Page 16 of The False Shaman (Claimed by the Red Hand #2)

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No one challenged me as I hurried toward the kitchen. Why would they? I’d been preparing the shaman's meals since he arrived, and frankly, I'm sure the big, strapping orcs had better things to do than worry about one puny human slave.

The last meal I'd prepared, I sifted through all the ingredients looking for something to impress Droko. This time, though, the only thing I cared about was portability.

I needed food—all I could carry. Because once I carved just a few more steps…I was so outta there.

Stupid cloak.

While the shaman’s pantry held nothing overtly useful like hardtack or jerky, there were some supplies that would travel well: dried fruits and nuts, coarse bread, and even some leathery mushrooms. I gathered as much as I thought I could carry without being noticed. Hopefully, if any of my captors smelled the food on me, they would just think I picked up the scent in the kitchen.

The green shirt I bought from Silver, even with its laces and ties, had absolutely nowhere to hide a bundle of provisions. Droko’s cloak would do the job—but I’d left it hanging by the kitchen door with no intention of putting it back on.

Why would I have simply tossed such a valuable garment aside? It was cold out there in the big, bad world outside the steamy confines of these caves. And if I'd gone off without it, surely I’d be sorry by the time the sun set. What compelled me to even dream of abandoning the silly garment anyhow?

Obviously, I wasn’t angry about the damn thing. It's not like I actually cared that the gift was only a way to cover his scent. I never expected him to think of me as something more than a passing diversion. I wasn’t some starry-eyed virgin who’d fall in love with the first man he bedded. In fact, I should be thanking Droko—cloaking myself with his scent might very well make me harder to track.

Really, if anything, he’d done me a massive favor.

“Thanks a lot,” I said under my breath as I stomped back to the kitchen and grabbed the damn cloak from its peg. I did my best to ignore the earthy scent of rain on moss that billowed out from the lining when I snapped it open.

As I latched the bundle to the back of my belt and covered it with Droko’s cloak, a scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. The peddler’s hasty map. Except, when I picked it up, the map side wasn’t facing me. The potion was. Dreamweed. Night Laurel. Rocknut oil. The first two ingredients would be in Taruut’s apothecary, not the kitchen. But I might find the rocknut oil….

No—I wasn’t about to start looking. There was no reason to look. None. I took a decisive step back from the shelves. It didn’t matter whether I’d seen that damn oil here or not.

I was leaving. And that was that.

The corridors and the caves were familiar now. I kept my lantern low and my ears pricked for the sound of footsteps. Size might be an advantage for orcs when it came to combat, but it made them a lot easier to hear.

I felt my way along the dim tunnel by memory and instinct, and found the passageway leading to the crescent-shaped gap much sooner than I'd hoped. My heart pounded with the anticipation of finally being free, and my stomach filled with butterflies. Not over the regret of leaving Droko, obviously. I’m sure it was just nerves.

I rounded the final corner, eager to squeeze my way to the petrified men and carve out those last few steps, only to be startled by a pair of huge, glowing eyes shining through the darkness. I let out an undignified yelp and scrambled backward, opening my lantern wide to flood the passage with light. The creature standing between me and the crescent-shaped gap merely winced as protective membranes slipped over his bulging eyeballs.

“Crespash,” I said disdainfully. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing, human.”

“I’m looking for the crypt, just like everyone else.”

“And exactly how far had you planned to explore? Far enough to require a meal?” His oversized eyes flicked to the bulge beneath the cloak. “ Several meals?”

“That’s none of your concern.”

“I’d be remiss to fail to notice you’re drowning in sweat from that heavy cloak. Such delicate things, humans. Always hungry or tired, hot or cold—how you survive with such fussy constitutions, I’ll never know. Dwarves, on the other hand….” He fanned the stumps of his fingers for emphasis. “Now, there’s a sturdy people.”

I’d known a dwarf, back in Wildwood. Saucy little thing, and her company fetched a fine price. But the scenarios her customers dreamed up for her were disturbing, to say the least.

“What?” the goblin prompted. “You don’t believe in dwarves?”

“Of course I do.”

“I’m not talking about the occasional human runt, but the folk those stunted humans are named for. True dwarves. The ones who wrote this.” He plucked something out of his leathers and held it up for my inspection: a tightly rolled scroll.

