“Nature calls,” he grunted, standing up. “And, ah, I think I’d better close my coin purse while I still can.”
The soldiers laughed and waved him away. He continued skulking through the new campsite, keeping an eye out for any other hint of what was to come and listening for any useful snippets of conversation as he passed by. The most he found was an inventory list left out amongst a pile of barrels, listing all sorts of foraged supplies and rations; depending on how many more caches there were of this size, it might be enough foodstuffs to keep a siege going through most of the winter.
The thought of trying to siege Drol Kuggradh in deep winter felt like insanity, but everything Krujha found confirmed it. Zesh was desperate, he thought. King Zorvut had spared his life in their first conflict, but now he was clearly preparing himself for a fight to the bitter end.
The sun had sunk toward the horizon by the time Krujha headed back to his own tent, skipping supper with his lack of appetite. His heart leapt up into his throat as he noticed a slip of parchment pinned to the flap. He unfolded it quickly, hoping for some helpful missive from Brugo, only to find an admonishment from Glasha for shirking his duties.
Report at sunrise for breakfast duty, or your place in the camp will be forfeit,it concluded. Krujha swore under his breath as he crumpled up the parchment and climbed into his tent. He hated having to get up that early, but with how frayed his nerves were, he doubted he’d be sleeping much anyway. Still, it meant the window of time he could get to Alwyn was shortened.
He would rest for a few hours, then venture back out to speak with Alwyn close to midnight. Lying down in his bunk with his eyes closed, he tried to quiet his mind from all his racing thoughts to little avail. If he could just get to Alwyn, maybe they could flee together, returning to Drol Kuggradh to warnthem—though he doubted Alwyn would ever agree to run away. Succeeding in his mission was too important to him.
Krujha’s heart squeezed thinking of the elf. He still couldn’t understand why it was so important to Alwyn to win the approval of the Mage Princeps. Everything Alwyn had described about him was far from flattering, though he seemed to idolize this Tessarion anyway. That was hardly the biggest of his worries now, but it felt easier to dwell on that than the current situation, which was changing too quickly for him to get a grasp on.
As midnight approached, he hadn’t quite slept, but he felt a little more rested as he stood back up, pulling on his dark woolen cloak to keep him warm in the frigid night. The row of tents was quiet, only a few illuminated from within by the flickering light of candles or oil lamps. The brazier in the middle of the row had burned low, shedding a faint reddish light on the nearby canvas tents, but giving hardly any warmth as Krujha slipped past it. If there was still any grass left here, it would have crunched under his feet, frozen from the cold; but any lingering green had long since been trod away, leaving only rough dirt footpaths.
As he wove through the rows of dwellings to get closer to the command tent, he noticed more activity than usual the closer he got. When the command tent came into view, he could see it was fully illuminated, the bonfire in front of it roaring away as if freshly fed. Light came from within the seams of the tent, too—several guards were posted up outside it, many more than usual.
Krujha bit back a curse. Zesh was definitely planning something; and the increased guard presence meant he wouldn’t be able to sneak into Alwyn’s tent safely, after all. He still made a slow circuit around the tent to make sure. The guards’ eyes lingered on him as he waltzed past, offering each of them a nod before continuing on his way. None of them returned the gesture.
The guard in front of Alwyn’s tent looked at him with open suspicion—another bad sign if that one, lazy as he was, had started to recognize Krujha. Still, he offered the same polite nod, tucking his hands back into his cloak as he turned away from the makeshift alley where he would typically slip in through.
“Damn it,” he whispered to himself once he was out of sight of the tent. He stopped in front of another low-burning brazier, trying to collect his thoughts. Reaching Alwyn tonight would be impossible, unless he wanted to wait until whatever late-night meeting Zesh was hosting had concluded. But there was no telling when that might be, and the guard was already clearly on edge after seeing him. No, it would be far too risky, even if he waited.
“Sorry, Alwyn,” he sighed, shooting one last look back in the direction of the command tent. He would report for his early-morning breakfast duty, then try to slip out to see if he could get in touch with Alwyn without arousing even more suspicion.
“Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”
Glasha’s voice was sharp and grating—the first thing to greet him as he ducked into the kitchen tent in the faint light of early sunrise. Krujha grimaced, turning to face her. The tall woman’s broad arms were folded across her chest, a deep scowl on her features.
“I’m sorry I missed my shift yesterday,” he said, his voice coming out deferent and contrite. “I found an old friend in the camp that joined up and lost track of time. It won’t happen again.”
His words did not seem to move Glasha, though, as she only stared at him with a deepening frown as he spoke. She eyedhim for a moment longer—then reached over and smacked him upside the head with a wooden spoon she seemed to conjure from nowhere. Krujha hissed at the sharp pain blooming in the back of his skull, but forced the smile to remain on his face. If this was the worst of his punishment, then he’d gotten off easy enough.
“See to it that it doesn’t,” Glasha said, turning away. “You’re at the onion station again.”
This time Krujha couldn’t quite stifle the groan of dismay in his throat, but silenced himself as Glasha shot him an icy glare over her shoulder. His eyes were already burning at the thought of another shift chopping onions.
But it couldn’t be helped. The onion station was at the back of the kitchen tent, tucked away to prevent the biting fumes from spreading too far through the enclosed space. When he arrived, a crate of onions was already set up on the table beside the heavy cutting board. Krujha sighed, pulled an apron from the pile, found a rag for wiping his eyes and nose when they inevitably started to run, selected a clean knife, and set to work.
At least the kitchen tent was warm from the cookfires. In the afternoons, it was sweaty and stifling in its heat; but with the morning chill still so fresh on his skin, the warmth was a welcome change.
He’d been working silently for nearly an hour when the sound of footsteps came from around the corner. Krujha tensed, expecting Glasha again to berate him or maybe, mercifully, move him to a different station—but gave a slight start of surprise when, instead, Brugo stepped into the little alcove.
“Gods, the smell,” he coughed, his eyes immediately watering. “I don’t envy you, cousin. Here. You left this in my tent last night.”
He held a hand out to Krujha. He couldn’t see anything in it, but when he held out his own hand, he felt the other orc slip a folded piece of parchment into it.
“Thank you,” he said, pocketing it without looking. “I’ll come see you after my shift, then?”
Brugo nodded, but his eyes had a tension to them that ran deeper than just the sting of chopped onions. Krujha’s stomach twisted in knots, but he stayed planted in place, even as Brugo ducked back out of the kitchen tent.
The last thing he wanted was for Glasha to notice him skipping duty again, so he kept working until he’d gone through the entire crate of onions set in front of him. Then he picked up the empty crate and ducked out of the kitchen tent, bringing it to the storehouse where he would gather a fresh batch. It was empty when he slipped inside, though, so he hurriedly set the crate down and fished the parchment out of his pocket, holding it close to his body as he read it.
Cousin, a guard from the new camp recognized you. Get out immediately.
Tell our friend Z has summoned all outposts to him and moves on DK within days—confirmed.
“Godsdamnit,” Krujha growled, shoving the parchment back into his pocket. He would need to burn it to be safe, but that was far down on his list of priorities. Now, more than ever, he needed to get to Alwyn, and they needed to get out of here, all else be damned.
