Page 17 of The Outcast Orc

Once I was wrapped up, we headed deeper into the forest.

If not for the wagon, we could take a more circuitous route to try and evade any potential goblin pursuit. But our shaman, Taruut, had been insistent about bringing back the male with the copper-colored hair—and the handprint on the human’s cheek had sealed the deal. And so, unless we wanted to carry Archie all the way back to the borders of the Red Hand Clan, we’d need to stick to the main path.

The off ox actually nuzzled Quinn when we got back on the road. That beast was so stubborn the best I’d ever hoped for from him was to move off my foot—and only if I gave him a good shove. I’d been leery of going all this way to obtain some humans. The shaman had claimed what we found under the slaver’s tent would be the key to everything. But Taruut said many things. These days, most of them were scarcely even coherent.

Bess had been an obvious choice. She was young and hardy, and the embroidery on her tunic was filthy from her time in the cage, but it had been done with skill. From nets to ropes—maybe even chainmail—her skills would be in high demand.

Quinn, I’d nearly passed over. He was obviously stronger than the others, and confident, too. The sort of behavior you’d want in a clanmate, but never a slave. Humans were bad enough at following their own authorities, let alone that of an orcish master. It had been risky to buy him. He could have been lying about his training, after all. But one look at him caring for the oxen and it was obvious he was exactly who he’d claimed to be.

“Step lively,” Borkul told the humans. “We’re too close to the river for my liking.”

“Why’s that a problem?” Quinn asked.

A captain could cut out his soldier’s tongue for challenging his authority like that—but this wasn’t war. And Borkul was only amused by the human’s audacity. “It’s a problem because the Lame Stag River has been so fickle lately. Dwindling to a stream of piss in the dry season. Swelling like a pregnant doe with the rains. And meandering around like a drunkard who can’t hold his ale. It wouldn’t much matter…if it weren’t the border between us and our ‘friendly’ neighbors across the bank.”

“The Stag has always shifted,” I told them, “But never too far. Last spring, though, it redrew itself, curving like a snake, cutting well into Red Hand territory on one curve, and the lands of the Two Swords Clan with the other.”

Borkul said, “It was a fair enough exchange. Until the great storm changed its course again and created an island right smack in the middle. Now the clans are at war over a strip of land—land that’ll probably choose its own side the next time the rains are low.”

He didn’t go so far as to say our chieftain was wrong to fight…though I doubt he would have spoken so freely within earshot of our village.

And as for me…I dared say nothing at all. I was lucky the chieftain hadn’t exiled me—or worse—after my last command went so horribly wrong.

I wouldn’t have consulted with the senile shaman—would never have been on this wild goose chase for a human with hair like copper—if not for the decimation of my troop. I was still unconvinced these humans would be my salvation.

But if my clan rode in on warhorses…not only would the Two Swords Clan stop harrying us.

They’d surrender.

And a conflict simmering for a decade would finally be over.

We pushed ourselves as fast as Quinn deemed the oxen could go. When nightfall came, I was fairly sure the goblins hadn’t followed. Goblins are vindictive, yes. But their legs are short, and they’re notoriously lazy. Besides, we would’ve heard their chatter by now.

On the off-chance that those goblins were stealthier and more persistent than I thought, I didn’t want to risk a fire. But Bess was shivering, Archie looked like death, and even the strong horseman was chafing his hands together. “A small fire,” I allowed. “But make sure the wood is good and dry so we don’t send up a giant, billowing signal.”

I brushed against Quinn when we unyoked the oxen, and his hand came away stained with blood—rich red-brown blood like the clay of the riverbank. Orcish blood.

“Let me see your arm,” he demanded, and I was too curious myself to make him check his tone. “The bindings are still tight. It’s hardly bled through at all. Then where…?” He pointed with a gasp at my flank. “Marok—you’re really hurt.”

10

QUINN

Hard to say if Marok couldn’t feel the wound in his side thanks to the dreamweed...or if it was just his habit to minimize his injuries. But now that I’d spotted the blood—a rust-brown that blended right in with the leather straps on his armor—I realized he’d taken a nasty hit.

I knew plenty about minimizing. Training animals required projecting an outward calm, no matter the inner turmoil. Rather than make a fuss over his injury, I simply said, “Your wound will only slow us down if it festers. Take off your armor so I can treat it.”

Clearly, Marok was no stallion. Yet he responded to my tone nonetheless.

Archie was dozing fitfully in the wagon and Bess had gone off with Borkul to forage while he hunted small game, which left Marok and me alone. As the orc peeled off his armor, I spotted a blade strapped to his thigh. A smallish thing about as long as my outstretched hand. It was curved, not made for stabbing, but for slashing. One quick stroke across the neck was all it would take for me to make my escape.

But I recognized that weapon. He’d been wielding it when he leapt through the fire to come between me and the goblin attackers…and what kind of ass would I be if I used the blade he’d defended me with to cut his throat?

It may have been a trick of the firelight, but when Marok lifted the chest plate over his head, the way the light played over his torso, he looked very nearly human. Huge, yes. Ridiculously muscular? No doubt. The thing was, I’d always had a yen for the big guys. The stonecutters and bodyguards, the blacksmiths and the porters.

And Marok’s body put even the best of them to shame.

Maybe I’d absorbed some of that dreamweed myself—because I should no more admire the physique of an orc than take a fancy to one of the oxen.

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