You always remember your first. Mine was the token of my first and only ship, the symbol cast into the anchor for prosperity and protection. A star surrounded by straight lines radiating out like a compass, and curling lines to represent the sea. The captain had inked it himself…directly over my heart. Many more tattoos then followed. A bird for my first successful return to port. A lopsided anchor for stability. The wheel of fate for luck.
Though they’d been pounced into me with soot driven into my skin by a bundle of needles, and they were hardly detailed,another sailor would know exactly what each symbol meant. But orcs hadn’t the faintest idea what to make of the crude shapes.
Still, when the clothes came off, I hated the feel of their gazes laying everything bare.
I looped the cloth around me and knotted it at my waist—then noted the squinty look of Pilgrim’s displeasure, and hitched the cloth lower, so it flashed the line of dark hair beneath my navel and the crescents of my hips.
Gooseflesh sprang up everywhere. I kept my arms loose at my sides, my face blank. Pilgrim didn’t go in for beatings or threats. He preferred to undermine your footing, isolate you, make you second-guess your every move. And he liked to break you slowly.
I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much damage he’d already done.
Outside the hut, the cold was even worse. This particular orc village was sheltered by bluffs, but even so, winter was drawing near. Back in my seafaring days, we’d head north when the weather turned. Not to enjoy the weather, obviously, but because our cargo commanded a higher price when a growing season was cut short.
The cold didn’t bother me, back then. Probably because I was dressed for the weather, not parading around in nothing but a ridiculous slip of cloth.
We headed toward the village commons and the Lost Clan swarmed around us, picking up loitering members as we went. They surrounded Pilgrim like sawdust packed around fine glassware bound for distant ports. Most orcs lavished their chieftain with fanfare and accolades and stuck them at the frontof their army. But the Lost Clan kept up the act that Pilgrim was merely one of the crowd.
Not that they fooled anyone. The Lost Clan was fabled to have no leader, but orcs are sticklers for rules—and hierarchy is one of them. They kept the myth alive, sure, but they must’ve figured out who was really in charge.
The orc village looked like all the others I’d seen. Wooden buildings, mostly big, communal spaces around an open courtyard, and a scattering of smaller “neighborhoods” for the families of higher-ranking orcs. And with orcs, might makes right—so the biggest, meanest fighters were usually the ones with the best houses.
Which was why it struck me as odd when a woman exited the front door of one of the finest houses—a short-haired younghumanwoman dressed like an orc in a strappy leather getup. She looked right at home as she turned to watch me pass with the idle curiosity of someone with nothing to fear...and that’s when I saw the slave brand on her cheek.
Funny, how quick I’d been to imagine some unlikely story of her as a foundling child in a foster family, or maybe someone who’d married into the clan. Ridiculous. Orcs didn’t see us as people. To them, we were just talking animals.
Possessions.
Amusements.
Pets.
I hadn’t worked out whether or not we might be livestock. I preferred to think the way Smeg was always smacking his lips around me was just meant to spook me. Sure, orcs claimed it was bad luck to eat something that could carry on a conversation.But I’d been out at sea when supplies ran low…I knew that a starving man might be capable of anything.
Thankfully, judging by the smell of woodsmoke and fish, the Red Hand Clan was in no danger of starvation.
I felt a flicker of relief—and then immediately tamped it down. Not because of the food—because I knew better than to get my hopes up. Orcs keep their eating knives in their hands, not scattered around the thatch-roofed dining hall where a stealthy enough human might help himself. This welcome feast would probably be as disappointing as all the others I’d endured. Especially since I’d be busy making nice with the chieftain—or his wife, or whoever it would take to get me the information Pilgrim wanted.
Smeg grunted. “Where’s the venison? They dragged a fresh kill right past us on their way in. Why ain’t it turning on a spit?”
Pilgrim scanned the dining shelter with a calculating look. “Maybe they’re showing off their river,” he said. Though I could tell he was thinking,Or maybe they’re just trying to piss me off.
\***
Orchestrating chaos took a lot of planning. The Lost Clan straggled along in a ragtag arrangement carefully designed to look random. Although no one bore an official rank, everyone had their place—with the quick fighters in front, the strong fighters guarding the rear, and Pilgrim well-protected in the middle.
I had no official rank either, which was likely the only reason I hadn’t been branded. But whenever I wasn’t locked away inside my box, I was expected to stay at Pilgrim’s side. Until he commanded me otherwise, anyhow.
This dining hall was no different from any other orcish settlement’s. The open, thatched-roof structure was supported by thick wooden beams. Nearby, an enormous cast iron kettle bubbled over a roaring fire, wafting the scent of fish and herbs through the air, with plenty of space for orcs to squat around the fire pit.
Much of the Red Hand Clan had already gathered, maybe three times our number. They’d crowded together to leave room for us, and they eyed our every move with suspicion. I couldn’t blame them. The Lost Clan had a reputation, and not a good one.
A couple of ragged Lost Clan orcs headed for the bowls. “That’s a lot of fish,” one of them remarked.
The other shrugged. “Maybe. But no meat.”
I kept my eyes down as I followed Pilgrim to the best spot for scoping out the head table.
Orcs have a weird aversion to sitting, and the only time you’ll catch a chieftain on his ass is at a feast—well guarded. The rest of us had to squat. We settled onto our haunches. I adjusted my awkward sarong. Orcs don’t do subtlety. Around us, the Red Hand Clan muttered to each other as they cast furtive glances our way.
