Page 11 of The Outcast Orc (Claimed by the Red Hand #1)

11

MAROK

The humans bedded down close to the fire while I squatted by the bushes, listening for the footfalls of anything that shouldn’t be there. Normally, I’d be scenting the air, too. But the smell of the humans was blotting out everything else.

Compared to other scents—the oxen team, or the goblins and their cloying sandflower—their smells weren’t overbearing. More like…confusing. Because when the horseman put his arms around me, I got a noseful of something that smelled like arousal. So it was clear I knew nothing at all about how humans were supposed to smell.

Most likely I was thrown by the way the horseman had felt when he pressed up against me. He was only binding the wound. But I hadn’t been touched by anyone since I lost Akala. It took me by surprise, was all. The feel of another body. Even for a moment.

Once Borkul banked the fire, he ambled over and squatted down beside me, dusting the ash from his hands. “There’s cautious, Marok, and then there’s paranoid. You don’t need to keep watch. Those goblins are far behind us.”

“The humans might still turn on us.”

“The young one is half dead. The female doesn’t have the strength to even break skin. And the horseman, well….” His eyes danced with mischief. “I think he’s sweet on you.”

I snorted. “You’re confusing sweet with sweat.”

“Still, no one would blame you for sampling him.”

“Think about it, Borkul. If you brought home the prize boar of the first spring hunting expedition, would you take a bite out of it before you lay it at Ul-Rott’s feet? Never. Quinn is for the chieftain.”

“For the chieftain’s stable . Not his bed.”

Maybe so. Time was, I might be brazen enough to embrace that distinction and sample more of the human’s scent for myself. But after my attempt to claim the new island went so horribly wrong, I’d better not screw things up. Not again.

Borkul picked his teeth with a twig. “If you’re not gonna bed him, then chain him up and get yourself some shut-eye.”

While Borkul might not have acted concerned about the potential for the humans to slay us in our sleep, I noted he did bed down well on the opposite side of the fire, with a scattering of dried leaves around him to sound an alert should anything sneak up. As the others slept, I did the same, clearing just enough space for my body, surrounding it with noisy dead twigs and bark.

A few of those twigs were not twigs at all, but old bones.

Hardly a surprise to find bones in the forest. The world may well grow from a garden of death. But it was the marks on the bones that disturbed me. The gouge of sharp eyeteeth was not surprising, either. Many creatures, from predators to scavengers, would leave that sort of mark. But the twin tracks of paired fangs—four up top, four on the bottom—could only be made by trolls.

At least it wasn’t fresh. And many would say it was a good omen to come across the stale path of a wandering troll. The horrid beasts are territorial—which usually makes them easy to avoid. True, they’ll build their nests in places where prey wanders by, alongside a trail or tucked beneath a bridge. But when folks start disappearing, anyone with half a brain will figure out they should find a different route.

But a wandering troll—one driven out from the nest they’d claimed—was far more dangerous. Because a wandering troll could turn up anywhere.

I shuddered and chucked the bone into the bushes. None of the humans stirred. Neither did Borkul. I needed sleep, but could I really allow myself the comfort when my heart-brother was so vulnerable? With a sigh, I settled into a vigilant crouch to watch over my camp. Occasionally I prodded at the wound in my side to see if the dreamweed was wearing off. And occasionally I glanced at Quinn’s sleeping form.

It would be easy to deny it was arousal I’d scented on him…had Borkul not noticed it, too.

I supposed I should consider myself lucky there was no telltale scent to loneliness.