Then he turned away again, following the guard, and disappeared further into the camp.
The orc carrying Alwyn paid him no mind, so he struggled only a moment longer before resigning himself to whatever happened next. He was shoved unceremoniously into a small tent with only a rug and a single pillow inside. Worst of all, his hands remained bound. He could still hear the voices of guards just outside the tent flaps that were now tied firmly shut. “…keeping this one separate until the druid can confirm.”
His heart was punching against his ribs, as if he’d just sprinted for miles. But Krujha had promised he would keep him safe—wouldn’t let any harm come to him.
Alwyn closed his eyes, trying to steel himself. He had to believe that was the true Krujha, the real one, no matter how easily he had slipped into the persona of someone who didn’t care at all whether Alwyn lived or died.
Cautiously, he reached out with his blood magic, letting him detect all nearby living beings, even through the four walls of the small tent. Two orcs were still speaking outside the tent, steps from the entrance; one more was posted behind him. He didn’t dare extend himself any further than that, now knowingfor certain there were other magic-users in the camp, who would surely sense his magic passing over them.
Krujha knew what he was doing, he told himself again. So he situated himself as comfortably as he could, closed his eyes, and waited.
Chapter Twenty
Krujha
Krujha’s heart thudded painfully in his chest as he followed the guard through the rebel camp. He should have been paying more attention to where he was being led, memorizing the camp layout, but his thoughts remained fixed firmly on Alwyn. He had to stop himself from wincing in sympathy when the guard struck him; and the genuine fear on the elf’s face when he realized they were being separated had been nearly enough to break him.
But they each had a job to do. Krujha had to trust Alwyn would be alright on his own for a little while until he could get a better understanding of where they stood here. They’d known it would be like this.
He pushed the worry to the back of his mind as the guard brought him to one of the larger tents, then turned to face him.
“Wait here,” the guard said, then disappeared into the tent. Krujha turned in a slow circle, taking in the scale of the camp. A stable boy had taken both their horses when they’d entered; he could catch sight of a pen from here, making a note to get their things from the saddlebags when he had the chance.
He stood outside the tent for what felt like twenty minutes or more, unable to hear anything from within that might give him a hint as to what was going on. It took all his restraint just to keep from tapping his foot impatiently as he waited. Instead, he paced slowly in front of the tent, peering in all directions to get a better sense of where everything was situated. There was nothing to do but observe and wait.
Finally, the tent opened again, but it was a different orc this time. This one was thick with muscle and had a shaved head, with two gold caps gleaming atop each of his tusks. He eyed Krujha up and down for a beat, then gestured for him to come in.
“You’re lucky,” he said, his voice gruff, as Krujha stepped in beside him. The tent had several cloth panels set up inside, creating various rooms within the large tent. Krujha could hear voices from further within, but couldn’t see anything from the entrance. “The warlord’s here, and he wants to speak with you.”
Krujha’s heart stuttered in his chest, but he forced himself to grin. “I’m honored.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” the orc grunted.
He led Krujha through the makeshift hallway and into a spacious room on the right-hand side of the tent. It was set up as a comfortable sitting area with many plush pillows and blankets arranged on chairs and benches. On the far side, a long table was set with trays of fruit and cured meats, interspersed with pitchers of water and wine. A small brazier of glowing embers near the center kept the room warm, and standing on its other side was Zesh himself.
Krujha felt himself shudder involuntarily at the unexpected sight of the orc, but luckily the warlord was looking down pensively at the smoldering fire as they entered.
“Warlord Zesh,” the guard leading him announced. “This is the one Nogan told us about.”
At that, Zesh finally lifted his head. Krujha had never seen him before. He didn’t look especially fearsome, or charismatic, or like the leader of a rebellion that threatened the peace built painstakingly by two nations. His dark hair was cut close to his skull, and his eyes were sunken in, making him look as if he hadn’t slept well in days. He was broad, hinting at strong muscle underneath his fur-lined cloak and heavy coat; but as he turned to face Krujha, he could see the right-hand sleeve was empty and pinned to his side to keep it from shifting as he moved.
That had been how King Zorvut had ended the first attempt on his throne—Zesh had challenged him to single combat and failed. Rather than killing him outright, his half-brother had instead taken his dominant arm. All the stories seemed embellished to Krujha—that King Zorvut had called down lightning bolts and sharp icicles, or chopped the other orc’s arm off in a single swipe of his fiery sword. He doubted any of it was true, despite the king’s obvious propensity for magic. Still, Zesh stood before him now with only his left arm remaining, seemingly undeterred from making a second attempt at the throne.
Krujha bowed his head low in respect. “Thank you for taking the time to see me, Warlord. I am honored to be in your presence.”
“Nogan told me your name is Krujha,” Zesh said, his voice a deep rumble. There was a detached, flat affect to his tone that left Krujha unsettled. He had expected a warrior consumed with rage—spurred by his passionate determination to take back what he felt he was owed—but the man before him seemed world-worn and exhausted. “He did not tell me your given title.”
Krujha’s smile cracked, and he let some of his true pain show through. “My clan members had all died before I was old enough to be given one. So I have always just been Krujha of the Shifting Sands.”
Children were identified only by the name of the clan they were born into; when they came of age, a parent, or sometimes a clan elder, would give them a title fitting their personality, or skill, or some notable deed. There was no one to title Krujha when he was old enough to receive one, and so it had never been given. He could have lied; could have given himself his own title and left the childhood identifier behind.
But there would be no more children of the Shifting Sands; the title would die with him, so he had decided many years ago he would hold on to it until then.
“Where is that clan?” Zesh asked after a beat, considering Krujha with wary eyes.
“We were a coastal clan to the west,” Krujha answered. “But it doesn’t exist anymore. That’s part of why I’m here.”
Zesh regarded him silently for a long while, then stepped closer to the table and reached for a goblet of wine with his one hand.
