Page 10 of The False Shaman (Claimed by the Red Hand #2)
ARCHIE
In all my time here in the shaman’s cave of the Red Hand Clan, Ul-Rott the Spinecrusher had never taken it upon himself to darken the doorstep. Not while I was conscious, anyhow. Not even once Taruut’s honor guard finally discovered the ancient shaman had breathed his last mysterious prophecy.
Droko still had two more days to find the crypt. But orcs didn’t strike me as being particularly patient, and I wouldn’t be surprised to learn the chieftain had come to step up the pace.
We found Ul-Rott and his entourage at the entrance of the cave system, where the cavern was cluttered with carvings and bones, statues and trinkets. I refrained from mentioning the fact that it looked like a stall in a two-bit bazaar that specialized in selling novelties to superstitious tourists. I was smart enough to know when a bit of levity would go over well…but also when I was better off keeping my mouth shut.
As the honor guard stooped and groveled, Ul-Rott took in the chamber with a look of cool assessment. While I’d presumed I didn’t much care about whatever it was the orcs found so impressive, when I took stock of Ul-Rott…I realized that notion might not be entirely true. Certainly, there were bigger orcs in the room, and they were decked out in heavier armor and carrying much larger swords. But the chieftain had a magnetism—a presence —that no amount of weaponry could replace.
His face was craggy and his eyes were sharp. Strong brow, strong jaw, strong everything. His skin was the muted green of old moss, with a speckling of pebble-colored flecks scattered across his cheekbones. His hair was the greyed black of a tarnished blade, pulled back in a wiry tail. And the chains around his broad neck, forged in gold, were heavy enough to sink a small ship.
Ul-Rott took stock of the room as if the tourist trap ambiance wasn’t lost on him, and said, “So. Is this where you work your healing magic?”
He’d said the last few words as if they were patently ridiculous. Droko didn’t rise to the bait. In fact, he just narrowed his eyes at the chieftain’s skepticism, and the tension in the room went thick.
Either he was baiting the chieftain…or he truly didn’t know better than to suggest treating someone in the entryway.
“Forgive me, Droko the Sage,” I groveled like a well-trained slave, “but I haven’t finished clearing out the infirmary yet—I didn’t realize we’d be receiving such an esteemed visitor.”
The chieftain’s gaze skimmed over me, and he spoke to Droko as if I had no more mind than one of the dozens of bird skulls rattling around. “Humans. Strange little things. But surprisingly useful…once you train them up.”
But then I realized he wasn’t referring to me—at least not entirely—but another human standing there in the pack, a head shorter than the musclebound orcish guards. The man was all in leather—an elaborate, strappy affair with a whip hanging from the belt—and around his neck was a gold chain nearly as heavy as the chieftain’s. His hair hung to his shoulders in glossy, dark waves, and a short goatee framed lips just this side of pretty. But it was his expression that struck me most of all, the look of fierce intensity he was giving me, as if he was trying to get my attention without the orcs being any the wiser….
I’ll be damned. The guy in the fancy leather was Quinn.
Well…didn’t he clean up nice?
But now wasn't the time for reunions.
Ul-Rott shifted his shoulders uneasily and said, “Let’s get this over with. I’m none too fond of skulking around inside the earth like a bunch of goblins—unnatural, if you ask me. No light. No breeze. And it stinks like a clutch of eggs forgotten in the larder. Lead the way, Archie.”
I started as he said my name.
My shock seemed to amuse the chieftain. “Yes, I’m fully aware of who you are. Taruut may have been living in his own little world—but he was still my shaman, and when he spoke, I heard him.” He waved a dismissive hand at the guards—both his and the shaman’s alike. “You stay here. I don’t want you breathing up all my air.”
“And me?” Quinn addressed the chieftain directly, bold as you please. Still as arrogant as ever. “Should I stay?”
“You, come along. You might prove useful.”
Gorgul was looking at the chieftain expectantly, like he was hoping to be singled out as well. And I imagine he was especially annoyed with me when it didn’t happen.
I was glad enough to leave him and all the rest of the guards behind. The entrance of the cave system was grand, but the tunnels quickly narrowed. And there was only one orc I had any desire to brush up against.
I led the group down the warren of paths that opened into the sauna chamber where I’d spent so much time recuperating on my hard, stony bed. While I wouldn’t say it felt like home, exactly, it was most definitely familiar. The stone surfaces had been hewn with care to integrate harmoniously with the natural formations in the chamber. Mist gave the room a hazy ambience, and the humid air was soothing to my lungs…even if it did, indeed, smell like rotten eggs.
The last time I saw Quinn, he was in rags—and I was flat on my back, drifting in and out of consciousness. I was absolutely dying to talk to him again and find out how he’d managed such a striking reversal of fortune, though I hadn’t much hope of it happening while the chieftain was in the room. I’ll say one thing about orcs: their pecking order is crystal clear.
And then Ul-Rott surprised me by conveniently shooing us aside. “Out of our way, little slaves. I need to consult the shaman.”
