I left without fanfare or adulation—as seemed fitting for the third son of the Two Swords Clan.I left my swords behind, since no shaman would need cold steel when he had his visions to guide him.And I left my proud armor behind as well, wearing only my practice leathers.Because what fool would dare strike a shaman?
But most of all, I left all my hopes and dreams behind.My brother had made off with not only my new home and my betrothed…but the life that should have belonged to me.
The trail between the territories of Two Swords and Red Hand was trampled flat by the tread of scores of soldiers, and one very large horse.A week ago, the road was filled with enemies and the dirt was soaked in brown orcish blood.But now, not even a scavenging raccoon lingered.
“Look at it this way,” Crespash said.“You weren’t satisfied as third son.The position of Shaman is a big step up for you.”
That didn’t make me feel any better.A shaman was not only the spiritual leader of the clan, but the advisor to the chieftain.Definitely a higher status than I’d ever aspired to.The only problem?
I didn’t have a prophetic bone in my body.
“Here’s a thought,” Crespash said.“Why don't you try crapping out a prophecy?It's not like shamans really have any special powers.They're just convincing liars.”
“That’s heresy,” I said.
“Among orcs?Maybe.But in case you haven’t noticed, I’m not an orc.All I know is, you’d better have your story down by the time we get to the Red Hand Clan.The purported honor of Two Swords depends on it.They’ll decapitate you where you stand if they figure out you’re a fake.”
True enough.
“There is darkness coming,” I intoned in my most serious voice.“It will cause trouble for the clan.A problem—a big one.So…we should keep an eye out for it.”
Crespash stared at me for a long beat, then said, “That’s got to be the worst prophecy I’ve ever heard.Listen to me, third son.Here’s how it’s done.”
The goblin drew himself up, squared his shoulders, cleared his throat, and lisped, “The wind shall whisper tales of forgotten places and times, and the creatures of the dark shall stir from their slumber.Beware the coming of the full moon, for it will bring a reckoning to test the mettle of even the stoutest warrior.”
“What reckoning?”
“Huh?”
“What reckoning?”I repeated.“Is it another clan?Or dissent from within?Or maybe some ogres have decided to—”
“It doesn’t matter.It’s not as if anyone would dare question the shaman.”
I considered his words.“The chieftain might.”
“Then claim that the mists of fate have hidden that part of the prophecy from you and shuffle off to consult with the ancestors.”Crespash yanked a pouch of dried apples from my belt, tipped the contents into his gummy mouth, then scooped up a handful of pebbles and dumped them into the empty bag.Once he’d swallowed the apples—and it took him several tries—he said, “Everything shamans do is shrouded in secrecy.Lucky for you.”
Lucky.Sure.I’d never get to wade through the battlefield with a sword in each hand.
He rehung the bag from my belt and gave it a heft.The pebbles clattered inside.“Granted, you’d be better off if your own venerated spiritual leader had given you a pointer or two.But if the Red Hand shaman took no acolytes, trained no one in his arts…who among them can say exactly what a shaman does or doesn’t do?”
Maybe all of this was true.But since when had Crespash ever tried to steer me right?“If you’re hoping to make a fool out of me—”
“I might be an asshole, but I’m not an idiot.If they find you out, what would become of me?”
He had a point.
There was still a long trek ahead of us.As we trudged through the muddy forest, the slave began to collect pieces that could be part of my shaman’s paraphernalia.Anything that looked like it could be vaguely mystical was fair game.Overhanging branches, upturned stones, rotting strips of wood—you name it, Crespash stuffed it in our packs.
By the time we approached the eastern gate of the Red Hand Clan’s village, my belt pouches were heavy and my satchel was laden with fluff, oddly-shaped rocks, an assortment of leaves and flowers, and innumerable random bones.
He even found an impressive tree branch, filled with gnarls and whorls, which he tied with feathers to create a staff—since, according to him, every great shaman must need a staff.
It was no sword.But it was better than nothing.
Soon the village loomed ahead of us, and I felt my confidence waver.Crespash sized up the pair of guards at the gate.Voice low, he said, “Just remember.They’re expecting an adept of your height and your age, with the same flecky eye coloration and the same out-turned tusks.There’s absolutely no reason for them to think you’re anyone other than who you say you are.Act cryptic and you’ll do just fine.”
I knew things were bad when Crespash offered a word of actual encouragement.
