Page 23 of The Outcast Orc

Akala help me. “What kind of animals do you think we are?” I said. “We don’t shit in the house. You’ll use the latrine like a civilized person. Come on.” I nodded toward the door. “Let’s go.”

It was a bit of a walk to get to the latrines—more evidence of the status I used to enjoy. A mongrel slave keeps things covered, but even so, the smell reached us long before the pits were in sight.

Heads turned as I strode up the street, herding along two humans. But no one asked. Even the ones I’d played soldier with when we were young boys.

The female seemed perplexed by the holes in the ground. I gestured for the mongrel. He was part dwarf, part goblin—and missing a hand, thanks to his attempt to steal our winter provisions. Lucky for him he’d been unarmed at the time. Otherwise, it would have cost him his life. He bowed and bobbed as he shuffled over, eyes averted. Orcs might shun me now, but years of deference had been beaten into the mongrel. “Explain the latrines,” I told him. “And make sure the humans behave.”

When they were through relieving themselves, Quinnstillhad questions, I could tell.

His curiosity would be his undoing.

I marched them again to my quarters and slammed the door behind us. Bess flinched. Quinn cocked an eyebrow. “All right,” I said. “Since you don’t know even the most basic things, I’ll start at the beginning. Don’t throw your crap in the street—we’re not monkeys flinging shit. You’ll be expected to contribute. Everyone contributes to earn their place in the clan. Don’t ask questions—it would be taken as a challenge. Look someone in the eye when you’re talking to them, but don’t stare, not unless you want a fight.”

“But what about the shaman?” Quinn asked.

“Of course you don’t make eye contact with the shaman. Or the chieftain, either. They’re not just orcs. They’re leaders. You treat them with respect, or you have it beaten into you.”

“What if my version of respect is different from an orc’s?”

I bit back a sigh. He’d be lucky to last the week.

“Respect means effort,” I said. “Respect means self-sacrifice. Above all, respect means obedience.”

“And looking someone in the eye. But not for too long…and not if they’re a leader.”

“Exactly.”

“Allrighty, then. No problem.”

I headed toward my sleeping chamber, but paused at the door, curious now. “Were there no leaders among your humans?”

Bess had rolled up in the furs, feigning sleep, but her heartbeat was too rapid for slumber. She was smart to watch and listen. Quinn, though, was pawing through my shelves. “Sure, there were officials, but I didn’t really answer to any of them directly. Most folks in my line of work don’t have to deal with the mayor, or the constables, or anyone involved with the government.”

“Then who would you answer to?”

He shrugged. “My employer, I suppose. It’s different inside the Fortifications.”

Indeed.

Quinn dropped a doeskin on the floor and folded onto it—cross-legged, like a child. “What are you doing?” I snapped.

He stared at me for an insolent beat. “Sitting down?”

“How are you even alive?” I squatted beside him. “This is how a grown man sits. By the time you got to your feet, there’d be a blade through your skull.”

“Was someone planning to attack me in your house?” he said, eyes dancing. I glared. “Okay…point taken.” He got his feet under him. “This isn’t exactly comfy on the knees.”

“You get used to it.”

After a few moments, he stood, wincing slightly, and shook out his legs. “We should probably take a look at that stab wound before you go to sleep.”

The dreamweed had worn off a while ago. I could feel the heat of the injury every time I moved. “If you try anything stupid—” I warned.

“A thousand pissed-off orcs will use me for target practice. Listen, I might not know where to look or how to sit, but I promise, I’m not an entirely lost cause.”

He lit a lantern—at least he knew how to use a flint—and helped me lift my breastplate over my head. Something fluttered in my gut at the anticipation of him circling my waist with his arms again. But removing the dressings was not the same as putting them on. He simply untied the knot and pulled them off, leaving me oddly disappointed.

When he pressed cool, smooth fingers to the cut’s ragged edge, it wasn’t painful…it was soothing.

---