Page 21 of The Outcast Orc (Claimed by the Red Hand #1)

21

QUINN

The chieftain was in danger, but who could I tell? I doubted Borkul and his mistress were the only traitors, and I had no way of knowing who among Ul-Rott’s guard were in league with them.

I was hardly well acquainted with the orcish stronghold, but I did know someone with plenty of his own guards—someone who might be willing to speak to me…if he deemed that the stars had aligned.

I’d have to cross that bridge when I came to it. First, I’d need to get out of the chieftain’s lodge.

If I developed a sudden bout of “stomach pain,” would the chieftain’s guards hustle me off to Taruut’s cave, or laugh in my face? It could go either way. Meanwhile, precious minutes would be ticking away.

As if he sensed my indecision, Roy whinnied and gave his stall a good smack with his dinner-plate hoof. The whole damn barn shook—and I knew what I had to do.

I swallowed hard.

A smarter man would let the damn orcs from across the river go ahead and attack. After all, they’d make a pretty good distraction. But while I might stand a chance at slipping off into the woods once the fighting started, I knew Marok wouldn’t join me. Even with his whole clan shunning him, even in disgrace, he would stay and fight for the chieftain who didn’t appreciate him. Because that’s just who he was.

I climbed down from the loft and crept up to Roy’s stall. He whuffed at me, curious what I wanted with him now that our afternoon session was done. Curiosity was good. Horses didn’t attack out of curiosity. I pulled a crabapple out of my pocket, opened his stall, and backed toward the exercise yard.

The warhorse followed.

Suddenly I was fiercely aware of my surroundings—the air on my skin, the smell of sodden straw, the distant sound of a smithy’s hammer—but mostly the thump of my own heart against my ribs. Roy knew the bridle, and Roy knew me. Whether I’d spook him by slipping that bridle on was anyone’s guess.

I dropped the apple. And when he lowered his head to eat it, I made my move.

He’d swallowed the apple in a single gulp and was nosing around for more. While his head was down, I pulled on the bridle in a fluid, decisive motion. If I missed, all bets were off. But I didn’t miss—and the bit slid home.

Roy allowed it.

The presence of the bridle would hardly keep him from flattening me with those hooves—which looked twice as big now from where I was standing. But what it signaled was key: that Roy trusted me.

Hopefully that trust wouldn’t get us both killed.

Given the choice, I’d rather use a saddle, but we were out of time. So…bareback, it was. Roy was so tall I had to lead him to the fence to give myself the boost I needed to throw a leg over him. But when I mounted, he didn’t so much as flinch—as if I weighed no more than a bored egret hitching a ride. He felt impossibly huge when I straddled him. But my thighs were strong, and I was up for the task.

I’d love to say we vaulted over the fence and set off in a graceful charge—but that would be a lie. Roy was a bright horse, but this was all new to him. I hadn’t even been sure my verbal commands had entirely sunk in, but it was a relief to know he’d picked up more than “here’s an apple.”

We didn’t vault the fence, but instead plodded right through, leaving a pile of jagged, splintered planks behind. By the time the guards figured out what was happening, Roy broke into a ball-punishing trot. I pressed harder with my knees and urged him to a canter to outstrip the shouting guards.

By the time we got to the lodge’s outer fence, Roy was at a gallop. Big horses like him aren’t jumpers—but if I didn’t let him have his head, the guards would cut me down without a second thought. Clinging to his mane and bridle for dear life, I clamped down with my knees and squeezed my eyes shut. The ball-thumping motion stopped for a single, soaring moment as we cleared the fence (mostly…there was some splintering wood) and then came down hard on the other side.

I’d been holding on so tight, my hands felt fused to Roy’s mane—so tight that trying to unclench my fists would actually hurt. But for now, I focused on steering him toward the shaman’s cave without tumbling off his back.

Roy might not be the fastest steed I’d ever ridden, but his stride was long. We reached Taruut before the guards even had time to rally. The old orc was outside, pottering around an herb garden. And while he couldn’t see us with his milky jade eyes, he perked up at the sound of Roy’s massive hooves pounding the earth, and he lifted up his head—and sniffed.

“Whoa!” I barked—fully prepared for the horse to utterly ignore me. But Roy knew where his apples came from, and he staggered to a clumsy halt and pawed the ground, ribs heaving as he sucked breath from his short gallop across town.

Taruut smiled. “When I threw the ivories, they prophesied something big would happen today…but I never thought it would be this.”

