Page 3 of The Outcast Orc (Claimed by the Red Hand #1)

3

QUINN

“Y’know what? Forget I said anything.” Bess curled up in the far corner of her cage—which wasn’t very far at all—leaned back against the bars, and shut her eyes.

Honestly, there was a grain of truth to what she’d been trying to tell me. I never backed down from a challenge. If it ever got out that I laid with men, I’d figured, I couldn’t afford to look weak. Not only did I need to be the best at trimming a hoof, at correcting a stubborn gait, at gentling a stallion…I had to be utterly above caring what any of the others thought of me. Maybe it was no way to make friends. But at least I enjoyed a grudging respect.

For all the good it did me.

Before I could admit Bess was right, a new guard stomped in, and then another, and soon the reeking tent was buzzing with activity. The sleazy trader in his ridiculous soiled finery was flinging orders faster than his men could follow.

“Give the labor an extra ration. No one’s gonna buy ’em if they’re collapsed on the bottom of their cages. Oil up the catamites. Put the pretty girls toward the back, so we can offload the sorry ones to the horny bastards who grab the first piece of ass they see. And make sure they got their tits out.” He paused in the middle of the tent and waved an arm in my general direction. “Set that one aside—he’ll fetch a good price from the Blood Nomads.”

Orcs might be nothing more than a fairy tale, but Blood Nomads were, unfortunately, very real. I’d met one myself in the market square. The trader was right—they could use my skills, as they practically lived on horseback. But during the drought season, they survived on coagulated loaves of animal blood—horse, cow, even camel—which, over generations, they’d somehow developed the ability to digest. Outsiders couldn’t say the same. And even if I did survive the lean months, their meandering travel patterns would take me farther from the Fortifications than I already was. I couldn’t let the nomads carry me off if I ever hoped to get back to civilization.

One of the guards paused to squint at the cages, scratching his armpit. “Which one did he say?”

I pointed at a new “recruit” who was sleeping off a bender. “Him.”

Lucky for me the guard wasn’t Bollocks, who would have known damn well I was the one the trader had meant. They dragged the hungover guy’s cage outside, then hauled poor Bess, with her cropped hair, toward the front with the other, less desirable “merchandise.” I averted my eyes to allow her some scrap of dignity. Once her cage was gone, I could see the guy who’d spoken before, the one with the raspy voice. He was even younger than I’d imagined—better looking, too, with striking coppery hair. But a bruise in the shape of a handprint covered his left cheek. And when he saw me staring, he replied with a weary smirk.

“You should go with the Nomads,” he said. “Otherwise, you’ll be shipped off to the copper mines on the coast.”

Even farther from the Fortifications. And even harder to escape.

A toothless old man approached the redhead’s cage with a bucket and rag. “All right, Archie.” He was businesslike, even bored, as he wet the same rag that had been used on every other slave he’d seen so far. “Clean up.”

Archie swabbed himself down and said, “Should I get my tits out, too?”

The old man had a few crude cosmetics with him, and while a dusting of rouge wouldn’t do much to hide the print on Archie’s face, it did make his skin seem less peaked. “You’re a mouthy one, aintcha?” He gestured toward the ruddy, five-fingered mark. “Now you’ll end up with someone who likes to rough ’em up.”

Archie shrugged. “Then at least it’ll be over fast.”

The old man hauled his bucket over to me, squinting. “Well. Look at you. You’re getting a bit long in the tooth for a bedboy.”

I was thirty—not a hundred and thirty—though that was nearly twice the age of the shivering catamites doing their best to look brave.

If I wanted to take my chances with the Blood Nomads, the time to speak up was now. Or, for that matter, to demand my extra rations and be dumped in with the laborers. But anyone wealthy enough to own a pleasure slave would have ties to the Fortifications. Just two weeks ago, I'd been desperate to escape those walls. Now they seemed like paradise…and playing a whore was the only chance I stood at getting back home. So, I imitated Archie’s careless shrug, and sealed my fate. “Men might claim they’re looking for virgins—but what they really want is someone who knows how to handle a dick.”

