Page 7 of The False Shaman (Claimed by the Red Hand #2)
DROKO
How could a room so full of things be so utterly useless?
I sifted through the chaos of Taruut’s collection, desperate for anything I could use to prop up the falsehood I had to perpetuate. Every object I touched mocked my ignorance. Somewhere in this clutter lay the proof of what a true shaman should know—and with every passing moment, my inability to recognize it brought me closer to exposure. Each meaningless relic only hammered home the truth—I was an imposter surrounded by evidence of my own deception. And soon, I would be found out.
In my father’s house, when the shaman of the Two Swords clan refused the chieftain’s invitation to join us at the dinner table, his messenger often claimed he was deep in meditation. My father scoffed at such things, of course. Never in front of a member of the shaman’s household…but he clearly put no stock in the shaman’s ways.
I can think of no worse punishment for an orc than doing nothing. If I were forced to sit there like a lump waiting for ‘wisdom’ to rain down on me, I’d go mad.
I had presumed that claim was an exaggeration.
Now, though, pawing uselessly through all the tinctures and unguents, bones and branches, I realized exactly how much I dreaded the thought of sitting here idly in hopes of finding that burial chamber. Idleness is simply not the orcish way.
And yet, this “meditation” was likely the only shamanic practice I’d be able to mimic with any chance of success.
I squatted with my back to the wall and tried to meditate. It was useless. My thoughts kept straying to Archie and his inviting throat, his lips slick with grease, his eyes full of secrets and unspoken promises as he watched me watch him eat….
Back at my home clan, from my bunk in the longhouse, I would often hear other soldiers trading stories in the dark. They’d go on about which of the village girls would have the tightest cunt. Or brag about having their dick sucked by one of the kitchen slaves. Or wager whether the mongrel washerwoman inherited her twat from her ogre or human side.
I never joined in the banter. I was betrothed to Farya, the daughter of a chieftain, and that was all that mattered to me. I'd always thought others were fools for their obsession with rutting.
Until now.
Footfalls sounded in the hall. I sniffed the air, scenting a male orc a moment before the footsteps went still, just outside my door. “What is it?” I demanded.
The captain of my honor guard—the one-eyed orc named Kof—pushed the curtain of dangling bones aside and entered, kneeling before me. “Droko the Sage, my spear is yours. I’ve come to see if the room is to your liking. Taruut collected many things over the years. I thought you might need help with—”
“Tell me something,” I cut in.
Kof dipped his head. “I live to serve.”
“Taruut had plenty of guards, but no acolytes. Why? Was he expecting to be attacked in his own home?”
“Taruut must have had his reasons,” the captain said vaguely. “But he didn’t share them with me.” He went quiet, then, gazing at the shamanic oddments cluttering the room with an unreadable expression in his single eye.
Kof was perhaps a dozen years older than me, with proud tusks, broad shoulders, a deep voice, and a scar from his browbone to his jaw with a divot where the missing eye used to be. He was dressed as all the rest of the honor guard, in light armor trimmed with sacred green feathers. But unlike the men under his command, he had a pensive way about him, a tendency to hesitate before he spoke.
His silence unsettled me. It wasn’t the watchful quiet of a guard, but something deeper, more considering. He studied each of Taruut’s things as if reading a story written in dust. Most orcs would have filled such silence with attempts to prove their worth to a new commander. Kof did not.
I’d been hoping for more information, but I couldn't press him to speak without risking exposure of my own ignorance.
Kof seemed more interested in the trinkets surrounding me than in my shamanic abilities—or lack thereof. But judging by the wear on his spear handle, he’d served Taruut quite a while. That made it all the more likely he would eventually notice I didn’t have a clue what being a shaman entailed—even if he were to claim Taruut didn’t confide in him…and he only observed the old shaman with one eye.
“There's...so much here." Kof's fingers traced the worn leather of Taruut's sedan chair, his voice rough. "I could help clear some of it away. Make space for your things.”
“Taruut’s belongings stay,” I said firmly, hoping to rid myself of the captain as soon as possible. Kof didn’t challenge me—he wouldn’t dare. But he did seem baffled by the statement. I added, “The dead are less likely to anger if we leave their possessions be until they’re laid to rest.”
Instead of backing away at the mention of spirits, Kof drew closer. His hand lingered on the chair, fingers brushing the wooden arm—worn smooth by years of the shaman’s touch. Stroking it, he said, “I think Taruut knew the crypt wouldn’t be found in his lifetime. He once told me, The path lies unread until seen with knowing eyes. ”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“As far as I can tell—”
Kof’s words died as heavy footsteps sounded in the hall, and Gorgul’s shadow fell across the threshold.
