Page 29 of The Outcast Orc

“Well,” Archie said, dropping his voice dramatically—like someone who had to either vie for men’s attentions, or go to bed with an empty belly. “From what I heard, heusedto be some kind of big-shot. A real badass general. But a major battle of his went all to shit, and now he’s being snubbed by the whole clan.”

That was about all he’d gleaned, since he found himself sleeping more often than not. But even without the details, it explained a lot.

Eventually, Taruut returned in his litter and subjected Bess and me to a thorough scrutiny. By that, I mean sniffing. His proximity was disconcerting as he leaned over my naked body and inhaled. Up close, I could see the leathery texture of his skin, fissured with deep wrinkles. His tusks, nearly brown, had been etched with mystical symbols and filled in with gold. And then there were his eyes—just the shadow of a pupil still visible under the filmy greenish-white haze.

He grunted, and his exhalation played across my bare chest, raising gooseflesh on my arms that I didn’t dare chafe away. “We are not merely beings of flesh and blood and bone,” he said, “but a collection of our own thoughts and deeds. Orcs know their place in the world, and they lead very structured lives. But other races…” he made a vague gesture. “Their pasts tangle around them like torn fishing nets. And you…. I sense you have some conflict you tried to leave behind—but did not quite succeed.”

Like any decent purveyor of mumbo-jumbo, the shaman was great at making grandiose statements that someone might take to heart—but when you looked at them closely enough, they could very well apply to anyone. Luckily, he wasn’t seeking my agreement. In an orc’s eyes, a human (or any other non-orc) was only one step above an animal, and our opinions didn’t exactly count.

Taruut took another good whiff of me. “And yet, you’re more than just a vessel to be rinsed clean in the river. The traces of your past are responsible for who you are today. There is still strife in your future, I think. Whether it will break you or make you stronger remains to be seen.”

A guard with streaks of white clay on his cheeks strode through the door and presented himself to Taruut, kneeling. “Borkul is here to bring them to the chieftain.”

Taruut waved him to his feet. “Fine. I’ve done all I can for these two. The rest is out of my hands.”

Borkul came in and produced the expected genuflection, then dumped a bundle of cloth on the cavern floor. “It’s been a few seasons since my kids were small enough to fit in these old things. Lucky my wife hadn’t traded them off to the peddler.”

Taruut sniffed in their direction. “I’m sure they’re preferable to wandering around naked.” Wait…they got rid of ourclothes? “There’s a nip in the air. And human constitutions are notoriously fragile. Bundle up the horseman and the girl and be on your way.”

“What about the boy?” Borkul asked.

Taruut smiled cryptically to himself. “Archibald’s place is with me…for now.”

Was it weird to be happy to see Borkul? Maybehappywas a strong word. More like relieved—because although he was the whole reason goblins attacked our camp to begin with, at least he’d never punched a massive bruise into my back with the butt of a spear.

Guess my standards were getting pretty low.

Back when I first set off from the Fortifications, I’d brought along a few solid, well-made items of clothing. Those were obviously long gone, stripped off by the marauders who’d knocked me out and dragged me to the dreaded tent. I’d been marched to the orc camp in slavers’ rags.

The clothing Borkul had brought was strange—woven fabrics reinforced with patches of suede at the elbows and knees, boxy fitting, without buttons or ties. Definitely better than the rags from the slavers, but when I pulled the tunic over my head, the smell hit me. Not filth. Not sweat. Earthen and strong, but nothing I could quite put my finger on, either—other than to say it reminded me of Marok’s house.

So it could only have been…the smell of orc.

If I felt out of place in my oversized pajama-like outfit, Bess was even more ridiculous, drowning in a tunic made for someone twice her size. I wondered what had become of her handkerchief…and decided it wasn’t worth another bruise to find out.

“We didn’t have an extra pair of boots lying around,” Borkul said, “and even if we did, they’d never fit your weird feet.” For the record, plenty of men found my feet very attractive. “Lucky for you there’s a peddler in town, and I’ve still got a few coins left over from the slaver’s. But let’s get moving before his cart is picked clean.”

It was a relief to walk out of the shaman’s caves under Borkul’s command, even if that did mean being tethered to Bess with a leather leash like a team of skittish colts. This time, when we walked through the settlement, people not only stared, but also tried to waylay us by striking up a conversation.

I’d thought orcs were just dour and hidebound people. But Borkul’s evident popularity had me seeing Marok in a whole new light. “Can I ask you something?” I ventured when Bess and I were alone with him.

“You just did.” He smirked around his tusks at his own joke, then said, “Go ahead—as long as you understand that inside the chieftain’s lodge, the guard won’t be so tolerant.”

“It’s just…everyone acts so funny toward Marok. Everyone but you.”

“I’m his heart-brother,” he said simply.

I glanced at Bess to see if she got what that was supposed to mean, and she shrugged.

“I don’t know the term,” I finally admitted, wondering if that meant they were cousins, or brothers-in-arms, or what. “You’re related…how?”

“By marriage.” His easy voice grew strained. “He was husband to my sister.”

Was?

Oh.

That might explain a few things. Marok’s shut-down attitude. The big, empty house. The certain things we weren’t allowed to touch. “Did he lose her before or after the failed campaign?”

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