Page 19 of The Outcast Orc (Claimed by the Red Hand #1)

19

MAROK

Normally, my day would begin with a hobgoblin runner bringing orders from Ul-Rott. I might put my warriors through some training. Or I might join the chieftain for a strategic planning session. I might even be invited to dine at his table.

But since the last battle—the one where Two Swords decimated my troop—runners no longer came.

I’d hoped Ul-Rott would be pleased with the humans we’d found. The shaman only expected the boy, after all, and we’d come back with two more, both of them with skills that would make our clan stronger. But if Ul-Rott was impressed with my find, I’d heard no tell of it.

Three days. It had been three days since we made our way back through the southern hunting grounds, and still, no runner. I’d arranged and re-arranged my collections, swept the plank floor until it started to splinter, and even aired out my pelts…though despite a good airing, I could still smell human on them.

I could still smell Quinn.

It was late in the morning, far too late for a runner, and I was through telling myself that maybe they were just late, maybe they were on a new rotation, maybe they were just around the corner, if only I gave them a few more minutes. I finally admitted to myself that there would be no runner. I had no orders.

I had no purpose.

As punishments went, I used to think that shunning was far too lax. What hardship would there be, I wondered, in simply being ignored?

And now…I understood.

If I were exiled, left to wander the woods, I’d find my purpose soon enough. Shelter, food, protection from enemies. All these things would keep me so busy, I’d have little time to reflect on my own failings. But within the shelter of the Red Hand’s walls—within the home I’d once shared with Akala—thinking was the only thing I could do.

Fine. If I couldn’t help my clan ready itself for the next battle, I could at least feed us. When I geared up for a hunt and headed out into the woods, no one challenged me. For that matter, no one even spoke to me. Even as they opened the gate, the guards—who had once competed to be in my troop—looked right through me as if I wasn’t even there.

I tightened my grip on my spear and trod straight ahead.

I had hoped the forest might take my mind off my troubles, but instead it only reminded me how alone I was. It wasn’t my impromptu hunting trips with Akala I was ruminating on, either. It was trekking through these very woods with Quinn.

Maybe Borkul was right. I should have just coupled with the horseman and got it out of my system. It’s not like Ul-Rott would have smelled me on the human. As far as the chieftain was concerned, I no longer existed.

I trudged through the woods for hours, passing up the smaller prey so their blood scent didn’t drive off the larger game. But eventually, I wondered if it even mattered. Whether I brought back a rabbit or a doe, the reaction would be the same. None at all. Could they afford to leave the carcass to rot, simply because the hunt was mine? Maybe I didn’t want to find out.

I wasn’t far from the clan, though I’d picked a route that was poorly traveled, owing to some awkward footing and the occasional stretch of quicksand. Maybe it would be easiest to find such a spot and let it suck me under. When the muck filled my lungs, the pain would be brutal—as it should be.

Seems there’s never any quicksand around when you need it.

Soon, the rushing of Lame Stag River sounded in the distance and the scent of water was on the air. The scent of water…and orc.

I went still, placing my steps carefully so as not to rustle a leaf or snap a twig, and eased my way toward the riverbank. The Lame Stag’s course was much the same here as it had been before the droughts that shuffled our territory with that of the Two Swords Clan. This land was swampy and rough. Had it even been fought over at all, the skirmishes would have been cursory, at best.

As I eased closer to the river, the scent of orc intensified. I parted the trees and found a dozen orcs on the opposite bank—Two Swords orcs—and they were hard at work fording the deep river. From the looks of it, they’d been laboring for days. A good ton of rock had been shifted, and nearby wagon ruts ran deep. They weren’t just creating a crossing for a hunting party, either. They were paving the way for an army.

How long would it take them to finish their task—a week? Not even. Maybe as little as a few days.

I’d come hunting in a search for purpose…and I’d found it. My senses sharpened, and I was aware of everything, from the midges swarming around my eyes seeking their salty moisture, to my position and bearing and the direction of the wind. I eased away with excruciating care, so taut my muscles sang with tension, until finally I deemed myself well out of earshot. I let out a shaking breath, then gathered my strength…and ran.

