Page 31 of The Outcast Orc

“If an orc decided to add you to his or her menagerie, no one would so much as blink—not even their dear spouse! Well, they might grumble a little…” he smirked. “Though the orcs wealthy enough to expand their households are few and far between, since most of the younger ones live in those communal barracks over by the well. But the older, more established orcs—the tradesmen, the artisans, the high-ranking warriors? Not unusual for those with the extra space to keep a slave around the house. Not unusual at all.”

Marok had the whole house to himself. And since he was a widower…no one to grumble.

Which was clearly none of my business whatsoever.

When we’d outfitted ourselves the best we could, I found a ha’penny leftover…and spied a delicate slip of fine cloth pinned to his display. “And I’ll take that handkerchief. For the lady.”

Silver arched an eyebrow…but handed it over without a word.

18

QUINN

If Marok’s house was surprisingly large, the chieftain’s lodge was palatial. Appearances, I was beginning to learn, meant everything around here. And Ul-Rott the Spinecrusher would hardly strike terror into the hearts of his enemies living in a simple hut.

To say I wasn’t given the grand tour would be putting it mildly. Borkul marched me around to the stables and handed me off to the guy in charge, a grizzled old orc with half an ear missing. “Be a good little human,” Borkul said, “and maybe you’ll earn the chieftain’s brand. Or be a slacker and get a beating. It’s all up to you.”

Bess shot me a forlorn look over her shoulder as he led her inside the building. And then it was just me, the half-eared orc…and the biggest damn horse I’d ever laid eyes on. It was a thick, muscular creature the color of autumn hay, at least three hands taller than my largest stallion, with a wild, tangled black mane and hooves as big around as dinner plates.

“This here’s Destroyer,” said the half-eared orc, shoving me into the pen. “Go ahead and show us what you got.”

Horses aren’t predators—they’re prey. But that doesn’t make them any less dangerous. This great beast could crush a man with a single blow of his massive hoof, I had no doubt. And the way he reared up when I intruded on his space was a clear warning to keep my distance.

Some trainers will beat a horse into submission, but that’s never been my style. What I want from a horse isn’t broken surrender, but partnership. The way you hold yourself is critical. Horses read body language. And while I have two legs, not four, I could still communicate with my stance. To present myself as not a threat—but a leader.

“Go on,” called Half-ear. “Do something.”

I was doing something. I was demonstrating to Destroyer that I wouldn’t harm him…but that I wasn’t afraid of him, either. The leather leash dangling from my neck served as a makeshift whip—too short and far less flexible than the braided whip I’d lost in the Wastelands. But I never used it to punish an animal. Only to snag his attention and put it where I needed it.

Judging by the scars on Destroyer’s hide, he’d seen his share of the whip already.

I stood in the center of the round enclosure, stance easy, while the horse shifted away from me. Never get behind a horse—especially one as powerful as this. A single kick could be enough to end your career. Or even your life.

And so it began, the part of the process I think of as “the dance.” Destroyer circling the pen. Me in the center, confident and calm, watching for signals. You can always tell what a horse thinks of you if you know what to look for. It’s in the cant of the ears. The tension of the neck. And always…the eyes.

Horses aren’t generally aggressive. Sure, they might challenge one another for a better position in the herd…butfearis what makes them attack. Destroyer flicked his ears forward, a good sign, and began to regard me with curiosity. It was a critical first step in building a partnership.

Keeping myself right in the center of the enclosure, I tapped my whip against my thigh when his focus started to wander, and soon had him trotting circles around the pen, with me at the hub of the action. Destroyer was smart and confident, and with the proper handling, he’d make an awesome steed.

It would take a few more sessions until he let me get close enough to touch him—let alone bridle and saddle him—but this initial encounter was a great start. He was starting to trust me. To understand where I wanted him to go by watching my body language. To give me his attention when I cracked the whip for attention. Torespond. I turned toward the stable to let him have a well-earned rest. Only then did I realize my audience was no longer just Half-ear.

The orc who’d joined him probably wasn’t much bigger than the other orcs (who, frankly, were all massive) but he was way more scary. It wasn’t the crown of twisted bones, and it wasn’t the broadsword strapped to his back that likely weighed more than me. It was his eyes. Clever enough to take in everything, but with a flinty hardness utterly devoid of mercy.

Like the alpha in a pack of wild horses, some individuals have an aura of leadership—and Ul-Rott the Spinecrusher was one of them. I’ve never thought much of authority, finding most people in charge ended up there by dumb luck. So the urge to kneel took me by surprise. Lucky for me, Destroyer was familiar enough with me that he didn’t take the opportunity to trample me flat.

“So, you’re some kind of expert,” Ul-Rott said, like he’d only believe it when he saw it.

“Yes, sir.”

The half-eared orc snorted.

Ul-Rott said, “Your people’s ‘sir’ means nothing here. Honor me with my name.”

I bit back a reflexiveyes, sir. “Yes, Ul-Rott.”

“Stand,” he said, and I straightened up. “At least you’ve survived so far in the same pen as Destroyer. That’s more than I expected from such a soft little thing. But no bridle? No saddle?”

“He needs more time, Ul-Rott. If you take things too fast—”

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