Page 11 of The False Shaman (Claimed by the Red Hand #2)
DROKO
Once Ul-Rott took his leave, I dismissed the guards, reminding them that we only had two days to find the crypt. And thanks to the chieftain’s lengthy visit, time was running out fast.
After the orcs cleared out, the only ones left were me…and Archie. The human who’d just saved my hide—or, at the very least, helped me look like a plausible shaman. Which probably amounted to the same thing.
But before I could acknowledge his service, he gave me a cool look and said, “If that will be all, Droko the Sage.” He knelt briefly, tapping one knee on the cave floor. “It’s been a very long night.”
I’ve always found the expressions of creatures without tusks fairly difficult to read. But the grim line of Archie’s mouth made it abundantly clear that he was none too thrilled. Without even waiting for my dismissal, he turned on his heel and walked off into the mist.
But I soon realized I wasn’t alone. Gorgul strode into the chamber and presented himself with a deep genuflection. “Droko the Sage, my spear is yours.”
The honorifics were starting to get tedious. Or maybe it was the way Archie had said the title, cold and inflectionless, that was burrowing under my skin. “What is it?” I asked the lieutenant…when what I wanted to say was, What is it now?
“My shaman…the men have been scouring the caves all day and night, and they are no closer to finding the crypt than they were when you arrived.” While there was no reproach in Gorgul’s voice, it was clear he thought we had a problem. “If the slaves are too distracting, I can take them off your hands—”
Without the slaves—without Archie —I would have pronounced the chieftain cursed and sent him on his way. But obviously, I could never let Gorgul suspect. “Tell me, Gorgul. How long have you lived in these caves?”
The question surprised him. “Many years. More than I have ever stopped to count.”
“Then, why would I waste your time with slaves when I need your expertise to find the crypt?”
“I’m honored by your confidence,” he said. I sensed a “but” coming. “But the caves are treacherous and several of the passages are unexplored. If the way forward is unclear, is it not the task of the shaman to divine the best path? And how can he do so if he’s distracted by slaves—?”
“Enough,” I said. I needed counsel, but he took too many liberties. “I don’t need an honor guard to defend me within my own walls. You will take all the men, break into teams, and scour these tunnels until you find the crypt. Understood?”
“My shaman is wise,” Gorgul murmured, genuflecting yet again.
I bit back a sigh. I was thinking like a soldier flushing out an enemy, not a shaman. And so, before he rose to leave, I added, “Meanwhile, I will toss the ivories and see what I can divine.”
That seemed to please the guard. He bobbed another half-bow as he backed out the door.
As much as I liked having good men to do my bidding, it was a relief to be alone…a relief that was short-lived. Once Gorgul’s footsteps faded, a familiar, ugly gray figure emerged from the mists, clapping mockingly. “Tossing the ivories?” Crespash said. “This oughtta be good.”
When a young boy shows the signs that will mark him as a future acolyte, his parents save his milk teeth as they shed instead of sacrificing them on the family hearth. These teeth are the prize possession of any shaman, more valuable than gold. Most orcs will never witness a shaman consulting his precious sack of teeth. But I was the son of a chieftain, and I vividly recalled watching from my sleeping loft as the shaman cast his teeth right on the grand table of my father’s hall. The audible clatter they made against the wood sent a chill creeping down my neck—a chill that still shivered through me, to this day, whenever I thought about that visit.
I, of course, had no spare teeth.
Unlike orcs, goblins don’t shed milk teeth. Their rows of blade-like fangs grow throughout their lives. So, Crespash could have chipped some “ivories” out of his own mouth for me—had his teeth not been prized out at the root long ago…on my father’s orders. An irony that was surely not lost on the goblin.
“What’s wrong?” he sneered. “Is Droko the Sage not wise enough to deduce some meaning from a handful of rocks?”
“Watch your tongue. Sound carries in these tunnels.”
