Page 2 of The False Shaman (Claimed by the Red Hand #2)
ARCHIE
I’ve always considered myself a likable guy…but I guess some folks wouldn’t agree. There was the brothel owner who tore me from my mother’s side in the summer of my eighth year and forced me to go out and beg, claiming I distracted her from her duties. And the stupid boy with the ruddy birthmark on his cheek who pinched me hard enough to leave a welt whenever I got within arm’s reach. And the cobbler who’d claimed I stole from his shop, with me clearly barefoot. (When I then praised the comfort of his invisible shoes, it only made matters worse. Go figure.)
None of these tormentors were as big and scary as Taruut’s shamanic honor guard. Orcs might be uncharted territory for me…but once you learn to recognize that glint of hatred in someone’s eye, it’s kind of hard to miss.
The meanest guard was a musclebound crag of an orc named Gorgul, not just any honor guard, but the second in command. Hated me from the moment he laid his beady little eyes on me—and I hadn’t even let on how much of a struggle it was to keep myself from calling him “Gargle” by mistake.
The shaman’s caves had been my home ever since the orcs sprang me from the slaver’s tent. Maybe I was barely conscious for most of the time. But lately, they’d become as familiar to me as anywhere else I’ve had the misfortune to end up.
The lightless tunnels were confusing at first, but eventually, I learned the twists and turns. Though the air smelled like snuffed candles and the walls were damp, there was a warmth down in those tunnels that had seeped into my bones, which finally let my shoulders unhitch and my muscles relax.
Keeping out of Gargle’s way, though–that was the trick. Because without Taruut to remind everyone that my coming was foretold and blah, blah, blah, my burly buddy in the white face paint would just as soon cave in my skull as look at me.
It’s easy enough to avoid someone when they want nothing to do with you. But it’s not so simple once they’re on your tail.
“I know you’re here, little human,” the orc called out with mock familiarity. Then he made it especially creepy by adding, “I can smell your balls.”
Naturally, I did what any sensible person would do: I looked for a place to hide. Sneaking between some arcane orcish shaman stuff in a small chamber somewhere off the beaten path, I prayed to any god who might listen that Gargle was exaggerating. About the balls, I mean.
I’ve had a noseful of ripe scrotum in my time. More than once. So believe me when I say, with all the mineral baths I’d soaked up since I’d been there, my taint was fresh as a daisy.
But orcs prey on fear, and they’ll do whatever it takes to antagonize you. Now, the smell of fear? I had no doubt that stink was something they were intimately acquainted with. So I eased my way between the weird carved totems and the piles of discarded bones, and I willed the big bully of a guard to go pick on someone his own size.
Unfortunately, at that particular moment, Gargle’s heart was set on me.
My lantern was shuttered with only a narrow beam leading the way. I had no idea how far the caves extended and could only hope they didn’t go on forever. When Taruut died, offerings of food piled up at the mouth of the caves, and I’d managed to nick a few choice goodies. But the offerings were sure to dry up soon.
“If you know what’s good for you,” Gargle called out, “you’ll show yourself…before you really piss me off.”
Tough words. But, to my great relief, they were growing distant. The rumble of Gargle’s voice echoed off the rocky walls, gradually diminishing until, eventually, it was swallowed by the darkness of the winding caves.
Maybe I couldn’t hide forever. But with any luck, I could hold out until Gargle wrote me off as a lost cause and moved on to bother someone else.
I took a pause to scan the chamber I’d fled to—and then I began scavenging for potential weapons. It was a challenge to see by nothing more than my thin beam of light, but I managed. Stalagmites protruded from the floor. Could I break off a chunk and use it as a blade? Only if I had the tools to do so. Which I didn’t. Nor the skill, for that matter.
A pile of ancient bones could yield a makeshift club…though that tactic hadn’t panned out back when we were first captured and Quinn took a bone to one of our new masters, so I had little hope it would be much help now.
My best bet would be a simple rock. But only if my aim was true.
Plus, why is it there’s never a good rock around when you need one?
Just as I was about to give up and admit defeat, my meager light fell on a hefty round stone tucked into the back corner of the chamber. There it was—the weapon I’d been looking for!
But no sooner had I reached for it than the wall I was facing lit up bright, with my own shadow cast in front of me…and a much larger shadow looming up from behind.
