Page 4 of The False Shaman (Claimed by the Red Hand #2)

ARCHIE

Obviously, I’d known Taruut’s replacement was coming. But what I didn’t expect was for him to be a big, strapping specimen of man-meat. Droko the Sage stood tall and strong—easily as tall as Gargle—with shoulders so wide they filled the doorway and hands big enough to circle my waist with ease.

And you know what they say about big hands.

My experience with orcs was fairly limited, but I do know one thing—and that’s men. When a man comes sniffing around the red lantern, I can tell which ones would just as soon show me the back of their hand as flash me their dick. I can tell who wants me to simper and preen and play the innocent, and who’s hoping I slide a finger up their chute while I suck them dry. But most of all, I can tell which ones really want me.

Given how the young shaman froze the moment our eyes locked, nostrils flaring….

Maybe I could finagle a way out of these chains after all.

Taruut had told me lots of things during our weeks together—but the topic of conversation never turned to sex. It never occurred to me to ask whether orcish shamans were expected to be celibate, like the clerics who rode with the Blood Nomads. Or if they were presented with virgins to ceremonially deflower, like the brutal priests of the Wastelands.

I supposed I was about to find out.

I slumped back against the cave wall as the irons were pried off my neck, drawing the first good breath I’d been able to manage in ages, as I considered just how much flirtation I could get away with. “It will be my pleasure to serve you, Droko the Sage.” Orcs get a big charge out of it when you use their name. I knelt, more or less, as much as my manacles would allow. “And I suspect you will find me very…useful.”

I let my eyes linger on the new shaman for a fraction of a heartbeat before I cast my gaze downward in a deliberate display of respect. Though before I did, I noted the shaman’s nostrils flared again.

Just goes to show, I thought, that deep down inside, men are more alike than different. Even the green, tusky ones. I straightened and put my weight on one leg, canting my hip, displaying my assets to their best advantage.

“Unchain him,” Droko said simply, and his guards set to work freeing my hands.

Gargle stepped forward, clearly disapproving. “Archie belongs in the workroom, not roaming through your chambers. In fact, once you’re through with him, he should go right to the slave pit.”

I had no intention of ending up in a slave pit. Not when a whole different kind of servitude awaited me. But Droko had other plans.

“Archie is to remain with me,” he said firmly, his gaze bored deep into my eyes, as if searching for some sort of kinship. I like sex well enough…but after so many years of turning tricks, it’s a rare treat to anticipate getting down and dirty with someone.

Had I really ever dreaded getting orced? Silly me. Now I was actually looking forward to it.

And then the shaman hit me with a cold, hard slap of reality when he added, “The human is of no use locked up in here if he is to help me prepare Taruut’s body. And give him something to wear. There’s frost on the ground.”

I’d thought we had a thing between us, Droko and me, but he turned from my holding cell and strode off without a backward glance.

One of the guards tossed me a woolen cloak, so long it dragged on the ground. I headed out of the cave behind Droko, flanked by his guards…including Gargle, of course, who made it very clear by the glares he was leveling at me that he’d just as soon toss me in some pit.

My eyes were sensitive from my weeks in the cave. It was overcast, but I squinted against the haze anyway as we walked the path to the village square. I stole a curious glance at the goblin marching along beside Droko. He was about my height and gangly, with a short body and arms as long as his legs. The last time I’d seen a goblin, he’d been attacking us by the flickering light of a campfire. This one clearly wasn’t about to attack anyone. Not only did he have a slave brand on his cheek, but his fingers ended in squat stumps where his claws used to be.

Judging by the scar tissue, the wounds were hardly fresh. In fact, I’d wager they were years old. The finger-stumps were sound and the slave brand was half-buried in the crease at the side of his mouth. He had on a worn shirt and trousers, both of which had seen better days. The fabric was frayed in places and patched up with scraps of cloth in others. But as far as I could tell, he wasn’t mistreated.

I’m familiar with the way a bedboy will move, a bit too careful and measured, to act like he hasn’t just taken a beating. I’ve moved that way plenty of times myself. No doubt the goblin had been beaten at some point. But not in recent history.

Even though we were of similar height, his stride was sinuous and strange. He’d be quick, that one—if he weren’t shuffling his feet, pretending to be slow.

I hadn’t seen much of the orc village when I arrived, seeing as how I’d been carried in, half delirious and wracked with fever. Now, I finally got a good look at the place. First impression?

Neat.

Not in a cobblestones-after-the-rain way, either. Like…freakishly neat.

I’d come of age at the fringes of the Wastelands, in a sizable outpost called Wildwood. The men passing through the brothel were always sure to make some stupid pun about the name as they whipped out their stiffies…and, yes, I would laugh as if they were clever, in hopes of a generous tip. Doubtlessly, there were some parts of Wildwood that were as clean and austere as this orcish settlement—just not any of the ones I’d ever frequented.

