Chapter 27
Kof
It was a long, cold night sorting out the Lost Clan, but the moon was bright, and by morning, our ranks were strong.
We had replaced all our fallen warriors and filled our roster with new hunters and fighters.
And those left to resume their wandering swore an oath to never again take from the Red Hand.
It was settled.
But my only concern was for Eli. His fate had not yet been officially decided.
I stood at the gates with a heavy heart as I watched the remnants of the Lost Clan file out.
With Eli beside me, the weight of the morning felt lighter somehow, as if his presence alone gave me strength.
Above us, Pilgrim’s head oversaw the proceedings from its pike, where a bold crow was already sizing it up from a nearby perch.
“Good riddance,” Eli muttered, eyes fixed on the departing orcs.
He lingered a moment longer, then turned and followed the other new clan members into the village.
I watched him go until he vanished behind the nearest hut, my chest hollow where I should have felt relief.
He hadn’t left. That should’ve been enough.
But I still didn’t know what would become of him—or us.
A gust of wind stirred the trees, sharp with the promise of winter. It would be a hard season for the Lost Clan.
Movement from outside the gate caught me off guard on my blind side, and I spun, spear in hand. But the creatures now approaching the village weren’t a threat.
Not unless you had a fear of cows.
A small herd of cattle rounded the trees and plodded up the road. In its lead was a mounted figure bundled against the cold. But I knew him by the red and ochre colors of the house of Marok in his cloak, and the dark lock of hair that escaped his cowl.
Quinn, the human horseman. Flanked by a pair of the chieftain’s guards. With another human mounted on the horse behind him, a female I’d never seen before.
Droko said, “Wasn’t he supposed to buy more warhorses for Ul-Rott?”
Archie laughed. “Haven’t you noticed? Quinn only does what Quinn wants to do!”
How could that be? Quinn served Ul-Rott the Spinecrusher…and questioning the leader’s word, let alone acting against it, seemed like the surest way to land your head on a pike.
And yet, as the cattle filed toward the village gate, I had to admit—the human hardly seemed to fear the chieftain’s wrath. In fact, he looked quite pleased with himself.
Humans were puzzling.
As I turned around the notion in my head that service meant something very different to Quinn than it did to me, General Marok strode out from the village and past the guards at the gate, as if he couldn’t wait even the few extra moments it would take for the mounted horseman to reach him.
Quinn swung out of his saddle with lithe grace, and stepped right into Marok’s waiting arms. As Marok bent and buried his face in the crook of Quinn’s neck, bathing himself in his lover’s scent, I was gripped by an excruciating pang of longing.
I wanted what they had. But I was sworn to the shaman.
Beside me, Archie cleared his throat meaningfully. Droko glanced down at him. “You have something to say?”
“Oh, nothing really. It just occurs to me that while no one in those steamy caves needs a body to keep them warm at night, a little human companionship can go a long way.”
He then inclined his head toward me.
“What?” Droko asked.
With a long-suffering sigh, Archie said, “Kof. The big, empty room he calls home. The tattooed human he’s clearly smitten with….”
I couldn’t stand it any longer. “You’re ignorant of our ways,” I snapped. “I am not just any guard. I am honor guard. I have dedicated my life to protecting the shaman—living for him and him alone, foreswearing a home, wife or family of my own.”
Archie raised an eyebrow. “If memory serves…the same restrictions were once placed on a certain shaman.”
Droko shoved a feather out of his eyes and straightened his topknot.
“In the Two Swords Clan, my father’s shaman needed no wife.
He coupled with his acolytes—too many to count.
” He…what? But shamen were supposed to be above matters of the flesh.
“I have no objection to the human—he’s a lot less trouble than a dozen useless whelps playing at being holy men.
If you want your human to stay, then say so. ”
If I wanted him to stay? I didn’t just want Eli—I ached for him. My yearning burned in my belly like a white-hot forge. “Of course I want him to. But I have pledged myself to the shaman.”
Droko considered the words, then said, “That doesn’t make you my slave.”
It took some effort on Droko’s part to convince the chieftain.
But, though blunt, he can be very persuasive—especially since he was raised as a chieftain’s son, so he knew just what Ul-Rott wanted to hear.
Eli was given the same choice as the rest of the Lost Clan.
Swear fealty—and be claimed by the Red Hand, with all the rights and responsibilities of any other member.
Rules are rules. And once it was deemed that the human Eli could join us, it was senseless that the chieftain’s horseman was not also Red Hand.
And the same for the shaman’s consort. Even the new human milkmaid—a sturdy, no-nonsense widow who Quinn had recruited to tend the cattle—seemed like a logical addition to the clan.
Especially in light of the long winter ahead.
