I'd have to be careful around the honor guard.If Gargle had his way, I'd be done for.He'd been eager to be rid of me once Taruut died and the old man's protection with him—and he'd be twice as eager to see me gone if I landed myself in Droko's good graces.Finding a safe place to observe them without being seen was crucial.
I might not know much about orcs, but I was no stranger to a ruthless rivalry.On a slow night at the brothel, ten boys would all vie for the attention of the same paying man…and only the most cutthroat among us would wind up with enough coin for a meal and a bed.
Gargle wasn’t the only one who had it in for me, either.That creepy goblin wouldn’t shed any tears for me if I wound up on the wrong end of a spear.
But the memory of him cramming his body through impossibly small crackshadgot me to thinking…maybe I hadn’t been searching these passages nearly as well as I’d thought.
I searched.But now I examined the cave walls more carefully, and eventually I spotted a crescent-shaped gap I’d initially taken for a shadow.It was barely as wide as my hips turned sideways.I contorted myself and pushed my way through, gritting my teeth as the rough edges scraped against me.
Greedy rock clawed at my clothes and hair.I exhaled hard, taking only shallow sips of breath in hopes of making myself smaller, but it was no use.The walls felt as if they were closing all around me—like I’d wedged myself into the maw of the cliffside and would soon be swallowed whole.Even worse, as I dithered about turning back, I started to second-guess which direction I’d even come from.
If I meet my maker, I thought, at least I’ll die standing.I was crammed in so tight, there’d be nowhere for me to fall.Not exactly how I’d planned to die…but I supposed it was better than starving to death once I was too old for the flesh trade.
I was running through all the worse ways I could have perished—the dick pox, for instance—when I realized I felt the air stirring at my right hand.If it wasn’t just my fading mind playing tricks on me, maybe I wasn’t so turned around after all.I drew a steadying breath, then exhaled solidly and crammed myself toward the breeze.
It took a few tries, but eventually, I staggered out of the rock crevice and into a man-made chamber, with straight walls, a level floor, and a cavernous ceiling.A shaft of dim light shone down through a narrow gap high overhead, where a full moon rode the night sky.
I hadn’t expected to choke up from the sight of the sky.It stirred up dangerous hopes I couldn’t afford.
I shut them down.Wanting what you can’t have never ends well.
I tore my gaze from the hole in the ceiling and scanned the chamber.There’d been a doorway, once, cut into the wall across from me, but the passage was now caved in.And a half dozen still figures lay upon low stone biers in two neat rows of three, flat on their backs with their hands folded on their chests.
I sucked in a breath.Maybe I’d turned out to be pretty useless as a spy…but wouldn’t Droko be thrilled when I told him I’d found the crypt of the shamans?Or, at any rate, as thrilled as orcs allowed themselves to get.
I set down my lantern and crept cautiously forward.But even before I reached the bodies, I could tell that they were too small to be orcs—orcs of the fully grown variety, anyhow.As I rounded the figures, I saw that they hadn’t simply seemed short because I’d been looking at them from an odd angle.They truly were short.Even shorter than me—but easily three or four times as wide.
Whatever they were…talk aboutgirth.But they weren’t orcs.Not at all.
My shoulders slumped.Just how many crypts were hidden in these endless caves?And what kind of creatures were these, anyhow?I'd thought I'd had the “eyes to see” something to help Droko, but no.I was just a useless bedboy nobody here even wanted.
Why should I care about failing an orc—one who, despite all my best flirting, still saw me as nothing more than a slave?
The sensible thing would be to do as I’d been told and eavesdrop on the honor guard.But I'd never been very sensible, and my curiosity was already getting the better of me.After all, how often did you stumble across…whatever these things were?
I paused, weighing my options.Returning to my spy duties might please Droko, potentially securing me a safer position.But this crypt...it wasn't the one we needed, true, but it might prove to besomething.Something hidden, something valuable.The shaft in the ceiling taunted me with a glimpse of freedom, even if it was out of reach.And this place could be my secret refuge if things went south.
Cautiously, I approached the closest bier.I would have expected the corpses to be rotten, but they were incredibly well-preserved.Maybe even petrified, as if the atmosphere of the caves had conspired to protect them from the elements, although that protection would no longer be appreciated.
Even in the meager light, I could tell these dead guys weren’t orcs or goblins—and they definitely weren’t humans.They had eyes, nose, and mouth (presumably, under their big, flowing beards) but aside from that, their faces looked like no men I’d ever seen.The noses were broad, the brows heavy, and the eyes set wide in the skull.I’m not sure what color they used to be, back when they were up walking around.Now, their flesh looked stony, almost like sculpture, and their garments were covered in a fine sifting of limestone dust.I could have taken them for skillfully made statues, if not for the dusty topknots and beards that were clearly made of hair.Whatever they were, they’d been here for ages, completely undisturbed.
Which meant whatever they were buried with was fair game.
Some people think it’s bad luck to steal from a corpse—and those people have never had to sell their bodies for a crust of stale bread.The way I see it, the dead have no use for their jewelry and baubles, and someone’s eventually bound to come along and plunder those treasures.That someone might as well be me.
I took up my lantern and gave the dead guys a more thorough assessment.Five of them were buried in plain, serviceable clothing.Mostly light leather armor, cracked with age.Well-made, but without any tooling or ornamentation.But the sixth dead guy must’ve been their leader.His boots were fancier.The buckles on his chest piece were etched with geometric designs.And the dusty ring on his forefinger would bring in some good coin, even if the gemstone in the setting turned out to be common.
I'd been telling myself there was no point dreaming of escape—the Wastelands would kill me as surely as the orcs would.But that ring...that ring could change everything.Such a fine piece of jewelry could buy more than just a meal or a bed for the night.It could buy a whole new life, far from stinky caves and nasty honor guards.Far from Droko, a voice whispered in my head, but I pushed that thought aside.
Unfortunately, that ring wasn’t merely stuck tight…it was bonded with his finger.Not only did the bodies look like statues, they felt hard as granite.I’d been expecting some resistance, sure.But no matter how I tugged and twisted, that finger didn’t budge.
I cast around for something to help me pry up the finger, and my gaze fell on the dead guy’s scabbard.No idea what it says about me that I only had eyes for a jewel when a weapon was right in front of me.A heavy ring might buy my passage on a caravan—but I could hardly expect a caravan to troop through the orcish caves just in case a slave was hoping for a ride.Before I could spend any ill-gotten gains, I’d need a way out.
And that meant I’d also need to fight.
Not that I stood any chance of landing a blow on one of those spear-toting bullies, mind you.But cutting someone’s throat while they slept….
I’d never killed a man.But to keep myself out of the slave pit…maybe I could.
