Page 8 of The Outcast Orc

“Oh?” I said.

“That’s right. Absolutely nothing to offer that any orc worth his mettle would want.”

I was intrigued by the way he carried himself, straight and proud, and the way his sleek muscles bunched and corded so impressively…for a soft human. There was a spark of intelligence in his eyes that matched his sure stance. Such a slave would either be a very wise choice—or a very risky one. A slave who could think for himself could be quite an asset compared to a dullard who simply followed orders. Though if he turned on you, he’d be far more dangerous.

The slaver and Borkul stepped away to barter in earnest for the others, leaving me staring at the dark-haired male.

“I’d be utterly useless in bed,” he assured me. “In fact, I’m not even a pleasure slave at all.”

Everyone knows humans are liars. I supposed that made me curious what would come out of his mouth next. “Ah. If you’re no pleasure slave, then what are you?”

He tilted his chin up and squared his shoulders. “I’m a horseman.”

Humans might lie with words—but never with scent. And my nose told me that his claim was true.

I’d lost hope of ever taking back my rightful place in the clan…of being treated once again as a warrior instead of a disgrace. But if I was the one who could end a decade of war, the chieftain would shun me no longer. And this human could very well be the key to winning that conflict for good.

As I stepped back, his fear scent gave way to a flood of relief. He thought I was leaving, not realizing I was just grabbing the slaver’s attention. Though he kenned well enough to the situation when I raised my voice, pointed directly at his painted chest, and called out, “I’ll take him.”

5

QUINN

After days of being caged, spat on, painted, and displayed like merchandise, I thought I'd seen the worst.

Then I had an iron collar clamped around my neck and got paraded to an orcish wagon in chains.

The other leftovers were with me. I was in the middle, with Archie plodding along resolutely in front and Bess bringing up the rear as she quietly choked back tears. I wished I could offer her a word of encouragement, but I had none. At least I’d left her with her handkerchief.

The oxen were the biggest I’d ever seen, and the wagon where they were yoked must weigh a literal ton, from the tight-grained lumber of the bed to the massive iron wheels. The more gregarious orc was still chatting with the slaver, while the dour, pensive orc—the one who’d picked me—hauled us outside. He didn’t seem to be dragging us along on purpose, but his stride was huge. By the time we reached the wagon, Archie was taken by a coughing fit and Bess was openly sobbing. The big brute of an orc glared down at us, then hoisted up Archie effortlessly and set him in back with pragmatic finality.

Since we were chained together, I didn’t see much choice but to follow—but, damn it, I’d do so on my own terms. I dodged the orc as much as I could without collapsing my own windpipe, then swung up into the wagon of my own volition. At least from there I could offer Bess a hand up and spare her the groping of an orc…if only for the time being.

Chests and crates filled the wagon beneath its hide cover. There was nowhere to sit but the wooden floor, but Archie found a gap between the supplies where we could tuck ourselves away. The chains linking our collars were long enough to let us move around a bit—probably so we could work—but not long enough to forget they were there.

Bess dried her tears, sniffled, and said, “Where d’you suppose they’re taking us?”

Archie smiled with no humor whatsoever. “What difference does it make? You saw the size of them. By morning we’ll be split wide open from being pounded with their fat orcish dongs.”

“Speak for yourself,” I snapped.

Archie’s eyes crinkled. “Well, maybe not you, horseman. Maybe you already know your way around a freakish big dong….”

“Shut up, both of you,” Bess sobbed. “We can’t afford to fight. Once they take us back to wherever it is they live, then all we’ll have is each other.”

True enough.

Soon, the wagon creaked as an orc hauled himself into the driver’s seat and we all fell silent. The wheels shuddered the wagon bed as we rolled out of the slaver camp and left its stinking tents behind.

Exactly how long we traveled, I couldn’t quite say. I was accustomed to putting in long hours, both at work, and carousing afterward. My captivity seemed both painfully long and strangely bleary, with days of enforced inactivity blending together. This journey, at least, was something new. We traveled for a long while at a slow and steady plod, pausing only to water the oxen. The crumbling, pale soil of the Wasteland eventually gave way to tentative scrubland, and eventually, trees. Some, I recognized. But peppered among them were strange, spiny things the likes of which I’d never imagined.

The orcs spoke to each other with voices like stone, too low to make out much. Debating whether to stop, from what I could glean. Archie didn’t share any more premonitions about meeting his fate impaled on an orcish dick. But when he met my eyes, I knew that’s what he must be thinking.

Full darkness fell, and the chirp of insects joined the creaking wheels and occasional scraps of our captors’ conversation as our view out the back of the wagon faded. I’d been lulled into a fitful half-sleep when I jolted into awareness at the distant sound of a fiddle.

Playing a drinking song I knew all too well.

The wagon rolled to a stop. The darkness outside was painted orange by flickering torchlight, and in the distance, I heard the murmur of a crowd. A settlement, then. Not the Fortifications—an orc would never get past the gate—but some frontier town where our captors might pass unremarked.

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