“The chieftain said I should stick to Kof. I’m obeying him.” My jaw was clenched so tight, I barely grit out the words.
He squeezed my arm so hard, my vision went red and tears sprang to my eyes. “If you’re thinking about running off in the woods…think again. I know your scent. And I will track you down and make you wish you were never born.”
“It hadn’t even crossed my mind,” I said.
And oddly enough, that was the truth.
14
Kof
I saw nothing in the clouds that hinted at a disaster to come, felt no particular twinge in the atmosphere.
But I had to agree with Eli—the air didn’t smell right.
Still, Droko was impatient enough about me “wasting time,” as he called it, by ordering more cloaks. I’d never convince him to get Ul-Rott to postpone the hunt.
We gathered by the front gate in a large, raucous group. The hunters were eager to honor Ulka’s memory—and all of us were eager to forget about the Lost Clan. The caves had only borne the incursion of a single human, but the rest of the Red Hand was not so lucky. Everywhere they turned, a Lost Clan stranger was eating their food or pawing through their fallen neighbors’ belongings. This outing would give them a respite from the forced hospitality. A chance to breathe easy again.
The chieftain was just as eager as the rest of them to get on with the hunt. He sat astride his warhorse, Destroyer, head and shoulders above the crowd, watching everyone assemblewith a keen eye. Once everyone was there—including a token few hunters from the Lost Clan—Ul-Rott raised an arm and the gathering immediately fell silent.
“We triumphed in our last skirmish with the hobgoblins—but we lost too many good fighters.” A murmur of assent went through the crowd. “We will not let ourselves get complacent. A soft clan is a dead clan. Remember who you are: the Red Hand. By the end of his hunt, the forest floor should be crimson with the blood of our prey.”
And our larders should be full again.
Ul-Rott turned to Droko. “Shaman—have you got anything to say?”
Droko was a plain-spoken orc who cared little for ceremony. But Archie had anticipated that he’d be called upon to bestow some sort of blessing. I’d heard the human coaching him well into the night. Droko squared his shoulders and said, “The strength of the ancestors runs through your veins. Steel your resolve. Claim the land’s tribute with your blades.”
It was a bit stilted. But no one would dare remark on it.
Once Droko said his part, the hunting parties thumped their chests, and we split into smaller groups so as not to flush all the game across the river and into our neighbors’ grounds. The shaman’s group consisted of a handful of trusted honor guard, Eli, and me. And while the other guardsmen were too busy salivating over their chance to sink their spears into something warm and thrashing, I was on the lookout for any potential threat to Droko. “You worry too much,” Archie often told me. “Even if someone did have it out for Droko, would they really risk a shaman’s death curse?”
Never underestimate the stupidity of your enemy.
In particular, I disliked the look of the hunters from the Lost Clan. Their gear was shoddy and ill-cared for, and they glanced toward the shaman’s group far too much for my liking. Once General Marok strode over and gave us our assignment—circle the city and trap our prey against the bank of the river at its deepest, fastest point—we set off into the woods, leaving the Lost Clan hunters behind.
We did our best to move swift and silent, but my men and I had trained to defend the caves. Even the hazy, overcast light made me squint, and endless dried bits of grasses and trees crackled underfoot. “We sound like a team of drunk oxen,” Droko remarked.
I said, “But we move toward the water. If we do flush something out, we can trap it against the river.”
Eli chuffed.
“What’s so funny?” Droko demanded. “It’s a solid plan.”
“As solid as a frozen river?” Eli said.
He was mistaken. The river never froze over this early in the season. And yet, the way his breath plumed out from him as he spoke…he might very well be right.
“We’re sure to bring in a good catch,” Droko said.
It looked to me like he was just glad to be out in the woods, but I would never second-guess his motives. “Did you have a vision?”
He thumped me on the arm, laughing. “Not at all—I heard Marok sending the Lost Clan to the northern glade. If we sound like a team of oxen, they’ll be louder than a whole herd. Betweentheir racket and the river barrier, game will be leaping onto our spears!”
The young shaman was pragmatic. I’d give him that.
We marched toward our position in an orderly formation. But Eli continuously fell out of line, looking up at the sky. “Your legs may be short,” I told him, “but it’s not a punishing pace. You need to keep up. The weakest member can’t delay the whole group.”
