Page 4 of The Outcast Orc (Claimed by the Red Hand #1)

4

MAROK

Borkul scanned the human slaves—the straggling remainders who’d been passed up by their own kind. “You’ve been alone too long, Marok,” he told me. “What’s stopping you from getting a slave of your own?”

Of all my clan, he should understand the most. It was his sister who I lost to the wandering troll.

“We’re not here for me.” I said, curt.

“No. But you can afford it—and our chieftain would say the same. A warrior who gets too much in his head is no good for the clan. Especially a general, like you. And you’re so far in your own head, it’s a wonder you can’t see backwards.” He thumbed the ridge over his tusk and took the scent of the offerings. The smell of humans will tell you a lot, if you take the time to read it. Age. Sex. Feeding habits. Fertility. And, of course, fear—though a good warrior will scent fear on every foe.

“You don’t know how the chieftain would react,” I said. “He has no reason to show me any tolerance. Not after what happened.” The troll had taken Akala from both Borkul and me. That wound we shared.

The chieftain's contempt over my failures was mine alone to bear.

Why would the chieftain forgive me? He wasn’t my heart-brother. Though neither was Borkul, now that the ashes from Akala’s pyre were lost to the wind. But Borkul still treated me like a brother, all the same.

When he approached the pleasure slaves, I kept to his side. Of those humans that remained, at least half carried the stagnant taint of disease. Most had one rotten tooth, many had more. And one of them was bleeding somewhere inside its soft belly. In my opinion, these fragile beings made the worst concubines. But that was why they were in demand. To keep such a weak and frivolous thing alive for the sheer sake of its company was the ultimate sign of prestige.

I’d rather have a kitten. At least it would grow up to fend for itself…and rid my home of the lizards always managing to sneak in.

Borkul paused beside a prone female, and when he took her scent, so did I. Not only was she still alive, but surprisingly healthy.

The tendency to lose consciousness in the face of a threat. Yet another human trait that had me baffled.

“This one seems like it’s in good shape.” Borkul prodded her in the thigh.

“No handling the wares,” said a male in strangely colored silks, rushing over. Tough words. But he reeked of fear. “You break it, you buy it.”

Borkul ignored him and poked the female again. She stirred, and her fear perfumed the air. “Speak,” he said as her eyelids fluttered open.

She scrambled toward the back of her cage and squeaked, “Me?”

“Again,” he demanded.

“I—ah—” she began to cry. Her tears smelled of the sea.

“She might be addled,” Borkul murmured. “It would explain why she was face-down on the floor.”

“Please,” she sobbed. “Please don’t pick me.”

I shrugged. She seemed of sound mind to me—but the chieftain wasn’t looking for a concubine to distract him. He had enough problems with the Two Swords Clan sniffing around our eastern border. He just needed a few able-bodied slaves to perform certain tasks we couldn’t. I wasn’t so sure we’d have any luck finding them. The pickings looked slim this late in the day, but the shaman had insisted we come.

Borkul scanned a few stripling males—not yet grown, so they might adapt better to the clan if they survived. Even for humans, though, they seemed frail and weak. We could hardly afford the years it would take to nurture them into something useful.

I was about to drag Borkul over to the laborers, but found that he’d stopped to consider one of the males. His scent was oddly sour, like he was fighting off a malady, possibly to the throat. But overall, he was healthy enough. Ordinary. Unremarkable.

Except for the sign of the augur on his cheek—the Red Hand.

“Come over here,” Borkul demanded. “Let me see you.”

“Why not?” The boy heaved herself off the back of the cage with a sigh—yes, the ague was in his lungs—and presented himself at the bars. “You’ll take me whether or not I play along.”

Borkul looked him up and down, then settled on the augur sign. “How did you come by that mark on your face?”

“The same way you ‘came by’ your scar, I’d wager—though with a much blunter object. Guess I should be glad for small favors.”

I puzzled over his words for a moment until I recalled something I’d once heard about his kind. “It’s no sign,” I told Borkul. “It’s just temporary. These creatures are so soft, they bruise like fruit.”

