Page 21 of The Outcast Orc

The guard sniffed, nostrils flaring. “No goblins?”

“Naw—we left those right where we found ’em.”

Never mind that the guards could smell goblin on us at all. But three days later? Impressive—and more than a bit daunting. I must have been thinking that once I got my bearings, I could help myself to some supplies, slip off, and find my way back to the Fortifications. Now, though, I saw that if I ever got past the barricades, an orc could track me down faster than a bloodhound.

The female guard rounded the wagon and peered inside. “Just the three humans?”

“That’s it,” Borkul assured her.

“Okay, then—you’re cleared to enter.”

“Praise Ul-Rott,” Borkul murmured, and Marok tugged the yoke, nudging the team toward the gate.

Travelers were challenged all the time on their way into the Fortifications, so that was nothing new. But something about the whole exchange still struck me as odd. On the road, Marok had seemed to be the one calling the shots. And yet, at the gate…. “Why didn’t the guards talk to you?”

“What did I say about asking questions?” he huffed. “We’re not out in the woods anymore. In the chieftain’s lodge, if you want to keep your tongue, you shut your damn mouth.”

I sensed that he was nowhere near as worried about my tongue as he claimed to be. More likely, he didn’t want to answer the question.

Given the heads, I was expecting to find some barbaric, freakish tableau inside the gates. But the village was not only devoid of random dismembered body parts—it was surprisingly neat. The structures were all made of wood, but they were nothing like the filthy scrap wood shantytowns in the poor districts of the Fortifications.

The dirt streets of the shantytowns ran with muck, with all the residents flinging their chamber pots out the doors with no concern for where the waste landed. Feral dogs roamed the winding alleyways hunting for rats. And the buildings were stacked so close together, most of them sharing at least one wall, that when someone knocked over a candle, half the neighborhood went up.

The orc village was built with exacting care. Each building was the same size, laid out to a precise grid. And each wall was constructed from stripped logs clearly chosen for their uniformity. Not only were the streets laid with cobblestones…there wasn’t a single emptied chamber pot to be found.

We passed a few dozen small homes and made our way deeper into the village. The buildings here were bigger—communal spaces. Smoke rose from both clay ovens and a smithy’s forge. Orcs hauled buckets from a well. A wheelwright banged some spokes into place. Normal things. Yet not normal at all, because everyone worked with a notable sense of purpose—and a profound air of discipline.

There was no haggling, no gambling, no shifty beggar lingering in the shadows hoping to relieve someone of their purse. No doubt I had questions. But even if I were dumb enough to voice them after being repeatedly warned to keep my mouth shut, I couldn’t have quite articulated what my question was.

We followed the cobblestone road to the center of the village, where a group of orcs waiting to greet us stood around a bonfire. A colorful canopy had been erected beside it—nothing at all like the silks in the Fortification fairgrounds, but just as well made. Beneath the canopy, elaborately decked out in feathers and carved bones, a figure sprawled on a sedan chair. This orc, I realized, was the first one I’d seen sitting down…though I didn’t think it was due to his station. As we neared, I saw he was not simply old—he was ancient.

He sat with his eyes closed. As we approached, he tilted his head back and sniffed the air, lips parted to let the scent play over his tongue. “You’ve brought the human,” he said. “No…you’ve got more than one.”

He opened his eyes, and I saw they were the blind, pale, milky green of an overboiled egg.

“Kneel,” Marok told me as he folded to one knee. I did the same as Borkul hopped down from the wagon and joined us on the hard cobblestone. Eyes downcast, he told the old man, “Taruut the Wise...we are unworthy of your blessing.”

I’d presumed the blind orc was their chieftain, so I was surprised when he waved a negligent hand and said, “My blessing means nothing. I’m just an old shaman who’s overstayed his time in the world.”

Borkul said, “You honor us with your attention.”

“You brought me the human boy, did you not?” He gave a dry chuckle. “I’d hardly turn you away.”

Four strong orcs stood around the shaman, all decorated with feathers, wearing streaks of white paint on each cheek. With a wave of their master’s hand, they all moved as one to hoist his litter. “Bring me to him,” the shaman said, and without a verbal cue of any sort, somehow they knew exactly which way to walk.

They rounded the wagon and stood patiently, holding the orc and his bulky litter waist-high, so he was level with the wooden platform. The shaman sniffed again. Borkul shoved me in the shoulder and whispered, “Don’t stare.” I quickly followed his example and planted my eyes front and center.

“Well, the boy’s pretty far gone, isn’t he?” the shaman asked no one in particular. “I suppose I don’t have much time.”

For what?

Even I knew better than to ask.

“And his hair?” the shaman prompted.

Borkul said, “As you foretold. Bright like a copper penny.”

“Good. And don’t worry, Marok—yes, I know you’re there, even if you haven’t dared open your mouth. I’ll put in a good word for you with Ul-Rott.”

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