Where I came from—the Red Lantern District—the narrow, winding streets were littered with trash. Buildings leaned on each other, their planks weathered and worn. The air carried the smell of smoke and cheap perfume, and the sounds of music and rough laughter echoed through the night—as well as the grunts and groans of paying men determined to get their money’s worth.

The only grunts here came from a creature dragging a sledge of lumber down the street–a two-legged giant of a bald, fleshy, gray-green man even bigger than the orcs, wearing nothing but a loincloth and a slave brand.

“What’s wrong, little boy?” the goblin chuckled. “You’ve never seen an ogre before?” He lisped out the word “seen” on a spray of spittle. No teeth . “Stupid humans.”

It might be my first ogre, but I was a quick learner. I didn’t gawk like a tourist. But I definitely kept my eyes and ears open.

Though it was kind of hard to miss the slave pit, where a half-dozen unfortunate souls squatted uneasily in the meager shelter of a sheer wall looking leathery, cold, and utterly miserable.

We made our way farther into the settlement, and soon we reached the village square. In its center was a wooden platform containing just one thing, a simple bier. And on that plain dais was a body draped in cloth.

As I was stewing in my cell these last few days, I hadn’t thought much about the old orc who’d been my only companion during my wretched illness. But the sight of Taruut in a funeral shroud made my breath hitch, and I worked hard to swallow past a lump in my throat.

But then another figure joined the old shaman on the bier. And this one was very much alive.

To say he looked formidable would be an understatement. He wasn’t the tallest orc around, and a lot of his muscle had gone to fat. But he was decked out in armor that easily weighed twice as much as me…and he carried himself like someone accustomed to being obeyed .

The honor guard immediately folded to one knee, thumping their chests. But it was the goblin I took my cues from—a fellow slave. He utterly prostrated himself, falling face-first to the packed dirt. So, I did the same. He might have pegged me for a stupid human, but I knew how to blend in when the situation called for it.

The captain of the honor guard, a pensive orc named Kof who’d lost an eye some years back, rose from his genuflection and addressed the head honcho. “I present Droko the Sage of the Two Swords Clan. Praise Ul-Rott.”

I peeked up from the ground as this Ul-Rott character regarded the new shaman through narrowed eyes. “Formerly of the Two Swords Clan,” said the chieftain. “Spoils of war. He belongs to us now. Woe to anyone who’d try to stake a claim on him.”

“None would dare go back on a deal with Ul-Rott,” Gargle immediately agreed–sickening toady.

Men in power tend to enjoy groveling…but the Red Hand chieftain already had the measure of Gargle. His gaze skimmed the guard and settled instead on Droko. He sized up the new shaman and gestured for him to come forward. “You’re younger than I expected–though anyone seems like a stripling compared to Taruut. The most promising acolyte in generations–that’s what everyone’s saying about you. So, tell me, young shaman. What makes you so special?”

Most men I knew would not have hesitated to sing their own praises. But the new guy met the chieftain’s gaze, held it for an uncomfortable moment, and after a long pause, said, “I suppose we’ll find out.”

Ul-Rott barked out a laugh. “Well said. A shaman wouldn’t be a shaman if he made any promises he couldn’t guarantee. What was your name, again?”

“Droko.”

“Droko,” the chieftain repeated.

“A common name in my clan. My… former clan.”

Ul-Rott grunted. “Maybe we should call you Droko the Cautious. Regardless, your first order of business is to handle Taruut’s burial rites. Old man could barely hold his own dick to piss. But he served this clan since my father was too small to lift a sword, and no effort will be spared.”

“As you wish,” Droko said stiffly. He was nowhere near as easy in his own skin as Taruut had been. Then again, Taruut’s skin was saggy enough to accommodate a lot more ease.

The chieftain seemed eager to leave the arrangements in Droko’s hands–I had the sense he’d much rather vanquish another clan than say a prayer. He turned on his heel to march off toward his sprawling lodge. Kof motioned for the rest of the honor guard to return to the caves. But even as they regained their feet, Ul-Rott turned back and said, “I expect you to have the shaman’s crypt ready to receive Taruut in three days.”

The one-eyed captain shifted. “No one knows where the tomb is,” he murmured.

Ul-Rott narrowed his eyes. “What?”

Kof shrugged helplessly. “When Taruut died, he took that secret with him.”

The chieftain made a negligent gesture encompassing the entire feather-bedecked enclave. “Why do we have a shaman if he can’t make the ancestors speak? This is your problem, not mine. Find the crypt. Make it ready.” He gave Droko a stern parting look. “And it had better be perfect.”