He grunted his disappointment…but even though he knew I was right, he still couldn’t keep his eyes off the shape of the hand. “Even if it does fade, you must admit, his hair is the right color. It seems lucky.”

The small male barked a cynical laugh, then succumbed to a fit of coughing.

“He is weak,” I said.

Borkul disagreed. “Maybe now, but he might recover. And he has fight.”

“You make the choice,” I said. My own judgment was clearly worthless.

As Borkul turned toward the trader to begin his negotiations, he went still, homing in on another scent. Despite my unwillingness to involve myself in this decision, I followed suit. There, standing very calm and exceedingly still, just behind the slave with the false augur’s mark, was an older male. There was no illness on his scent, no rot, and very little fear. His exposed chest was well-muscled—for a human—and his temperament was intriguingly dignified.

I nudged Borkul and said, “That one would at least make it back to the clan.”

The faint fear smell grew stronger.

At least the male wasn’t stupid.

Borkul thumbed his scar—his thinking-habit—and eventually said, “And the chieftain can use him however he deems fit.”

“You don’t want me,” the male said with surprising authority.

“Shut your mouth,” the trader snapped.

Borkul, ignoring the trader, snorted in amusement. “I don’t? And why is that?”

“Because I’m obviously a poor excuse for a bedboy—I’m far too old.”

The dark-haired male hardly looked past his prime to me—but what did I know? If their soft flesh never meets with the end of a weapon, humans can live a surprisingly long time—especially if they’re not exposed to sickness. Curious now, I eased in to better take his scent. Underneath the typical musk and sweat, it was clean. His teeth were whole. His lungs were clear. And…interesting. Farther down, beneath the kiss of old campfire smoke and traces of the last meal he ate, was the unmistakable whiff of horse.

Nothing to read into. He’d likely been delivered to the slaver thrown over the rump of a pack animal.

Borkul began negotiations for the slave with the augur mark while I stood by, silent, tasting the air.

Was that the rich smoothness of saddle leather I scented?

No doubt it meant nothing. I turned away to head over to the laborers and see if there were any worth buying, but the slaver intercepted, babbling that surely we’d want to present our chieftain with the widest variety of pleasures. I sidestepped to avoid flattening him, which pressed me face-up to the bars of the male’s cage. The male’s fear scent spiked, and a knot in his throat bobbed as he swallowed. “You don’t want me,” he repeated, with only a hint of a tremor in his voice. “I’d be a total waste of your good coin.”

“Oh?” I said.

“That’s right. Absolutely nothing to offer that any orc worth his mettle would want.”

I was intrigued by the way he carried himself, straight and proud, and the way his sleek muscles bunched and corded so impressively…for a soft human. There was a spark of intelligence in his eyes that matched his sure stance. Such a slave would either be a very wise choice—or a very risky one. A slave who could think for himself could be quite an asset compared to a dullard who simply followed orders. Though if he turned on you, he’d be far more dangerous.

The slaver and Borkul stepped away to barter in earnest for the others, leaving me staring at the dark-haired male.

“I’d be utterly useless in bed,” he assured me. “In fact, I’m not even a pleasure slave at all.”

Everyone knows humans are liars. I supposed that made me curious what would come out of his mouth next. “Ah. If you’re no pleasure slave, then what are you?”

He tilted his chin up and squared his shoulders. “I’m a horseman.”

Humans might lie with words—but never with scent. And my nose told me that his claim was true.

I’d lost hope of ever taking back my rightful place in the clan…of being treated once again as a warrior instead of a disgrace. But if I was the one who could end a decade of war, the chieftain would shun me no longer. And this human could very well be the key to winning that conflict for good.

As I stepped back, his fear scent gave way to a flood of relief. He thought I was leaving, not realizing I was just grabbing the slaver’s attention. Though he kenned well enough to the situation when I raised my voice, pointed directly at his painted chest, and called out, “I’ll take him.”