Page 26 of The False Shaman (Claimed by the Red Hand #2)
SILVER
“Oh spider dear, with legs so long
Webs so pretty, silk so strong
You’ll be a wonder to behold
In the menagerie, so bold
Our journey’s long, but worry not
We’ll dance and sing, and have a lot
Of fun and games, along the way—”
The cart stopped with a jolt and a shudder as Prancy plodded to a halt and planted her hooves. “What’s this all about?” I asked her. “I thought you adored my impromptu ballads.”
The donkey replied with an affronted splutter.
I hadn’t chosen Prancy for her perky footwork—obviously—but she didn’t usually give up on me so quickly. “What’s wrong, did the mash those orcs fed you disagree with your delicate constitution? I’ll have you know you ate the very same feed as their prize warhorse.”
Prancy’s ear swiveled. Not toward me…but toward the bushes.
That donkey might be as stubborn and slow as they came, but her sense of self-preservation was just as highly developed as mine—a trait that should never be taken for granted.
My tooled leather bracers are certainly quite fetching, but they’re not just for show. With a practiced flick of my wrist, I drew a throwing star sheathed in the fancywork into my palm. You don’t normally see the weapons outside the desert. But the Blood Nomads had been amenable enough to make a trade once they sampled my supply of fine gnomish brandy.
The sharp baubles were not only well-made and nice to look at—but deceptively lethal.
Just like me.
Whoever was creeping up on me was stealthy, I’d give them that. I still didn’t hear them myself, though Prancy’s expressive eyes told me everything I needed to know. I readied the bladed star with a steadying breath, but went on chitchatting as if I hadn’t a care in the world.
“Don’t play lame with me, missie. That tease of a groom looked you over and said you were fit enough, so—”
I whirled around just as the figure cleared the undergrowth—and immediately threw his gangly arms over his head in surrender. “Come now, Silver. Is that any way to greet a friend?”
Crespash? “Hah, lucky for you I half-expected the redheaded boy to come track me down. Otherwise, your jugular would be gushing like a tapped keg.”
“Lucky, huh?” The goblin made a dismissive gesture with the stumps of his stolen fingertips. “I wouldn’t go that far. But if there’s room at your camp, I’ll share the watch.”
He didn’t need to keep watch. A goblin could squeeze into anything from a gap in the rocks to a fallen log, and any potential predators would be none the wiser. What he really wanted to share was my meal. But since I had an abundance of smoked orcish eel to spare—and since he was a more entertaining conversationalist than Prancy—I beckoned for him to join me.
Not too close, though.
I may be friendly—but I’m no idiot.
I saw to building the campfire, stacking dry branches in a careful pyramid while Crespash sprawled against a tree, scratching his armpit with a twig. He couldn’t have been less help if he’d tried, but at least he’d brought news.
“As for the human, you won’t be seeing him anytime soon. He’s too smitten with my former master to even consider leaving Droko’s side.”
Former master? Interesting. “I suppose love makes fools of us all.” I scraped some kindling together and struck my flint. Nothing. Again. Still nothing. “Though how any man could choose chains over freedom is beyond me.”
“I’d certainly never trust myself to the tender mercies of an orc…then again, I’ve never seen one as besotted as Droko. Who knows? Maybe the two of them will live happily ever after.”
“And if you believe that bedtime story, I’ll sell you a map to the lost treasure of the Hill Giants, cheap.” The spark finally caught. The dry plant fluff crackled, flame licking up the twigs. “Well anyway, here’s to unlikely—”
Crespash lunged forward, emptying his waterskin over my carefully built fire. My hand flew to my throwing star, but he didn’t attack me in the darkness. Instead, he pressed a finger to his lips and beckoned.
Curious, I followed him through the brush to the edge of a nearby clearing. The moonlight revealed what he’d heard—dozens of orcs in the distance moving through the trees. A raid heading for the village I’d just left? Supposedly, there was a truce between Red Hand and Two Swords—or so each side of the river claimed. But on closer inspection, I saw these weren’t the proud Two Swords warriors who always bought up my finest whetstones. This was a ragged bunch, plodding along in no particular hurry.
Clearly, they’d be in need of some provisions….
As I rose to fetch my cart, the goblin caught me by the sleeve, hissing as the silk slipped through his absent claws. “Where d’you think you’re going?” he spat.
“Off to ply my social graces. And a few of my wares.”
“Then you’re even dumber than you look! That’s not just any old gaggle of orcs—that’s the Lost Clan.”
Never had the pleasure. Carefully, I drew out my brass far-seeker, a clever bit of gnomish craft that had paid for itself a hundred times over, and put the tiny cylinder to my eye to take stock of the group. Mostly men. A few women. No young. Their armor was piecemeal, held together with crude repairs. Many carried clubs, not swords. And some had no weapons at all.
“They hardly look like a threat,” I said.
“The Lost Clan drifts between territories, demanding food and shelter wherever they go. No orc would dream of turning them away—bad luck, you see.”
I watched as several more ragged orcs emerged from the trees. “Surely they’d appreciate my selection of—”
“You’re not hearing me, peddler. They don’t buy.” Crespash’s voice dropped even lower. “They take.”
A crude wagon drawn by a pair of weary orcs brought up the rear. It creaked to a halt. From the back, they hauled down a massive wooden chest, its iron bands gleaming dully in the moonlight. Through the crowd, one particular orc moved like water through stones—never pushing, yet somehow always finding space. His armor was as shabby as the others, but he wore those patches like a king’s cloak. With a practiced ease that caught my merchant’s eye, he lifted the heavy lid as if it weighed nothing, revealing the treasure within.
I expected the usual plunder, spices and silver, baubles and gold. Instead, something far more interesting emerged: a figure unfurling from the confined space with the fluid grace of spilled ink.
It was a man—a human man—with midnight hair that fell past his shoulders in a wild tangle. Between his knife-edge cheekbones and those watchful dark eyes, he had the look of someone who’d seen far too much. Intricate tattoos covered his chest and arms—spiraling designs that seemed to shift in the moonlight, telling stories I couldn’t quite read. Despite the cold, a simple loincloth was his only covering, revealing more of those cunning patterns wending down his body.
I twisted the lens on my far-seeker to get a better look.
“Still eager to trade with them?” Crespash muttered. “That poor sap could just as easily be you.”
Most of the orcs ignored the tattooed human and went about setting up a crude camp. But while the ragged leader looked on with calculated satisfaction, a few of the others started toying with their captive. They circled him, jeering and prodding. But his eyes went flat and his expression utterly blank.
Can’t break what you can’t reach.
One particularly big and filthy orc traced the markings on the human’s chest with the tip of his eating knife—not cutting, just threatening—while others made sport of guessing the tattoos’ meanings. Their prisoner stood still as stone, though his hand trembled ever so slightly.
Crespash shot me a sidelong glance. “Gonna play hero?”
I tucked away my scope and smiled thinly. “You’ve clearly mistaken me for a fighter, my friend, when I am but a lowly costermonger. I may be bold—but I have no death wish. Besides, if anything happened to me, who would look after my fine spider?”
“The spider you’ll sell to the highest bidder.”
“Indeed I will. Though I confess, part of me wishes I could linger to watch tomorrow’s entertainment.” I gathered Prancy’s reins and nodded toward the road ahead. “What say we find a campsite well away from here? A wise merchant knows when the market’s about to turn...deadly.”
Trouble is about to come knocking in Taken by the Red Hand 3: The Lost Clan