Page 6 of Shackled to the Orc

It isn’t the men that make me freeze, petrified until I am pushed forward from behind, stumbling onto the stage.

It is the women.

Nine of them, fully nude, their hands cuffed with a chain attached to the top of thin, metal poles that line the stage. Their heads are down, despondent, their bodies on display for the mass of predatory gazes, like insects crawling over our bodies, their hunger etched in their leers and whispered comments that snake through the air. A portly merchant in silk robes near the front row licks his lips as I am pushed onto the stage, whispering a comment in his compatriot’s ear, to chuckles.

On the stage, in front of the nude women, is the auction master, tall, draped in opulent purple robes that billow around him. He turns to see the new arrivals, his features hardened, etched with years of calculating transactions. He has a crown of silver hair on his head, and a small smile comes to his thin lips as we enter. “And here they are, the last two pure, untouched young women for your bidding pleasure.”

His guard stomps towards us, with heavy brows and a lined forehead over squinting eyes. He is squat, in dark clothes and leather armor, with a baton that bounces at his waist as he approaches us. “You can strip, or I can do it for you. Trust me, it would be my pleasure,” he says, staring at me and Elara, obviously imagining what our bodies look like under our clothes.

I don’t want his grubby, callused grip on me. I have no other choice. My hands shake as I reach up, undoing my tunic. I always wore loose, flowy clothing, always liking the feel of being hidden behind thick layers of fabric, and now hundreds of eyes are staring at me, waiting for my naked body to be exposed.

Elena is frozen, shaking. “Just do what he says, it’ll be easier,” I whisper to her, and she moves into action, stripping quickly, like any hesitation would make her lose her nerve. I feel bad for her already. Her body is toned and pale, and she’s beautiful—which means she’ll be the target of these disgusting creatures in front of us. I can only hope she’ll go to a lord who is not too cruel, or a merchant baron who will feed and treat her well.

I drop my clothes on the ground, and the guard who escorted us from the cells grumbles, bending over to pick them up. If I only had my knife, I could drive it into his neck while he was distracted, but then I’d be trapped, with nowhere to run. I hold my hands over my breasts, trying to cover myself, the gazes on me so intense I can feel them, like cockroaches crawling over my body.

“Move!” barks the squat guard, and I steel myself. There are two thin, metal poles with handcuffs dangling from them in the center of the stage. I walk with Elena forward, and we both share a suffering glance, trying to give each other confidence. She is cuffed first, her hands above her head, her pale breasts on display as she struggles, and whistles and jeers fill the room. I grit my teeth, feeling the deerskin pouch under my tongue that is my last, private rebellion, and put my hands up over my head.

I try to keep my gaze forward, to avoid showing the fear that claws at my throat, but it’s no use. Scared, angry, sad, it doesn’t matter. I’m just a piece of meat to these bastards, worth a little more because of the innocence between my legs, and the moment is suffocating me, panic in a rising swell. All my knowledge, all my stories, all my friends, it’s all reduced to nothing.

I am just a prize to be won, an object to be possessed.

I start as a clock tolls. Twelve long strokes, and the auction master takes center stage, his arms wide to the crowd. “Welcome! Welcome, to the first night of the Corrigan Showcase, the biggest auction in the southern regions! Do we have anyone from the capital?”

There’s laughter and smiles, and a few whoops from the rows. There is an air of festivity, and waiters in crisp, black uniforms navigate through the crowds. The rows of seats are filled, and there is standing room at the back, where common folk are packed in, some probably just here for the view, to ogle us, enjoying the sick, powerful feeling of goggling at virgins while we cower in front of them. The waiters navigate the crowd with choreographed precision, bringing glasses of white wine to the seated buyers, while tankards of beer are sold to the masses at the back.

The guard steps towards me and pulls the chain from the other side of the metal pole, forcing my hands upwards, my breasts jiggling, and the shame infects me as the crowd stares at me, enjoying my humiliation. My cheeks flush red, and I try to calm myself, try not to show any weakness to these bastards, but I can’t stop myself.

“These eleven specimens are untouched, pure, inspected by Dr. Martin himself. Boy, I’d like to have his job, wouldn’t you?” There are more drunken laughs from the crowd, and I run my tongue against the deerskin pouch.

I hope whoever buys me puts me into the kitchen once he’s done having his fun and I’m just another woman of his estate. I’ll dump the entire stillroot into his drink, and he’ll never wake.

“You all know the deal. Bidding starts at thirty silvers for ownership—if the minimum bid isn’t reached, then they’ll be offered for the night for a trial run, and you’ll have the option to keep them or return them.”

My stomach roils. Thirty silvers. That is what my life is worth, and for my innocence, a handful of grubby coins, before I am thrown back to the general auctions. Thirty silvers is more than a farmer can save in a decade. I’m worth more than a cow, less than a purebred horse.

“Then let us begin! First up. This one was caught trying to burgle, so keep a good eye on her, and don’t spare her the whip. For anyone who can handle a wild filly, starting at thirty silvers!” He gestures towards the woman to my right. Unlike the other chained women, she has her head up, her gorgeous blonde hair down her back and her eyes full of fury.

“No takers? Bidding starts at three for the night!”

Hands are raised immediately, no one wanting her as a servant, but eager to buy her for their perverse amusements. The count goes to seven silver and three bronze pieces, a grey-haired merchant in silver robes raising his hand for the final time and smiling in triumph as she is released from the pole and dragged off the stage, disappearing as if she was never here.

“And this one, skulking around the marsh at night, trying to plunder from the lord’s marshes. We identified her as a skilled healer, and once you get tired of her in bed, she can be useful in your staff.”

It takes a second to realize he is talking about me. There is low chatter in the crowd, men speaking to each other, and looking at me in a new light.

Before he can even start the bidding, the corpulent merchant in the front row, clad in a striking blue surcoat that strains against his belly with puffy white sleeves, raises his hand. When his bid is taken, his pudgy fingers rest on the chair, twitching with anticipation.

More hands rise. I have to hope that they are interested in me for my skill with plant medicine…

But they wouldn’t pay a premium if that was the only thing they wanted.

The bidding is at forty pieces when no more hands rise, and the merchant leans back in his chair, a smile at his wet lips as he runs his hand through his slicked back hair.

“Going once, going twice, so—”

“Her!” the deep voice booms out, a primal roar that deafens the crowd. The mass at the back parts, fear painted on their faces as they push away from each other, parting. All eyes are to the back of the room.

It is the orc.

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