Page 28 of The Outcast Orc

Not because his scent was any sharper than the female’s, but because I associated it now with the feel of his nimble fingers tending my wound. Of his arms circling my waist as he tied on the dressing…and the way his arousal spiked when we pressed up against each other.

I had never coupled with a human before, though a few of my fellow soldiers had. Orc marriages are sacred, so it’s not unusual to turn to some other race for a bit of variety. I’d mingled with a hobgoblin or two in my younger days. But once I married, I’d never felt the need.

Akala would often tease me with stories about the many ogre suitors of hers—suitors who never actually existed. She teased me about many things, from the sound of my snoring to the size of my feet.

But this was just her talk. Her actions proved her dedication was fierce—like the time she’d heard the wife of one of my soldiers muttering about me working them too hard, she’d put a stop to the complaining with a hearty swing of her favorite cudgel.

I opened a nearby chest and pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle, trying to imagine the club in Akala’s strong hands. Taruut had advised me to burn the thing on her pyre, but I simply couldn’t do it. I ran my fingers along the scarred wood, then brought the weapon to my nose, searching yet again for traces of troll blood.

I found none. I never did. The beast who’d torn her apart had crept up on her so quietly, she hadn’t gotten in even a single hit.

The familiar jingle of a traveling merchant’s bell shook me out of the ugly memory, and I quickly wrapped the cudgel and stowed it away.

Only a few itinerant peddlers were willing to visit the Clan of the Red Hand since our periodic skirmishes with Two Swords turned into a war. The goblins were the first to stop coming, since they only have a taste for danger when they’re the ones bringing the fight. The dwarves were glad for a reason to shut themselves up in their mountain and wait for us to get desperate enough to take our weapons repairs to them. Only the hobgoblins still made the trip….

Them, and the man standing there on the cobblestones outside my home grinning at me. The one who called himself Silver.

He looked like a sharp-featured human, though his scent told a different story—as did the small points on the tips of his ears. He claimed to be an elf. Though whether he thought anyone would truly fall for such a ridiculous tall tale, I’ll never know.

Looking me square in the eye, he gave the bells on his cart a saucy jingle. “Ripe, juicy figs for sale, ten for a penny. Or maybe you’re more of a nut-man.” He jiggled a bag of walnuts. “All the way from the coast.”

“These are gifts for receptive females,” I snapped. “Why waste your breath hawking this sort of thing to me? There’s no one here I need to impress.”

“No? Big, strong brute like you—how is it one of the local ladies hasn’t managed to snag your attention? I’d imagine you’re quite the catch.” Akala’s death was common knowledge, but other than steadfast Borkul, Silver was the only one audacious enough to speak of it—even if it was only to hint at her being gone. “Or…maybe you’re notinterestedin the ladies anymore. For the right price, we can have a good time, you and me…and I’ll throw in the walnuts for free.”

Silver wasn’t exactly a whore—but he’d do just about anything for coin. Independence like his came at a price, and keeping himself well-provisioned wasn’t cheap.

If he visited our stronghold more than twice a year, he’d know perfectly well that I was no longer the “catch” I might have once been. But that wouldn’t matter to him, so long as I could pay.

Which I could afford to do. And he looked human enough that it would be so easy to pretend….

But even as I entertained the idea, the wind shifted, carrying his scent in my direction. Not only was it the odd whiff of unknown lineage…but the utter lack of arousal. This would be a business transaction for him, of course. Only a fool would think otherwise.

It only made me dwell on the memory of the sharp, musky desire I’d tasted when Quinn had slid his arms around me.

I hadn’t been planning on buying anything from the peddler, but the thought of the human’s scent changed my mind. With any luck, there was something in this mass of trinkets to obliterate it. “Show me your incense.”

Silver’s practiced smile grew slightly more genuine at the promise of a sale. “With pleasure.”

17

QUINN

We’d been toasting by the open brazier in the grotto for quite a while when Archie rolled over on his slab and knuckled his eyes. “It’s sweatier than a bricklayer’s balls in here…but I guess it beats the slaver’s tent.”

“How are you feeling?” Bess asked him, but when she moved to get up, he motioned her to stay put. Taruut had placed various stones and trinkets on our bodies, and it seemed unwise to dislodge them.

“It hurts when I breathe,” Archie admitted, uncharacteristically grim. “Hurts bad. I knew a guy once with a cough like this. First it was a nuisance, then it got serious…and the next thing you know he was in a charnel pit, snug under a blanket of quicklime. Taruut has made me his pet project—but I’m not sure all the shaman’s bone-waving is doing me much good.”

While Bess and I had been under Marok’s taciturn watch, Archie had been privy to not only the shaman, but all his men. I couldn’t speak for orcs, but all the soldiers I knew talked among themselves. “Have you heard anything while you were here—anything we can use to our advantage?”

“Just a bunch of badmouthing. Apparently, your pal Marok isn’t exactly the darling of his clan.”

“Kind of hard to miss,” I said, thinking about the way none of them would even look at him.

“But he’s got this huge house filled with all kinds of stuff,” Bess said. “He must be rich, or important, or both. You’d think everyone would be bending over backward to get on his good side.”

Maybe he didn’t have a good side.

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