I could only speak for myself, of course…but it must have rung true enough. The old man shoved the rag at me. I was filthy, both from my time on the road and my time in captivity. Maybe the wipe-down helped. Maybe not. At least I could chafe the spit from my cheek.

“Not many good years left,” the old man said as I reflexively blinked against the kohl he smeared under my eyes. He followed it up with a dusting of ground mica across my cheekbones and a daub of rouge on each nipple. "But that clever mouth might keep you fed once your bloom fades.”

I looked ridiculous. But I preferred the makeup to an iron collar and a pickaxe.

Once the man had moved on, Archie said, “You’re lucky you’re pretty enough—and it doesn’t hurt that he’s half blind. Stand in the shadows and maybe someone will cough up a few pieces of silver for you.”

Even less than I’d got for poor Mercy.

I wasn’t sure I’d even sell for that, as it was doubtful I could escape closer scrutiny. If the slave trade was anything like the horse auctions I was familiar with, they’d not only be leaning in to check my teeth, but heft my balls.

Activity in the tent was already chaotic. The trader’s shouted orders got more urgent as the disorganized guards shuffled and re-shuffled our cages. Some of the catamites and whores were crying now. Some of the laborers too. Soon the sound of tack and harness grew louder, with the crack of a whip and a creak of wagon wheels as the caravan pulled in.

“Can you see?” one of the younger boys called over to Archie, who’d mashed himself against the far side of his cage to peer through a gap in the tent walls. “What’s out there?”

Archie craned his neck. “What do you think? Wagons.”

“But the drivers,” the boy said dramatically. “Are they, y’know… people ?”

“Hush.” Archie waved him off like a persistent fly. “All I see is the stupid back of a guard’s stupid head.”

We didn’t have long to wonder about the potential buyers as a guard flung the tent flaps wide. After days in the dim light under the tarps, my eyes teared as the sun’s glare flooded my vision with a dazzling white haze. Once I could finally get a proper look, I picked out men filing in, all of them dusty from their long trek across the Wasteland. But beneath the grit of travel, their clothes were sturdy and well-made. Anyone with enough coin for a slave—let alone passage on a caravan—would hardly be dressed in rags.

Not one of them was without a conspicuous weapon. Several carried more than one.

Of course they did. Life outside the Fortifications was not for the faint of heart. I sized up a spear, imagining how it would feel piercing me between the shoulder blades as I attempted to run from my new “masters.” I had to remind myself I wasn’t planning to escape yet, anyhow. Not until I was back in civilization.

The buyers filed past, barely skimming me with their bland, assessing looks. My ego has always been healthy, and even so, by the time a half dozen had passed by without so much as a pause, I reminded myself I was no bedboy. I just needed a ticket out of this damned tent.

One of the buyers was obviously quite well-to-do, judging by the quality of his boots and the fat gold chain around his neck. A few of the pleasure slaves attempted to flirt—not Archie, I noted. And not Bess, either. The buyer glanced at me for a fraction of a heartbeat—then bought a pair of terrified youths.

Maybe I really was too old for this, after all.

And evidently, all the pickup moves that worked so well in a tavern—a sly look, a secret smile—were of no use at all in a slaver’s tent. One by one, the slave cages thinned out. Picky buyers knew to look toward the back. Tight-fisted buyers shopped toward the front. There were as many types of buyers as there were slaves…though none of them were my buyers.

As the day wore on and bartering grew more desperate, I couldn’t help but worry that maybe my buyer had somehow missed the caravan. Or, worse, that he was the shady man lurking around the fringes waiting for the prices to go down as trading came to a close.

Soon, there was only a handful of prisoners left, and the haggling started to get ugly. I might very well end up in the distant copper mines after all. Or chained spread-eagle to the axle of the trader’s wagon, where Bollocks could start putting his spit to a more creative use…and that’s only if he bothered to wet himself with anything at all before he jammed himself up my ass.

I arched my back to thrust out my rump, made sure my shirt had fallen open just so, and did my best to look fuckable and non-threatening...and was still passed up for a whimpering boy covered in snot. I’ll have you know that in the Fortifications, I was considered quite the catch. By the men who didn’t hate themselves for bedding another man, anyhow.

“It’s the copper mines for us all,” Archie sighed. “Maybe I can pitch myself down an old shaft before I get passed around to all the foremen.”