“Droko the Sage,” he barked out, genuflecting forcefully as his captain turned and strode from the chamber. Damn it. I’d need to be cautious around this one, too. “Your journey has been long, and yet your slave is nowhere to be found. Your waterskin is empty and your boots are caked with dust.”
A situation the shaman of Two Swords would never have put up with. “I do not trouble myself with such insignificant worldly matters,” I said quickly.
“Of course not. That’s what those who serve you are for.” It sounded like he’d bought my excuse. That was a relief. “Slaves require a firm hand,” he went on. “I would be honored to oversee them so you don’t need to.”
Would my clan’s shaman have delegated the task? Most likely. But Crespash could hardly scout for me with the guardsman breathing down his neck. “You don’t get the measure of a man unless his scent is on your tongue. I will deal with my own slaves.”
“As you wish.” I suspected Gorgul was disappointed he couldn’t curry favor with me, though like any good soldier, he didn’t show it.
I motioned for him to go, and as he did, the bone curtain in the doorway rattled. “And the lack of privacy here isn’t helping my concentration,” I called after him. “Tell the other guards I’m not to be disturbed.”
Maybe he’d manage to do that—and maybe not. A shift of power always left underlings jockeying for position. So I wasn’t exactly surprised when moments later, yet another man dared approach…though the scent of him was definitely not orcish.
“Droko the Sage.” Archie paused in the doorway and performed the necessary obeisance, tapping the floor with one knee. No doubt he was usually graceful, but the bundle he carried made the move awkward.
“Did Gorgul send you?”
“Not at all.” He bustled his way in. “I just thought you might have need of a few things.”
All of the tables and shelves were full of shamanic nonsense, so he placed his bundle on the empty sedan chair instead. He opened the sackcloth to reveal several white tallow candles, a heavy tinderbox, and a jug of wine.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“Maybe not.” Archie hoisted the jug, eyes sparkling. “But I’ve been looking forward to my tasting duties.”
If the human thought to lower my inhibitions with something as weak as wine, he’d be disappointed. I grabbed the extra candles to stow them near the sconces, only to find their supply nearly gone, and the spot where they’d normally be kept held only a single, brittle candle stump and a few hunks of wax.
“As you see,” Archie purred. “I can be very…useful.”
Obviously, he was hinting at the sorts of things my bunkmates bragged about in the dark—a notion from which I forcefully steered my thoughts away. But perhaps he truly could be useful to me…just not quite in the way he expected.
“Tell me,” I commanded. “How often did the shaman Taruut meditate?”
The question surprised him. “Hard to say.”
“So much for your usefulness. I doubt you were anywhere near as close to the old shaman as you want me to believe.”
“Hold on, now. Maybe I am the new kid in town, and maybe I was pretty busy coughing up my own lungs—but Taruut and I did spend quite a bit of time together. Who else would’ve mopped my brow or spooned broth down my throat? Certainly not Gar—er, Gorgul.”
“You mean to tell me that the most venerable shaman this clan has ever known lavished all his personal attention on you? To what purpose?”
Archie shrugged helplessly. “Taruut never explained to me—or to anyone else—why he was so determined to keep me alive. It was foretold. That’s all he would say.”
If this slave was so important to the old shaman, perhaps he could be of use to me as well. “Kof shared another of Taruut’s riddles with me: The path lies unread until seen with knowing eyes. "
"How delightfully cryptic." Archie's lips curved into a smile at his own wordplay. “Speaking of knowing eyes….” His insolent gaze locked with mine.
"In the Two Swords clan, an orc would never tolerate such games from a slave."
Archie wasn't cowed in the least. In fact, he only eased closer, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "And yet…here you are, playing right along.”
The human smelled nothing whatsoever like an orc. I backed away to quell the temptation to sniff him. "Find out what that prophecy means. Watch Kof, listen to the guards, do whatever you need to do—but don't get caught. Or you may find yourself serving a much harsher master."
Archie set off, finally, to do my bidding, though his human scent lingered long after he was gone. Maybe I was foolish to think a human slave to be of any help. Humans don’t understand their place in the world. I’d be better off enlisting the help of Gorgul—at least he seemed eager to impress me. But before I could call him back, I was interrupted yet again as Crespash returned.
“I passed the human in the hall,” he said without preamble, “though, of course, he didn’t see me. What was he doing here again?”
“Bringing me that wine you’ve had your eye on. What difference is it to you?”
Crespash unstoppered the flagon, gave the wine a sniff, then shrugged and dumped it down his gullet. Smacking his lips, he said, “No doubt the boy’s flattery is like honey to your ears, and his sky-colored eyes are full of promise. And who could blame you for needing some release after you were deprived of the wedding night you’d been anticipating since you were old enough to sprout hair on your balls? But you’ll hardly have time to savor his sweet little pink cock if your head’s on a stake.”