The riders reined in their mounts to keep our group together, just in case the hobgoblin band had been some kind of ruse. It was doubtful, since no hob would volunteer to act as decoy if they were guaranteed to be slain. But a good warrior doesn’t let down his guard outside the safety of his clan’s walls.
The shaman, marching home beside me, was silent. Unlike his predecessor, Droko often went for long stretches without speaking—especially if his talkative human wasn’t around. I read nothing into his demeanor until he surprised me by leaning in and murmuring, “Is it true—what the chieftain claimed? That the hunters are coming up empty-handed?”
While I did live in the caves with Droko, since I oversaw his table, I spent a good amount of time in the clan’s larder. A dwindling supply of fresh meat would not have escaped my notice.
Unless the quartermaster had saved the choicest bits for the chieftain and the shaman, while the rest of the clan ate gristle.
I was no hunter. I lived in the tunnels—and, besides, I had only one eye. But the Red Hand Clan was strong. Especially now that Two Swords had finally learned their place. If we were short on meat, a few warriors could be spared to track down game.
And, why not? Most fighters hunted for the joy of it anyhow. They’d be eager for the chance to show off. We had plenty of good warriors—the village would be fine without them. Not only was Two Swords no longer a threat, but our walls were stout. No one got in or out without the chieftain’s say.
Speaking of Ul-Rott…we approached a small rise and found that he and his other riders had stopped, some steeds prancing in place, some cropping grass, and some pawing the ground.
“What now?” Droko said, as the chieftain, twisting around awkwardly in his stirrups, motioned his shaman forward. I fixed myself to Droko’s side, spear ready, as he approached the chieftain.
Ul-Rott cocked his head in annoyance. “As if the boil on my ass isn’t enough, now I’ve got to deal with this nonsense. Which reminds me—my choad is acting up again.”
Evidently, life in the saddle took some adjustment.
“Come to the caves once your horse is seen to,” Droko said. “I’ll handle it.”
As we stepped up and crested the rise, the wall of our village came into view. The gates were shut tight. But the clearing in front of it was definitely not clear.
It wasn’t hobgoblins sieging the walls while their decoys lured away our warriors…but a lazy band of orcs lounging all around. Dozens upon dozens of orcs. Men and women in piecemeal armor and rags. They weren’t warriors, and they weren’t up in arms.
Even so, a chill dread settled in my belly.
I’d rather it be a band of bloodthirsty hobs at my gate than the Lost Clan.
3
Kof
If Ul-Rott could’ve come up with any excuse to turn away the Lost Clan, they’d still be outside our wall. But an orc would no more refuse them hospitality than spit on their chieftain’s pyre.
The Lost Clan had been lounging on their packs as they waited, and now they crept through the gates slower than a hungover recruit. Clearly, no warriors among them. No capable fighter would dream of sprawling out in the middle of the road with their belly exposed.
Droko caught me by the bracer and said, “Warn the quartermaster. Those freeloaders will demand a feast. And if we’re short on game, he’ll need to be ready.”
Even within our walls, I was reluctant to leave the shaman’s side—especially with strangers filtering in. But a glance at his blood-crusted staff and armor reassured me that he was not old Taruut. He would make it back to the caves without me. Besides, he had an important choad to attend.
I hurried to the larders.
The stout wooden structure cast a long shadow across the courtyard. Only one guard by the entrance. Her eyes narrowed as she watched the Lost Clan trickle in through the gates.
“What’s all this?” she demanded, gesturing toward the ragged orcs with her sword.
“The Lost Clan,” I said simply.
She sighed in resignation, as if she’d suspected as much, but was hoping I’d come up with some other explanation.
I said, “Trawg will need to be ready. Where is he?”
“Where he always is. Down in the cellar, counting the supplies.”
I ducked through the low doorway. The main floor of the larder was an obstacle course of dangling herbs and drying meats. Sacks of grain from traders sagged on the shelves, half-empty. I wove through a maze of tables and descended the wooden steps into the cool, earthen darkness of the cellar. Casks and barrels lined the dugout, hugging the walls where the earth kept them cool.
I’d always presumed they were full. But what if they weren’t?
