Page 11 of The Outcast Orc

But they were most definitelynotmen.

A creature no taller than my shoulder with a dog-like face whuffed out a laugh and pointed in our direction. His studded armor was so heavy, I’d have trouble even standing up in it, let alone dancing the mocking little jig he was doing at our expense. A tall, sallow thing with eyes sunk deep in his skull treated us to a rude gesture. Everywhere I looked—monsters. Then I spotted a human shape in the crowd. Just a normal man, not horned or scaled or furred. I dragged the others toward him, calling out, “Sir, please, help us—”

He turned to see who was bothering him, and took us in with calm, glinting eyes…set close and canny, over the snout of a pig.

The crowd sensed us now—sensed that we were not like them—and even more of the creatures began to not only take notice, but to point and jeer. Archie and Bess crowded in on either side of me, as if I had any way to protect them. A stumpy, gray-skinned thing looped a string of sausages around his neck and mockingly cried, “Help me, good sir! Help me!” while the others roared with laughter.

“So that’s what all the ruckus is about,” remarked a familiar, deep voice as the orc called Borkul shouldered his way through the crowd. He caught the end of the chain that bound us together and shook his head ruefully. “You won’t find much help here,” he said, completely unperturbed. “Humans have enslaved the kin of most everyone here. Your people would sell off their own brother if they thought they’d turn a profit. Come on, then. Might as well make yourselves useful while you’re here.”

He loaded me down with a heavy crate, while piling random smaller purchases on Archie and Bess. By the time we staggered back to the campsite, my shoulders were burning and my back complained. Once we set down the supplies by the wagon, I said, “It was my idea to run. I didn’t give the others any choice about it. So if you’re going to whip anyone—”

“Saucy little things,” Bokul said jovially to his fellow orc, “aren’t they?”

Marok answered with a rumbly sigh.

“Too bad we can’t take a wee taste,” Borkul added as Bess tensed beside me and my blood ran cold.

Marok gave his head a curt shake. “I’m in bad enough standing as it is without rubbing my scent all over the chieftain’s slaves.”

“True,” Borkul agreed. “It’s just been too long since I’ve scratched that itch.”

“I’m sure someone in the market will oblige,” Marok said.

“I’m sure they will,” Borkul said slyly. “And I’m sure, for the right price, they’d be happy to bring a friend.”

Marok gave a disdainful snort and hefted one of the heavy bedrolls one-handed. He snapped it open with a single jerk, and it unrolled as easily as a silken party streamer.

“Come on,” Borkul chided, “I saw some fetching goblins loitering around the red lantern.”

“Have at it, then. I’ll take first watch.”

Borkul watched Marok shake open the second bedroll, smile fading as he went serious. “Akala wouldn’t have wanted you to go the rest of your life without—”

“I’m in no mood for goblins,” Marok snapped. “That’s all.”

Borkul shrugged. “More for me.”

Once the scarred orc had ambled off toward the night market, Marok pointed to a massive fallen log. It hadn’t been there before, so he must have dragged it over. And judging by the way the oxen were currently dozing in a nearby patch of grass, he’d done so himself, without their help.

“Sit,” he commanded, and the three of us shuffled over and dutifully sat. Hefting an iron mallet, he drove a tapered tent spike into the last chain link, fastening us all to the log. “Just in case you still think there’s anywhere to run.”

We waited in silence as he went through the purchases Borkul made, then thrust a loaf of bread into the hands of the nearest captive—who happened to be Archie. We’d been given nothing but a thin, greasy gruel that day, and at the sight of the bread, my stomach twisted in eager anticipation. “There was meat for you too,” Marok said. “But since we can’t trust you with a knife, you’ll have to make do with the bread.”

Archie ripped off a corner and stuffed it in his mouth before he broke the loaf into rough thirds. As fatalistic as he might come off, that boy was a survivor through and through.

I'd eaten at fine tables before, but the stale, coarse bread clutched in my fist was the best damn thing I'd ever tasted. I knew I should take it slow, but instead, I devoured it, every last bite. Marok, on the other side of the fire, crouched on his haunches. The position hardly looked comfortable to me—but was obviously practical, as it would let him spring to his feet at the first sign of trouble.

“Wouldn’t trust the meat anyway,” Archie whispered as he gathered the last few crumbs from his shirt with a wet fingertip. “Who knows what it might’ve once been?”

I wasn’t so sure I cared. My portion of bread might have been more generous than anything we’d had at the hands of the slaver, but I was so famished I could have eaten the whole loaf myself.

Our captor had been gazing out into the night as we ate, but soon after we finished eating, he rose in one smooth motion and rounded the fire. Archie froze, and Bess made a small sound of panic as she shrank against me. The orc ignored all of this and simply said, “Stand.”

We obeyed, chains clinking.

He grabbed the huge fallen tree by a gnarled root and began dragging it toward the bedrolls—and I realized my fear of him wasn’t entirely warranted. Marok hadn’t refused a red lantern wench just because he didn’t have a taste for goblins.

He wanted the new slaves all to himself.

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