“I gave that to Droko.”

“And he tossed it aside. To him, no doubt, it looked like a bunch of random ticks and dings. Dwarves have their own way of setting down words.”

“Which you just so happen to know how to read.”

“Of course I do. Dwarven Burrowers are highly sought after by those of us who live underground. They can carve a rock thin enough to see the glow of a candle through it. They know exactly where to dig to keep the ceiling from coming down on their heads. And they can blend a trap into a cave wall so cunning that even a goblin wouldn’t see it till their innards were pooling around their feet.

“Dwarvish contracts are notoriously thorough. It behooves a goblin to know what they’re getting into if they sign one.

“Though not all dwarvish writing is purely practical. They’re especially fond of penning their own histories, for instance—though those tales are infamously long-winded and dull. But once in a while, if you’re lucky, you’ll run across some very bawdy dwarvish poetry.”

“Is that what you’re wasting my time over?” I asked, with way more bravado than I actually felt. “Poetry?”

“Sadly, no. But since the dwarf didn’t have enough room to go into excruciating detail here, we’re left with a telling that made for a surprisingly good read.” When I shifted uneasily, the membranes on his eyes peeled open and he looked me up and down. “What’s wrong, human…got somewhere to be?”

“We should be looking for the crypt. Not dallying over some random curiosity.”

“Ah, but here’s the thing. This wee bit of random curiosity might be more valuable than you think.”

Obviously, now I had to know. “Fine. What does it say?”

The goblin unrolled the tight cylinder of parchment with his finger-stumps, and read.

Two moons have passed since our labor was finished—and two of my comrades have passed as well. As our reward for crafting the tomb of their heathen shamans, our orcish captors have sealed us up to die in the very caves we helped them shape.

We were fools to think a slave of the orcs could ever earn his freedom. The shaman promised us our lives, and orcs have a reputation for being true to their word. But then, the shaman was laid to rest. Along with him, so went the promises he’d made.

If we had our equipment, we could drill our way out. But once the tomb was complete, their blacksmith melted our picks and hammers to slag. We have no tools, no food, and no water, save for the trickle of condensation we can capture from the walls.

The only thing of value the orcs didn’t take from us was Dreadforge.

Crespash glanced up from the scroll. “Dwarves name their sacred weapons, you see. When the blades are pulled from the smithy’s flames, they’re quenched in the guts of a living enemy to imbue the metal with the poor sod’s very soul. If you believe in that kind of thing…which, apparently, the orcs did, if they didn’t confiscate the sword along with all their other tools.”

Dreadforge. I’d spent hours with the heavy sword carving my way to freedom. It was like learning one of your favorite paying men was caught with a dead whore in his bed…and realizing that could’ve easily been you. Creepy. But if the dwarves considered the blade sacred, that did explain why they didn’t use it to cut their own path out.

Crespash was watching for my reaction, but I gave him my blankest stare. He turned back to the scroll and read some more.

I’ve thought long and hard about using Dreadforge to ease my last companion’s suffering, but it would be a dishonor, and I cannot give in to the temptation. Instead, we worked together to build our own biers, prying loose the stone with our daggers. The final bier, mine, is nearly complete. When the time comes, I will lay myself to rest with Dreadforge in my hand, and prepare to be judged by the Great Smith, and hopefully deemed worthy to throw myself upon his forge.

How will the gods of our captors judge them? I’ve heard they have no gods, and pray only to their ancestors. That would explain why they care nothing for honor. The wretched orcs can deprive us of our tools, our freedom, and even our lives. But my honor is something they can never take away.

Crespash flapped the bit of parchment. “A lot to digest from such a tiny slip of hide. You see the density of the dings and dots of their writing. Now imagine a whole book of the stuff. It’ll knock you out faster than a sleeping draught. But the question is…where did you find the scroll?”

“On the floor.” The lie came easily. It was the standard reply by the red lantern, where besotted customers might lavish you with their family heirlooms while they were in their cups, then accuse you of having stolen them once the drink wore off.

“I suppose you never know what sorts of valuable items might simply be scattered around for the taking. Take, for instance…an impressive lump of stormsilver.”