When I took Droko aside and asked him if I should take part in the ceremony and pledge to the clan, he just blinked at me and said, “Why would you? You are Kof.”
The fealty ceremony was a sacred tradition, one that bound us all together. It was a promise of obedience, of protection, and of loyalty. I had witnessed it several times over the years as we integrated new members, but never had it held such significance as it did today.
And never had there been so many lined up to receive it.
Ul-Rott stood at the center of the square in his finest armor.
Beside him, Droko held a bowl filled with the blood of our latest kill—not Pilgrim.
That would have been an ill omen. For today, a cow that had fallen lame on its journey and was unlikely to make it through the winter had been sacrificed.
One by one, the new members approached and spoke their pledge. There were so many, the oath had become routine by the time the humans stepped forward. But the mood shifted and anticipation prickled the air when Eli took his turn.
He presented himself to Ul-Rott, gaze direct and head held high.
His glossy, dark hair flowed in the wind, and the swirling edge of his tattoos peeked from the collar of a borrowed tunic.
And when he spoke, his voice was steady—though his words were thick with emotion.
“I, Eli, swear fealty to the Red Hand Clan,” he said, just as every former member of the Lost Clan had done before him.
“I pledge to obey, defend and serve, to stand with my…fellow orcs…against all foes.”
As Eli spoke, I noticed a warrior surreptitiously blowing into his clenched fist. One of the honor guard behind me whispered, “Does that make him an orc?”
“Maybe,” Grok answered. “But he’s still a witch.”
The first one countered, “At least he’s on our side now.”
Ul-Rott’s voice boomed through the square, “By this blood, I accept your oath.” He dunked his hand into the congealing sacrificial blood, and pressed his mark onto Eli’s chest. “You are now a member of the Red Hand Clan.”
This was what it meant to be part of something greater than oneself. This was what it meant to belong.
And according to Droko, I’d been part of this all along.
Next came the horseman. The chieftain seemed well-pleased to put the clan’s mark on Quinn.
Although the human was always speaking out of turn, he truly was clever, and he’d been Ul-Rott’s secret weapon in defeating Two Swords.
And Droko’s chest swelled with pride when Archie swore his allegiance with uncharacteristic seriousness.
Ul-Rott looked over his newly reinforced ranks, and said, “Let any who defy the Red Hand take heed! Your warriors will become our strength, your victories our glory!” With a grunt of satisfaction, he shook a spatter of blood from his hand and said, “Good. Now that that’s handled—”
“Chieftain, wait.” From the gathered ranks of the clan, a figure stepped forward. Goram, the blacksmith, a solid orc with broad arms criss-crossed with scars, and a perpetual squint. “There’s one more human you need to swear in.”
There’d been a third human to arrive with Quinn and Archie, a young woman—now his slave. She stood with the blacksmith’s family, flanked by his children. His house’s mark was branded on her face.
Ul-Rott already looked annoyed. “She’s a slave, Goram, not a person.”
Goram squared his shoulders. “She is a person—her name is Bess. And I gave her authority over my children. The one they obey should be a full member of the clan. Otherwise, that makes my own kin less than slaves.”
It was hard to argue with that logic.
Ul-Rott, eager to carve into the slaughtered cow, huffed impatiently.
“A slave has no right to swear fealty to the clan. If you insist on this human joining us, then you must free her. And that means there’s nothing keeping her in your house.
If she wants to move out, or marry, or even pick up and leave, then she’ll have every right to do it. With or without your permission.”
“I understand,” Goram said gravely.
Ul-Rott sighed. “Fine.” He drew a small dagger from his kit and handed it to Goram hilt-first. “Then get on with it. As the clan has marked this human called Bess, so she will mark her master. And then she will be free.”
The human stepped forward and Goram handed the chieftain’s dagger to her.
It was clumsy in her grasp, overlarge. But she clutched it with quiet determination.
It wasn’t customary for the slave owner to kneel, but the huge blacksmith took a knee, nonetheless.
It was the only way to bring himself down to her level.
Bess looked upon her master impassively. The knife in her hand was not just a blade, but the power to reshape her destiny, to claim her freedom. And in her hands, that power could just as easily have maimed or even killed Goram.
My empty eye socket echoed with a phantom throb. But then Bess and Goram shared a smile that pushed away all shadows of doubt.
Bess raised the blade. The steel was sharp, but her hand was steady. The nick she made on his jaw was so slight, Goram might not have even felt it. In light of all his other scars, this one would be small. But it would still mark the moment he’d set his slave free.
The human was no longer just a slave. She was Bess of the Red Hand Clan, free to choose her path. And as she gladly rejoined the family she’d been living with since she first came here, it was clear that at least for now, her journey remained unchanged.
As for my path, it still lay with the shaman. Though now I might not need to walk it alone.