I trailed him through a warren of passages to the chieftain’s dining hall. If things went wrong, there’d be no quick exit. The room itself was low and broad, with oil lanterns casting flickering shadows everywhere. A massive wooden table dominated the center of the room, and between Ul-Rott’s warriors and sons, every seat but the chieftain’s was taken. The air was filled with orcish voices—which all fell silent as we entered, and the orcs’ eyes fixed on me with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
Ul-Rott’s wife stood. Her lips curled in scorn around her tusks. I knew that if she could, she’d have me skewered onthe spot. But Pilgrim made a show of bobbing and nodding in obeisance, and she grudgingly restrained herself.
As Pilgrim was bowing and groveling, he leaned in and whispered in my ear, “Do what we planned, and you’ll win your freedom.”
So he said. But I knew different.
Even if I helped him…he’d never let me go.
As he spoke, the chieftain himself entered, scanning the room with shrewd eyes. Immediately, everyone knelt and thumped their chest—including Pilgrim, and including me. I’d been schooled on this point, and I planned on playing my role. At least until it no longer served me.
Ul-Rott had seen us, obviously, though while his wife made no effort to hide her reaction, the chieftain hardly spared us a scrap of his attention. And if Pilgrim hated anything, it was being ignored.
“What’s the holdup?” Ul-Rott demanded. “I’ve waited long enough. Bring me my damn food.”
A pair of slaves—an orc and a mongrel—wrestled a huge bronze platter into the hall. The onset of winter had clearly not reached the chieftain’s table. Mounds of roasted apples and honeyed nuts surrounded a leathery flayed head—a stag’s head, judging by the antlers that had been decoratively reattached. The gruesome thing looked like it was smiling. It leered at me sightlessly through eyes of peppercorn-studded pickled eggs.
The chieftain leaned forward, watching eagerly.
Pilgrim was none too pleased to be upstaged by the food. He cleared his throat. “Great Ul-Rott the Spinecrusher, withrespect...” His hand tightened on my chain. “We bring vital news.”
Ul-Rott leaned across and speared a spiced apple with his short sword even before the slaves settled the groaning platter on his table. He tore into the fruit and spoke with his mouth full. “The news can wait.”
“But I forced a confession from the witch.” Pilgrim’s voice rose. “One you’ll want to hear before you take even one more bite.”
The chieftain paused mid-chew. His sons shifted in their seats.
“A confession?” Ul-Rott’s wife spat the word.
“That’s right—a confession that could save many lives.” Pilgrim bowed low again. “But it’s for the chieftain’s ears only.”
Ul-Rott set down what was left of his apple with a sigh. “Fine.” He waved us forward. “Let’s get this nonsense over with so we can eat in peace.”
The orcish warriors stiffened as I was paraded up to the chieftain’s seat. The chieftain might not be superstitious, but enough of his men and women were. Pilgrim guided me forward until I stood beside Ul-Rott’s chair. The chain clinked between us as he positioned me just so…
…within easy reach of the chieftain’s eating knife, which was lying there unattended at his elbow.
“This had better be worth my time,” Ul-Rott said.
“Oh, it will be.” Pilgrim’s voice oozed satisfaction.
I kept my eyes down, my shoulders hunched. The perfect picture of submission. But beneath my lashes, I watched. Not Ul-Rott…but Pilgrim.
Pilgrim nudged me in the ribs. “Tell the chieftain what you told me.”
This was it. My cue to grab that small, sharp knife and thrust it into Ul-Rott’s windpipe, right in the chink between breastplate and collar.
And yet, I could just as easily pivot and slit my captor’s throat instead. Now would be the perfect time. Right while he was busy gloating, and I could watch the glee in his eyes flicker and die—and witness the moment he realized he had never managed to break me.
Given all the heavily armed orcs surrounding us, it would be my last moment. But that hardly mattered now.
My fingers twitched as I anticipated the feel of the hilt in my fingers. It would be thick and ungainly, crafted for a huge orcish fist. But it was the chieftain’s blade, forged of the finest steel and honed to perfection. It would slice through flesh like butter. Those were my choices. Kill the chieftain and die. Or kill Pilgrim…and die.
Pilgrim’s fingers dug into my arm bruisingly hard. “Tell the chieftain what you told me,” he repeated.
What if there was another choice?
It had been a long, long time since I cared if I died. Now, though, some small ember of hope had been ignited. I doubted Ul-Rott would magnanimously grant me my freedom. But he might allow me to live.
