Page 6 of The Outcast Orc (Claimed by the Red Hand #1)

6

QUINN

With all my courage—with all my desperation and strength, and my last hope of ever finding my way home—I drew back the bone blade, and I swung. The blow landed hard on the side of the orc’s tree-trunk neck. For a brief moment, I wondered if his blood would run red like a man’s. But there was no hesitation in the swing.

Yet though the point struck true, the bone blade didn’t pierce his hide.

It simply shattered.

“Run,” I called out, as the orc cocked his head, puzzled, then brushed the bone shards from his leathers.

Why he wasn’t chasing, I didn’t stop to wonder. Having hit him—however ineffectively—I’d sealed my fate. Now, it was either run…or die.

Fueled by fear, Archie and Bess ran hard, just as hard as me, blundering in the dark over scrubby ground. But the lights of the settlement beckoned, and soon we could see the tents, and read the signs, and even count the people. There were scores of people there—maybe even a few hundred—and surely once we were among our own kind, we’d be safe.

Our feet found a path and we ran harder still.

The path led us toward a night market lined by tables on either side, with barkers all shouting over each other, trying to entice their potential customers. Meat sizzled on a spit nearby. A man's drunken singing carried over the crowd. It was loud and raucous, but it was more like home than anything I'd seen since I'd joined the wool merchants' caravan.

Surely among all these people we'd find help—someone to strike off these blasted collars, a merchant willing to hide us in their tent. Our captors were orcs and we were human, and that had to count for something.

The first stall along the thoroughfare was piled with metal, from cookware to weapons, and though the vendor had his back to us, I could tell by the broadness of his shoulders that he’d be just the one to free us from our irons. “Sir,” I called out to him. “Good Sir, we need your—”

My voice dried up to a croak as he turned and fixed us with a beady stare—from only one eye. Half his face was covered in hanging skin, obscuring one side of his features, while the other half, the staring half, was smooth and taut. His nose leaned off-kilter, and the single visible eye had a pupil square as a goat’s.

I’d once seen a man utterly disfigured by fire—but that wouldn’t explain his eye. My collar tugged as Bess backpedaled, while Archie murmured, “Holy hell.”

The man slammed a hand on his table so hard that the stacks of cooking pots all jumped. Not a human hand, but a reptilian claw.

“What’re you looking at?” he demanded—amused, even mocking. But the three of us were already staggering away.

The crowd flowed and parted around us, no one seeming to notice or care that we were in chains. It didn’t matter. Because up close, I saw, none of them were fully human.

There were tall creatures and short, fat and thin, furred and scaled and everything in between. They stood like men, dressed like men, and even caroused and bartered like men.

But they were most definitely not men.

A creature no taller than my shoulder with a dog-like face whuffed out a laugh and pointed in our direction. His studded armor was so heavy, I’d have trouble even standing up in it, let alone dancing the mocking little jig he was doing at our expense. A tall, sallow thing with eyes sunk deep in his skull treated us to a rude gesture. Everywhere I looked—monsters. Then I spotted a human shape in the crowd. Just a normal man, not horned or scaled or furred. I dragged the others toward him, calling out, “Sir, please, help us—”

He turned to see who was bothering him, and took us in with calm, glinting eyes…set close and canny, over the snout of a pig.

The crowd sensed us now—sensed that we were not like them—and even more of the creatures began to not only take notice, but to point and jeer. Archie and Bess crowded in on either side of me, as if I had any way to protect them. A stumpy, gray-skinned thing looped a string of sausages around his neck and mockingly cried, “Help me, good sir! Help me!” while the others roared with laughter.

“So that’s what all the ruckus is about,” remarked a familiar, deep voice as the orc called Borkul shouldered his way through the crowd. He caught the end of the chain that bound us together and shook his head ruefully. “You won’t find much help here,” he said, completely unperturbed. “Humans have enslaved the kin of most everyone here. Your people would sell off their own brother if they thought they’d turn a profit. Come on, then. Might as well make yourselves useful while you’re here.”

He loaded me down with a heavy crate, while piling random smaller purchases on Archie and Bess. By the time we staggered back to the campsite, my shoulders were burning and my back complained. Once we set down the supplies by the wagon, I said, “It was my idea to run. I didn’t give the others any choice about it. So if you’re going to whip anyone—”

“Saucy little things,” Bokul said jovially to his fellow orc, “aren’t they?”

Marok answered with a rumbly sigh.

“Too bad we can’t take a wee taste,” Borkul added as Bess tensed beside me and my blood ran cold.

