Page 10 of The Outcast Orc

I supposed wanting both orcs to go to the market and leave us a way out was too much to hope for. But if they at least separated, between the three of us, maybe we could overpower a single orc. Archie was just about to figure out how far he could pitch another rib, but seeing the shape of it, I stopped him. It was slimmer than the first we’d found, just shorter than his forearm, and it tapered dangerously toward the tip. Even unsharpened, it might do some damage. I felt around until my hand closed over another stray rib protruding from the sandy soil.

So many bones.

But that meant I was able to find another weapon.

My heart hammered in my chest as I realized what we were about to do. Wringing the neck of a stewing hen was one thing, but I’d never stabbed anyone. The orc that called himself Marok might not be a person, exactly, but he spoke words and thought thoughts. He had a name.

Desperate times. A life in chains would be bad enough. A life being plowed open by these great beasts, however short, was even worse.

I wouldn’t risk words, not with the orcs’ sharp hearing. But no matter how good their senses might be, they couldn’t see through my body. I put my back to them and gripped the pointy rib like a dagger to show the others what I meant to do. They both nodded their understanding.

By the time the scarred orc had gone off in the direction of the night market, I’d found a third good weapon, a sturdy leg bone broken to a vicious, sharp point. While I fussed over the fire, Archie watched Marok, the quiet one, indicating which way the orc had gone with a flick of the eyes. When Archie gave us the nod, we surged to our feet, aiming for the far side of the market, and broke into a run.

Most creatures who have size to their advantage are not particularly quick. Like the oxen now tethered beside the campsite, what they gained in size and strength, they lost in speed.

But apparently, not orcs.

One moment, Marok was squatting on the ground with his back to a wagon wheel, cleaning off a bit of tack. The next, he was on his feet and heading straight for us.

It was clear that no matter how fast we ran, we’d soon be overtaken. And so, instead of running away, I tightened my grip on the sharpened bone, adjusted my angle, and ran toward the orc.

The chains on my iron collar snapped taut as my fellow captives fought my change of course. But if we didn’t work together, we’d be dead—and after a brief resistance, they followed my lead. Together, the three of us charged the oncoming orc.

6

QUINN

With all my courage—with all my desperation and strength, and my last hope of ever finding my way home—I drew back the bone blade, and I swung. The blow landed hard on the side of the orc’s tree-trunk neck. For a brief moment, I wondered if his blood would run red like a man’s. But there was no hesitation in the swing.

Yet though the point struck true, the bone blade didn’t pierce his hide.

It simply shattered.

“Run,” I called out, as the orc cocked his head, puzzled, then brushed the bone shards from his leathers.

Why he wasn’t chasing, I didn’t stop to wonder. Having hit him—however ineffectively—I’d sealed my fate. Now, it was either run…or die.

Fueled by fear, Archie and Bess ran hard, just as hard as me, blundering in the dark over scrubby ground. But the lights of the settlement beckoned, and soon we could see the tents, and read the signs, and even count the people. There were scores of people there—maybe even a few hundred—and surely once we were among our own kind, we’d be safe.

Our feet found a path and we ran harder still.

The path led us toward a night market lined by tables on either side, with barkers all shouting over each other, trying to entice their potential customers. Meat sizzled on a spit nearby. A man's drunken singing carried over the crowd. It was loud and raucous, but it was more like home than anything I'd seen since I'd joined the wool merchants' caravan.

Surely among all these people we'd find help—someone to strike off these blasted collars, a merchant willing to hide us in their tent. Our captors were orcs and we were human, and that had to count for something.

The first stall along the thoroughfare was piled with metal, from cookware to weapons, and though the vendor had his back to us, I could tell by the broadness of his shoulders that he’d be just the one to free us from our irons. “Sir,” I called out to him. “Good Sir, we need your—”

My voice dried up to a croak as he turned and fixed us with a beady stare—from only one eye. Half his face was covered in hanging skin, obscuring one side of his features, while the other half, the staring half, was smooth and taut. His nose leaned off-kilter, and the single visible eye had a pupil square as a goat’s.

I’d once seen a man utterly disfigured by fire—but that wouldn’t explain his eye. My collar tugged as Bess backpedaled, while Archie murmured, “Holy hell.”

The man slammed a hand on his table so hard that the stacks of cooking pots all jumped. Not a human hand, but a reptilian claw.

“What’re you looking at?” he demanded—amused, even mocking. But the three of us were already staggering away.

The crowd flowed and parted around us, no one seeming to notice or care that we were in chains. It didn’t matter. Because up close, I saw, none of them were fully human.

There were tall creatures and short, fat and thin, furred and scaled and everything in between. They stood like men, dressed like men, and even caroused and bartered like men.

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