Before I could second-guess myself—before I could convince myself I was a fool for thinking this orc would believe a word I said about Pilgrim’s treachery, I chose a third path. Instead of grabbing his knife, I leaned in and quickly said, “Chieftain, there’s something you need to know.”
But before I could expose Pilgrim’s plan, the door burst open and Kof strode in. “Ul-Rott, you can’t eat that!” he exclaimed—then belatedly thumped his chest and added, “Praise Ul-Rott, my spear is—” He spied me where I’d been in his blind side, faltered, then hurriedly finished. “My spear is yours.”
The sharp little knife was still within reach. Pilgrim’s grip on my arm tightened even further. “Do it. Do it now.”
Kof regained his composure and declared, “There is no curse.” His strong voice carried to every corner of the dining hall. “The venison is filled with disease.”
Murmurs coursed through the crowd. Some disbelieving, but others cautious. No one rushed to defend him. But his rank still carried weight.
The shaman would likely have believed him. But Ul-Rott didn’t seem entirely convinced.
“It was Quinn who first spoke of the Wrack,” Kof told the chieftain. A few orcs immediately dismissed the “human” concerns, but Kof raised his voice and spoke over them. “And you know his way with animals. Ulka was the first to die—a hunter. And now the quartermaster is sick. That’s why he left a bilesack inside the boar.”
Ul-Rott grabbed his eating knife and thrust it into his half-eaten apple, spearing it into the table with a beleaguered sigh. “I suppose I have to take this up with Trawg.” He leaned over andsaid, “Bring the quartermaster to me,” to one of the warriors, who immediately sprang to do his bidding. To the rest of his retinue, he said, “And I’ll check with my horseman when he gets back. Now, if the hares around here aren’t cursed or diseased or sprouting ten pairs of wings and flying away, dinner had better be on my table before it’s one ofyourheads on the next platter.”
23
Kof
Damn the useless hollow where my eye used to be. In the chaos that resulted from my warning about the Wrack, I lost sight of Eli. And once things calmed down, he and Pilgrim were gone.
I pushed my way through the throng of orcs and hurried out from the lodge as quickly as I could, but Eli was nowhere to be seen.
Or smelled.
A light snow was falling now, and the air was crisp and clean—masking all the scents I could normally rely on. I stood, chest heaving, and scanned my surroundings. But all around were nothing but half-melted snowbanks and half-frozen boot prints. I huffed in frustration…and then I smelled it.
Eli’s scent.
Not the musk of his human arousal or the tang of his fear, but the peculiar scent that clung to his hair. A smell like leatherand old resin. Back on the island in our snow hollow, the scent was so faint that I almost forgot it was there. But now it lingered in the air…growing stronger as I wended my way to the district of smaller one- or two-family houses the skilled warriors called home.
The foreign smell was strongest in front of a house that was shuttered tight, with small tents pitched around it and bits of discarded wood and bone scattered around the doorway. The Lost Clan had obviously claimed it. I didn’t know whose house it had once been—I spent all my time in the shaman’s caves and had no time to worry myself about the village goings on.
Or maybe it was more like noinclination. After Taruut claimed my service as a boy, they’d always treated me like an outsider. I was lucky the guards had heeded my warning about the Wrack today. I sensed they very nearly hadn’t.
I approached the house. Beneath the undignified mess, the building itself was still in good repair, though the Lost Clan had only been there a fortnight. I should probably be glad their time with us was nearly up. But when they left, they would take Eli with them.
Unless I stopped them.
I shoved through the door. The wooden bolt holding it shut snapped like dry kindling. All around, orcs had been lounging carelessly on the floor. They scrambled to their feet, drunk or half-asleep. Had I been trying to kill them, I would have run through at least a few by the time they’d gained their feet.
But I wasn’t there to attack. I was there for Eli. And his scent was strong.
At least…I thought so. Until I caught the source of the scent and held it, rolling it across my palate—and saw that its source was a battered wooden chest. Large. And yet—
It should be bigger.
Irememberedit was bigger.
As I stared, the orcs around me challenged my presence.
“What the hell?”
“You can’t just barge in here!”
“The moon isn’t full yet! We’re still the same clan!”
The Lost Clan scrabbled for rusty weapons, but when I made no move to attack them—when I just stood there like an idiot staring at the wooden chest—they couldn’t figure out what to do.
