Page 14 of The False Shaman (Claimed by the Red Hand #2)

ARCHIE

“Whoops,” I said innocently as the stew sloshed over Droko’s jiz. “Clumsy me. Let me wipe that up.”

I peeled off my linen tunic, grateful to be rid of it in the stifling heat of the caves, and swabbed up the mess on the floor before it attracted any of those hideous spiders. “There. All set. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m utterly exhausted.” And that big cushion in the middle of the room was the only comfortable surface I’d seen in weeks.

Droko was looking at me like I’d just grown a second head. “But—you—” he stammered.

“I what?”

He made a vague wanking gesture.

Worried about me not getting off? Unexpected. And unexpectedly sweet.

“Don’t worry, that’ll keep.” Most paying men didn’t care whether or not I was satisfied, after all. So, I’d had plenty of practice at denying myself.

I curled up on the cushion while the shaman pulled on his leathers and settled on the floor, flat on his back, with his hands folded over his chest. He looked eerily like the petrified men I’d found deep within the caves, the ones with the strange writing and the sharp sword. I considered Droko by the light of the mostly-shuttered lantern, how his strong brow and thick jaw were looking not just familiar to me, but desirable. And I thought about how empowering it was when I made him come utterly undone with nothing but a few filthy ideas and the smallest sweep of my tongue. If there’d been any question as to whether or not he wanted me, that doubt was put firmly to rest.

Eventually, my hard-on ebbed, though the ache of want in my belly lingered. Those things I’d said about finding a way to be together were just words. Something to push the shaman toward the brink. But like any good lie, it held a grain of truth. If the herbs couldn’t cover our tracks, a blast from the Great Whale surely would….

Nope. I sighed and rolled onto my back. Not gonna go there. This dalliance could never be more than a quick fling. Inside these caves, Droko might be the head honcho. But even he had rules to follow. Rules he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—break.

Besides. I was only a few stairsteps away from escape.

And yet….

The noise he’d made deep in his throat. That small, broken sound. I’d done that to such a magnificent creature. Me. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t eager to try it again. Yes, a few more hacks at the stone wall would let me slip off into the night and find my fortune outside these caves. But I hadn’t yet felt the big, strong shaman’s arms around me…and surely I couldn’t leave without a proper goodbye.

The room was warm and the cushion was soft, and despite my restless thoughts, I fell into a deep and satisfying slumber—

Only to be woken by the deep rumble of an orcish voice. “No…no….”

Droko’s head jerked side to side in his sleep as his eyes darted around beneath closed lids, but the rest of him was locked down tight. Back in Wildwood, when I was between brothels, I once stayed with a guy who didn’t freeze up while he was dreaming. I took such a battering from his flailing limbs that my friends thought he was beating me. Luckily Droko didn’t act out his dreams. If he did, no doubt he could do some serious damage.

“Hey.” I reached down from the cushion and gave his shoulder a shove, and he rolled to his hands and knees. He was halfway standing before he even realized he was awake, grabbing at his belt like he was trying to draw a sword. “Droko, stop! You’re dreaming.”

He flinched visibly, then straightened and shook himself out.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. He was eyeing the wall as if he wasn’t quite sure it could be trusted.

“Bad dream?” I asked cautiously. “You can tell me. Maybe it’ll make you feel better.”

He barked a humorless laugh. “I’d never give a dream any power over me by voicing its nonsense.”

Wow, that was a far cry from Taruut, who loved regaling me with tales of his nocturnal wanderings—ramblings where he could still walk…and see. Guess they did things different in the Two Swords Clan.

“Nonsense or not, I can’t help but wonder what orcs dream about.”

Droko strode over to the decaying tapestry and gazed into the threads. I didn’t think he was about to answer, so it surprised me when he said, “The walls were on fire. But not. See? Nonsense.”

“Well, it is awfully hot in here. Maybe you were just incorporating the steamy atmosphere into your dream.”

“It wasn’t that. It was more about…the way the walls looked. Glowing orange. Like they were the flame. And in the distance, thunder. But I knew the coming rain wasn’t enough to stop me from burning alive.”

Before I could say anything to put his mind at ease, someone pounded on the stone door. “Enter,” Droko said gruffly.

Kof, the chief of the guard, came in and folded to his knees. “Droko the Sage, my spear is yours—”

Droko motioned impatiently for him to rise. “Yes, what is it?”

“The traveling peddler is here. Since you came here with only what you could carry—erm, that, and a goblin—I thought you’d want to know. He’s waiting at the entry.”

