I swallowed hard and held out the gold collar. “I disobeyed your orders. I had to free Eli, any way I could. So, I took this from you. I…stole it.”
Droko’s gaze flicked between the collar and my face.
“I know the gravity of my actions,” I continued. “I disobeyed a direct command. I betrayed your trust. I’m prepared to face the consequences, even if that means death.”
“Death?” Eli blurted out. “No, that’s not—you can’t—”
I motioned for him to stop talking, which he did, likely because his objections were falling on deaf ears. The young shaman was paying him no attention. Droko had eyes only for me.
His gaze was inscrutable. The silence stretched between us, thick and oppressive. I stood my ground, awaiting judgment. Eli shifted nervously behind me, but his role in this was done.
“It took you two days to confess,” Droko finally said. I realized with a start that he not only knew that I’d taken the collar, but exactlywhenI’d done it. “Two strikes with the haft of your own spear.”
A punishment fit for…a child.
“But…I went against your direct—”
The shaman spoke over me as if he hadn’t even heard. “This jeweled blade of my grandsire’s….” He hefted the sword from his lap. “It’s a poor weapon. The grip is riddled with gemstones. The balance is all wrong. It’s too heavy for quick strikes, too light for a proper blow. And it dulls faster than a goblin’s wit.” He ran a thumb along the edge. “It looks impressive, though, doesn’t it? All that fancy metalwork. It’s not meant to be practical. It was made to inspire awe.” He set down the sword, and stood. “But I’d take a keen blade over a gilded one any day.”
I folded to one knee. My voice went thick with emotion. “Droko the Mystic. My spear is yours.”
“I suppose so.” Droko plucked the weapon from my hand, lightning quick, and twirled it like a warrior. Eli gasped and staggered back so fast that a stack of baubles and relics clattered to the floor behind him. Paying him no mind, the shaman rapped me first on the shoulder and again in the opposite leg.
It might ache later. But it hurt nothing like the horrible burden he’d lifted. He bade me rise, and when I found my feet, he tossed my spear back into my waiting hand.
“Remember, Kof, my father was chieftain, so I know how negotiations work. I’ve seen warlords bargain—and make no mistake, Pilgrim might be dressed in rags, but he’s as much a warlord as Ul-Rott. Bargains are never simple trade—they’re a power play. If you had tried to buy your human, things would only be worse for him. Pilgrim would have exploited your desperation. Every scrap of power would have gone into his hands.”
“What will become of Pilgrim now?” Eli asked the shaman.
What would become of Eli, I wondered.
Droko pulled on a towering feathered headdress that made him seem even more formidable than he already was. “That’s what we’re about to find out.”
The full moon cast its pale, ghostly light over us as we joined the assembly of orcs. Apparently the Lost Clan would take their leave this night after all. I was at the lead by the shaman’s side, and Archie, as the Bearer of the Prophecy, flanked him on the other, wrapped in furs. The common square, usually bustling with activity, was eerily silent. The Red Hand Clan members’ faces were bathed in silver as their breaths misted in the cold. And the Lost Clan—the outsiders—stood in a straggling line, bound hand and foot. Even if one of them tried to attack, they’dbe cut down in an instant. And if they chose to run, there was nowhere to go. But the bonds were the outward sign of their defeat, and they stood before us, demoralized and vanquished.
Except for Pilgrim. He was defiant, even in chains. Truly, as Droko had said—he was a warlord. I’m not sure how he hid his leadership of the supposedly leaderless clan for so long. But now that he was exposed, he was clearly too proud to beg. His life was forfeit anyhow.
It was the orcish way.
Ul-Rott conferred briefly with his shaman, but they came to agreement at once. And then the chieftain’s voice rang out, resonant and unyielding. “Pilgrim, of the Lost Clan, you have broken tradition and abused the hospitality of the Red Hand. You have brought dishonor to yourself and endangered us all. Have you anything to say?”
“You call it abuse of hospitality. I call it taking what we need. I won’t apologize for keeping my people alive.”
Ul-Rott nodded to his guards, who shoved Pilgrim to his knees. As Ul-Rott approached, his rolling gait looked nowhere near as ridiculous as it usually did. It looked menacing. “It wasn’t necessity that drove you, but arrogance. And now, you pay the price.”
The chieftain’s sword was no ceremonial blade, and the sound it made was like a cleaver through a thick haunch of meat.
Pilgrim’s head hit the cobbles, followed by his body. A few orcs in the Red Hand Clan uttered, “Praise Ul-Rott,” but the Lost Clan was silent to a man. But a low moan, very human, came from my blind side. It wasn’t Archie, who was watching the proceedings with grim resignation. Eli, then.
And what would behisfate?
Ul-Rott considered Pilgrim’s headless corpse, then brought his boot heel down on the neck, where the edge of bone glistened white. The spine gave off a satisfying crack, reminding everyone just how he’d earned the titleSpinecrusher. With a vague gesture toward the head, he told his guards, “Mount that front and center over the gate. I’m tired of those hobgoblin heads stinking up the place. Now…as for the rest of his people—”
“Chieftain,” I said—and my voice boomed across the square. As Ul-Rott raised his ponderous eyebrows in surprise, I realized I had no idea what I’d meant to say—and no time at all to formulate any sort of persuasive argument. But Eli’s fate was tied to that of the rest of the Lost Clan. And I couldn’t let it be decided by Ul-Rott’s brutal whims.
With so much at stake, I struggled for words. I immediately sensed the chieftain’s patience wearing thin. While I scrambled to find my footing, another voice interjected on my behalf. Droko’s. “My captain may not be the quickest thinker—but he’s strategic. And smart. A good man to have by your side. Hear him out.”
“The Lost Clan,” I began, as my voice found its strength, “they are not all…Pilgrim. Many were taken from their own clans, against their will. Young orcs, seized from their families, forced to wander. Not all are guilty of Pilgrim’s crimes.” I gestured to the bound orcs. “Look at them. Do you see enemies? Or do you see…victims?”
