Page 17 of The Outcast Orc (Claimed by the Red Hand #1)

17

QUINN

We’d been toasting by the open brazier in the grotto for quite a while when Archie rolled over on his slab and knuckled his eyes. “It’s sweatier than a bricklayer’s balls in here…but I guess it beats the slaver’s tent.”

“How are you feeling?” Bess asked him, but when she moved to get up, he motioned her to stay put. Taruut had placed various stones and trinkets on our bodies, and it seemed unwise to dislodge them.

“It hurts when I breathe,” Archie admitted, uncharacteristically grim. “Hurts bad. I knew a guy once with a cough like this. First it was a nuisance, then it got serious…and the next thing you know he was in a charnel pit, snug under a blanket of quicklime. Taruut has made me his pet project—but I’m not sure all the shaman’s bone-waving is doing me much good.”

While Bess and I had been under Marok’s taciturn watch, Archie had been privy to not only the shaman, but all his men. I couldn’t speak for orcs, but all the soldiers I knew talked among themselves. “Have you heard anything while you were here—anything we can use to our advantage?”

“Just a bunch of badmouthing. Apparently, your pal Marok isn’t exactly the darling of his clan.”

“Kind of hard to miss,” I said, thinking about the way none of them would even look at him.

“But he’s got this huge house filled with all kinds of stuff,” Bess said. “He must be rich, or important, or both. You’d think everyone would be bending over backward to get on his good side.”

Maybe he didn’t have a good side.

“Well,” Archie said, dropping his voice dramatically—like someone who had to either vie for men’s attentions, or go to bed with an empty belly. “From what I heard, he used to be some kind of big-shot. A real badass general. But a major battle of his went all to shit, and now he’s being snubbed by the whole clan.”

That was about all he’d gleaned, since he found himself sleeping more often than not. But even without the details, it explained a lot.

Eventually, Taruut returned in his litter and subjected Bess and me to a thorough scrutiny. By that, I mean sniffing. His proximity was disconcerting as he leaned over my naked body and inhaled. Up close, I could see the leathery texture of his skin, fissured with deep wrinkles. His tusks, nearly brown, had been etched with mystical symbols and filled in with gold. And then there were his eyes—just the shadow of a pupil still visible under the filmy greenish-white haze.

He grunted, and his exhalation played across my bare chest, raising gooseflesh on my arms that I didn’t dare chafe away. “We are not merely beings of flesh and blood and bone,” he said, “but a collection of our own thoughts and deeds. Orcs know their place in the world, and they lead very structured lives. But other races…” he made a vague gesture. “Their pasts tangle around them like torn fishing nets. And you…. I sense you have some conflict you tried to leave behind—but did not quite succeed.”

Like any decent purveyor of mumbo-jumbo, the shaman was great at making grandiose statements that someone might take to heart—but when you looked at them closely enough, they could very well apply to anyone. Luckily, he wasn’t seeking my agreement. In an orc’s eyes, a human (or any other non-orc) was only one step above an animal, and our opinions didn’t exactly count.

Taruut took another good whiff of me. “And yet, you’re more than just a vessel to be rinsed clean in the river. The traces of your past are responsible for who you are today. There is still strife in your future, I think. Whether it will break you or make you stronger remains to be seen.”

A guard with streaks of white clay on his cheeks strode through the door and presented himself to Taruut, kneeling. “Borkul is here to bring them to the chieftain.”

Taruut waved him to his feet. “Fine. I’ve done all I can for these two. The rest is out of my hands.”

Borkul came in and produced the expected genuflection, then dumped a bundle of cloth on the cavern floor. “It’s been a few seasons since my kids were small enough to fit in these old things. Lucky my wife hadn’t traded them off to the peddler.”

Taruut sniffed in their direction. “I’m sure they’re preferable to wandering around naked.” Wait…they got rid of our clothes ? “There’s a nip in the air. And human constitutions are notoriously fragile. Bundle up the horseman and the girl and be on your way.”

“What about the boy?” Borkul asked.

Taruut smiled cryptically to himself. “Archibald’s place is with me…for now.”

Was it weird to be happy to see Borkul? Maybe happy was a strong word. More like relieved—because although he was the whole reason goblins attacked our camp to begin with, at least he’d never punched a massive bruise into my back with the butt of a spear.

Guess my standards were getting pretty low.

