I stood at the gates with a heavy heart as I watched the remnants of the Lost Clan file out. With Eli beside me, the weight of the morning felt lighter somehow, as if his presence alone gave me strength. Above us, Pilgrim’s head oversaw the proceedings from its pike, where a bold crow was already sizing it up from a nearby perch.
“Good riddance,” Eli muttered, eyes fixed on the departing orcs. He lingered a moment longer, then turned and followedthe other new clan members into the village. I watched him go until he vanished behind the nearest hut, my chest hollow where I should have felt relief. He hadn’t left. That should’ve been enough. But I still didn’t know what would become of him—or us.
A gust of wind stirred the trees, sharp with the promise of winter. It would be a hard season for the Lost Clan.
Movement from outside the gate caught me off guard on my blind side, and I spun, spear in hand. But the creatures now approaching the village weren’t a threat.
Not unless you had a fear of cows.
A small herd of cattle rounded the trees and plodded up the road. In its lead was a mounted figure bundled against the cold. But I knew him by the red and ochre colors of the house of Marok in his cloak, and the dark lock of hair that escaped his cowl.
Quinn, the human horseman. Flanked by a pair of the chieftain’s guards. With another human mounted on the horse behind him, a female I’d never seen before.
Droko said, “Wasn’t he supposed to buy more warhorses for Ul-Rott?”
Archie laughed. “Haven’t you noticed? Quinn only does whatQuinnwants to do!”
How could that be? Quinn served Ul-Rott the Spinecrusher…and questioning the leader’s word, let alone acting against it, seemed like the surest way to land your head on a pike.
And yet, as the cattle filed toward the village gate, I had to admit—the human hardly seemed to fear the chieftain’s wrath. In fact, he looked quite pleased with himself.
Humans were puzzling.
As I turned around the notion in my head that service meant something very different to Quinn than it did to me, General Marok strode out from the village and past the guards at the gate, as if he couldn’t wait even the few extra moments it would take for the mounted horseman to reach him. Quinn swung out of his saddle with lithe grace, and stepped right into Marok’s waiting arms. As Marok bent and buried his face in the crook of Quinn’s neck, bathing himself in his lover’s scent, I was gripped by an excruciating pang of longing.
I wanted what they had. But I was sworn to the shaman.
Beside me, Archie cleared his throat meaningfully. Droko glanced down at him. “You have something to say?”
“Oh, nothing really. It just occurs to me that while no one in those steamy cavesneedsa body to keep them warm at night, a little human companionship can go a long way.”
He then inclined his head toward me.
“What?” Droko asked.
With a long-suffering sigh, Archie said, “Kof. The big, empty room he calls home. The tattooed human he’s clearly smitten with….”
I couldn’t stand it any longer. “You’re ignorant of our ways,” I snapped. “I am not just any guard. I amhonorguard. I have dedicated my life to protecting the shaman—living for him and him alone, foreswearing a home, wife or family of my own.”
Archie raised an eyebrow. “If memory serves…the same restrictions were once placed on a certain shaman.”
Droko shoved a feather out of his eyes and straightened his topknot. “In the Two Swords Clan, my father’s shaman needed no wife. He coupled with his acolytes—too many to count.” He…what? But shamen were supposed to be above matters of the flesh. “I have no objection to the human—he’s a lot less trouble than a dozen useless whelps playing at being holy men. If you want your human to stay, then say so.”
If I wanted him to stay? I didn’t just want Eli—I ached for him. My yearning burned in my belly like a white-hot forge. “Of course I want him to. But I have pledged myself to the shaman.”
Droko considered the words, then said, “That doesn’t make you my slave.”
It took some effort on Droko’s part to convince the chieftain. But, though blunt, he can be very persuasive—especially since he was raised as a chieftain’s son, so he knew just what Ul-Rott wanted to hear. Eli was given the same choice as the rest of the Lost Clan. Swear fealty—and be claimed by the Red Hand, with all the rights and responsibilities of any other member.
Rules are rules. And once it was deemed that the human Eli could join us, it was senseless that the chieftain’s horseman was not also Red Hand. And the same for the shaman’s consort. Even the new human milkmaid—a sturdy, no-nonsense widow who Quinn had recruited to tend the cattle—seemed like a logical addition to the clan. Especially in light of the long winter ahead.
When I took Droko aside and asked him if I should take part in the ceremony and pledge to the clan, he just blinked at me and said, “Why would you? You are Kof.”
The fealty ceremony was a sacred tradition, one that bound us all together. It was a promise of obedience, of protection, and of loyalty. I had witnessed it several times over the years as we integrated new members, but never had it held such significance as it did today.
And never had there been so many lined up to receive it.
Ul-Rott stood at the center of the square in his finest armor. Beside him, Droko held a bowl filled with the blood of our latest kill—not Pilgrim. That would have been an ill omen. For today, a cow that had fallen lame on its journey and was unlikely to make it through the winter had been sacrificed.
