I blinked. “How did you know?”
“Oh, believe you me…I’ve knownplentyof sailors in my time. But you’d be hard-pressed to reach the nearest port from these parts without a good road and a well-stocked caravan. Which begs the question, how did you end up out here beyond the wastelands?”
My story was my own. And it was no one else’s business, fellow human or not. “Blown in by the winds of Fate, just like anyone else.”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “Spoken like a true seaman. Look, sailor boy, let’s be frank—you’re not truly Red Hand Clan, no matter what the orcish traditions say. The minute the moon comes ’round again, you’ll take off faster than a paying man who’s just tugged up his breeches. So, if you’re here to scout the caves for your people, don’t expect to find anything worth stealing. There’s nothing here but a few piles of common herbs and a bunch of bones.”
“I’m not here to steal,” I said. If I spotted a handy weapon lying around, I wouldn’t hesitate to borrow it. But they’d get it back soon enough once my suicide mission was over. “I want to see Kof.”
“And I suspect he feels likewise.” The words were light, but the tone was far too knowing. “Just keep in mind that orcs might all be green, but that doesn’t make every one of them the same. Once in a while, you do stumble across a good one.”
Archie shifted his attention to the doorway, where a massive shadow flickered against the wall. Smeg, my mind told me, come to collect me before I’d even had a chance to make an inroad here. But, again, my eyes had played tricks on me, and the shadow resolved itself into one-eyed Kof.
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Archie singsonged as he slipped from the room.
Good riddance. He was far too canny for my liking. Him leaving made me feel nervous, though, in a way I hadn’t expected.
“What do you want?” Kof asked with orcish bluntness.
The hardness of the beads dug into my palm. I hadn’t realized I’d been clenching them so tightly. Here, in the confines of the small cave chamber, Kof looked even bigger than I remembered. Most orc soldiers are bulky with huge plates of armor, but the shaman’s honor guard wore only strappy leather, to better navigate the narrow tunnels. Kof’s bulk was pure muscle.
The beads nagged at my hand. Before I could dash the thought, I wondered what it would be like to slide a hand under one of those leather straps, to run my fingers over the hills and valleys of his muscled chest.
The captain had been a huge, strapping man. I supposed the big ones had always been my downfall.
“Well?” Kof prompted.
I told myself to stop being an idiot. “You said you could get me something to wear. Can you? Or was that just an excuse to get me here?”
He cocked his head, truly puzzled. “I don’t need excuses. I’m in charge.”
If so…he can help me.
Again, a story unspooled in my mind, unbidden and unwelcome. A story where I threw myself at Kof’s feet and convinced him to let me stay with him until the Lost Clan no longer darkened their doorstep. And after that? Anything—anything at all. Join a caravan. Travel the wasteland. Maybe even take a new name, make my way back to the coast, and hire on a ship. I’d always wanted to work on a three-masted caravel. Or even a merchant cog, tacking slow along the edge of the desert sea.
Or maybe I could even stick around for a while…and slide my hand into that strappy leather.
Don’t be stupid. Nothing ever works out like I want it to.
“I need some heavy clothes,” I finally said. “Winter is almost here.”
Kof nodded once. “Sensible. Good. I have a new recruit who’s not much taller than you.” He stuck his head into the passage and called out, “Grok? Bring me a spare shirt and pants—something you’ve nearly outgrown. The tighter the better.”
I’ll give you four coppers…but only if you’re good and tight.
No.
No.
Damn Archie for putting the thought in my head that some of these orcs could be trusted. Because even a human would readily turn on you if it suited his ambitions.
“If you need something else,” Kof was saying, “a traveling peddler stops by every few weeks. He’ll have more to choose from, since there’s a market for that type of thing around here now. You could do with a sturdy pair of boots.”
A small orc joined us, carrying an armload of clothes—and by small, I mean only a hand taller than me. “The tunic won’t lace anymore and I can’t pull up the breeches—”
He’d been so focused on his captain that he only now realized I was there. And when he did, the clothes slid from his grasp into a heap at his feet. He ignored them and jabbed a finger in my direction. “That’s him, Captain!” he said, aghast. “That’s the witch who cursed Ulka!”
10
