Page 20 of The Orc Chief’s Baker (Orc Mates Of Faeda #4)

But it didn’t come. Instead, the elder male muttered something about not being hungry anyway and wandered off.

Brovdir couldn’t blame him. He could smell the steam from Sythcol’s bowl, and the distinct scent of pine needles mixed with day old fish wafted in like the stench of a privy on a hot summer night.

Once the elders had disappeared, Sythcol came to the table and set down his soup bowl far too close for Brovdir’s liking. “I thought I told you they weren’t worth talking to.”

Brovdir’s stomach twisted. “Had to try.”

“Waste of time,” Sythcol muttered. There were dark bags under his eyes and his white hair was knotted up to the point that Brovdir was convinced he’d not brushed it in days. Why the male didn’t just shave it off was beyond him.

Sythcol was his opposite in every way. He was slender and regal, with pale skin and even paler hair. His face was slender. His tusks were thin. His cheeks were hollow like he’d skipped too many meals and his gait was slow, like each step took effort.

He looked wrung out.

Sythcol scooped up the half empty jug of mead from the middle of the table. His hands were shaking, and black discoloration ran all the way up his arms, nearly to his shoulders. It had grown significantly of late from his overuse of magic.

Sythcol capped the mead jug and Brovdir wasn’t surprised. He’d never seen his chief counterpart take even a sip of the mind addling drink. “I warned you about the elders, didn’t I? They have as much knowledge as the trees themselves, but you’re better off asking the trees when you need wisdom.”

Brovdir snorted in amusement despite himself, then watched in mute horror as Sythcol put a spoonful of the stew into his mouth.

The male’s brow screwed up in disgust and, by sheer force of will, swallowed the muck down. “Gegvi’s really struggling to adapt, isn’t he?”

That was an understatement. Gegvi had been in charge of the cooking within the Great Rove Tree for over a decade, and until now, not one male had ever complained about his cooking. Which was a feat, considering the orcs of Rove Wood Clan took all their meals in the Great Tree.

But until now, Gegvi had had one vital tool endlessly at his disposal.

Magic. Spells made by Sythcol’s elite conjurors. Tinctures and potions that they no longer had time to make.

Because they had far greater catastrophes brewing than inedible soup.

“I’ll think of someone else to cook.” Sythcol pushed the bowl away.

“I can find someone,” Brovdir offered.

But Sythcol waved him off. “You don’t know the clan like I do. I’d rather not risk making it worse. ”

Brovdir’s fists balled, but he gritted his teeth. It wasn’t worth the argument. Sythcol was right. He did know this clan best.

And besides, the only person he knew who could cook was...

He gulped hard and pushed the thought of the beautiful human out of his mind. Guilt and shame gnawed at his gut.

“I’ll just add finding a cook to my ever-growing list of tasks.

” Sythcol pulled a metal container from his robe sleeve and popped off the cap.

The scent of lavender and roses was a welcome change from the stew.

Sythcol winced as he rubbed the salve into the blackened skin of his arms. It was nearly up to his shoulders now and would only grow worse as he continued to use his magic.

Creating the spell and tinctures for menial tasks would have to come to an end, or Sythcol was going to lose his arms.

Once done applying the salve, Sythcol put the container away and moved off toward the door near the trunk of the tree that led to the former chief’s office.

The elegant space was furnished with intricately carved and oiled furniture, the drapes were made of a soft material Brovdir had never even encountered during his travels.

The carpet was so soft and lush it felt unsettling under his feet.

And it was completely littered with papers, vials, and crates as Sythcol attempted to investigate former Chief Ergoth’s past atrocities.

“It was the housing for the warriors, wasn’t it? That’s why you brought the elders together?”

Brovdir nodded slowly.

Sythcol let out a long sigh as he began to organize the papers on the desk as if looking for something. “I told you, temporary shelters will be more than sufficient. Your warriors don’t seem to be having trouble in their leather tents, why should any others?”

Yes, the warriors were doing fine in their tents, but it wasn’t comfortable by any stretch. There was snow on the ground for Fades sake. “What of the women and children?”

The thought of Trinia sleeping in a tent in the snow made his throat burn and his skin crawl.

“There are really that many?”

Brovdir growled low. It was certainly more difficult for the clans outside the Rove Woods to find mates, but that didn’t mean they had none .

Sythcol’s face softened with contrition. “I apologize. That was snide. Of course, we’ll give any empty dwellings to the orcs with mates and sons. Once those are full, we’ll fashion something sturdier. I’m not sure how , but... we’ll figure it out.”

