If their plan succeeded, I would surely be executed alongside my shaman. And if it failed…they’d see that Eli took all the blame.
“We need the boar,” I blurted out. Droko turned his cunning eyes to me. A plan had formed without me giving it thought—any thought at all—but now was not the time to weigh and ponder.“You can stop this before it’s too late. Remove its so-called curse and prove we are strong in both might and magic.”
Voices were raised now while hands settled on weapons. The chieftain’s men were massing around him while the honor guard readied their spears, and even the onlookers shifted their grips on their eating knives. “Have a vision,” I told Droko.
“What??”
“Have a vision. Something about the boar and the storm and the magic—and the whole thing was meant to be. Then we can get a better look at what really happened.” And, hopefully, expose the sabotage for what it was.
“I can’t just—”
“Please. Shaman. Help him. For me.”
I saw the hesitation in Droko’s stance, the weight of uncertainty pressing down on him. But then, with a deep breath, he straightened, lifting his chin as if to confront the heavens themselves.
“The spirits,” he bellowed, spreading his arms wide with a wild bobbing of pheasant tail-feathers. The crowd immediately fell silent. “The spirits have spoken to me.”
All eyes turned to him. The tension was thick enough to cut with a blade. The shaman’s reputation as a true seer was the only thing standing between us and utter chaos.
“I see… I see the boar surrounded by storm.” Droko closed his eyes as if in deep concentration. “An unnatural storm that came far too early.”
“The witch is strong,” one of the honor guard murmured. Grok, that idiot. I shot him a glare and he shut his mouth.
Droko opened his eyes and dropped his arms, staring intently at Ul-Rott and the assembled crowd. “The curse came not from the weak human, but the storm itself.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, uncertainty mingling with belief. Droko’s words had weight because of who he was, but even he couldn’t fully dispel the fear that had taken hold.
“The spirits demand purification,” Droko said decisively. “We must cleanse this place of the storm’s displeasure.”
Ul-Rott’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded slowly. “What must be done?”
Droko turned to me, a silent question in his gaze. I took a step forward, heart pounding, and said, “We must remove the cursed meat from this place and take it to the caves, where Droko the Mystic can cleanse it of foul magics.”
Ul-Rott grunted in approval. “Very well. You all see our strength. The storm is no match for us.” He pointed at Trawg, who stood trembling beside the smoking carcass. “See to it that the cursed meat is taken off to the caves to be dealt with.”
Trawg obeyed without question, signaling the slaves to finish unearthing the roast boar. Even the old goblin stayed well clear of the black ooze.
The tension began to ease as Droko’s “vision” took hold in the clan’s minds, and everyone dispersed back to their homes with empty bellies but full reassurance. Belief in their shaman’s words was stronger than fear of witchcraft…for now.
Eventually, the Lost Clan wandered off, grumbling. As they did, Eli’s ice-blue eyes met mine across the commons—wide and grateful—but I quickly looked away before anyone noticed our connection.
Droko leaned close and whispered so only I could hear. “Now what?”
I steeled myself. “Now we need to find out who sabotaged the boar before they strike again.”
20
Eli
The larkwood chest had been the bane of my existence all these long months. But now, I curled myself into it, wishing the lid could lock from the inside…dreading the moment it would be thrown open and leave me vulnerable and exposed.
The voices of Smeg and Pilgrim carried through the wood, despite their attempts to keep them down.
“The Red Hand will turn on us.” Smeg said. “Hospitality or not, they’re looking for someone to blame for the rotten boar.”
Pilgrim’s boots scraped across the wooden floor as he paced. “Let them come. I won’t give up my property because you’ve lost your nerve.”
“We should go now, before they decide we’ve worn out our welcome.” A thud—Smeg must have kicked something. “Give them the human. We could flay off his tattoos first, as a gesture of good faith.”
