“What are you doing here?” the orc demanded. Before I could fall back on my “I’m so hungry” act to distract from the knives, he added, “Did your master send you? Lost Clan or not—your people got their fair share at the feast. Even one from our own clan wouldn’t claim more than their due.”
Only a one-eyed orc would have missed the fact that I’d been headed straight for a weapon. I thanked my lucky stars that he couldn’t somehowsmellmy interest in the knife. “Pilgrim didn’t send me—I was just hoping there’d be something left over. A scrap…anything.”
The orc’s single eye traveled down my body. His gaze lingered briefly on my flat belly, then came to rest at the low-slung knot that hitched my sarong around my hips. Then he turned toward the shelves.
Before I lost my nerve, I grabbed the boning knife and slid it down the back of my sarong. I was acutely aware that with one wrong move, I would slice off a cheek of my own arse. But the blade nestled sure at the flat of my back, as if it had been honed to fit just there.
All I’d need to do is make sure I didn’t turn my back on One-Eye or the other guards until I was out of visual range.
Lucky for me, an orc’s eyesight is for shit.
The orc handed me a loaf of bread, covered in dark flecks. I supposed I’d eaten wormier dry tack.
“Seeds,” he said, as I broke off a hunk and shoved it into my mouth. It was surprisingly decent. It would have been even better if the orc wasn’t staring at me while I ate it. But now I could hardly turn away.
“What are you called?” he asked.
“Eli.”
“Eli,” he repeated, trying it on for size. It was the first time anyone had spoken my actual name in…months. Not “you,” or “pinkie,” or “human.” I expected the next thing out of his mouth to be a command to show my gratitude properly. Instead, he said, “You’ll need more clothes. Winter is harsh here.”
What was that about?
Orcs expect everyone to fend for themselves. Sink or swim. Never have I seen a glimmer of kindness from any of them. “Why shouldyoucare?”
He actually considered the question. After a moment’s thought, he said, “I know of humans now. You’re not so different from us in many ways. But you’re also weak. And you have…needs.”
They’d soon learn just how weak this human was.
“I’m fine,” I said testily.
Satisfied, he watched me with that single, steely eye as I forced down the rest of the loaf, which was trying hard to stick in my throat. One-Eye was shaped like Smeg, no doubt. All bulk and muscle, with a thick pillar of a neck and tusks that curved in the very same way. But where Smeg’s eyes glittered with cunning and cruelty, I saw intelligence here.
But that was ridiculous. Orcs loved their ploys and schemes, but they were hardly deep thinkers. More likely, my nerves were getting the better of me.
I swallowed the last few crumbs, and One-Eye said, “How many other clans have you seen in your travels?”
“Seven? Eight?” After the first few, they all started to blend. You see one orcish village, you’ve seen ’em all.
“Was anyone sick?” he asked.
“I thought orcs didn’t get sick.”
It was enough of an answer for him. He grunted, then moved aside from the door. I sidled toward it, thinking no sane person would turn his back on a vicious beast like that, no matter how docile it might seem. But as I reached the threshold, he said, “Leave the blade on the table—unless you want the chieftain’s guards to use it to cut your fingers off.”
How did he…?
His nostrils were flared.
Son of a bitch. He couldsmellthe iron.
Afterward, I plodded back to our commandeered hut, swallowing down my disappointment with the last taste of the nutty, dark seeds. I’d never considered the telltale scent of metal would give me away, so really, I’d learned something valuable. I’d need a weapon they couldn’t smell.
I’d hoped the orcs would be sleeping off the feast by the time I got back, but no such luck. Not only was Pilgrim awake, but he gave me a good, long whiff before remarking, “The quartermaster wasn’t so sweet on you after all.”
“What difference does it make? I checked out the larder, just like you wanted.” I described the larders in detail—leaving out the knives, of course.
Pilgrim considered the information—good information. Something to scheme with. “But you made no inroad with Trawg.”