“I could,” Brovdir said but the harsh look from Sythcol had his back straightening and a lifetime of conditioning as the warlord’s second sealed his mouth shut.

“We’ll do it together. Again, you don’t know this clan like I do. You’d have no idea where to even put extra housing.”

Brovdir wanted to argue. He knew he should argue.

But his throat throbbed and constricted around the words.

With that, Sythcol changed the subject. “Have you received any reports from your warriors?”

Brovdir sighed and fished into his trouser pocket for the messages he’d been sent throughout the day. Brovdir’s only official task as chief was keeping track of the warriors. It was the main reason Karthoc wanted him to become a joint chief.

“I don’t trust anyone in this clan to control my warriors or carry out my orders for them. That is why you must stay here and play chief.”

So Brovdir had, although it went against his nature to do so. He was born to be a follower, not a leader. And he’d expected Karthoc to send more messages with orders. He’d half expected to get a bird two or three times a day.

Instead, his brother was far too busy gathering up the orc clans and hunting down his wayward mate to send more than one every half-moon.

Brovdir was on his own.

Sythcol took the small scraps of paper from Brovdir’s grasp without hesitation and began to go through each one with a furrowed brow. Even communication with the warriors was met with intense scrutiny.

“They gave me all these already,” he muttered as Brovdir crossed his arms. “There are no others?”

“No,” Brovdir said darkly. “They would not withhold from you.”

Sythcol’s jaw tightened with remorse again, but it was gone quickly and Brovdir had to stop himself from heaving another great sigh of frustration.

The male was so on edge. So suspicious. He double checked every scrap of information that was thrown his way against multiple sources and only trusted himself.

Even his personal elite team of powerful conjurers had voiced complaints at his wary nature.

But Brovdir did not know how to combat it. The male had been greatly deceived by Ergoth and the wound ran deep.

Perhaps too deep.

“Odd... they’re all moving closer to Oakwall,” Sythcol said under his breath.

Brovdir’s mind instantly flashed with the image of Trinia. “The... sinkholes are close to Oakwall?”

The urge to bolt to her side and drag his woman away from the danger was almost overwhelming.

But she wasn’t his woman.

“ Closer ,” Sythcol corrected quickly. “Not close . They aren’t in danger.”

“Yet,” Brovdir said quietly and Sythcol glowered at him.

“We aren’t telling them.”

Brovdir leveled the chief with a dark look.

“We are not telling them,” Sythcol repeated firmly.

“You saw how they reacted when we mentioned more warriors were coming to stay. We didn’t even mention how many and they still panicked.

Just today, Headman Gerald sent a message that three more families were talking of leaving the woods.

If they knew that sinkholes of churning, icy water were opening up randomly and swallowing up everything in their wake, the whole village might decide to leave.

Which would be a death sentence—for both them and us. ”

Brovdir sagged. Sythcol was right. With the prophecy of the Fades looming, they simply couldn’t take the risk.

Because when the reckoning came, everything outside of these woods would be...

He squeezed his eyes shut against the vision he’d seen of Miranda’s world of the desolation and chaos and heat. He tried not to think about it.

“I cannot tell them about the sinkholes until I know how to stop them,” Sythcol said. “And I’ve almost got it. I think I’ve found a pattern, at least.” He rubbed at his blackened hands and his eyes took on a haunting glimmer. “I’m so close. Just a little more, and I’ll...”

Sythcol’s claws extended suddenly, and he gashed the back of his hand. Brovdir straightened in shock as the male cursed and slapped his hand over the wound to stop the bleeding. Then he went to the shelves and plucked up a healing tincture.

“I’m fine,” Sythcol snapped as Brovdir unsuccessfully tried to keep the worry from his expression. “I’m just tired.” The powerful conjurer downed the tincture in a single gulp. “Stop looking at me like that.”

Brovdir averted his eyes.

“Anyway.” Sythcol finished and came back to sit at the desk. “I can’t tell the village yet and cause a panic. You agree, right?”

Brovdir nodded. The villagers would panic. Because what was happening in these woods was worth panicking about.

The ground under their feet was being eaten away by a huge underground river. One they’d not even known was there .

It shouldn’t be there at all.

“Tell your warriors to keep patrolling regularly and report often,” Sythcol demanded. “Perhaps I should talk some of the Rove males into joining them. Fifteen isn’t enough.”