Quinn shook his head. “You can’t. If this malady is what I think it is—theWrack—it takes a while to set in. It might be weeks before anyone starts shaking, or twitching, or slurring their words. And by then, it’ll be too late.”
Maybe for a human. But orcs were made of stronger stuff. Trawg gave a mocking snort and said, “Humans have pathetic constitutions, and an even worse sense of smell. No wonder they need to find signs and omens among the spittle, even where there are none.”
“I know animals,” Quinn insisted. “Its behavior was not normal.”
Trawg treated the gutted stag to a long sniff. “This meat is fine, but I’ll lay it on salt for later, anyhow. If Ul-Rott won’t let me serve the head, I might as well break out the fish. Our nets were full this morning. The meal will prove that even the river bows to the Red Hand Clan.”
“At least avoid the spinal cord and brain,” Quinn said.
Even the guards smirked at that.
Quinn gave a toss of his long dark hair and strode out the door, arrogant as you please. Trawg and the guards chuckled in amusement. I didn’t join in. Obviously, an orc wouldn’t fall illfrom bad meat…but if they did, they’d end up in the shaman’s caves. And then it would beourproblem.
“I’ve never been eager to have the Lost Clan at the table,” Trawg said. “But if they decide to claim a new member when they go…maybe they’ll take that annoying human.”
One of the guards said, “He charms the horses. Ul-Rott would never allow it.”
And then we all fell silent. Because though he might complain, or curse, or try to find some way out of it, even mighty Ul-Rott would eventually give in to the demands of the Lost Clan.
4
Kof
When I left the larder, I loaded up a pair of my stoutest guards with every last scrap of the shaman’s due and headed back to the caves. There were cave crickets and mushrooms and a few blind fish in pools deep beneath the ground—maybe enough to keep a shaman fed through a lean winter, but not his human companion, and certainly not the whole honor guard.
Several of my men hunted when they were off their duty rotation. But even though they brought down game, it was understood that whatever spoils they couldn’t gobble down on the spot would be brought back to the clan’s larder, not the caves. To command them to do otherwise would only make me look suspicious.
And I was careful never to invite scrutiny.
Once our food was secure, I went to find Droko and report what I’d heard about the stag. The quartermaster might be quick to discount the words of a human—but Droko would take them to heart. In fact, as I neared his chamber, a distinctly humanvoice echoed through the stone corridors. “I swear, Droko, it’s as if you’retryingto get yourself slaughtered.”
The Bearer of the Prophecy was not one to mince words.
I found the shaman in his chamber with Archie struggling to unhitch a stubborn strap on his armor that was deeply crusted with dried blood. Probably hobgoblin, given that Archie seemed more annoyed with Droko than afraid for him.
“Battle is my nature,” Droko said simply.
Archie harrumphed as a shoulder plate clattered to the stone floor.
The chamber was cluttered, by my standards—then again, it always had been. The past few years when Taruut lived here, he was too old to stand, so cushions and tables took up the floor space. His sedan chair was gone now. But apparently it’s human custom to lounge around as though you’re infirm. And sometimes, Droko indulges himself, too. Though it’s not my place to judge.
I refrained from tapping a knee to the floor when I entered. Droko nodded approvingly and said, “Ul-Rott is waiting for me in the apothecary, so who’s dealing with the Lost Clan?”
“His generals.”
Droko grunted. “I’m sure they’re thrilled about that.”
Archie’s ears perked up. “Lost Clan? Do tell…sounds mysterious.”
“Hardly,” Droko scoffed. “They’re just a lazy group of leeches who go from clan to clan and live off their hospitality from dark moon to full. They came twice to Two Swords clan, once when I was a boy, once when I was just about ready to move to thebarracks. An orc about my age decided he liked my scabbard. My father commanded me to offer it to him as a gift. Father was chieftain—he had to set an example. I can still remember the smirk on the other orc’s face as he strapped it to his belt. My father said I should forget about it. When he was my age, it wasn’t just a scabbard the Lost Clan had demanded, but his grandsire’s sword—and his eldest sister.”
Archie toweled a stubborn crust of blood from the hollow of Droko’s collarbone. The casual touch was oddly intimate. I realized I’d been staring a bit too hard and shifted my gaze to a stalactite forming in the ceiling. Archie inspected his work, then gave another swipe for good measure. “And we’re supposed to put up with this—why?”
I blew into my fist to ward off evil.
Droko sighed. “It’s our way. That’s why. Now, I’d better see to Ul-Rott before his crotch festers. He’ll be in a foul enough mood dealing with our guests.”
Archie gave an exaggerated frown. “I don’t have to go along, do I? Those nethers of his are something I can never unsee—”