I told him about Two Swords’ plans—and Borkul’s betrayal. And while he had no reason to trust me…for some reason, he did.

“Everything hangs in the balance,” he said. “Ul-Rott is hunting south of the village, and someone must warn him. Go. I’ll send reinforcements from my honor guard.”

I’m not sure if Spear Butt was among the feather-and-paint-studded shamanic guards that escorted me to the gate. I was too busy trying to keep Roy from bucking me off and trampling the orcs who were too close for comfort. Whoever the shaman had sent along, they must’ve had clout, because the gate guards immediately obeyed them. If orcs respect anything, it’s authority. With only a few words, the gate was open, and the road stretched out in front of us.

According to Taruut, the chieftain was hunting in his favorite grove, only an hour’s easy walk from the village, so Roy and I should get there fast. But even as I turned down the well-marked path the shaman had described, I realized how easy it would be to nudge Roy down another road. To ride away—and not look back.

The orcish fight over the shifting of a river was not my fight. And the life of a slave was not my life. Yet, although I’d been kicking myself for not taking Silver up on his offer of escape, now that I had yet another opportunity to leave…I gave it only a passing thought, and spurred Roy on to go warn the chieftain.

Orcs can be pretty stealthy when they need to be, but I couldn’t say the same for Roy galloping down the forest path. I didn’t find the Chieftain’s men. They found us—and soon we were surrounded by a good dozen orcs. Ul-Rott didn’t go anywhere without his entourage, and Roy and I wouldn’t stand a chance against the hunting party. But they’d be no match for a small army.

“Praise Ul-Rott,” I said, loud and clear. His guards didn’t stand down, exactly, but they did hesitate to spear me off the horse’s back and jab me full of holes. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t kneel. I’m the only thing keeping Destroyer from running off.”

If not for the horse, I suspect Ul-Rott would have let his men tear me apart. But there I was, astride the warhorse no one could tame. So although he saw me as weak, soft, and overall inferior…when I told him the Two Swords Clan was crossing the river, he listened.

Ul-Rott got his men’s attention with a sharp clap, and announced, “Two Swords sneaks towards us like craven jackals. But we are too clever to fall for their cowardly trap. Back to the village, where we gather our soldiers and fight like real orcs.”

Would’ve been a lot quicker to just say, Retreat . But that wasn’t the orcish way.

As Roy tore up great hunks of grass and gobbled them down, Ul-Rott rubbed his hands together and sauntered toward us. In a more conversational tone, he added, “And when those sorry excuses for orcs see me on the back of this glorious steed—”

While Ul-Rott rallied his men, one of them took it upon himself to protect Ul-Rott from me—even though I was not only unarmed, but still clinging for dear life to the horse’s mane. The guard inserted himself between Ul-Rott and the warhorse. Roy immediately took umbrage to the interruption of his meal, and sent the guy sprawling with a dinner plate hoof to the chest. Somehow I held on, probably because my hands had cramped into a death grip. The guard’s chestpiece was caved in and he had the wind knocked out of him. But he’d survive.

In my best diplomatic tone, I said, “Should the mighty Ul-Rott really be seen without a saddle befitting his station?”

It was face-saving bullshit, and we both knew it. But after a moment’s consideration, the chieftain gave a curt nod and said, “Of course not. You go ahead to rally the village guard. We march.”

None too soon, either. The Two Swords army was not only swelling in numbers, but picking up speed. Luckily, they couldn’t move anywhere near as fast as a mounted man.

Roy and I thundered back to the Red Hand Clan. Again, a branch in the path beckoned—a road that would lead me away to places unknown, but in all likelihood, to a better life than that of an orcish slave. But we charged right past the turn-off. I could have made the excuse that it was Roy returning to what was familiar, not me.

But that, too, was bullshit.

I rounded the final bend, expecting to see the broken gate we’d clumsily tried to vault, and maybe a couple of orcs banging it back together. What I found instead was an army…and at the lead, shoulders squared, head held high, was Marok.

…who Roy very nearly trampled as we skidded to a hasty stop. He was still getting the hang of things.

Strangely enough, when Marok strode up to us, Roy didn’t balk like he had with Ul-Rott’s personal guard. Maybe because Marok’s body language was more confident than aggressive.

Or maybe because Marok smelled like me.

“Ul-Rott is on his way back,” I said breathlessly, “But the Two Swords troops are right on his tail.”

Marok didn’t flinch at the news. Of course he didn’t. Taruut had put him back in power for a reason. Whatever disgrace he’d suffered before, it was gone now—he was a general again.