The gate guards were so alarmed at the sight of me barreling up the path that they forgot to act indifferent. They swung the doors wide without challenge, and watched, wide-eyed, as I rushed up the road to Ul-Rott’s lodge. The guards at the chieftain’s gate were all veterans, older than the gate guards, and not so easily impressed. A pair of formidable warriors stood in my path, and they showed no signs of moving.

“I will speak to Ul-Rott,” I said, and they ignored it. “I will see him now.”

The tone had always worked with my troops—but not now. Not anymore.

I would not beg. Yes, I had failed the clan. But I was not weak.

Through the doorway, a flash of armor caught my eye. Very distinctive armor with straps of green tooled leather. I knew its owner well. “Raboth!” I called out. “We must speak. Now.”

Raboth and I had trained together, and given each other our fair share of bumps and bruises along the way. Not only were we well-acquainted, but he held some authority. Enough to be able to think for himself.

“Two Swords is planning an attack,” I told him as he strode out with a curious look on his face.

He spared me an appraising glance. “Oh?”

“They will cross the Lame Stag and attack from the south. We only have days, maybe just hours, to prepare. Our south flank is our weakest. We must get word to Ul-Rott and deploy the soldiers.”

Raboth didn’t answer. Simply stared.

“Take credit for it if you must,” I said. “But Ul-Rott needs to know.”

Raboth barked out a laugh. “As if anyone would take credit for your strategy after Two Swords fed your warriors to the crows!”

“But I saw—”

“You’re lucky I don’t have you beaten for disrupting my soldiers.”

He wouldn’t dare. The urge to challenge him to settle his insult with a fight was strong, but I tamped it down for the sake of the clan. “If you don’t tell Ul-Rott, then I will. Stand aside.”

“Now, now. You and I both know that if you barge into the lodge, the chieftain’s personal guard will cave in your skull before you get within shouting distance. Tell you what. You declare that I’m the better swordsman, and I get you in without a fight.”

Raboth might have the fancier armor—but my skills were sharper. His swings were wild and his form was lacking. But pride had its place. And my pride would do me no good if my whole clan suffered the same fate my troop had at the hands of the Two Swords Clan. “You are the better swordsman. Your arm is strong and your blade is keen. And your troops are proud to call you leader.”

Raboth stared at me for a heartbeat, then threw back his head and guffawed. “The mighty Marok has learned humility? What’s this world coming to?” Chortling to himself, he gestured for me to follow him. “Come, then, never let it be said that I don’t keep my word.”

He led me around the perimeter. Normally, I went straight through to the grand hall. But I was no longer privy to the day-to-day workings of the lodge, and figured he had his reasons. Though I sensed something was not right when instead of taking me inside, Raboth led me to the stables.

A flick of Raboth’s hand had the guards parting to let us pass, but there was no Ul-Rott in the exercise yard. There was no one but a scattering of guards, a few grazing mules, and the backside of the stables.

“Today’s the day your folly bears its bitter fruit,” Raboth said gleefully.

“What do you mean?” I demanded.

“The horseman has done nothing since he got here—nothing but stand there in the pen while Destroyer trots circles around him. It’s only fitting that you should be present to see this pet human of yours fail. If he doesn’t bridle the useless horse by sundown, he’d better hope for a fast death. Though given who brought him here, I doubt Ul-Rott will be inclined to show him that mercy.”

Dread settled, cold, in my gut. But if I didn’t warn the chieftain the Two Swords Clan was coming, Quinn would likely die either way—along with most of my clan. “Forget the human. Take me to Ul-Rott.”

“I never claimed I would take you to Ul-Rott. Just that I’d get you inside the lodge.” He looked me square in the eye with a nasty smile. “Maybe while you’re here, you should make yourself useful and muck out the stalls.”

