyes.
Ul-Rott said, “Despite what you claim about his actions, you beg mercy?”
I shook my head. “Not mercy. This man is sick—beheading him will only spread the disease.”
And the Wrack would be death sentence enough.