Page 47 of The Orc Chief's Baker
Karthoc made leadership seem soeasy.His brother delegated tasks like he was passing around dried elk meat and the orcs leaped to do his bidding just as fast as they would gobble down the grub.
But every one of Brovdir’s commands had led to nothing. Plans fizzled out before they even got started. Orders were forgotten by clan members within days of giving them. Any attempts to force compliance was treated with contempt and outrage, so Brovdir had no choice but to default to Sythcol.
It was easier that way. Sythcol knew this clan best and Brovdir had been Karthoc’s second his entire life. That was where he was comfortable and where he would remain.
But he couldn’t bring himself to follow all Sythcol’s decisions. Which is what led him here, to thislunacy.
“All right, all right, it’s time for you all to go.”
Brovdir looked up to find Sythcol had come up the spiral staircase that led from the hall and was crossing the balcony to the huge ovular table where they sat. The four elders did not question or fight Sythcol for even a moment. They simply rose to their feet and continued to babble about the leather goods theywere planning to make as they exited. Brovdir remained in his seat, too exhausted to rise.
“Chief Sythcol, is that... what they’re fixing in the hall?” Plog said as he eyed the bowl of soup in Sythcol’s hand.
“Yes,” Sythcol muttered darkly. Both their eyes flickered to Brovdir and his back straightened as he prepared for a complaint.
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 mindaddling 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 itworse.”
Brovdir’s fists balled, but he gritted his teeth. It wasn’t worth the argument. Sythcol was right. Hedidknow 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 awelcome 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.