Rage boiled inside me, licking my guts, urging me to bury my fist in his laughing, smug face. It would feel so good. The crunch of bone. The snap of a broken tusk. No, not just good—right.

But spill his blood now, and I'd never stand before Ul-Rott.

Raboth strode off, still laughing to himself, leaving me behind in the exercise yard. Not because he trusted me, but because there was precious little here I could see or do. There weren’t even many guards, just a pair at the gate and two more by the entrance to the main building. Why waste swords guarding a handful of mules and a warhorse no one could even touch?

I was about to turn on my heel and leave in disgust when the wind shifted—carrying with it the distinct smell of human.

No, not of any random human.

Of Quinn.

The sharpness of his sweat, the depth of his musk, all of it mingled now with the barnyard smell of grazing pack animals—but it was devoid of that hint of arousal I’d first scented on him out in the woods.

He was better off without me. The sooner he could make his own mark in the lodge so the clan could forget about who’d found him, the stronger his position.

But I couldn’t resist a quick parting look.

Sticking close to the stables, I made my way around the building and stood in the shadow of the roof’s overhang. Destroyer was trotting in a circle. The horse’s ears pricked as he spotted me, but Quinn didn’t notice. He stood at the trough in just breeches and boots, coated in dust, with sweat painting dark rivulets down his chest and ribs. No wonder his scent carried so far. He was covered in sweat, and the tangy salt smell set my mouth to watering. It was strikingly different from an orcish scent. But the orcs I knew wanted nothing to do with me, which only made this difference even more enticing.

Despite the dust and dirt, the hard chisel of his muscle was clear. Though Quinn’s human skin might be oddly smooth...he looked anything but soft.

As I watched, he grabbed a bucket from beside the trough and dipped it in, capturing some water. He upended the bucket right over his head, sluicing off the dirt and grit. And as he did, his scent blossomed, thick and heady. It filled the air with his utter humanness, welling around me, wreaking havoc with my common sense. I could practically taste the salt, feel the tang of him dance upon my tongue.

My breath quickened and my muscles tensed. Quinn threw his head back and shook out his long, dark hair. Droplets lit on his skin and hair like jewels, as runoff pooled beneath his boots. His scent should have been diluted. But it wasn’t. It was purified.

Want blinded my actions. I knew that he was in a pen with a horse capable of snapping my spine with a single, well-placed kick, but I barged ahead anyway, unable to quell my relentless, urgent need. I shoved past the pen gates, seeing nothing but water-slicked human flesh, smelling nothing but Quinn’s intoxicating human scent.

The sound of the gate startled him and he whirled around, spraying water. But though his heartbeat quickened, I smelled no fear on him. And as I crossed the pen, his expression shifted from surprise to curiosity. “Marok? Is everything okay—?”

I picked up speed as I strode toward him, and backed him up against the stable wall. His scent shifted. Not with fear—but with lust.

The regular beat of the horse’s hooves, soft thumps on the dirt of the pen, skittered to a stop. Quinn shoved me back with the flat of his palm and commanded the horse, “Roy, down!”

The warhorse pranced in place…but obeyed.

Quinn scavenged a crabapple from his pocket and tossed it to the horse, who snatched it up and gobbled it down immediately. Quinn then cocked his head toward the barn. “We might want to head inside—just in case Roy changes his mind about you. He packs one hell of a kick.”

“You gave the steed a human name.”

“Destroyer was way too much of a mouthful. Besides, I think he prefers it.”

I followed Quinn into the barn. Though light slanted in through the beams, it was dim and quiet inside, and the powerful smell of animal nearly blotted out the scent of Quinn—which only drew me closer, seeking more of that elusive, intoxicating human smell.

As I moved toward Quinn, he backed away, matching me step for step. Not trying to evade me, though, simply keeping me in his sights. The distance he put between us, in fact, was small enough for me to reach out and throttle him—or grab him and drag him closer.

“Don’t you fear me?” I asked.

“I can tell when something’s a threat—it’s what separates the average trainers from the great ones.”

