Page 5 of The Outcast Orc

I wasn’t sure I’d even sell for that, as it was doubtful I could escape closer scrutiny. If the slave trade was anything like the horse auctions I was familiar with, they’d not only be leaning in to check my teeth, but heft my balls.

Activity in the tent was already chaotic. The trader’s shouted orders got more urgent as the disorganized guards shuffled and re-shuffled our cages. Some of the catamites and whores were crying now. Some of the laborers too. Soon the sound of tack and harness grew louder, with the crack of a whip and a creak of wagon wheels as the caravan pulled in.

“Can you see?” one of the younger boys called over to Archie, who’d mashed himself against the far side of his cage to peer through a gap in the tent walls. “What’s out there?”

Archie craned his neck. “What do you think? Wagons.”

“But the drivers,” the boy said dramatically. “Are they, y’know…people?”

“Hush.” Archie waved him off like a persistent fly. “All I see is the stupid back of a guard’s stupid head.”

We didn’t have long to wonder about the potential buyers as a guard flung the tent flaps wide. After days in the dim light under the tarps, my eyes teared as the sun’s glare flooded my vision with a dazzling white haze. Once I could finally get a proper look, I picked out men filing in, all of them dusty from their long trek across the Wasteland. But beneath the grit of travel, their clothes were sturdy and well-made. Anyone with enough coin for a slave—let alone passage on a caravan—would hardly be dressed in rags.

Not one of them was without a conspicuous weapon. Several carried more than one.

Of course they did. Life outside the Fortifications was not for the faint of heart. I sized up a spear, imagining how it would feel piercing me between the shoulder blades as I attempted to run from my new “masters.” I had to remind myself I wasn’t planning to escape yet, anyhow. Not until I was back in civilization.

The buyers filed past, barely skimming me with their bland, assessing looks. My ego has always been healthy, and even so, by the time a half dozen had passed by without so much as a pause, I reminded myself I was no bedboy. I just needed a ticket out of this damned tent.

One of the buyers was obviously quite well-to-do, judging by the quality of his boots and the fat gold chain around his neck. A few of the pleasure slaves attempted to flirt—not Archie, I noted. And not Bess, either. The buyer glanced at me for a fraction of a heartbeat—then bought a pair of terrified youths.

Maybe I really was too old for this, after all.

And evidently, all the pickup moves that worked so well in a tavern—a sly look, a secret smile—were of no use at all in a slaver’s tent. One by one, the slave cages thinned out. Picky buyers knew to look toward the back. Tight-fisted buyers shopped toward the front. There were as many types of buyers as there were slaves…though none of them weremybuyers.

As the day wore on and bartering grew more desperate, I couldn’t help but worry that maybe my buyer had somehow missed the caravan. Or, worse, that he was the shady man lurking around the fringes waiting for the prices to go down as trading came to a close.

Soon, there was only a handful of prisoners left, and the haggling started to get ugly. I might very well end up in the distant copper mines after all. Or chained spread-eagle to the axle of the trader’s wagon, where Bollocks could start putting his spit to a more creative use…and that’s only if he bothered to wet himself with anything at all before he jammed himself up my ass.

I arched my back to thrust out my rump, made sure my shirt had fallen open just so, and did my best to look fuckable and non-threatening...and was still passed up for a whimpering boy covered in snot.I’ll have you know that in the Fortifications, I was considered quite the catch.By the men who didn’t hate themselves for bedding another man, anyhow.

“It’s the copper mines for us all,” Archie sighed. “Maybe I can pitch myself down an old shaft before I get passed around to all the foremen.”

Bess was still there, too. But she was somehow finding the strength to rally. “Hold on—do you hear that? It’s another wagon!”

Without the telltale jingle of the harness and crack of the whip, I’d taken the stony rumble for the threat of distant thunder. Now that I really listened, though, I could just make out the creak of heavy wheels.

Negotiations fell silent as something huge pulled up to the tent, blotting out the lowering sun, and casting the silhouettes of the milling people outside into darkness. The cheapskates who’d been hoping to grab someone to work or fuck to death for a pittance scrambled to close on their last offer, but the trader in his ragged silks was no longer listening. Not with a fresh customer bringing up the rear.

The distinctive snort of oxen reached my ears, and the rumble of deep voices. No wonder this latecomer hadn’t been with the caravan. The beasts wouldn’t be able to keep pace with the lighter horses—but they could plod along for hours on end dragging massive amounts of weight.

What could they be—farmers? Not out here where the soil was so fallow. Stonecutters? A skilled trade, though I supposed they’d need workers to haul the stone.

As I racked my brain imagining who'd just shown up, silhouettes of the outside crowd shifted on the wall of the tent, playing out like shadow theater. But something was wrong. At first, I thought the biggest forms were just far away, their size a trick of perspective. But they were too sharp, too distinct—as clear as the people standing right outside. My gut twisted. They weren’t distant at all. They were close. And they were huge.

The tent flap was shut to keep out both the flies and the punishing heat of the day. I was baffled when one of the new figures (which should have still been several paces away, judging by the sheer size) flung it open wide.

Daylight knifed through the opening. Acclimated to the darkness, my eyes were dazzled. I blinked away spots—and flecks of kohl, no doubt—and blinked again, unable to make sense of what I was seeing.

Though there was no mistaking the moment Archie’s bravado slipped, and a guttural sound worked its way up from his throat. And the soft thud of Bess dropping to the floor of her cage as she fainted dead away.

My vision finally cleared as a giant of a man stooped down to duck through the tent’s opening and come inside.

No…not a man, I realized, taking in the greenish cast to his skin, bulge of tusks jutting from his mouth, and the sheer size of him.

An orc.

“Hey, hey you!” Archie waved vigorously, trying to get the attention of the unsavory man lurking on the sidelines. “Get me out of here and I promise you won’t regret it! However you want it, whatever messed-up shit you’re into—I’m your guy.”

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