I searched for humans but only found Bess. Archie had remained at the caves and Quinn was off negotiating with horse traders. But all the orcs in the village, as well as the LostClan, had gathered, and they seemed immune to the weather. Everyone’s faces were faces aglow with anticipation—due to the smell that permeated the commons.
Meat.
Quartermaster Trawg had been busy. He’d butchered the boar and steeped it in herbs for two full days while a pit was dug. A huge fire blazed into the night, but only when it was banked to red hot coals had the beast been laid upon the charcoal. The whole thing was then buried to smolder until the fat rendered through the muscle. Such a roast was a rare delicacy. And though it wasn’t a usual feast day, I suspected the fact that we’d succeeded in our hunt was reason enough to celebrate.
Between the spent coals, the smoke, the rendered fat and the roasting meat, the air was alive. But I had no stomach for it. Because I’d stolen from the shaman. And the crime would cost me my life.
The golden collar was heavy at my hip, but I couldn’t just fling it at Pilgrim and rid myself of the burden. I had to wait for the right moment. Right now, everyone was focused on the boar. For the plan to work—for Pilgrim to be cornered into the trade—I had to have all eyes on us.
As the Lost Clan filtered in, I scanned the crowd until I caught sight of Eli. He had a patchy, worn cloak draped over his shoulders. No tattoos showing…though the Red Hand orcs gave him a wide berth anyhow. His dark hair fell loose around his face, and the firelight caught his wintry eyes as they darted around the gathering, never settling in one place for too long.
Pilgrim kept him close, one possessive hand wrapped around Eli’s upper arm. The sight of Pilgrim touching him made my jaw clench, especially when I recalled the finger-shaped bruises onEli’s arm. Eli’s gaze finally found mine across the crowd. For a heartbeat, the mask he wore for everyone else slipped.
I saw no relief there. Just resignation.
That look steeled my resolve. The shaman’s collar was more than just gold—it was Eli’s freedom. And I’d gladly trade my honor, my position, maybe even my life, to give him that chance.
Soon. Soon I’d make the trade, and Pilgrim would have no choice but to accept. The clan would witness it, and the deal would be struck.
Eli looked away first, his blank mask sliding back into place as Pilgrim yanked him toward the commons. That brief moment of connection, though, was enough. I knew what I had to do.
But then the chieftain stood at the head table and clapped once for silence. And if I interrupted Ul-Rott, I’d be hauled away and punished before I could put my plan into action.
The chieftain pointed directly at me, and my heart stuttered. He knew of the great insult I’d perpetrated by stealing from my shaman. I truly would be dead before I even had the chance to plead my case.
And then I realized it wasn’t me he was pointing at, but Droko. “Come on, then, shaman, speak your blessing so we can get this feast started before the meat goes cold.”
Droko stood from his bench, rolled his neck uncomfortably in his ruff of bones and spiky pheasant plumes, and cleared his throat. “This game is a symbol of the strength of the Red Hand. Even with the skies themselves against us, we provide for our own. May we celebrate our strength together as hunters and warriors…” his eyes fell on the Lost Clan, “for these moments together change like the seasons, and our time draws to a close.”
Was that just an acknowledgement that soon the moon would be full? Or was he hinting that he knew what I’d done, and my own time was up?
No. Droko was a blunt man. He didn’t hint. He declared.
I felt as though everyone knew about the collar—Droko, Ul-Rott, even the old goblin slaves dusting the ashes off the roast boar. That they were all just taunting me, putting on some kind of show to drag things out until I was finally exposed for what I’d done. Shame roiled in my gut. But I’d come this far. I was determined to do whatever it took for Eli—and then pay the price.
Droko sat back down, flicking feathers like a grouse settling beneath a bush, and then Ul-Rott pushed back from the table. “Well, that’s that.” He lowered his voice and added, “Your brevity, as always, is appreciated.” He stood, hand on the hilt of the short sword at his thigh, and lurched toward me. I froze, rooted to the spot, fully prepared for the last thing I saw to be my clan spinning past as my head toppled from my body. But then Ul-Rott tipped the other way, in that peculiar, rolling gait he’d developed, and ambled over to the fire pit to make the ceremonial first cut.
Although old Trawg was now shivering from the cold, he beamed with pride as the chieftain approached. Normally, the quartermaster would portion and preserve the game, not serve it whole. But this meal sent a message, as something the Lost Clan would not soon forget.
Ul-Rott approached the great beast, nearly as big as he was, even skinned and roasted. The chieftain drew his sword smoothly and held it high. “Let it be known that the Red Hand is as strong as ever, and we claim our ancestors’ blessings.”
He thrust the sword into the boar’s side. But instead of herbed juices, what seeped out was a tarry, black ooze.
Even above the smell of woodsmoke, it stank of rot.
Ul-Rott’s eyes bulged. He turned to Trawg, livid, surely about to take the quartermaster’s hands, if not his very head. But before Ul-Rott could bellow a command, Trawg jabbed a finger toward the Lost Clan—toward Eli—and cried out, “The boar was cursed—by the witch!”
19
Kof
“No,” I gasped. I took a step toward Eli without even realizing it, but then Droko’s arm shot across my chest and I stopped cold.
I nearly abandoned the shaman.
But he didn’t seem to care about that. “If the Lost Clan strikes, they strike now. And we need to stay back from the chieftain so they can’t slay us both at once.”
My mind scrambled to make sense of what he was saying. How could the Lost Clan have been planning to strike…unless they’d sabotaged the meat?