“That would make a difference…if I were an animal.”

Quinn tossed his damp hair from his eyes and closed the gap between us with a decisive step. He pressed against me, stretched up on his toes, and whispered in my ear, “We’re all animals.”

That whisper exposed Quinn’s tender neck—did he know what that did to me? I’m told only orcs give the baring of the throat such meaning—show your neck to a goblin and they’ll tear out your jugular. But humans had no fangs, no tusks, so it might not mean the same. Even so, I dropped my face to the crook of his neck as I would with a lover, and I buried myself in his heady scent.

Which immediately turned musky and rich.

“You have some velvety fine whiskers I can’t really see,” he gasped. “And they feel…uh…. Wow.” With a shaky breath, he squeezed a hand between us to reach down and adjust himself. His nimble human fingers then slid between the chinks in my armor, then paused over the wound I’d taken the night we met. “Is this okay?”

I grunted against his neck. “It heals.”

“It’s just…I feel responsible….”

“The knife was in the goblin’s hand. Not yours.” Besides, I could hardly feel the wound right now over the throbbing ache in my cock. I skimmed my tusks over his tender neck. His impossibly smooth skin played across my lower lip, delicate and salty. So vulnerable.

And, apparently, so sensitive.

As my chin bristles scraped over his tender flesh, his breath caught and his arousal scent spiked—just as a telling hardness prodded me in the thigh. “Why does this please you?” I couldn’t help but ask.

“Can’t you tell?” Quinn said on a breathy laugh. “You’re my type.”

I stopped nuzzling him, confused. “An orc?”

“A man.” He sank his fingers into my hair and encouraged me to go on. “I always went for the big ones. But they tend to act like they’re doing you a favor. Lucky to get a tug on my dick in return for my troubles, let alone…” one hand ranged along my shoulders while the other cupped my cheek in a gentle caress. “This.”

I pressed a knee between his legs and hitched him up higher so I could really bury my face in his scent, to breathe him all in, to lose myself in his arousal. As he rode my thigh, a broken sound escaped him. My haze of lust faltered, worried I’d shoved too hard and hurt him. But a grind of his hips—accompanied by a spike of the earthy scent of want—urged me to keep going.

“Damn, Marok—I’m gonna nut on you like a fourteen-year-old kid rubbing himself off at the bathhouse.”

“Do it,” I rumbled as I licked his collarbone to see if he tasted as good as he smelled.

Delicate salt blossomed over my tongue.

More than just good. Delicious.

“Yes—that—oh fuck.”

While my ragged breaths fanned his throat, Quinn rutted hard against my thigh. The sounds of pleasure wrenched from him drove me wild, made my blood surge hot. His muscles went taut, and he stilled, gasping…and then the telltale earthen scent of his spend enveloped my senses.

For just a moment, I was lost to the scent of the human.

For just a moment I was happy.

For just a moment, I’d forgotten who I was. And what I’d lost. And why I was even here.

But even a moment was more of a reprieve than I deserved.

Quinn slid off my thigh, raking his hair from his forehead, and reached for the lacings on my breeches. I shoved his hands away. “No—you don’t want my scent on you.”

“I may beg to differ.”

“Listen to me.” I pushed him back against the wall. A pink flush of satiation warmed his cheeks. He regarded me with heavy-lidded eyes and not a trace of fear. “I’m here to warn Ul-Rott there’s an attack coming from the south, and my words are falling on deaf ears.”

“Well…does the news have to come from you?”

“Do you think you could deliver it better?”

“Me? Hah. They’d be more likely to listen to the mules. But Borkul always seems to have your back. I mean, he’s a goof, and pretty much the last guy I’d put on watch, but the stigma that’s following you around doesn’t extend to him.”

Before I could second-guess myself, I grasped Quinn’s face in both my hands and pressed my forehead to his. Head to head—heart to heart. Did humans do this? No idea. But what use was it to deny how I felt?

“I will tell my heart-brother—and save the clan.”