Page 1 of The Outcast Orc (Claimed by the Red Hand #1)

1

QUINN

Five silver pieces. Four for my horse, and one for my saddle. Such small coins—but they carried the weight of everything I’d lost.

I watched the buyer lead Mercy away. My steady gray mare was worth at least double what I’d settled for. Any horseman worth his salt could see her value, but considering the scandal that now followed me through the Fortifications, I was lucky to find a buyer at all.

I only hoped it would be enough to pay for my passage out of the damned place.

As I spotted a busy courier shop on my way to the city gates, I wondered if the owner might’ve given me a better deal. But I was well aware of how their mounts were treated, and I wouldn’t have trusted poor Mercy to their care for any price. I’d been strict with her these past few years, but never cruel. How could I bear the thought of some careless rider digging his heels into her flanks, or hauling on her bit with heavy hands?

Or worse, beating a few more miles out of her.

Early on, I’d figured out that a whip was best used sparingly, and never in anger. Especially with the young colts who hadn’t learned to mind their feet.

I’d taught Mercy well. I trusted she would remember her training…whether her next master deserved it or not.

Still, the thought gnawed at me. Maybe I shouldn’t have given her up. But conditions were rough outside the Fortifications’ walls, and Mercy was used to soft stabling and sweet hay. She wasn’t cut out for life on the road.

Then again, I probably wasn’t either. In the city, I had my hot meals at the tavern, regular warm baths at the public houses, and a proper bed. Out there, I’d be lucky to find shelter in a barn. But thanks to one reckless moment of weakness, there wasn’t a single noble house that would hire me.

I’d have to take my chances beyond the walls. Out there, in the territories between the Fortifications and the Wasteland, the roads were wild and the towns were wilder—but at least a man wouldn’t be judged by his secrets, only his skills. That was the more important currency.

But first, I had to get there. And for that, I needed money.

I clutched the five coins as I made my way to the caravan, and the metal bit into my palm. Was it too late to change my mind? I could still shove the damned payment back into the buyer’s hand and grab Mercy by the reins—

A vendor who always used to flash me a friendly smile now avoided my gaze as her eyes darted away like a guilty child’s. Another turned his back, muttering under his breath.

The Fortifications were huge…but even so, news traveled fast.

There was no future for me here.

Soon enough, I reached the broad stone wall that gave the Fortifications its name. A scattering of crows perched on top had their beady black eyes on me as I strode out through the gate. I’m not tied down anymore, I told myself. I’m free.

I didn’t feel free, though. I felt empty.

The caravan had gathered a short walk from the heavy iron gates. Close enough to hear the guards calling out challenges, far enough that its stores were safe from the quick-fingered beggars working the gate. The caravan belonged to Northern wool merchants, no-nonsense people who kept to themselves, from a province where sheep outnumbered men ten to one. While they might not be much for chitchat, their elaborate carpets sold for a good price in the Fortifications.

Business had been good. Their wagons were packed with city-made things—forged metals and blown glass—to take back north. Good for them, but not for me. With cargo taking up all that room, passage wouldn’t come cheap.

But I wouldn’t last a day in the lawless territory on my own, especially without a horse.

I caught a gate guard looking me up and down with his lip curled and hate in his eyes, and I knew that even if it took every last coin, getting far, far away would be worth it. I had thoroughly sold myself on the idea of a fresh start when I rounded a wagon and saw a pair of men having a heated discussion beside the rig’s team. One horse, a chestnut mare, stood with her weight off her left leg.

The older man was grizzled and ropy, and he’d clearly made this journey before. He shook his head and said, “This isn’t just costing us gold. It’s wasting time.”

“I swear the horse was sound when I bought it.” The younger one’s voice broke. He was barely old enough to shave.

“And this is how you learn that the Fortifications are a filthy place where every seller will do his damnedest to take advantage of you.”

“I was careful!”

With a weary sigh, the older man unsheathed a long, sturdy blade and held it out hilt-first to the youth. “The nag had better be ready for tonight’s stew pot by the time I find a replacement.”

“Wait,” I said—and they both turned in surprise. Everyone knows you don’t contradict a Northerner. They’re a stubborn bunch—and they don’t take kindly to outsiders telling them what to do. “Mind if I have a look?”

The boy looked hopeful, but the older one scowled harder.

I said, “I’m as invested as you are in putting the Fortifications behind us. What have you got to lose?”

