One by one, the new members approached and spoke their pledge. There were so many, the oath had become routine by the time the humans stepped forward. But the mood shifted and anticipation prickled the air when Eli took his turn.
He presented himself to Ul-Rott, gaze direct and head held high. His glossy, dark hair flowed in the wind, and the swirling edge of his tattoos peeked from the collar of a borrowed tunic. And when he spoke, his voice was steady—though his words were thick with emotion. “I, Eli, swear fealty to the Red Hand Clan,” he said, just as every former member of the Lost Clan had done before him. “I pledge to obey, defend and serve, to stand with my…fellow orcs…against all foes.”
As Eli spoke, I noticed a warrior surreptitiously blowing into his clenched fist. One of the honor guard behind me whispered, “Does that make him an orc?”
“Maybe,” Grok answered. “But he’s still a witch.”
The first one countered, “At least he’s onourside now.”
Ul-Rott’s voice boomed through the square, “By this blood, I accept your oath.” He dunked his hand into the congealing sacrificial blood, and pressed his mark onto Eli’s chest. “You are now a member of the Red Hand Clan.”
This was what it meant to be part of something greater than oneself. This was what it meant to belong.
And according to Droko, I’d been part of this all along.
Next came the horseman. The chieftain seemed well-pleased to put the clan’s mark on Quinn. Although the human was always speaking out of turn, he truly was clever, and he’d been Ul-Rott’s secret weapon in defeating Two Swords. And Droko’s chest swelled with pride when Archie swore his allegiance with uncharacteristic seriousness.
Ul-Rott looked over his newly reinforced ranks, and said, “Let any who defy the Red Hand take heed! Your warriors will become our strength, your victories our glory!” With a grunt of satisfaction, he shook a spatter of blood from his hand and said, “Good. Now thatthat’shandled—”
“Chieftain, wait.” From the gathered ranks of the clan, a figure stepped forward. Goram, the blacksmith, a solid orc with broad arms criss-crossed with scars, and a perpetual squint. “There’s one more human you need to swear in.”
There’d been a third human to arrive with Quinn and Archie, a young woman—now his slave. She stood with the blacksmith’s family, flanked by his children. His house’s mark was branded on her face.
Ul-Rott already looked annoyed. “She’s a slave, Goram, not a person.”
Goram squared his shoulders. “Sheisa person—her name is Bess. And I gave her authority over my children. The one they obey should be a full member of the clan. Otherwise, that makes my own kin less than slaves.”
It was hard to argue with that logic.
Ul-Rott, eager to carve into the slaughtered cow, huffed impatiently. “A slave has no right to swear fealty to the clan. If you insist on this human joining us, then you must free her. And that means there’s nothing keeping her in your house. If she wants to move out, or marry, or even pick up and leave, then she’ll have every right to do it. With or without your permission.”
“I understand,” Goram said gravely.
Ul-Rott sighed. “Fine.” He drew a small dagger from his kit and handed it to Goram hilt-first. “Then get on with it. As the clan has marked this human called Bess, so she will mark her master. And then she will be free.”
The human stepped forward and Goram handed the chieftain’s dagger to her. It was clumsy in her grasp, overlarge. But she clutched it with quiet determination. It wasn’t customary for the slave owner to kneel, but the huge blacksmith took a knee, nonetheless. It was the only way to bring himself down to her level.
Bess looked upon her master impassively. The knife in her hand was not just a blade, but the power to reshape her destiny, to claim her freedom. And in her hands, that power could just as easily have maimed or even killed Goram.
My empty eye socket echoed with a phantom throb. But then Bess and Goram shared a smile that pushed away all shadows of doubt.
Bess raised the blade. The steel was sharp, but her hand was steady. The nick she made on his jaw was so slight, Goram might not have even felt it. In light of all his other scars, this one would be small. But it would still mark the moment he’d set his slave free.
The human was no longer just a slave. She was Bess of the Red Hand Clan, free to choose her path. And as she gladly rejoined the family she’d been living with since she first came here, it was clear that at least for now, her journey remained unchanged.
As for my path, it still lay with the shaman. Though now I might not need to walk it alone.
28
Eli
I’m not sure why it surprised me how readily exiles of the Lost Clan folded into the ranks of the Red Hand. At sea, the crew reshuffled some at every port as sailors came and went. And the orcs who’d chosen to stay were the ones who’d always minded their own business without giving me any trouble. The hunters. The workers. The pragmatic types who’d had no say in their recruitment but were making the best of a bad situation.
We humans may have stuck out like a sore thumb, but the ones who’d been with the clan a while were perfectly at ease. Even the new cowherd found a home with a fallen soldier’s widower.
A hasty celebration feast was arranged by the new quartermaster—a soldier who was past her fighting days. It was nothing like the ill-fated pig roast where I’d nearly lost my head. That nightmarish meal had been days in the making. Now, a freshly slaughtered cow was seared on an open flame, with plenty set aside to smoke and salt for the leaner months ahead.
Afterward, Archie beckoned for me to join the procession back to the shaman’s caves. Not an order, but a suggestion. I couldn’t recall the last time I’d been given any choice.