Curious to find out what an orcish merchant might sell, I followed Droko out. I paused only to scoop up my sullied shirt and slip it into the nearest brazier…only to wish I hadn’t. The cave interior was hot, and thick with humidity, but out by the entrance, a wicked breeze cut through that raised goosebumps on my arms and hardened my nipples into fierce points.

The peddler’s eyes went right to them.

And he wasn’t an orc at all.

He was a few years older than me, though I couldn’t place his exact age. His clothes had seen better days, but he wore his tattered lace with the unabashed pride of a lord in ermine. His reddish brown hair was too long to be practical, held back by a satin bow. But it was the way his eyes turned up at the corners that really piqued my interest.

While he might be no orc…I wasn’t so sure he was a human, either. With his exotic good looks, no doubt he’d fetch a fine price at the red lantern and would never go to bed hungry.

Droko looked him up and down, nostrils flaring. I’ve never been able to afford the luxury of jealousy. But as I realized Droko was smelling this newcomer, my cheeks went hot with anger.

Oblivious—or maybe just used to it—the peddler sketched a deep bow with a ridiculously overdone flourish. “Pleased to make the acquaintance of this new shaman who’s got everyone all abuzz. Name’s Silver, costermonger extraordinaire. At your service, m’lord.”

“I’m nobody’s lord,” Droko said gruffly. “It’s Droko.”

“Droko the Sage,” snapped another orchish voice as Gargle emerged from a side tunnel. His nostrils flared, too.

But I wasn’t entirely sure it was this Silver character he was sniffing.

Did he know what the shaman and I had been up to? I’d barely grazed him with the tip of my tongue….

Another breeze whistled through the cavern. Droko yanked off his doeskin cloak and threw it around my shoulders. I did my best not to preen in Gargle’s smug face, truly I did. But that simple act of kindness touched me in a place I thought I’d walled off long ago.

To the peddler, Droko said, “Give the slave some proper clothing—at a fair price. Don’t waste our time haggling.”

A smile lit Silver’s eyes. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

There was a handcart behind him piled with the sorts of items all peddlers use to entice the attention of jaded buyers: colorful baubles, bits of carved shell and bone. But he’d also brought wares that an orc might find useful, like flasks, leatherwork, whetstones, and tools. Droko strode past him and pawed impatiently through his wares. He must not have found anything to his liking. With a grunt, he dropped a waterskin back into the cart, turned on his heel, and said to Gargle, “Don’t disturb me unless the chieftain’s here—or you’ve found the crypt.”

I might not have the nose of an orc, but when I settled Droko’s cloak more firmly around me, I could definitely smell something beyond just the fabric lining. Earthy, like turned soil and moss. Who ever thought orcs would smell so good?

Droko was an enigma, no two ways about it. When he was bossing folks around—his slaves, his guard, pretty much anyone but the chieftain—he barked out orders with the confidence of a flesh-peddler. But ask him an esoteric question, and he either froze up or shrugged it right off.

Fascinating.

“Well, then,” Silver said briskly, dusting his hands together. “As I won’t be permitted the indulgence of haggling, my visit will be brief. If there’s anything you gentlemen should require….”

A few of the guardsmen poked through the wares, one replacing his tinderbox, another upgrading his belt buckle. And while Silver did keep an eye on them, he lavished the majority of his dubious attention on me.

“Does the slave have a name?” he asked teasingly.

He annoyed me already. “It’s Archie.”

“Ah. How fortunate for Archie that I cater to such a wide range of clientele…and that I’d heard there was a human here who might need a thing or two. Otherwise everything in today’s selection would be orc-sized. Which would certainly present a challenge.” His eyes twinkled in amusement. “As they’re so very… big .”

I quelled an eye-roll. I’ve been acquainted with plenty of guys like Silver. Always taunting, smirking, hinting that they know you better than you know yourself. Never mind that I’d so recently faced down the biggest dick I’d ever encountered—and I’ve encountered a lot of dick. There was no way he could actually know what I’d done last night.

At least, I hoped not. For both Droko’s sake, and mine.

Silver rummaged through his handcart and came up with a shirt. It was a pale sea foam green that stood out amid the dull browns and grays of the handcart. The fabric was a fine weave, though it was somewhat thin around the elbows, and the buttons were tarnished. “This belonged to a pirate captain, who snuck it out of the royal palace in Esterhama before his ship was sunk by a rival fleet. It’s been all around the world, even to distant islands that very few ever get to see.” He paused and looked me up and down. “You know, I have the strangest feeling that this shirt is just the thing for you.”

I crossed my arms. “It’s huge. I’d drown in it.”

“Ah.” Silver’s lips curved in a sly smile. “But that’s what these lacings are for.” He uncrossed my arms, divested me of my cloak, and tugged it over my head in a fluid motion as he swung around behind me. When he grabbed up the laces and cinched them tight, the shirt molded itself to me like a second skin.

