I might’ve been a naïve farm boy, but I still knew how the world worked. Sentimentality is an indulgence. And things thatoutlive their usefulness are culled. After all, every old hen ended up in the stewpot eventually, so the laying hens had more feed.
And yet, I still let myself believe I mattered more than what the captain stood to gain.
When it came time to choose, he did it with no hesitation at all.
Turns out, you don’t need a guiding star if you’re familiar with your route.
“Are we almost there?” Smeg’s grumbles carried through the chest. Smeg wasn’t the orc’s real name, of course. Everyone just called him that because you could smell his reeking dick from a mile away—according to the orcs, anyway.
But orcs like things that stink. It’s when they scent something that they gain the upper hand. And if anyone always had the upper hand, it was Pilgrim.
“We’ll be there when we need to be,” he said.
But we must be close, I figured, if he was rehearsing the tactic of making a mouthful of nothing sound wise.
Smeg, however, wasn’t exactly receptive to his so-called wisdom. Smeg was huge, even by orc standards. And if his stink and his swagger didn’t announce him, the massive sword on his hip would. Beneath years of neglect, it glittered with filigree and gems. I’d never once seen him oil the blade—but he was as proud of that thing as he was of his own stench.
He said, “We’ve been plodding down this road so long, my boots are worn through.” Not to mention the heavy sword that slapped his thigh with each step. “We coulda taken our visit to the Wolf Head clan without going so far out of our way.Everyone knows they keg twice as much ale as they can drink. Even the dwarves stop at Wolf Head.”
“It takes more than just ale to fill a belly,” Pilgrim answered.
“But it’s a damn good start,” Smeg muttered. But orcs are orcs, and Smeg was only second in command. He might grumble. But he always fell in line eventually.
They trudged ahead. The cart jostled along the rutted trail. I grew weary of picturing the tree canopy passing by overhead and instead imagined I was watching a dramatic starry sky unfold at sea. But the shuffle of boots was a poor substitute for lapping waves, and the judder of the cart wheels was nothing like the sway of a hammock.
I never did know whether I should hoard my memory of the sea and only troop it out when I felt desperate, or if I should practice so it didn’t fade forever. It hurt to recall something so wide, so unreachable. Like pressing on a bruise to be sure it’s still there. Maybe one day I’d forget how it felt to stand on deck with the stars above and nothing in front of me but the wind.
But maybe that was mercy.
I was wondering whether I even remembered the constellations correctly when my cart creaked to a halt. The lazy murmur of orcish voices went quiet, and an expectant stillness settled in.
Only once he had the stage did Pilgrim intone, “Greetings, brothers and sisters. Fortune smiles on you. The Lost Clan has come to bestow upon you their blessing.”
A gate creaked a short ways off, and a confident footfall approached.
“I am Marok.” The voice was calm and deep, and most definitely orcish. “General of Red Hand Clan’s army. Who is the chieftain of your clan?”
“Seeking to trip me with my own spear?” Pilgrim asked casually. “The Lost Clan has no chieftain.”
“So I take that to mean that I’ll be dealing with you.”
“As you see fit, General. You speak for Ul-Rott the Spinecrusher, then?” A pattering of chest thumps surrounded us as the name of their chieftain was uttered. The Red Hand had plenty of guards, then. No snoozing sentries here. “Can he not speak for himself?”
“He can. But since he’s currently busy using some hobgoblins for target practice, you’ll talk to me.”
The smallest of pauses as Pilgrim changed tack. He’d been hoping for Ul-Rott—a brutal warlord, but a predictably conceited one. This General Marok was unknown.
“There’s fresh water not a hundred strides from where you sit now,” the General said, “and plenty of space for you to bide your time while you wait for Ul-Rott to welcome you himself. Rest easy. Our guards will make sure you’re undisturbed.”
The veiled threat was clear—we’re watching you—and the tone brooked no argument.
For a moment, I almost smiled at the thought of someone standing up to Pilgrim. But then I remembered who I belonged to, and what happened when his ego took a hit.
Some men lash down the sails when a storm is coming. Some pretend the sky is still blue. Pilgrim was the kind who smiledwhile the clouds gathered, then hit hard when the sails hung in tatters.
And when the blow finally came, it could only land on me.
2
