Page 2 of The Outcast Orc

I said, “I’m as invested as you are in putting the Fortifications behind us. What have you got to lose?”

The older one sized me up. I knew what he saw: a city man, slim and clean-shaven, with long, dark hair glossy from the baths and clothes too fine for honest work. But my sure stance and callused hands marked me as someone who knew his way around horses.

The man gave a brief grunt—as close to ayesas I’d get from a Northerner. The younger one hung back, eying me warily as I stepped up to examine the mare.

I crouched and ran my hands up and down each leg, checking for any heat or swelling in the joints. Her hide was caked in dust, but otherwise felt strong and healthy under my sure hands—until I reached her left forehoof. A pebble had lodged beneath the horseshoe, nestled just between the frog and heel. “Go get the farrier,” I told the young man. “He’ll have the caravan up and running in no time. Unless your heart is set on horse stew.”

I was well acquainted with the farrier…and I made sure to busy myself on the far side of the caravan when he arrived. I’d always liked the man’s sense of humor. And I was in no mood for the look of disgust that would surely be in his eyes.

My reputation lay in ashes, and I’d struck the match myself. A dozen years I’d spent building my good name, only to have it all dashed by one regretful slip. I’m not talking about the things I got up to with the apprentice blacksmith, either. He and I had done the deed several times before with no one any the wiser. It had been easy enough to catch his eye—that sort of thing usually was. But after the last time we’d shared a bed—during the afterglow, with wine in my belly and an overblown sense of affinity—I’d made the big mistake of leaning in for a kiss.

He’d stormed out in a rage, spewing ugly words. The next morning, my position in a wealthy merchant’s stables had been filled by someone else. And every house that had made me an offer before was no longer interested in my services.

Evidently, getting off with another man could be overlooked. But heaven forbid you show them a bit of affection.

At least horses still made sense to me, even if nothing else did. And the Northerners recognized useful skills when they saw them—they offered me passage and let me keep one of my precious coins besides.

The caravan lurched into motion. The crows at the gate scattered as I set off toward my new life, more or less convinced I was eager to see what fortune the future had in store.

Arrin, the younger man, had saved a seat for me on his wagon—and over the course of the next week, we kept each other company. At first he didn’t say much, but after a day or two of staring off down the road together, a few words were exchanged, and then entire conversations.

When I caught the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching—that familiar mix of interest and hesitation—I even suspected he’d like to be more than just friends. But I didn’t encourage him to swap anything but stories. He was green as spring grass, all wide-eyed wonder at the world beyond his village.

I wasn’t about to jeopardize my place in the caravan. Besides, I knew what I liked in a man, and earnest young shepherds didn’t stir my blood. I preferred the big, burly type, rough-hewn and strong-handed.

The sort who wanted nothing to do with love.

At least Arrin’s rambling was a decent distraction from the tedium of the journey. Once the excitement of being outside the Fortifications’ walls wore off, a certain sameness set in. The endless bump and grind of the wagon wheels, the creak of overhead branches swaying in the wind, and the ever-present birdsong….

Which, I’d realized, had gone suddenly quiet—just as a crossbow bolt shrieked past, nicking my ear, to lodge in Arrin’s throat. His eyes didn’t even have a chance to widen before he toppled off the wagon bench and was crushed beneath the churning wheels.

“No,” I gasped, reaching for him—though it was already too late. My stomach lurched as the wheels did their work, and bile burned in my throat.

He was just a boy. And now he’d never be a man.

“Don’t kill ’emalloff, ya dumbfuck,” a harsh voice called out. “Save some for the slavers!”

I launched myself off the wagon, landing on my feet with my hand on my whip. I mostly used it to keep spooked horses from stamping on my toes, but years of practice had made that whip an extension of my will. It never missed its target.

Raiders streamed from a gap in the trees. A whip might not seem like much protection against a sword, but it’s got a much longer reach. My first swing struck true, and a raider’s sword went flying into the undergrowth.

I whirled around and scanned for my next target. There were a good half dozen raiders, but between the Northerners and the mercenaries, we could handle them. My whip cracked, striking a scarred raider on the forearm. He cursed and reeled back, but didn’t drop his sword—a long, vicious blade that was obviously well-used.

One of our mercenaries spotted me facing off with the swordsman and hurried over to help. The man hadn’t been much of a traveling companion. Dull as dirt, with a habit of stating the obvious, starting each day by complaining about the weather. But two against one were odds I’d take any time.

My adversary’s grin should have warned me. No man smiles when he’s outmatched. I heard something whoosh through the air at my back, but by then it was too late. Our mercenary had chosen his side…and it wasn’t mine.

His club caught me at the base of my skull, and my world went black.

2

QUINN

Two weeks later….

The slave trader burst into the tent with a flourish of his tattered silk robes. “Look lively, crew. A buyer caravan is on its way—and their coffers are busting with gold!”

As if his guards needed any more reason to poke at us. At least a dozen unfortunates—including me—had been dragged through the territories and dumped off in the middle of the Wasteland with nothing to do but sit in our cages and dread whatever fate had in store for us next. Meanwhile, the guards had nothing to do but antagonize us. I couldn’t say what was worse—being sold, or not being sold. Rumor had it that anyone left after the day’s trading could be had for a pittance…little enough that the guards could pool their money and take the unsold goods off their employer’s hands.

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