Page 13 of The Outcast Orc (Claimed by the Red Hand #1)

13

MAROK

Quinn had questions. Big surprise. I could see it in his eyes—but somehow he managed to hold his tongue. I bid Borkul goodbye, left the wagon at the wainwright’s, and chained the two humans together again so they couldn’t do anything stupid. Any humans I’d previously come across—the humans at the bazaar, the itinerant traders—seemed to know something about the world. But these two came from some far-flung place where no one had taught them much about anything.

I’d never had to deal with anyone so ignorant. They were worse than babies. At least babies couldn’t stab you in your sleep—not with enough force to give you more than a flesh wound, anyhow.

I marched them back to my quarters. It was the same home I’d shared with Akala. A family home—too big for one person. We hadn’t borne children. Not yet. We always thought there’d be plenty of time.

How wrong we were.

Most orcs would not want unpurified strangers in their homes. Who knows what sort of ill omens they might track in? For me, though, it made no difference. Things couldn’t get much worse. First, losing Akala…then, losing the respect of the whole clan. I supposed the Red Hand could always stop shunning me and toss me out altogether. But maybe that would be a relief.

“If you require a soft bed,” I announced, “I have none.”

The female, Bess, sniffled. Her scent went saline.

“What’s wrong?” I demanded.

Quinn squared his shoulders. “She’s been through a lot. We both have. You don’t need to yell.”

This was their idea of yelling? They hadn’t heard me command threescore orcish warriors. “You should be grateful—I’m telling you how things are. Someone has to.” I gestured at my winter coverings. “Use the furs on that shelf if you’re too delicate to sleep on the floor.”

Quinn reached for a particular bearskin, and I said, “Not that one. Any of the others.”

“It’ll be okay,” I heard him murmur to Bess, who was now fully weeping. Again.

How such soft creatures ever survived in this world, I’d never understand. My home was spacious, three full rooms, but it was clear I couldn’t leave the humans to their own devices. I’d need to keep my eye on them.

“Are the collars really necessary?” Quinn asked.

“Are they?” I countered.

His shoulders slumped. Just a bit. “Listen—there are more orcs than I can count between here and the forest, not to mention a well-guarded wall twice as tall as me.”

“Don’t forget the trolls,” Bess whispered.

“We’re not going anywhere. It’s just a little hard to sleep with an iron band around your neck.”

I dug out the key from a pouch at my belt and tossed it at his feet. “If you think you can talk your way past those guards, think again. They don’t negotiate. They kill. They’d slay you without thinking twice.”

“Understood,” Quinn said, unlocking Bess’s collar.

She sank to the floor and curled up on her side, trying to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible.

Truly, it was a wonder they weren’t all dead by now.

Once they were both unchained, Quinn set to work padding the floor with my furs. My collection was impressive, though I couldn’t take any credit for it. Akala was the one always eager to go hunting. Whenever we could steal off alone, we’d head for the woods. Sometimes we’d intend to track down prey and end up coupling. Sometimes a fresh trail piqued our curiosity and we’d leave the sex for later. Usually, we made time for both.

And now the humans were rubbing their scent all over the pelts we’d collected.

She would have found this amusing, I think. My wife took things in stride.

“Where is the chamber pot?” I heard Bess whisper.

Akala help me. “What kind of animals do you think we are?” I said. “We don’t shit in the house. You’ll use the latrine like a civilized person. Come on.” I nodded toward the door. “Let’s go.”

It was a bit of a walk to get to the latrines—more evidence of the status I used to enjoy. A mongrel slave keeps things covered, but even so, the smell reached us long before the pits were in sight.

Heads turned as I strode up the street, herding along two humans. But no one asked. Even the ones I’d played soldier with when we were young boys.

The female seemed perplexed by the holes in the ground. I gestured for the mongrel. He was part dwarf, part goblin—and missing a hand, thanks to his attempt to steal our winter provisions. Lucky for him he’d been unarmed at the time. Otherwise, it would have cost him his life. He bowed and bobbed as he shuffled over, eyes averted. Orcs might shun me now, but years of deference had been beaten into the mongrel. “Explain the latrines,” I told him. “And make sure the humans behave.”

When they were through relieving themselves, Quinn still had questions, I could tell.

His curiosity would be his undoing.

I marched them again to my quarters and slammed the door behind us. Bess flinched. Quinn cocked an eyebrow. “All right,” I said. “Since you don’t know even the most basic things, I’ll start at the beginning. Don’t throw your crap in the street—we’re not monkeys flinging shit. You’ll be expected to contribute. Everyone contributes to earn their place in the clan. Don’t ask questions—it would be taken as a challenge. Look someone in the eye when you’re talking to them, but don’t stare, not unless you want a fight.”

“But what about the shaman?” Quinn asked.

“Of course you don’t make eye contact with the shaman. Or the chieftain, either. They’re not just orcs. They’re leaders. You treat them with respect, or you have it beaten into you.”

“What if my version of respect is different from an orc’s?”

I bit back a sigh. He’d be lucky to last the week.

“Respect means effort,” I said. “Respect means self-sacrifice. Above all, respect means obedience.”

“And looking someone in the eye. But not for too long…and not if they’re a leader.”

“Exactly.”

“Allrighty, then. No problem.”

I headed toward my sleeping chamber, but paused at the door, curious now. “Were there no leaders among your humans?”