Back when I first set off from the Fortifications, I’d brought along a few solid, well-made items of clothing. Those were obviously long gone, stripped off by the marauders who’d knocked me out and dragged me to the dreaded tent. I’d been marched to the orc camp in slavers’ rags.

The clothing Borkul had brought was strange—woven fabrics reinforced with patches of suede at the elbows and knees, boxy fitting, without buttons or ties. Definitely better than the rags from the slavers, but when I pulled the tunic over my head, the smell hit me. Not filth. Not sweat. Earthen and strong, but nothing I could quite put my finger on, either—other than to say it reminded me of Marok’s house.

So it could only have been…the smell of orc.

If I felt out of place in my oversized pajama-like outfit, Bess was even more ridiculous, drowning in a tunic made for someone twice her size. I wondered what had become of her handkerchief…and decided it wasn’t worth another bruise to find out.

“We didn’t have an extra pair of boots lying around,” Borkul said, “and even if we did, they’d never fit your weird feet.” For the record, plenty of men found my feet very attractive. “Lucky for you there’s a peddler in town, and I’ve still got a few coins left over from the slaver’s. But let’s get moving before his cart is picked clean.”

It was a relief to walk out of the shaman’s caves under Borkul’s command, even if that did mean being tethered to Bess with a leather leash like a team of skittish colts. This time, when we walked through the settlement, people not only stared, but also tried to waylay us by striking up a conversation.

I’d thought orcs were just dour and hidebound people. But Borkul’s evident popularity had me seeing Marok in a whole new light. “Can I ask you something?” I ventured when Bess and I were alone with him.

“You just did.” He smirked around his tusks at his own joke, then said, “Go ahead—as long as you understand that inside the chieftain’s lodge, the guard won’t be so tolerant.”

“It’s just…everyone acts so funny toward Marok. Everyone but you.”

“I’m his heart-brother,” he said simply.

I glanced at Bess to see if she got what that was supposed to mean, and she shrugged.

“I don’t know the term,” I finally admitted, wondering if that meant they were cousins, or brothers-in-arms, or what. “You’re related…how?”

“By marriage.” His easy voice grew strained. “He was husband to my sister.”

Was?

Oh.

That might explain a few things. Marok’s shut-down attitude. The big, empty house. The certain things we weren’t allowed to touch. “Did he lose her before or after the failed campaign?”

“Before. Once Akala was gone, he threw himself into battle. But grief makes us blind.” Something dark flickered across his face, then disappeared.

Of course, I had more questions.

But while Borkul might be pretty easygoing compared to his clanmates, I wasn’t about to test his patience by pursuing something he clearly didn’t want to discuss.

The peddler had set up his cart in the orc village square, and he’d attracted a small mob of shoppers. Mostly orcs, but a few races I didn’t recognize, either, each different from the other—and each with a strange symbol branded on their cheek, like the poor creature tending the latrines. A mark.

A slave mark.

If that was my fate…so much for my throngs of eager admirers back in the Fortifications. Not that I’d be likely to ever cross their paths again anyhow.

“Clear out,” Borkul called to the crowd. “We’re here on Ul-Rott’s business.” With a few grumbles, the orcs wrapped up their haggling and dispersed. Borkul flipped me a few coppers, then did the same for Bess, who snatched them neatly out of the air. “Get what you need. But be quick about it. Don’t wanna keep the chieftain waiting.”

The last few orcs cleared out, and I finally got a look at the peddler. I must’ve been expecting an orc. Or a goblin. Or one of those pig-faced monstrosities I’d seen in the bazaar.

I was not prepared for the man I did see—whose interest perked up the moment he laid eyes on me.

Decked out from head to toe in decayed finery, he was no more an orc than I was…though when I spied his pointed ears, I saw he was no human, either. A coat of tattered brocade. Longish chestnut hair tied back with a satin ribbon. Skin-tight breeches of fine doeskin worn smooth at the seams. Scuffed thigh-high boots tied below the knee with the fraying remains of colorful scarves. And cheekbones to make anyone stop and look twice.

The peddler locked eyes with me and smiled a slow, cryptic grin. “Well, well, well. What have we here?”

“We need shoes,” Bess said. “And whatever else you can think of that we won’t be able to find in this village.”

Though it was Bess who’d spoken, the peddler held my gaze for a heartbeat before turning his attention to her. He might be foreign to me, but I knew the look. It was the look of a man who’d meet you back behind the tavern…with his trousers down.

