And yet, when Droko spoke to me like that, all confident and commanding…well, I could hardly stop myself from jumping his bones right then and there.I hurried back to the kitchen to get ready for the chieftain’s arrival with somethingotherthan dread filling my belly.It was still a queasy feeling, of course.But now it was tinged with anticipation.
Taruut once told me that a true orc is defined by his honor—though from what I gather, their opinion of right and wrong is pretty fluid.Never mind that Gargle was a backstabbing traitor.That sort of ambition was something all of them could wrap their heads around.But make him seem feeble, and apparently, he’d never recover.
Taruut would’ve been proud of our plan.He had a soft spot for cleverness.
Before he’d died, the old shaman had taught me about more than just orcish stubbornness.He’d schooled me on how to boil mallow to soothe a raw throat, and how to make a plaster of herbs and clay to cover an angry scrape.But instruct me in the art of poisoning?Of course not.
Taruut might’ve been batty…but he was no idiot.
The Deathshade didn’t even exist, as far as I knew.I’d just made it up on the spot.Hopefully something in the larder would serve as a convincing substitute.
I sniffed through the culinary herbs, wishing I could borrow an orcish nose for the task–or even a goblin snout, for that matter.Crespash must have offloaded that horrid spider by now.But where he’d gone was anyone’s guess.
After a few minutes of deliberation, I decided to go with the least pungent of the bunch.A poison that an orc could sniff out a mile away would hardly do its job, after all.I pried several jars from the back of the highest shelf, things covered in cobwebs that hadn’t been opened in years.Some of the contents had petrified into a solid lump.Others were practically dust.I grabbed a handful of each and, one by one, ground them into a fine powder.
I was sneezing my head off by the time I finished.Maybe my fine spray of spittle would lend an extra oomph to my so-called poison.One could only hope.
Now it was just down to making a grub eat my concoction.
I went back to the larder and found a pot of the fattest grubs I could lay my hands on.Wincing, I plucked out a creature to get a closer look at it.The grub was the color of suet, with a translucent, segmented body, a pair of dark spots where eyes would someday develop, and two wriggling nubs for antennae.I thought of the chieftain crushing it between his teeth and my stomach heaved.
I quickly plucked a test grub from the bunch, a feisty thing the size of my thumb.It wriggled in my grasp, and I hastily dropped it into the powder, hoping that it would seize the opportunity to chow down.But instead, it just flopped about and covered itself in a fine coating of herbs.I quietly brushed it into the waste bucket.
What did grubs even eat?I poked around inside the pot and found my answer…and wished I hadn’t.Evidently, they ate each other.Cringing, I plucked out another little cannibal and presented it with the powdered herbs.This time I set it on the edge of the plate…only to watch it roll in and coat itself.
I flicked it into the trash with its buddy.
I’ll try anything once, but there’s plenty of things I’d never imagined myself doing.Bathing in a geyser.Slicing through rock with a dwarvish sword.Kissing a man with tusks.But feeding a bloated white grub with the tip of a tiny spoon was definitely top of the list.
I watched in horrid fascination as its tiny mouthparts coaxed the herbal mixture into its gullet.And once the grub finished its meal, I carefully observed it to see if eating the mixture had any effects.Its movements were sluggish, and its antenna-nubs twitched as if in a trance.If my phony poison was actually toxic to bugs, then all my hard work would be for nothing.Orcs prefer their grubs alive and kicking–or writhing around, if you want to be technical about it–and no doubt serving the chieftain a dead grub would not only be suspicious.It would be an insult.
Did I have enough time to throw together another fake poison?Unlikely.A thrumming sound in a far-off corridor had the distinct pattern of hobnail boots, the very sort worn by Ul-Rott’s guard.Maybe I’d be lucky and the grub would wait a few minutes to actually expire.
As if luck had ever been on my side.
I was scrabbling through the grub pot, searching for a fat enough understudy to take the place of the one I’d just accidentally poisoned for real, when I spied motion out of the corner of my eye.
Fattie had shaken off his stupor and was wriggling desperately around the plate.
The orcish footfalls grew louder.I had just enough time to add a handful of non-poisoned grubs to the dish, and a sprig of watercress for decoration.Hardly a meal fit for a chieftain, I realized, just as the orc reached the doorway.
Kof.All decked out in feathers and white face-paint.
“It’s time, human,” the orc barked at me.“Don’t dawdle.”He turned to go, then paused and added, “For some reason, Taruut always liked you.His spirit won’t want to start without you.”
With that, he scooped up the tray of grubs.But as he did, I noticed something alarming.Fattie now had a dark line of herbs running along the length of its translucent body.
“Wait,” I called out, and Kof narrowed his single eye suspiciously.I cast about in desperation and spotted some rubyseed lingering in the mortar and pestle.“We can’t serve the chieftain just any old grubs, can we?”
The spice was red–really red.Hopefully red enough to cover up a telltale dark line on a very portly grub.
I hastily flung the herb at the plate.Once I dusted it over the top, though, I realized I’d covered my tracks all too well.
The red spice powder made pink, wriggling cherries of my handiwork.Yes, the dark line was covered…but the smell of the subtle toxin I had so painstakingly created was entirely blotted out by the pungent stink of rubyseed.
Damn it—the grub was supposed to look just poisoned enough to arouse suspicion, and now I’d gone and obscured all my hard work!
Kof grabbed the plate.“Hold on,” I insisted, “a splash of wine—”
