Page 15 of The Outcast Orc

Those huge eyes were a liability when the fire’s hot light washed over us. And while the creatures got their bearings, I wound up and swung again. The end of my chain connected with the complainer’s skull with a meaty thump, and he crumpled to the ground. Hatchet pointed at me and barked out an order. “Cut that one free.” Meaning, myhead. If Hatchet stayed out of it, with the complainer down, I was pretty sure I could take on the remaining creature. But then Hatchet raised a bone whistle and blew.

I heard nothing—but, like hunting hounds, the creatures apparently did. The silhouettes of several more gangly figures surged around the campfire from either side. I realized with growing dread that my fleeting notion of making my final stand might have been more of a premonition.

We were surrounded—and I couldn’t make any sudden moves without strangling Archie or Bess. What’s worse, one of the creatures had a sharpened spear that was easily long enough to outreach my chain, while another wielded a jagged blade that looked fully capable of sawing through my spine.

I swung at the spear, snapped it in two, and whirled around to knock out the one with the blade. But as I did, Hatchet launched himself at me and tossed a handful of dirt in my face. My strike went wide as I blinked frantically to clear my vision. I tried as best I could to fend them off, but didn’t connect. Everything was blurred and jumbled, and there were just too many. I’d be damned if I didn’t go down fighting…but eventually I was sure to fall.

But then a massive, armored figure burst through the campfire, showering sparks all around. Marok! He landed with a thud between the creature and me, and the jagged blade skittered along the orc’s arm, dragging across the armored bracer with a sickening screech. Marok sliced at my attacker with a small, curved knife. With the other hand, he swung a smoldering log, stunning the creature with a solid blow. It was enough of a diversion for me to get in another hit myself, sending Hatchet retreating into the night. Borkul rounded the fire. He pitched a broken hunk of crate and knocked an enemy to its knees. And despite our lack of real weapons, together we somehow drove them off.

Though my relief was premature.

Borkul said, “I saw a good few dozen goblins at the bazaar.” So that’s what those things were—goblins. “They’ll be back with reinforcements.”

Marok grunted. “Then we’d better get going.” He turned to me. “You—horseman. Come yoke the oxen.” He tossed me the key to my collar. “And if you think about running off, think again. Goblins don’t take kindly to losing. They’ll be eager to settle the score for cracking their friend’s skull.”

Archie had fallen into a spell of coughing, so I handed off the key to Bess so she could free me. She fit it in the collar with trembling fingers, bending her head to mine, and whispered, “What now?”

I recalled the crunch at the end of the one solid hit I’d scored with the chain. “I’d wager he’s right. We’re better off staying with the orcs.”

When the metal collar came off, my neck felt raw and oddly exposed. With nothing chaining me down—nothing holding me back—if there was any good time to slip away, it was now. But clearly, I was nowhere near the Fortifications. Besides, I couldn’t abandon Archie, and especially not Bess. And so headed over to yoke the sleepy oxen. With Marok.

We worked together in silence for several long moments, but as I tightened the yoke, Marok said, “We pushed them hard yesterday. Can they manage?”

I ran my hand over the haunches of the nearest ox, and it responded with a skin flicker and lazy smack of its tail. “It’s not ideal,” I admitted. “But if we leave them behind, they’ll end up on a spit anyhow. We should lighten their load as much as we can. The less they need to pull, the easier they’ll have it.”

Marok conferred briefly with Borkul, pitched a few crates off the back of the wagon, and rounded us up to go. “We all walk,” he announced, then cut a glance at Archie, who was struggling to draw a good breath. “Except that one.”

Borkul hoisted Archie into the wagon bed like he was a rag doll. “I doubt the oxen will even notice him.”

Anyone who’s trained an animal, be it a puppy or a plow horse, knows that every creature has its own personality. But from the moment the orcs stepped through the slaver’s tent flap, I’d thought of them as one homogenous race. If not for Borkul’s scar, I couldn’t even tell them apart. Maybe it was the time we’d spent with them this night. Maybe the bonds created by fighting off a common enemy. But suddenly, I truly saw them as distinct individuals.

Even more baffling…it was Marok, the stern, dour one, who’d been willing to leap through a fire to save me from a goblin’s sword.

Borkul grabbed his breastplate from a nearby bush and tugged it over his head. “Should I unshackle the female so she can walk without tripping over the chains?”

Marok glanced at Bess. “Hopefully she’s sensible enough not to run off with goblins lurking around.” He glanced sharply at me. “Same goes for you, horseman.”

“I have a name,” I said. “It’s Quinn.”

“Unless we get going, your name will beThat Dumb Human Who Ended Up as Troll Food Because He Let the Goblins Regroup.”

I held his gaze for a heartbeat, then said, “That’s quite a mouthful. How ’boutLunchfor short?”

Marok snorted. Evidently, he wasn’t entirely devoid of humor after all.

9

MAROK

Even once the lights of the bazaar were well behind us, we kept our pace at a brisk walk. The oxen weren’t pleased about it, but the horseman—Quinn—said they were healthy enough to endure the forced march.

Though I couldn’t say as much for the young human male, who was taxed by merely riding along.

His coughing had a wet, rattling sound to it now. One that didn’t bode well.

“Can’t we give him something for it?” I asked Borkul.

He shrugged. “The goblins helped themselves to our medicines when they made off with our weapons.”

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