“There.” He stepped back to assess his handiwork. “Very flattering, indeed.” His grin broadened. “ Green seems to suit you.”

The eye-roll I’d been so successful at tamping down forced its way to the surface.

“Of course,” the peddler added, “if you were hoping for something dull and utilitarian, I could scour the bottom of my wagon and see if there’s a rag or two I can spare.”

“I’m sure it’ll do.”

He indicated my arm with the jut of his pointy chin—the arm I’d scraped within an inch of its life shoving my way through cracks in the cave walls. “Just make sure you don’t bleed on the fabric. Blood stains are notoriously stubborn to get out.”

His tone was light…but now his eyes were searching mine in a way that wasn’t entirely mocking. He thought someone here was being rough with me.

I liked his pity even less than his mockery.

“I’ll be fine,” I said firmly. “Besides, it’s not as if anyone will pay attention to what a slave is wearing when they’re all wrapped up in the funeral rites.”

Silver arched an eyebrow. “Orcs kill each other so efficiently, I’ve never known them to trouble themselves with rites. Just throw the carcass on the fire and move on to the next battle.”

“Not every orc is a fighter.”

“Ah, so the old man hasn’t set off on the rest of his journey yet. I was very fond of Taruut, you know. Once his eyesight faded, he developed quite the sweet tooth. I always made sure to save a bit of honeycomb just for him.”

I suddenly missed Taruut terribly—how he’d laugh when I got an orcish custom totally wrong, and the way he would turn a mundane conversation into an impromptu lesson on some esoteric topic like herbal remedies or plant identification.

But at least now he was safe from harm. Unlike Droko, who’d be a lot bloodier than my arm if he couldn’t find the shaman’s crypt.

“The funeral is tomorrow.” I hoped it would be, anyhow

“Well, then. Perhaps I will stay and pay my respects. After all, nothing says goodbye like one last hurrah.”

Fantastic.

“In the meanwhile,” he said, “your friend Quinn asked me to deliver this.”

His leather vest was so covered in buckles and lacings, I didn’t even see the pocket until he teased his long, tapered fingers into the opening and withdrew a note on a scrap of bark-paper. Was Quinn planning another escape—one he couldn’t dare whisper about in earshot of the chieftain? I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about that. Probably because it would complicate matters to take him with me when I carved my way to freedom.

I was so sure Quinn had sent me some illicit plans that when I unfolded the slip of paper, I was baffled by what was actually there.

A recipe.

“What’s this supposed to be?”

Silver made a big show of seeing the note for the first time—as if he didn’t know damn well what was on it—and said, “It’s called Easewater. Dreamweed, a very potent, very specific numbing agent. Night laurel—very relaxing. And rocknut oil, so delightfully slippery—and sure to last all…night…long.”

If this guy thought talking about lube would make me blush, he could think again.

Silver fluttered his eyelashes. “If you haven’t got all the ingredients, I may be able to dredge up—”

“I’m sure the shaman’s apothecary stores can handle it.”

“Very good. But just so you’re aware….” He found a shard of graphite somewhere in his overcomplicated getup, grabbed the note from me, flipped it over, and began to write as he spoke. “There are two ways the potion might be mixed. Juice the night laurel and add the oil, and the two very different ingredients bind together in such a way as make a most unique—and delightful—blend.” He sketched some kind of stirring motion. “But if it turns out things don’t mix properly, you’ll have a real mess on your hands. In that case, it’s best to scrap the whole thing.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Silver handed me the paper. As he did, he held my gaze just a moment too long. So quietly I could barely hear it, he added, “I could never be a slave. No matter how finely gilded the cage.”

I glanced down at his sketch and saw he hadn’t been talking about mixing potions at all—but warning me to leave if things went wrong. And they weren’t instructions he’d scribbled on the back after all…but a map. Once I oriented myself, I recognized the cave. The village wall. And beside that was a meandering path—one which presumably led to freedom.

I stuffed the note into my waistband. Since I’d spent the night with Droko, I’d been of two minds about leaving—but not anymore. Maybe it was the contrarian in me, but this offer to help me escape only made me more determined to stick around. “I don’t need your plan. Call it a cage if you will. But I know full well what’s beyond these walls.” Pointedly, I swung Droko’s cloak around my shoulders. “At least here, someone actually cares about me.”

“Never mind, then.” Silver tilted his head and smiled a cryptic smile. “I thought the shaman’s grand gesture of giving you his cloak was just a clever way to put his scent on you—and cover his own tracks. My mistake…I’m sure you know best.”