“What’s that, some other dwarvish thing I’ve never heard of?”

“Not as such, though they’d pay a pretty penny for the chance at working the stuff into one of their weapons. It so happens that Droko has a piece of it almost as big as that lunch you’re doing such a bad job of hiding.”

“Forget about the food. Do you realize what this scroll means? There’s definitely a crypt here somewhere. It’s just very well hidden.”

“And if you’re the one to help Droko the Sage find it, no doubt he’ll shower you with adulation and cherish you forever. Is that what you’re thinking?” He didn’t have to be such a dick about it. “Well, think again. He’s an orc. You’re not. He’ll never think of you as anything more than a slave.”

And yet, when Quinn fingered that heavy gold chain and spoke of Marok….

“Now, before you warm to the idea that being Droko’s slave might actually have its perks—yes, I’d need to be blind not to see you mooning over each other—you’ll want to hear the rest of the scroll.”

“There’s more?”

“There is, indeed.” Crespash fixed me with a meaningful look, then eased open just the bottom and read, An undignified ending. I should have expected no less from a barbaric race that buries its slaves alive with its masters. ”

As he spoke each fateful word, Crespash took a step forward, and I took one step back. By the time he’d finished the ugly pronouncement, my ass was up against the unyielding surface of the tunnel wall and the goblin was way too close for comfort. I couldn’t read him. I’m great at reading men—even orcs. But I was at a loss. Was this a show of dominance? A threat? Or—stars help me—was that gummy, gray mouth closing in to seal our deal with a kiss?

I flinched, hard—horrified by the kissing thought most of all—just as the goblin struck. He was about my height, but that’s where the similarity ended. His arms were long and gangly, and he moved faster than any human I’d ever seen. Lucky for me, he had terrible aim.

Or, did he?

He stepped back, clutching something to his chest that he’d plucked from the wall beside my head. It squirmed and writhed, trying to wrest itself from the goblin’s grasp, but despite his lack of proper fingers, he managed to hold on tight. I had no idea what it might be until a spindly leg popped free, and then I recognized it for what it was: a spider. Not the common creatures that nested in the cracks of the walls at the brothel, but a monstrous thing like the husks I’d encountered in the old pantry.

Those dried shells had been creepy, but to see it all fleshed out and moving was downright horrifying. You’d think all those legs would be the worst part—or even the fangs. But it was the flesh that made my skin crawl. Unlike the whitish remains of the dead spiders, the shell of the living creature was see-through. And the guts underneath were translucent and pink, like the meat of a boiled prawn, with a sickening webwork of colored veins pulsing through it.

Without thinking, I went for the dwarven dagger I’d been hiding, and managed to clear it from my breeches without cutting an artery. But instead of being glad for my help, Crespash hissed at me and said, “Don’t you dare!”

“But—”

He caught one of the flailing legs, trapping them all to the body, then brought the writhing creature to his lips and blew a puff of air between its clicking mandibles. The bug stiffened. Not entirely still—it was twitching vaguely—but most definitely subdued.

“The Opal Widow is a rarity in these parts. The peddler could get a good price for it—and no doubt he’s got a thing or two we’ll need if we plan to survive out there.”

“If you say so.” I shuddered.

Crespash dropped his gaze to the dagger in my hand. “I suppose you found that on the floor, too,” he said with a smirk. “You’re resourceful, I’ll give you that. Tell you what—procure the stormsilver for me and I’ll make sure we both make it out of this wretched pit alive.”

I reluctantly agreed. With him standing between me and my hidden sword—Dreadforge—I didn’t have much choice. Bad enough he knew I’d “found” the scroll. I shifted my grip on the dagger to hide the workmanship, in case the hilt was obviously dwarvish.

“I used to have ten such lovely weapons,” Crespash said, “right on the ends of my very own fingers. That’s what happens when you get caught stealing from orcs.”

“In Wildwood they’d take your whole hand.”

“Ah, but the orcs weren’t using me as an example. They were just trying to make sure I was defenseless so I couldn’t tear out their throats as they slept.” He nodded toward the dagger. “You keep that little claw, human. I’ve nowhere to put it. And besides….” He flashed his gray gums at me. “I think you’re gonna need it.”