The older one sized me up. I knew what he saw: a city man, slim and clean-shaven, with long, dark hair glossy from the baths and clothes too fine for honest work. But my sure stance and callused hands marked me as someone who knew his way around horses.

The man gave a brief grunt—as close to a yes as I’d get from a Northerner. The younger one hung back, eying me warily as I stepped up to examine the mare.

I crouched and ran my hands up and down each leg, checking for any heat or swelling in the joints. Her hide was caked in dust, but otherwise felt strong and healthy under my sure hands—until I reached her left forehoof. A pebble had lodged beneath the horseshoe, nestled just between the frog and heel. “Go get the farrier,” I told the young man. “He’ll have the caravan up and running in no time. Unless your heart is set on horse stew.”

I was well acquainted with the farrier…and I made sure to busy myself on the far side of the caravan when he arrived. I’d always liked the man’s sense of humor. And I was in no mood for the look of disgust that would surely be in his eyes.

My reputation lay in ashes, and I’d struck the match myself. A dozen years I’d spent building my good name, only to have it all dashed by one regretful slip. I’m not talking about the things I got up to with the apprentice blacksmith, either. He and I had done the deed several times before with no one any the wiser. It had been easy enough to catch his eye—that sort of thing usually was. But after the last time we’d shared a bed—during the afterglow, with wine in my belly and an overblown sense of affinity—I’d made the big mistake of leaning in for a kiss.

He’d stormed out in a rage, spewing ugly words. The next morning, my position in a wealthy merchant’s stables had been filled by someone else. And every house that had made me an offer before was no longer interested in my services.

Evidently, getting off with another man could be overlooked. But heaven forbid you show them a bit of affection.

At least horses still made sense to me, even if nothing else did. And the Northerners recognized useful skills when they saw them—they offered me passage and let me keep one of my precious coins besides.

The caravan lurched into motion. The crows at the gate scattered as I set off toward my new life, more or less convinced I was eager to see what fortune the future had in store.

Arrin, the younger man, had saved a seat for me on his wagon—and over the course of the next week, we kept each other company. At first he didn’t say much, but after a day or two of staring off down the road together, a few words were exchanged, and then entire conversations.

When I caught the way he looked at me when he thought I wasn’t watching—that familiar mix of interest and hesitation—I even suspected he’d like to be more than just friends. But I didn’t encourage him to swap anything but stories. He was green as spring grass, all wide-eyed wonder at the world beyond his village.

I wasn’t about to jeopardize my place in the caravan. Besides, I knew what I liked in a man, and earnest young shepherds didn’t stir my blood. I preferred the big, burly type, rough-hewn and strong-handed.

The sort who wanted nothing to do with love.

At least Arrin’s rambling was a decent distraction from the tedium of the journey. Once the excitement of being outside the Fortifications’ walls wore off, a certain sameness set in. The endless bump and grind of the wagon wheels, the creak of overhead branches swaying in the wind, and the ever-present birdsong….

Which, I’d realized, had gone suddenly quiet—just as a crossbow bolt shrieked past, nicking my ear, to lodge in Arrin’s throat. His eyes didn’t even have a chance to widen before he toppled off the wagon bench and was crushed beneath the churning wheels.

“No,” I gasped, reaching for him—though it was already too late. My stomach lurched as the wheels did their work, and bile burned in my throat.

He was just a boy. And now he’d never be a man.

“Don’t kill ’em all off, ya dumbfuck,” a harsh voice called out. “Save some for the slavers!”

I launched myself off the wagon, landing on my feet with my hand on my whip. I mostly used it to keep spooked horses from stamping on my toes, but years of practice had made that whip an extension of my will. It never missed its target.

Raiders streamed from a gap in the trees. A whip might not seem like much protection against a sword, but it’s got a much longer reach. My first swing struck true, and a raider’s sword went flying into the undergrowth.

I whirled around and scanned for my next target. There were a good half dozen raiders, but between the Northerners and the mercenaries, we could handle them. My whip cracked, striking a scarred raider on the forearm. He cursed and reeled back, but didn’t drop his sword—a long, vicious blade that was obviously well-used.

One of our mercenaries spotted me facing off with the swordsman and hurried over to help. The man hadn’t been much of a traveling companion. Dull as dirt, with a habit of stating the obvious, starting each day by complaining about the weather. But two against one were odds I’d take any time.

My adversary’s grin should have warned me. No man smiles when he’s outmatched. I heard something whoosh through the air at my back, but by then it was too late. Our mercenary had chosen his side…and it wasn’t mine.

His club caught me at the base of my skull, and my world went black.