“Orcs don’t have tails,” Marok said—though he was smiling. Mostly with his eyes. “But we will go and remind them which side of the river is ours.”

I was still clutching desperately to the warhorse’s mane when Marok reached up and grabbed a fistful of my rough linen shirt. He wasn’t trying to haul me off the horse, but rather pull me down to eye-level…so he could press his forehead against mine.

His craggy features blurred as his face filled my awareness, but I saw enough to know that his eyes stayed open. My lower lip grazed his through the frame of his tusks, and he gave a small gasp. “Make sure you come back alive,” I said, “and we can compare techniques later.”

I would’ve liked to stick around and see Marok off with a jaunty salute, but Roy had other ideas. He’d been worked hard—a lot harder than he was used to—and he was hell-bent on heading back to the stable. Orcs gave us a wide berth as he cantered toward the chieftain’s lodge, eager for the familiarity of his stall. The fence around the exercise yard was still in shambles, and he cleared the pile of wood with an easy hop. He was so big, I had to duck down to avoid getting brained on the stable’s door frame. Thankfully, the side slats of his stall gave me a ladder of sorts to climb down off his back, once I finally worked open my painfully clenched fingers.

We’d shared a big adventure, Roy and me, but I wasn’t sure if he’d tolerate a brushing. At the very least, though, I could top off his water trough. I grabbed a bucket and headed for the cistern, walking gingerly. Everything hurt. Back, hips, legs…everything. Dare I suggest Ul-Rott grant me a soak in the sulfur pool to soothe my aching muscles? I was bent over the cistern, deliberating whether I’d get away with asking for a boon, when a shadow fell across the water and blotted out my reflection—the shadow of an orc.

I straightened quickly, expecting one of the chieftain’s guards….

But it was Borkul.

And this time, he wasn’t smiling.

“Every other slave knows enough to keep their mouth shut and do what they’re told. Why ya gotta be so stupid?” An ugly, curved blade flashed in his hand. “Why play the hero?”

I was asking the same question myself—though I suspected I knew the answer. “If I were you,” I said, “I’d get out of here while the getting was good, not be wasting time with the likes of me.”

He considered the statement, then said, “That’s ’cause you think like a pathetic, weak human. Not me—I’m an orc! When someone wrongs me, I punish them. When someone strikes me, I strike back. When someone stops me from taking the revenge I deserve—”

I barely had time to dodge. His knife flashed in a strong arc and sliced open my shirt. I countered with a clumsy swing of the bucket, but it bounced right off Borkul’s massive thigh. Water splashed, slicking the dirt into mud. As I scrambled to duck another blow, red blossomed on rough linen, and I realized the shirt wasn’t the only thing he’d managed to cut. The blade was so sharp, I couldn’t even feel it.

Any of the orcs in the village were capable of killing me, but this was the first one I actually thought would do it. Because now…it was personal.

My foot slipped in the muck and I went down on one knee. Ah, now the wound stung. Borkul did smile, then…a smile that chilled me to the bone. All the chieftain’s guards had followed Marok out to protect their leader. Anyone left in the village—the kitchen staff, the children, the latrine slave—would hardly get between me and a bloodthirsty warrior.

I dropped all the way down, narrowly avoiding another swing of the sharp blade, then rolled clumsily through the mud to my feet. “Roy, ho!” I yelled, feeling ridiculous even as I called out the words. The horse had made it pretty damn clear he wanted nothing but his stall, but I had to at least try—

With a blood-chilling whinny, Destroyer the orcish warhorse burst from the barn, massive hooves flailing. I balled myself up as small as possible and prepared to be trampled, but Roy knew exactly what he was doing. Hoof met skull with a sickening crunch, and Borkul toppled like a felled oak.

“Easy,” I called out, projecting a composure I most surely didn’t feel. Roy pranced in place, snorting. But though he was still clearly agitated, he didn’t rear up again.

Straightening gingerly, I kicked out and sent Borkul’s sharp blade spinning off into the mud, but I needn’t have bothered. Rust-red orc blood drooled from his mouth where one of his huge tusks was snapped clean off, and though his eyes were still open, one looked straight ahead while the other lolled to the side. I’d seen head injuries like that before. Orcs might have incredibly robust constitutions, but even so…I doubted he would ever recover.

Roy whinnied and tossed his tangled mane. “Easy,” I repeated, and sidled up to give him a pat on the neck. He probably would have preferred a crabapple…but he allowed it.