Page 30 of The Outcast Orc

“Before. Once Akala was gone, he threw himself into battle. But grief makes us blind.” Something dark flickered across his face, then disappeared.

Of course, I had more questions.

But while Borkul might be pretty easygoing compared to his clanmates, I wasn’t about to test his patience by pursuing something he clearly didn’t want to discuss.

The peddler had set up his cart in the orc village square, and he’d attracted a small mob of shoppers. Mostly orcs, but a few races I didn’t recognize, either, each different from the other—and each with a strange symbol branded on their cheek, like the poor creature tending the latrines. A mark.

A slave mark.

If that was my fate…so much for my throngs of eager admirers back in the Fortifications. Not that I’d be likely to ever cross their paths again anyhow.

“Clear out,” Borkul called to the crowd. “We’re here on Ul-Rott’s business.” With a few grumbles, the orcs wrapped up their haggling and dispersed. Borkul flipped me a few coppers, then did the same for Bess, who snatched them neatly out of the air. “Get what you need. But be quick about it. Don’t wanna keep the chieftain waiting.”

The last few orcs cleared out, and I finally got a look at the peddler. I must’ve been expecting an orc. Or a goblin. Or one of those pig-faced monstrosities I’d seen in the bazaar.

I was not prepared for the man I did see—whose interest perked up the moment he laid eyes on me.

Decked out from head to toe in decayed finery, he was no more an orc than I was…though when I spied his pointed ears, I saw he was no human, either. A coat of tattered brocade. Longish chestnut hair tied back with a satin ribbon. Skin-tight breeches of fine doeskin worn smooth at the seams. Scuffed thigh-high boots tied below the knee with the fraying remains of colorful scarves. And cheekbones to make anyone stop and look twice.

The peddler locked eyes with me and smiled a slow, cryptic grin. “Well, well, well. What have we here?”

“We need shoes,” Bess said. “And whatever else you can think of that we won’t be able to find in this village.”

Though it was Bess who’d spoken, the peddler held my gaze for a heartbeat before turning his attention to her. He might be foreign to me, but I knew the look. It was the look of a man who’d meet you back behind the tavern…with his trousers down.

“I’m no cobbler,” the man said, “but let’s see if I can’t dig up something from my treasure trove.” That said with a lascivious glance at me. “Name’s Silver, by the way. Costermonger extraordinaire. If I don’t have what you need now, I can make it a point to swing back with it in a fortnight.” He sauntered up to me and lowered his voice. “But I suspect I may indeed haveexactlywhat you’re looking for.”

Orcs have good hearing, but Borkul had dropped our leash and was busy chatting with a couple of orcish soldiers on the far side of the square. As Bess rifled through the cart in search of useful items, I eased closer to Silver and pitched my voice low. “What is it you think I’m looking for?”

His smile deepened. “A way out…of course.” He indicated his cart with a flick of his eyes. It was deep enough to hold someone if they curled up just so, pulled by a single docile mule. “But I’d only have room to smuggle out one.”

This was it. My chance to get away from the Clan of the Red Hand before someone branded my face, or cut off my arm…or worse. Of course, I was tempted. But then I watched Bess trying to force her feet into a pair of too-small slippers and said, “If you take anyone, it should be her.”

“She wasn’t the one I invited, though, was she?” After treating me to a lingering head-to-toe look, he added, “I’m not just keen on someone to share my bedroll. It’s tough out there—tougher than you think. I’d need someone who could swing a sword…although it wouldn’t hurt if he looked as fetching as you while doing it.”

Silver wasn’t my usual type—too lean and pretty by half—but it would hardly be a chore to pass some time with him. Intellectually, I knew I’d be an idiot to refuse the offer. But somehow, I didn’t feel quite right about sneaking out. “There’s no way you’d get past the gate without them smelling me a mile off. And once they do,” I flapped the leather leash for emphasis, “it’s back in the neck irons for me.”

“They’ve got quite the sense of smell, to be sure, but there are ways of putting my scent on you. And yet, since you haven’t jumped at the chance to be my…traveling companion…” he smiled his cryptic smile. “I’ll not waste my breath trying to convince you. Clearly, you’ve got a very good reason to stay.”

“I just know better than to invite more trouble than I already have.”

“Oh, but the best trouble always comes uninvited.” Now he was only bantering with me for form’s sake. He cut his eyes to Borkul in the distance. “I doubt you’re as boring as you make yourself out to be. Maybe you’ve just taken a particular fancy to the color green.”

I scoffed, which only seemed to convince him otherwise.

“No? Correct me if I’m wrong, but your accent tells me you’ve spent your life inside the Fortifications’ walls. Whywouldn’tyou find yourself intrigued by an orc? After all that stultifying Fortifications nonsense about where you can or can’t put your dick, it’s positively liberating to be around creatures with such relaxed customs about who can share their furs.”

“How so?” I asked carefully.

“Haven’t any of them approached you yet?”

I gave my leash another pointed shake. “Not much opportunity for mingling.”

Silver bent over his cart, casually presenting his rump for my inspection, then straightened up with a pair of boots in his hand—human-sized boots. He tossed them to the ground at my feet, then said, “Orcs pair off, man and woman, faithful as can be...among themselves. But as far as the rest of us two-legged animals are concerned, anything goes. Y’see, in their eyes, the rest of us aren’t exactly people. Close enough to tryst with…but not in the same category as their own kind. They don’t even consider it a breach of vows. An orc would no sooner pitch a fit about a human dalliance than get jealous of their lover’s left hand.”

So that thing I picked up on with the goblins outside the bazaar was normal…for an orc.

Silver kept talking while I pulled on the boots—his spare pair, he claimed, which he was deigning to sell me only as a personal favor. Hardly as good a fit as the custom pair I’d lost to the slavers—not to mention the ridiculous decorative tooling around the cuffs—but they’d do.

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