“I’m no cobbler,” the man said, “but let’s see if I can’t dig up something from my treasure trove.” That said with a lascivious glance at me. “Name’s Silver, by the way. Costermonger extraordinaire. If I don’t have what you need now, I can make it a point to swing back with it in a fortnight.” He sauntered up to me and lowered his voice. “But I suspect I may indeed have exactly what you’re looking for.”

Orcs have good hearing, but Borkul had dropped our leash and was busy chatting with a couple of orcish soldiers on the far side of the square. As Bess rifled through the cart in search of useful items, I eased closer to Silver and pitched my voice low. “What is it you think I’m looking for?”

His smile deepened. “A way out…of course.” He indicated his cart with a flick of his eyes. It was deep enough to hold someone if they curled up just so, pulled by a single docile mule. “But I’d only have room to smuggle out one.”

This was it. My chance to get away from the Clan of the Red Hand before someone branded my face, or cut off my arm…or worse. Of course, I was tempted. But then I watched Bess trying to force her feet into a pair of too-small slippers and said, “If you take anyone, it should be her.”

“She wasn’t the one I invited, though, was she?” After treating me to a lingering head-to-toe look, he added, “I’m not just keen on someone to share my bedroll. It’s tough out there—tougher than you think. I’d need someone who could swing a sword…although it wouldn’t hurt if he looked as fetching as you while doing it.”

Silver wasn’t my usual type—too lean and pretty by half—but it would hardly be a chore to pass some time with him. Intellectually, I knew I’d be an idiot to refuse the offer. But somehow, I didn’t feel quite right about sneaking out. “There’s no way you’d get past the gate without them smelling me a mile off. And once they do,” I flapped the leather leash for emphasis, “it’s back in the neck irons for me.”

“They’ve got quite the sense of smell, to be sure, but there are ways of putting my scent on you. And yet, since you haven’t jumped at the chance to be my…traveling companion…” he smiled his cryptic smile. “I’ll not waste my breath trying to convince you. Clearly, you’ve got a very good reason to stay.”

“I just know better than to invite more trouble than I already have.”

“Oh, but the best trouble always comes uninvited.” Now he was only bantering with me for form’s sake. He cut his eyes to Borkul in the distance. “I doubt you’re as boring as you make yourself out to be. Maybe you’ve just taken a particular fancy to the color green.”

I scoffed, which only seemed to convince him otherwise.

“No? Correct me if I’m wrong, but your accent tells me you’ve spent your life inside the Fortifications’ walls. Why wouldn’t you find yourself intrigued by an orc? After all that stultifying Fortifications nonsense about where you can or can’t put your dick, it’s positively liberating to be around creatures with such relaxed customs about who can share their furs.”

“How so?” I asked carefully.

“Haven’t any of them approached you yet?”

I gave my leash another pointed shake. “Not much opportunity for mingling.”

Silver bent over his cart, casually presenting his rump for my inspection, then straightened up with a pair of boots in his hand—human-sized boots. He tossed them to the ground at my feet, then said, “Orcs pair off, man and woman, faithful as can be...among themselves. But as far as the rest of us two-legged animals are concerned, anything goes. Y’see, in their eyes, the rest of us aren’t exactly people. Close enough to tryst with…but not in the same category as their own kind. They don’t even consider it a breach of vows. An orc would no sooner pitch a fit about a human dalliance than get jealous of their lover’s left hand.”

So that thing I picked up on with the goblins outside the bazaar was normal…for an orc.

Silver kept talking while I pulled on the boots—his spare pair, he claimed, which he was deigning to sell me only as a personal favor. Hardly as good a fit as the custom pair I’d lost to the slavers—not to mention the ridiculous decorative tooling around the cuffs—but they’d do.

“If an orc decided to add you to his or her menagerie, no one would so much as blink—not even their dear spouse! Well, they might grumble a little…” he smirked. “Though the orcs wealthy enough to expand their households are few and far between, since most of the younger ones live in those communal barracks over by the well. But the older, more established orcs—the tradesmen, the artisans, the high-ranking warriors? Not unusual for those with the extra space to keep a slave around the house. Not unusual at all.”

Marok had the whole house to himself. And since he was a widower…no one to grumble.

Which was clearly none of my business whatsoever.

When we’d outfitted ourselves the best we could, I found a ha’penny leftover…and spied a delicate slip of fine cloth pinned to his display. “And I’ll take that handkerchief. For the lady.”

Silver arched an eyebrow…but handed it over without a word.