Bess was still there, too. But she was somehow finding the strength to rally. “Hold on—do you hear that? It’s another wagon!”

Without the telltale jingle of the harness and crack of the whip, I’d taken the stony rumble for the threat of distant thunder. Now that I really listened, though, I could just make out the creak of heavy wheels.

Negotiations fell silent as something huge pulled up to the tent, blotting out the lowering sun, and casting the silhouettes of the milling people outside into darkness. The cheapskates who’d been hoping to grab someone to work or fuck to death for a pittance scrambled to close on their last offer, but the trader in his ragged silks was no longer listening. Not with a fresh customer bringing up the rear.

The distinctive snort of oxen reached my ears, and the rumble of deep voices. No wonder this latecomer hadn’t been with the caravan. The beasts wouldn’t be able to keep pace with the lighter horses—but they could plod along for hours on end dragging massive amounts of weight.

What could they be—farmers? Not out here where the soil was so fallow. Stonecutters? A skilled trade, though I supposed they’d need workers to haul the stone.

As I racked my brain imagining who'd just shown up, silhouettes of the outside crowd shifted on the wall of the tent, playing out like shadow theater. But something was wrong. At first, I thought the biggest forms were just far away, their size a trick of perspective. But they were too sharp, too distinct—as clear as the people standing right outside. My gut twisted. They weren’t distant at all. They were close. And they were huge.

The tent flap was shut to keep out both the flies and the punishing heat of the day. I was baffled when one of the new figures (which should have still been several paces away, judging by the sheer size) flung it open wide.

Daylight knifed through the opening. Acclimated to the darkness, my eyes were dazzled. I blinked away spots—and flecks of kohl, no doubt—and blinked again, unable to make sense of what I was seeing.

Though there was no mistaking the moment Archie’s bravado slipped, and a guttural sound worked its way up from his throat. And the soft thud of Bess dropping to the floor of her cage as she fainted dead away.

My vision finally cleared as a giant of a man stooped down to duck through the tent’s opening and come inside.

No…not a man, I realized, taking in the greenish cast to his skin, bulge of tusks jutting from his mouth, and the sheer size of him.

An orc.

“Hey, hey you!” Archie waved vigorously, trying to get the attention of the unsavory man lurking on the sidelines. “Get me out of here and I promise you won’t regret it! However you want it, whatever messed-up shit you’re into—I’m your guy.”

But the man wasn’t about to get into a bidding war. Not with an orc . He slipped out from the tent to rejoin the caravan.

As we’ve established, I wasn’t born yesterday—and so, obviously, I knew better than to stare. No creature I’ve ever studied reacted well to direct eye contact…but I just couldn’t help myself. The thing was massive—easily four hands taller than me and wider than any two men. A horse would buckle under such weight. No wonder they used oxen.

Its brow was low and its jaws were strong, powerful enough to handle tough plants…or, judging by the tusks, crush bones. Its hide was green and dappled like forest shade, thick but smooth as polished leather. And though it was huge—bigger than any beast I'd ever seen walk on two legs—it moved with deadly purpose.

And it wore wealth like a king.

“Get a load of those rubies around his neck,” Archie whispered. “He can take the whole lot of us back to wherever he came from—and the tent too.”

The creature paused, great nostrils dilating, broad chest heaving as it scented the air.

Horses are pack animals. Prey animals. As a horseman, it was always important to establish myself as the leader of their herd…but I had never felt like prey myself.

Until now.

I stilled so the creature’s small eyes would miss me in the gloom of the tent, though if it did have my scent, all the stillness in the world wouldn’t help me. Hopefully, that scent would somehow be lost amidst the mingled stink of so many poorly washed bodies.

Another great beast of an orc ducked through the high tent flap and joined the first, this one a slightly paler green, with a long scar at the corner of his mouth—an old wound healed into a craggy ridge that pulled his tusked face into a permanent grin. His tusks were even bigger, tipped with decorative silver caps.

The two orcs conferred briefly. And when their heads swiveled in the direction of the pleasure slaves where only Archie, Bess and I remained, I realized my hopes of blending in were fruitless.