Page 36 of The Outcast Orc

Marok.

An orc.

No one should be blamed for the random things they think in a fit of passion…but in that instant when I was riding his powerful thigh and reveling in the scrape of his whiskers against my skin, I knew. It wasn’t just the heat of the moment.

It was true.

Not just because he was huge and well-muscled, rock hard and solid, everywhere. And not just because he’d taken a filthy stab-wound shielding me from a goblin attack. But because of the way he’d huffed into my neck while he got me off—like he could eat me right up.

It’s heady to want someone…and better yet to be wanted in return.

I cleaned myself up and went back out to the pen, where Roy was shoving his muzzle through the pickets of the fence, straining to nibble on a weed that was just out of reach. I clicked my tongue, and he turned and whickered a greeting. He was an intelligent horse—he caught on fast, and he already knew when to give me his attention, come to me, and (most importantly) stop. But he still shied away when I tried to touch him.

Any horse that smart should’ve been bridled by now. But if Roy was to be a good warhorse, I wanted more than just compliance. So I was leaving the bridle for the last possible moment to give our partnership as much time to develop as I dared.

Okay…who was I kidding? He was ridiculously big. Any horse can do serious damage with a blow of his hooves. But I’d seen Roy practically snap an orc in half, and that guy was a heck of a lot sturdier than me. I’m always taking a risk when I get into a pen with an untamed animal. Usually, that just makes me wary. But in Roy’s case, I was scared.

I dropped the bit in the center of the pen and let Roy inspect it. Show no fear, I told myself. Easier said than done in this case. He was lipping the bridle on the ground when I sensed eyes on me, and turned, ready to defend my actions. But it wasn’t Ul-Rott come to check up on me, or even one of his guards.

It was Bess.

If I didn’t know she was the only human woman in the village, I wouldn’t have recognized her. Gone were the slaver’s rags, and gone was the ill-fitting linen outfit. Bess wore a pair of doeskin trousers laced up the sides, and a soft woolen shift cinched tight by an elaborately woven leather belt. Her sloppily shorn hair had been trimmed and all the grime washed out. Now it curled a bit—and its formerly mud-brown color was now the shade of golden wheat.

But the most striking difference of all was the angry, red brand on her cheek.

“Are you okay?” I gasped.

She seemed puzzled by the question. “Fine.” She considered her own statement, then nodded decisively. “No, I’m pretty good.”

“But your face—”

Her fingertips grazed the blistered mark. It was about as big as my thumb, three crossed spears with stars in between. “It didn’t hurt. Not all that much. And now everyone knows which household I’m part of. The head blacksmith has me fixing their broken chainmail—apparently these orcs can’t see anything up close, not like we can. He’s bragging to anyone who’ll listen that it’s like having his very own dwarf—except I won’t drink him out of house and home. He’s feeding me well. And…he’s got children. Daughters.” She ran her fingers over the belt. “Youngest one’s barely ten and I fit in all her clothes—she gets a real kick out of it. And one thing’s for sure—they’re a lot more respectful than the spoiled kids I minded in the Fortifications.”

“Have you seen Borkul?” I asked, worried he’d fail to grasp the seriousness of the situation, even with Marok’s warning.

“Not since we got here.”

“He has an important message to deliver, so if you do see him—”

“Light a fire under his lazy butt. Got it.”

Bess couldn’t stay—she was expected at the smithy. But the fact that they let her walk around alone—after only a few days—was nothing short of baffling. Even if she ran, I supposed, she wouldn’t get far. But maybe she didn’t want to run.

After all, what could she expect back in The Fortifications but another lecherous employer with another vindictive wife? Or, worse, another stint in the slaver’s tent?

Funny, I realized, as I watched her walk resolutely away. Even after Archie terrorized us with notions of being plowed by a massive orcish dong, Bess was thriving.

And I wouldn’t have minded working my hand down Marok’s pants and seeing what the equipment was really all about.

Roy was straining for that weed again, so I called him inside and forked out some fresh hay. He did listen—which was good. And I didn’t need to worry about him caving in my skull while he scarfed down the hay, which was even better, since I could head up to my loft for a well-deserved nap. I’d hardly call it cozy now, even with the discarded horse blanket I’d scavenged forming a thin mattress. But it was better than the slaver’s tent.

The stables were not what you’d call restful. Not only did the animals rustle around, but the orcs in the lodge were active day or night. As far as I could tell, their sleep had no natural rhythm—maybe because they relied on their noses instead of their eyes to take stock of their surroundings. Which meant I had to steal my shut-eye when I could, because I never knew when an orc would show up demanding a progress report.

The fact that a couple of orcs were having a conversation nearby wasn’t what woke me. All kinds of stuff regularly drifted up through the slats of my loft.

It was the recognition that one of those orcs was Borkul.

I must’ve honestly thought he’d manage to screw up and fail to deliver Marok’s warning, because of the profound relief I felt at hearing his voice in the lodge. He’d even shifted his wiseguy tone for the occasion. Good thing, as I doubted the chieftain would find news of an impending attack a laughing matter.

---