“Oh, and now you’re the expert in caves, as well! What other secret talents have you been harboring all these years? Perhaps you’re now a master musician. Or a sea captain.” He pawed through the herbs, locating a bundle of dried berries that he popped into his mouth, winced, and spat out again. “Too bad you’re not a crypt-finder. Because that’s the only talent that will keep our heads firmly seated on our necks when Taruut’s funeral rolls around.”
“You mean to tell me you were searching all night with nothing to show for it?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” he drawled. Playing coy—or just taunting me? “At any rate, if you plan on seeing another summer, I suggest we go find that damn crypt.”
Crespash needed no light, though he didn’t grumble over me taking a lantern. Low-hanging fruit, I supposed. We set off to the main hub of the caves, where I found the guard captain Kof scratching a diagram into the floor with a shard of chalk. “I’m keeping track of who’s gone where, my shaman.”
“Strategy is well and good, but we need every man searching, including you. Pick one of the unexplored tunnels and handle it yourself.”
“As my shaman commands.” With a grim nod, Kof took up his lantern and lumbered away.
Once he was out of earshot, Crespash said, “There are rumors about that one.”
“What rumors?”
“That he lost his eye to some ill luck. And Taruut’s favor was the only thing keeping his guards loyal.”
“They’re soldiers,” I said, “and they’re orcs. There may be idle talk, but the guardsmen will stay in line because that’s what they’ve been trained to do.”
“If you say so, wise one .”
Ignoring the jibe, I gazed down at the map chalked onto the floor. “Is it accurate?” I asked.
The goblin shrugged. “Close enough.” He ran a finger-stump along a sharply-curved hallway. “This slopes downward, then curves around on itself.” He smudged out the path and redrew it with arrows to make it more precise. “And this chamber is a lot smaller.” He sketched a line. Considered it. Then drew another shape…the shape of an engorged cock fucking the gap between the chambers.
“Will you be serious?” I snapped.
He added a few hairs to the ballsack. “If the crypt were in any of these obvious places, I would’ve found it by now. It’s been decades since it was last seen. But I suppose it was best to send your guards on a fool’s errand before one of them noticed how clueless you are.”
“I’ll have you know I just cured the chieftain.” Thanks to Archie…though I didn’t want to give Crespash any reason to be jealous. Goblins are petty things—and humans so incredibly fragile. Even without teeth or claws, Crespash was perfectly capable of tearing the young man to shreds.
“Maybe today you were lucky. But what about tomorrow? All it takes is a big enough mistake for them all to figure out you’re a fraud.”
“Shamans are known for being cryptic,” I said. Crespash rolled his eyes. “I can do this,” I insisted. “I have no other choice.”
“Don’t you? The caves run deep—deeper than I thought—and clearly, the orcs don’t know the half of them. They say there’s no way out…. But what if you were looking for a tomb and you happened to stumble across an exit?”
“What are you saying—there is a way out?”
“Just exploring the possibility.”
Goblins. Always wallowing in nonsense. “Even if I could slip away—even if I did manage to evade any soldiers they sent after me…I’d only bring retribution to my clan.”
“Your former clan. Who married off your woman before you even had a chance to squeeze her tits.”
“Even so. There’s more than just me to consider. If I break the covenant, the chieftain’s family will bear the brunt of my failure. My mother, my sisters…how would I live with myself if I fled like a coward and they were the ones who got punished?”
As I rubbed out the grotesque penis drawing with the sole of my boot, Crespash gave a humorless laugh. “Why not save yourself? Surely, at some point, the charade will come undone.”
“A general can establish his career on one good win. The same does hold true for a shaman.”
“Once we find the crypt, I suppose you could swap out your bag of pebbles for the dead orc’s milk teeth,” Crespash said. “Still, a single cure does not a shaman make.”
If he’d seen the afflicted area, he might reconsider exactly how grateful Ul-Rott would be. “I can learn. Archie has some skill with healing. He can teach me—”
“You’d put your very life in the hands of a slave?” Crespash snorted. “Then you’re even dumber than I thought.”