Page 32 of The Outcast Orc

“Step aside, human,” snapped the half-eared orc. “I got the bridle on him once and I’ll do it again.”

Ignoring my plea to wait, he shoved into the corral, scooped up the bridle, and charged at the horse. It was the perfect storm: orc, bridle and horse, everything converging at once. Destroyer reared up, eyes wide, and punched out with a dinner-plate hoof. There was a sickening crunch of bone—and Destroyer wound up again to finish what he started.

“Down!” I barked, snapping the whip hard against my thigh. My gut wanted me to run away, to get somewhere safe while that orc got exactly what he deserved. But my mind knew there was no safety for me here. Not unless I proved my worth. And so I squared my shoulders, projected all the confidence I could muster, and hoped to hell that the fragile, new bond I’d forged with the horse would still hold.

He reared again…then backed away, leaving the half-eared orc moaning in the dirt.

Destroyer wasn’t thrilled about the situation—the whites of his eyes were still showing. But he’d obeyed.

Fuming over the amount of progress that dumbass had just cost us, I clucked my tongue and herded the horse toward the stable without waiting for permission. Thankfully, no one stopped me, and the act of feeding and watering him gave me the time I needed to calm down so I wouldn’t say anything stupid. I was right. Of course I was. But like I’d learned at the slavers’ tent, being right didn’t make a damn bit of difference when someone else held all the power.

A couple of burly orcs were loading Half-ear onto a litter. A jagged spike of bone protruded from his upper arm. He bellowed when they moved him, and a spray of dark, rust-colored blood fountained from the wound.

Ul-Rott looked on with no more emotion than I would’ve shown watching a sparrow fly away, then turned to me said, “How long until you bridle him?”

“A week.”

“We’re at war with the Two Swords Clan. You have three days.”

Any relief I might have felt over winning the chieftain’s tacit approval drained away when I saw my new quarters. The loft above the stable was hardly a loft at all. More like a few brittle planks thrown across the beams. There was nothing stored up there but a few coils of rope and some empty feed sacks. In all likelihood, it wouldn’t even support the weight of a full-grown orc. Bats hung from the peak of the roof and the smell of animal was thick. And when I curled up that night on my scratchy feed-sack bed—cold and exhausted, with horseflies buzzing in my ears—I wondered what the hell I’d been thinking when I turned down Silver’s offer of escape.

19

MAROK

Normally, my day would begin with a hobgoblin runner bringing orders from Ul-Rott. I might put my warriors through some training. Or I might join the chieftain for a strategic planning session. I might even be invited to dine at his table.

But since the last battle—the one where Two Swords decimated my troop—runners no longer came.

I’d hoped Ul-Rott would be pleased with the humans we’d found. The shaman only expected the boy, after all, and we’d come back with two more, both of them with skills that would make our clan stronger. But if Ul-Rott was impressed with my find, I’d heard no tell of it.

Three days. It had been three days since we made our way back through the southern hunting grounds, and still, no runner. I’d arranged and re-arranged my collections, swept the plank floor until it started to splinter, and even aired out my pelts…though despite a good airing, I could still smell human on them.

I could still smell Quinn.

It was late in the morning, far too late for a runner, and I was through telling myself that maybe they were just late, maybe they were on a new rotation, maybe they were just around the corner, if only I gave them a few more minutes. I finally admitted to myself that there would be no runner. I had no orders.

I had no purpose.

As punishments went, I used to think that shunning was far too lax. What hardship would there be, I wondered, in simply being ignored?

And now…I understood.

If I were exiled, left to wander the woods, I’d find my purpose soon enough. Shelter, food, protection from enemies. All these things would keep me so busy, I’d have little time to reflect on my own failings. But within the shelter of the Red Hand’s walls—within the home I’d once shared with Akala—thinking was the only thing Icoulddo.

Fine. If I couldn’t help my clan ready itself for the next battle, I could at least feed us. When I geared up for a hunt and headed out into the woods, no one challenged me. For that matter, no one even spoke to me. Even as they opened the gate, the guards—who had once competed to be in my troop—looked right through me as if I wasn’t even there.

I tightened my grip on my spear and trod straight ahead.

I had hoped the forest might take my mind off my troubles, but instead it only reminded me how alone I was. It wasn’t my impromptu hunting trips with Akala I was ruminating on, either. It was trekking through these very woods with Quinn.

Maybe Borkul was right. I should have just coupled with the horseman and got it out of my system. It’s not like Ul-Rott would have smelled me on the human. As far as the chieftain was concerned, I no longer existed.

I trudged through the woods for hours, passing up the smaller prey so their blood scent didn’t drive off the larger game. But eventually, I wondered if it even mattered. Whether I brought back a rabbit or a doe, the reaction would be the same. None at all. Could they afford to leave the carcass to rot, simply because the hunt was mine? Maybe I didn’t want to find out.

I wasn’t far from the clan, though I’d picked a route that was poorly traveled, owing to some awkward footing and the occasional stretch of quicksand. Maybe it would be easiest to find such a spot and let it suck me under. When the muck filled my lungs, the pain would be brutal—as it should be.

Seems there’s never any quicksand around when you need it.

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