Bess had rolled up in the furs, feigning sleep, but her heartbeat was too rapid for slumber. She was smart to watch and listen. Quinn, though, was pawing through my shelves. “Sure, there were officials, but I didn’t really answer to any of them directly. Most folks in my line of work don’t have to deal with the mayor, or the constables, or anyone involved with the government.”

“Then who would you answer to?”

He shrugged. “My employer, I suppose. It’s different inside the Fortifications.”

Indeed.

Quinn dropped a doeskin on the floor and folded onto it—cross-legged, like a child. “What are you doing?” I snapped.

He stared at me for an insolent beat. “Sitting down?”

“How are you even alive?” I squatted beside him. “This is how a grown man sits. By the time you got to your feet, there’d be a blade through your skull.”

“Was someone planning to attack me in your house?” he said, eyes dancing. I glared. “Okay…point taken.” He got his feet under him. “This isn’t exactly comfy on the knees.”

“You get used to it.”

After a few moments, he stood, wincing slightly, and shook out his legs. “We should probably take a look at that stab wound before you go to sleep.”

The dreamweed had worn off a while ago. I could feel the heat of the injury every time I moved. “If you try anything stupid—” I warned.

“A thousand pissed-off orcs will use me for target practice. Listen, I might not know where to look or how to sit, but I promise, I’m not an entirely lost cause.”

He lit a lantern—at least he knew how to use a flint—and helped me lift my breastplate over my head. Something fluttered in my gut at the anticipation of him circling my waist with his arms again. But removing the dressings was not the same as putting them on. He simply untied the knot and pulled them off, leaving me oddly disappointed.

When he pressed cool, smooth fingers to the cut’s ragged edge, it wasn’t painful…it was soothing.

“Not to ask too many questions…but is there anything here I can treat this with?”

“I’ll allow it,” I said, and showed him where I kept my herbs and tinctures.

He sniffed one, then another. “The barkberries,” I said. “No, the other pouch. Rub them fine and dust it over the wound.”

He poured a handful into a bowl and began breaking up the dried fruits. “Wow, this packs a punch,” he said, flicking a scrap out of a hangnail.

“It does sting. But it’s better than an infection.”

Quinn was unfamiliar with our customs, but his mind was quick. He knew some of my herbs, though by different names. And his touch was somehow both gentle and sure. “Normally, I’d stitch this up,” he said. “But it’s still bleeding, three days in. Almost like your body is trying to…. Wait. Hold up that lantern.”

As I raised it over his head, I realized that if Quinn really wanted to seize the opportunity, this would be the perfect time to disable me. You don’t need a weapon to take advantage of an injury. He could take me down with something as harmless as a spoon if he jammed it in there hard enough.

There was a short, sharp pain….

“Look,” he breathed, holding up a small shard of rusted metal, slick with my blood. “That goblin left you a souvenir.”

If whatever the goblin had coated his blade with didn’t fester inside me, the hunk of metal would. “Good,” I said simply. “Now the barkberries.”

As Quinn worked, treating the deep wound, I rolled the small shard between my forefinger and thumb. An orcish healer would not have seen it. Too small. And they wouldn’t have felt it, either. Our skin is too thick. Only a human has such a fine, deft touch. Or a dwarf—but you’d never find one outside their mountain. And if you do, chances are, they’re drunk.

His fingers had been beneath my skin—if only for a moment. To bring me to my knees, all he’d had to do was cram them in. No doubt he was fully aware of the opportunity. But he hadn’t taken advantage of it.

Barkberries are astringent, but they don’t give off much of a smell. They did nothing to conceal the lingering traces of the human scent his nearness had left on me.

Nor did they obliterate the way he picked up my own scent by being in my house and handling my things. And my blood.

“I could bind the wound again,” he said, “but given how spotless this place is, I’d take the opportunity to let it air out.”

I agreed. Though I was disappointed that I wouldn’t feel his arms around me.

Hmph. I’d been too long without coupling if I was hungry to slake my want on a human.

Quinn washed at the basin to clean the blood and bark from his hands, but instead of rinsing away my scent, the water just softened it and drove it deeper, mingling it with his. It was a peculiar smell, this combination of orc and human. Though, I supposed, not unpleasant.

No. He belonged to the chieftain, and once he was purified, I’d be rid of him. I’d gone an entire turning of the season without sex. I could go another night.

He peeled off his shirt to wash away the dust of our travels, and the scent of his musk welled up around me. What was merely tolerable before was now a stark enticement.

Quinn took down a soft sheepskin from the shelf and pulled it around his shoulders. Our scents melded and merged.

I considered…. If I was careful not to spill directly on him, Ul-Rott might never know it was anything more than the smell of my house on the human. Maybe. Maybe not. I ignored the way my want was pooling low in my belly, creeping down to my groin.

“So…sleeping,” he said. “Am I allowed to lie down? Or is the orcish way to do it standing up, with one eye open?”

“You talk too much.” I dragged a heavy cabinet in front of the outer door just in case either of them tried getting away despite my warnings, then grabbed the bearskin from the highest shelf.

My sleeping chamber was dark, which made its familiar scents wrap themselves around me. It used to smell like Akala and me…but not anymore. Not for many moons past. The bearskin, though…it had been her favorite. I stretched out in my usual spot and brought the pelt to my face, searching for any remaining traces of my wife. But I couldn’t be sure if I actually scented her…or if it was only my imagination.