“You’ve certainly come up in the world,” I murmured as Quinn and I did our best to fade into the background. “That chain around your neck could buy my whole brothel. Maybe my whole village. And here I thought you were far too old to be a bedboy.”
I was only teasing—but even by the meager light of the braziers, I could see him blush.
“Well…I’ll be. You are polishing a big, green rod. Looks like you’ve made the best out of a bad situation.”
“It’s not like that.”
“—but I guess being the chieftain’s concubine does have its perks.”
“The—?” Quinn barked out a laugh, which earned him a nervous glance from Droko and a look of annoyance from the chieftain. He lowered his voice and said, “I’m just the chieftain’s horseman.”
He could protest all he wanted, but I wasn’t born yesterday. “Sure, you are.” I flicked his gold chain for emphasis. “And I’m a trembling virgin.”
“Ul-Rott didn’t give me this.” He settled his hand over the chain, fingering the heavy links. “Marok did.”
A person might argue that you can’t read much into the utterance of a few simple words. But it was clear to me that Quinn thought of the dour orc as more than just protection. “What about you?” he asked. “Are you okay?”
“For the time being.” Until someone poisoned the pantry, at any rate…or until I killed myself with my own dubious cooking. Quinn, always the cleverest one in the room—at least in his own mind—proceeded to avail me of the wisdom he’d gleaned over his many weeks living among the clan. Everything he told me, I’d figured out just by watching Gargle kowtow to the new shaman, but I didn’t bother to mention it. I was preoccupied with figuring out Droko’s body language as he spoke in low tones with the chieftain. Droko had fallen into his especially stiff and formal mode…the one he used when he was backed into a corner.
Ul-Rott seemed to make a big point of respecting his shaman. In fact, after the chieftain, the shaman was the most powerful member of the clan.
So, why was Droko nervous?
I shushed Quinn so I could eavesdrop on the orcs’ conversation.
“Of course, I’d normally have the shaman come to me,” Ul-Rott was saying. “The weight of all this rock pressing down on your head, the hiss of the steam, the sound of constant dripping…it’s no wonder Taruut was so batty. But a chieftain can’t show weakness in front of his clan.”
“And we don’t qualify as men, you and I,” Quinn whispered. “More like glorified lap dogs.”
I was about to tell him to speak for himself…but my thoughts went blank as the chieftain unhitched his belt and let his breeches fall to his knees…and his mammoth dick flopped out.
Dang. If he could train that thing to hold a sword, he’d be unstoppable.
“I’ve been too busy dealing with your former clan lately to have any time for coupling,” he told Droko…who’d gone even more still. “So, give it to me straight. Has that whoreson across the river managed to lay a curse on me? Or did my wife pick up something from one of her ogres that’s been festering beneath my skin for months, only to erupt at the worst possible moment? I’m sure you’ve heard stories about Destroyer. Well, believe me when I say that riding that beast is nowhere near as effortless as I make it look. And now I’m plagued with some kind of pox right where I need it the least.”
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the monstrous green dick, but Quinn was apparently inured to such daunting sights. “It’s no pox,” he whispered. “All that chafing in the crooks of his thighs—those are saddlesores.”
In true Quinn fashion, he was about to pipe up and proclaim his vast knowledge to the room, just in case they didn’t already realize how smart he thought he was. “Wait,” I told him. “Let Droko do the talking.”
Droko considered the chieftain, then stepped forward and made several cryptic gestures. He murmured a few unrecognizable words as he rubbed his hands together and cupped them over Ul-Rott’s exposed groin. Once he was satisfied with whatever he’d gleaned from his “examination,” he straightened up and declared, “The shaman of the Two Swords Clan doesn’t have the strength to curse you at such a distance.”
“Are you sure? I paraded back and forth across that new river fjord at least half a dozen times....”
“While the shaman cowered in his hut.”
People claim a fish hasn’t a clue that water’s wet—but Droko knew just what to say. Of course, I wasn’t actually worried about him—me, a mere human, and him a powerful shaman who obviously had everything figured out—
“But ogres can carry a certain taint….”
Though only in terms of telling Ul-Rott what he wanted to hear!
Before Droko gave the chieftain something that would only make his malady worse, I hurried over to Taruut’s collection of herbs and unguents. I grabbed a pot of ointment he’d used to soothe the abrasions the rough metal slave collar had left on my neck. “A thousand apologies, my shaman,” I told Droko, “but I moved things around while I was organizing.”
I shoved the small ceramic jar into his hand, and he met my gaze…and held it. Just for the fraction of a heartbeat, but that was plenty. If I wanted to sabotage Droko, this would be the perfect way. Did he trust me enough to treat his chieftain?
He gave the concoction a sniff, tested it between his fingers, then handed it over to Ul-Rott. “The slave is still learning.”
Ul-Rott side-eyed the salve. “Seems like more trouble than he’s worth—but Taruut was fond of him, so maybe he’s got some potential.” He hitched up his pants and turned toward the exit. It seemed the harrowing exchange was nearly over—and somehow, we’d passed muster.
And then, of course, the chieftain had to go and ruin it by adding, “I’ll bet you’d snap that boy like a twig. Good thing your vows forbid you to couple.”