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“Stop giving orders as if you are the chieftain,” Rolar snaps. “At the next full moon, the council will select a new chieftain for the Shattered Rock tribe.”
“That is no longer necessary. I am clearly not dead. Only death may release a chieftain from his duties. Be that death by the hands of an enemy or his own people, our laws are clear, Rolar.”
Rolar’s face grows dark, and his jowls shake with rage when he speaks.
“You are already dead to many of us, Jovak. You do not dwell among those you lead. You choose to be apart from us. No one can get close to you even when you are not on one of your jaunts. It is no wonder you have never taken a mate.”
My stomach is tied in knots. I don’t like this. I don’t like discord, which is part of why I never stayed with the roving bands of humans much. I glanced back into the rear of the wagon. Thankfully my little sister still slumbers. If she were to awaken, she’d probably do something crazy, like try to attack Rolar or something. She and Jovak have gotten quite tight in the last few days.
“Enough.” Jovak’s powerful chest heaves in a sigh. “You have made your point clear, Rolar. Very well, continue on as you will. I wish you luck and hope you find our missing tribesmen soon.”
Rolar flinches. I don’t think he expected Jovak to say anything like that. Now he doesn’t have any reason to argue, not really. Rolar jerked his head toward the trail.
“Let’s go. Surely the Longstrider can find his way back to the tribe. That is if he can remember the way after being gone for so long.”
They return to their journey through the forest, most of them refusing to even look at Jovak. More than a few looked my way, though, including Rolar. He gives me a friendly nod and a smile.
“You will be most welcome in our midst, golden hair. Not all orcs wander. Some of us are home with our mates every night.”
Well, that was probably the orcish idea of subtlety. He might as well have hung a sign around his neck saying he’s available and amenable to mating with me, a human woman.
I’m not interested. I don’t know if it’s because of the connection I’ve forged with Jovak or if he’s just not my type, but I don’t feel the same way for Rolar that I do with the chieftain.
Jovak turned to me with a sheepish expression on his handsome face. I guess my questions are written all over my face because I don’t have to say anything. He just starts explaining.
“I am not in good standing with my tribe, it would seem.” He heaves a long sigh. “And I can hardly blame them. I have been spending more and more time apart on my journeys. I was not here for them when they really needed me.”
“So your tribe is upset with you,” I say. “Because you like to ramble?”
“That, and because I have not taken a mate.” Jovak can’t quite look me in the eyes when he speaks. “With no clear line of succession, the tribe has endured a great deal of strife. Young bucks like Rolar are jockeying for position.”
“You …” I swallow hard, “you made it sound earlier like your people challenge for the right of succession.”
He nodded, and his chest puffed out just a bit.
“Indeed, but I am my tribe’s greatest warrior.” He’s bragging. I can’t believe it. He’s trying to sound impressive. I guess this is the orcish way of courtship. I’m flattered, but at the same time, I’m worried about his standing with the tribe. “There are none who believe they could defeat me in a one-on-one battle, and they are correct. Also, they expect me to pass my strength down to the next generation, and one cannot do that without a mate.”
Soon he falls silent as we pass another of the totem markers. I see plumes of smoke trailing into the air, and I can smell the telltale signs of civilization. Then I got my first look at the Shattered Rock.
I don’t see any shattered rocks around. What I do see is what used to be some sort of outdoor amphitheater, which has become the centerpiece of their settlement. The amphitheater forms a kind of natural shade, cooling the houses that dot the area around it. There’s a working mill with a spinning wheel powered by a narrow, but deep and slow-moving, stream. Somewhere there is a blacksmith, at least judging by the sound of hammering, and plenty of people around.
Not just orcs, either. About a third of the population seems to be human.
Rolling fields of grain, corn, and other crops spread out in the distance. These are fertile lands, no wonder the tribe holds onto them so fiercely.
At our approach, a group of orcs clusters around us. No one raises an alarm, they just sort of melt out of the woodwork. And none of them look happy.
“So the Longstrider’s not dead after all.”
“Might as well be as much good as he does us.” That comment is followed up by a fat wad of spittle sent into the dirt.
“Get out of here, Jovak! You abandoned us. You will find no aid here.”
“He is not worthy to be on our lands.”
“Betrayer!”
“A weak-willed leader with arms too stout for his own good.”
