Page 6 of The Outcast Orc

But the man wasn’t about to get into a bidding war. Not with anorc. He slipped out from the tent to rejoin the caravan.

As we’ve established, I wasn’t born yesterday—and so, obviously, I knew better than to stare. No creature I’ve ever studied reacted well to direct eye contact…but I just couldn’t help myself. The thing was massive—easily four hands taller than me and wider than any two men. A horse would buckle under such weight. No wonder they used oxen.

Its brow was low and its jaws were strong, powerful enough to handle tough plants…or, judging by the tusks, crush bones. Its hide was green and dappled like forest shade, thick but smooth as polished leather. And though it was huge—bigger than any beast I'd ever seen walk on two legs—it moved with deadly purpose.

And it wore wealth like a king.

“Get a load of those rubies around his neck,” Archie whispered. “He can take the whole lot of us back to wherever he came from—and the tent too.”

The creature paused, great nostrils dilating, broad chest heaving as it scented the air.

Horses are pack animals. Prey animals. As a horseman, it was always important to establish myself as the leader of their herd…but I had never felt like prey myself.

Until now.

I stilled so the creature’s small eyes would miss me in the gloom of the tent, though if it did have my scent, all the stillness in the world wouldn’t help me. Hopefully, that scent would somehow be lost amidst the mingled stink of so many poorly washed bodies.

Another great beast of an orc ducked through the high tent flap and joined the first, this one a slightly paler green, with a long scar at the corner of his mouth—an old wound healed into a craggy ridge that pulled his tusked face into a permanent grin. His tusks were even bigger, tipped with decorative silver caps.

The two orcs conferred briefly. And when their heads swiveled in the direction of the pleasure slaves where only Archie, Bess and I remained, I realized my hopes of blending in were fruitless.

4

MAROK

Borkul scanned the human slaves—the straggling remainders who’d been passed up by their own kind. “You’ve been alone too long, Marok,” he told me. “What’s stopping you from getting a slave of your own?”

Of all my clan, he should understand the most. It was his sister who I lost to the wandering troll.

“We’re not here for me.” I said, curt.

“No. But you can afford it—and our chieftain would say the same. A warrior who gets too much in his head is no good for the clan. Especially a general, like you. And you’re so far in your own head, it’s a wonder you can’t see backwards.” He thumbed the ridge over his tusk and took the scent of the offerings. The smell of humans will tell you a lot, if you take the time to read it. Age. Sex. Feeding habits. Fertility. And, of course, fear—though a good warrior will scent fear on every foe.

“You don’t know how the chieftain would react,” I said. “He has no reason to show me any tolerance. Not after what happened.” The troll had taken Akala from both Borkul and me. That wound we shared.

The chieftain's contempt over my failures was mine alone to bear.

Why would the chieftain forgive me? He wasn’t my heart-brother. Though neither was Borkul, now that the ashes from Akala’s pyre were lost to the wind. But Borkul still treated me like a brother, all the same.

When he approached the pleasure slaves, I kept to his side. Of those humans that remained, at least half carried the stagnant taint of disease. Most had one rotten tooth, many had more. And one of them was bleeding somewhere inside its soft belly. In my opinion, these fragile beings made the worst concubines. But that was why they were in demand. To keep such a weak and frivolous thing alive for the sheer sake of its company was the ultimate sign of prestige.

I’d rather have a kitten. At least it would grow up to fend for itself…and rid my home of the lizards always managing to sneak in.

Borkul paused beside a prone female, and when he took her scent, so did I. Not only was she still alive, but surprisingly healthy.

The tendency to lose consciousness in the face of a threat. Yet another human trait that had me baffled.

“This one seems like it’s in good shape.” Borkul prodded her in the thigh.

“No handling the wares,” said a male in strangely colored silks, rushing over. Tough words. But he reeked of fear. “You break it, you buy it.”

Borkul ignored him and poked the female again. She stirred, and her fear perfumed the air. “Speak,” he said as her eyelids fluttered open.

She scrambled toward the back of her cage and squeaked, “Me?”

“Again,” he demanded.

“I—ah—” she began to cry. Her tears smelled of the sea.

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