Page 22 of The False Shaman (Claimed by the Red Hand #2)
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Droko made a strangled sound and folded to the floor. I rushed over, terrified that a hunk of the ceiling had fallen in and brained him. It was all my fault. My own damn stubbornness had killed the man I loved….
Loved!
But there was no fallen rock. Or gore. Or splattered brain. Droko was unharmed…mostly. He knelt, stiff and unseeing, with his arms thrown wide, back arched. The vibrant gold flecks in his irises were now swirling like embers in a flaring campfire, and the painted hand on his chest shone in the amber light like fresh blood.
“Droko!” I shook him—or I tried to, anyhow. He was stiffer than the petrified dwarves—
Dwarves! Was this their work? It had to be. As I watched, the curved wall fragmented like the petals of a flower, then those petals slotted themselves neatly into the floor with a rasp of stone on stone. Taruut always said I was the key to everything. I didn’t think he’d meant it literally! The workmanship I’d unlocked was so precise, it hardly looked like stone at all as it revealed a secret chamber.
A chamber I’d seen before—the amber room.
It had been striking enough by the glow of my lantern. But now it sparkled with a dazzling light. Small holes were drilled high in the ceiling, fitted with tiny mirrors. Sunlight bounced from the holes to the thick amber walls, sparkling so bright it forced me to blink away tears.
As the overhead light shifted, so did the sparkles. I couldn’t quite say whether what I saw in Droko’s eyes were the flecks he’d been born with or just the reflection of the dancing light. “Droko? Droko! Say something!”
The gold sparkles converged over each pupil, blinding him with a pair of radiant stars. Droko drew a deep breath…and spoke. “The Red Hand Clan shall be reborn in the fire of a new age, guided by the wisdom of its ancestors, and led by a son of the true sight.”
His normally shivery-deep voice pealed through the amber room like thunder. Not just with volume, but with confidence.
It wasn’t the blustery confidence of a chieftain…it was the knowing confidence of a shaman.
Droko’s eyes flickered, and I realized that the sparkles hadn’t blinded him at all. As figures of gilded light cascaded across the amber walls, Droko was reading them. I scuttled back to get out of his way, and as I did, I saw we weren’t alone. The grinding walls had attracted some of the honor guard—and a few of the chieftain’s men, as well. They’d all been pretty macho when they were pointing their weapons at me. But now, with the walls ablaze and the golden prophecy dancing all around them, they were singing another tune! Most of them cowered. Some made hasty gestures to ward off a curse. One of them actually pissed himself.
And in the face of it all, I stood my ground. Little ol’ me. The weak and feeble human. I was patting myself on the back for being so brave when I realized Droko still had more to say.
“Seek the sign of the Hand, for it is not through blood that the clan is made strong, but through the convergence of hearts and minds. This is the time to unite, the time to stand as one…and the time to be made whole again.”
The room was still. For a moment, no one stirred. Then, somewhere in the crowd, one of the bemused guards spoke up. “What’s this sign of the Hand?”
“It’s a lie ,” boomed a voice I knew all too well—just as Gorgul barreled into the amber room and backhanded me so hard I saw stars of my own. My ears rang, and the tang of copper flooded my mouth where my teeth cut into my cheek. Droko had been right: courage might be great, but all the bravery in the world won’t protect a small, soft unarmed human from a gigantic raging orc.
But it wasn’t actually me Gorgul was after. I’d simply been knocked aside for standing in his way.
It was Droko.
Kneeling. Bare-chested and vulnerable. Unarmed.
Defenseless.
His honor guard couldn’t help, and neither could the chieftain’s men. They’d all crowded against the far side of the room to get away from the so-called “witchcraft.” And even if it would do any good to fling myself in front of Droko like a human shield, my head was ringing so hard I could barely see straight, let alone try and stop the attack.
Gorgul had no weapon, but it didn’t matter. He seized Droko by the throat. Humiliated rage contorted his features, and flecks of spit hit Droko’s face as he bellowed, “You think you can come here and preach your lies? I will choke them from your foul body—”
I lurched toward them, blacked out for half a heartbeat, and sagged against the amber wall, useless. But Droko did even less. He hung there, making no attempt to pry Gorgul’s hands off his neck. His arms hovered at his sides, spread wide. And his lips still moved as words of light whirled around him while Gorgul choked off his air supply.
The honor guard was useless. I was useless. And Droko was clearly so far gone in the grip of the prophecy he had no hope of defending himself.
As golden letters cascaded through the air all around me, bouncing off the amber, I banked off the wall and staggered toward Droko. I knew that even if I reached him in time, I was no match for an orc. Any orc. Especially a warrior in his prime. No doubt Gorgul would crush me. But at least I’d die knowing—
The handprint on Droko’s chest flared as if it had been daubed in saltpeter and sparked by a flame. Gorgul jerked his head away from the flash, just as a lightning-fast figure cut through the cascade of golden letters.
Crespash.
The goblin flung himself from a crack in the wall—and he hadn’t shown up at the party unarmed. The blade in his hand cut the very air with a loud shing! …followed by a stony crunch as Dreadforge buried its tip in the glowing amber floor.
I’d known Crespash was stronger than me. But I could barely lift the sword high enough to chip away a stairstep. He’d swung it over his head in a mighty arc. And props to him—I wasn’t even angry he’d found my sword. Even though his crazy swing had missed, at least his bold move had commanded Gorgul’s attention.
Droko swayed on his knees as the traitor’s hands slid from his throat, but he didn’t collapse. His eyes were still spinning with gold.
I hovered there on the balls of my feet, trying to work out who Gorgul would lunge for next, Crespash or me—and if it was me, which way I should dodge. No doubt he’d love to rid the world of either of us.
As he wavered, one of the useless guardsmen declared, “The sign of the hand,” and I felt the imprint of Gorgul’s outspread fingers burning on my cheek. It was familiar. Not like an old friend. More like a tune you can’t stop humming in the middle of the night when you should be getting some sleep. The new handprint was likely larger than the one I’d picked up back in the slaver’s tents—the mark that caught the orcs’ attention to begin with—but it had landed in the very same spot.
But this time, the handprint pulled at me, dragging my gaze to the painted red print on Droko’s chest…directly over his heart.
Gorgul’s eyes fell to the paint, then lit on the matching handprint he’d laid across my cheek. He opened his mouth to speak—to challenge Droko’s vision, no doubt—and then opened his mouth wider. Wider. Impossibly wide, in a soundless, lopsided yawn, eyes huge…as his head slid apart in a diagonal slice from ear to jaw, as precise and sharp as the invisible seams in the walls around us.
Dreadforge hadn’t missed, after all.
The top half of Gorgul’s head hit the ground with a meaty thump, rocked in place a few times, and finally went still…just as his body collapsed.