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.