Marok gave his head a curt shake. “I’m in bad enough standing as it is without rubbing my scent all over the chieftain’s slaves.”

“True,” Borkul agreed. “It’s just been too long since I’ve scratched that itch.”

“I’m sure someone in the market will oblige,” Marok said.

“I’m sure they will,” Borkul said slyly. “And I’m sure, for the right price, they’d be happy to bring a friend.”

Marok gave a disdainful snort and hefted one of the heavy bedrolls one-handed. He snapped it open with a single jerk, and it unrolled as easily as a silken party streamer.

“Come on,” Borkul chided, “I saw some fetching goblins loitering around the red lantern.”

“Have at it, then. I’ll take first watch.”

Borkul watched Marok shake open the second bedroll, smile fading as he went serious. “Akala wouldn’t have wanted you to go the rest of your life without—”

“I’m in no mood for goblins,” Marok snapped. “That’s all.”

Borkul shrugged. “More for me.”

Once the scarred orc had ambled off toward the night market, Marok pointed to a massive fallen log. It hadn’t been there before, so he must have dragged it over. And judging by the way the oxen were currently dozing in a nearby patch of grass, he’d done so himself, without their help.

“Sit,” he commanded, and the three of us shuffled over and dutifully sat. Hefting an iron mallet, he drove a tapered tent spike into the last chain link, fastening us all to the log. “Just in case you still think there’s anywhere to run.”

We waited in silence as he went through the purchases Borkul made, then thrust a loaf of bread into the hands of the nearest captive—who happened to be Archie. We’d been given nothing but a thin, greasy gruel that day, and at the sight of the bread, my stomach twisted in eager anticipation. “There was meat for you too,” Marok said. “But since we can’t trust you with a knife, you’ll have to make do with the bread.”

Archie ripped off a corner and stuffed it in his mouth before he broke the loaf into rough thirds. As fatalistic as he might come off, that boy was a survivor through and through.

I'd eaten at fine tables before, but the stale, coarse bread clutched in my fist was the best damn thing I'd ever tasted. I knew I should take it slow, but instead, I devoured it, every last bite. Marok, on the other side of the fire, crouched on his haunches. The position hardly looked comfortable to me—but was obviously practical, as it would let him spring to his feet at the first sign of trouble.

“Wouldn’t trust the meat anyway,” Archie whispered as he gathered the last few crumbs from his shirt with a wet fingertip. “Who knows what it might’ve once been?”

I wasn’t so sure I cared. My portion of bread might have been more generous than anything we’d had at the hands of the slaver, but I was so famished I could have eaten the whole loaf myself.

Our captor had been gazing out into the night as we ate, but soon after we finished eating, he rose in one smooth motion and rounded the fire. Archie froze, and Bess made a small sound of panic as she shrank against me. The orc ignored all of this and simply said, “Stand.”

We obeyed, chains clinking.

He grabbed the huge fallen tree by a gnarled root and began dragging it toward the bedrolls—and I realized my fear of him wasn’t entirely warranted. Marok hadn’t refused a red lantern wench just because he didn’t have a taste for goblins.

He wanted the new slaves all to himself.

Thanks to my futile attempt to stab him in the neck, if anyone was getting plowed in half tonight…it would be me. He wore utilitarian armor, metal plated leather, but where a human would have worn a tunic beneath to stop the straps from chafing, his own tough hide sufficed. Through the gaps in the armor, I could see his muscles flex, and I realized just how ridiculous our plan to overpower him actually was. Maybe if we were all strong fighters with armor and weapons. But weak as we were, we didn't stand a chance.

And now we would pay the price.

We stood in a small huddle beside the log—even brazen Archie was trembling now—and awaited our fate with dread. Marok straightened and dusted off his hands. He stared for a moment, then said, “Well, what are you waiting for? Sleep.”

Bess cleared her throat, then meekly said, “On the…bedrolls?”

“There’s only two,” Marok said brusquely. “We’d only set out to buy two humans. You’ll have to make do.”

It was awkward work with the three of us chained to the fallen tree, but we managed to shove the bedrolls together. Sleeping sideways, we’d certainly fit. But I wondered where the orcs would sleep. No doubt the others were just as confused. And with Marok crouching there within earshot just across the fire, we could hardly discuss the matter.

“Do we set watch?” Bess asked.

“You go right ahead,” Archie said. “This is the first time in weeks I’ve been able to stretch out. I’m going to sleep.”

“Get some rest,” I told her. While I, too, had spent the last several nights curled up on the floor of a cage, I’d best not get too comfortable. If the orcs decided to teach me a lesson, I fully intended to go down fighting.