Reflexively, I rolled myself into a ball. Not only to make myself a smaller target, but to protect my head. ’Cause I was about to be pounded with something a hell of a lot worse than a rock.
Footfalls scraped against the grit of the cavern floor, eerily soft. No doubt Gorgul’s tongue was eager to gloat. He was just making sure he was close enough to enjoy the full impact of his words.
I steeled myself against the fate that had been dogging me ever since Taruut, my protector, drew his last rattling breath…only to be baffled by the very human, very exasperated, very female voice that said, “What’re you playing at, Archie? It’s not as if there’s more than one way out of these caves, and you’ve gotta come out sometime.”
The sound registered first, and then it took my eyes a good, long moment to catch up. And not just because of the bright lantern light dazzling my vision. It was Bess, the meek and tearful girl I’d been chained to on my journey to the orc village.
But the woman standing before me now was anything but meek. And there was nary a tear to be wiped away.
“If you just did what the orcs said, things would be a whole lot easier.”
Bess stood with one hand on her hip and the other holding her lantern high—and she was dressed like an orc. I’d only ever seen her in rags, looking frail and battered. But now she was decked out in leather and fur. Her hair was a glossy mop that curled around her ears, and there was a determined set to her jaw. And while she wasn’t exactly armed, per se, there was a small eating knife strapped to her belt. She might not be able to fend off a marauding horde with the tiny thing…but it was a better weapon than the rock that just fell from my stupefied grasp.
My old traveling companion was the picture of success…aside from the symbol branded into her cheek. A trio of crossed spears.
I pitched my voice low and said, “Listen. You’ve got a knife. I’m sure there’ll be some kind of ceremonial blade around here somewhere—”
“Don’t be dumb. Quinn is fitter than either of us. If he couldn’t take down an orc, what makes you think we would stand half a chance? It sounds as if they need you. And for someone like you or me? Making yourself useful is the best way to stay alive. Besides,” she gestured vaguely to the world at large. “What’s out there for you, anyway? I saw when the guards dragged you into the slaver’s tent, after they passed you all around. But me? No one’s touched me since I got here. That’s more than you can say for the Wasteland.”
I searched for some flippant remark to deny it…but that night had been brutal. I’d seen boys die from less.
Then again, I’d almost succumbed to a cough . So what did I know?
“I wouldn’t be so quick to trust the orcs,” I said. “There’s one in particular who’s got his eye on me. And not cause he thinks I’m pretty.”
“Then play up your bond with the shaman.”
“Haven’t you noticed? The shaman is dead.”
Bess narrowed her eyes, but didn’t dignify that remark with a response. “I heard the orcs say that an aging shaman should have his replacement trained and ready to go—but Taruut always said the time wasn’t right. And it’s not like anyone dared contradict him. Even if he was old as dirt.”
“Seems kinda morbid to train your own replacement.”
“Well, who else is supposed to do your funeral rites? They say another shaman is on his way. Show the new orc how useful you are and he’ll keep you around. And anyway, it’s not as if you’ll get too far outside wearing that .”
The ragged clothes I’d been given in the slave tent were bad enough. Who knows what became of them? As I convalesced, they’d been swapped out for a slip of cloth around my hips that was little more than a scrap.
Despite the sorry state of my person—or perhaps because of it—I straightened my back and squared my shoulders. “All right,” I said. “Let’s do this. We’ll tell the orcs that Taruut has been using me as an assistant these past months, and I’m the best one to help the new guy settle in.”
Confidence is the whole secret behind selling yourself as something you’re not. State your case boldly, maintain eye contact, and never back down. I truly had spent plenty of time with Taruut, so I knew how the old man thought. I could do this. I could. And so I abandoned the rock, which frankly wasn't much of a weapon anyhow, and followed Bess out into the cavern where the Honor Guard readied itself for the new shaman's arrival.
Stepping into the light, I announced, “As you all know, Taruut has been acquainting me with the ways of the shaman—”
My posture was proud and my voice was sure, and my statement held the ring of truth. All in all, a promising start.
Though that didn't do me much good when a bored orcish guard shoved Bess aside, whacked me to the ground with the butt of his spear, threw me in irons…and dragged me away.