Page 9 of The Outcast Orc (Claimed by the Red Hand #1)

9

MAROK

Even once the lights of the bazaar were well behind us, we kept our pace at a brisk walk. The oxen weren’t pleased about it, but the horseman— Quinn —said they were healthy enough to endure the forced march.

Though I couldn’t say as much for the young human male, who was taxed by merely riding along.

His coughing had a wet, rattling sound to it now. One that didn’t bode well.

“Can’t we give him something for it?” I asked Borkul.

He shrugged. “The goblins helped themselves to our medicines when they made off with our weapons.”

The goblins wouldn’t have taken any notice of us whatsoever, had Borkul not brought them back to our camp. But saying as much would gain me nothing except a moment of satisfaction. And I couldn’t afford to turn Borkul against me now—not when he was the only one in the clan who would speak to me.

We paused to get our bearings only when we came to the river that marked the edge of our clan’s hunting territory. We were still a good three days from home, but at least the land was familiar. I doubted the goblins would follow us this far…though it always pays to watch your back. We’d dealt them some heavy blows—and where payback is concerned, you never know how far someone will go. We forded the river on a sandbar and made our way toward the forest. “We rest in the cover of those trees,” I said. “But no fires. We’re not making it easier for the goblins to track us down.”

As Quinn and I unyoked the oxen, Bokul took stock of what little supplies we had left. “They got most of our food, too. Either that or we tossed it out in our haste to get away. Nothing left but hardtack.” He scented the air briefly, and turned over a nearby log. “Good thing there’s plenty of wrigglers.”

My stomach rumbled in anticipation as Borkul grabbed a handful of big, meaty grubs and crammed them in his mouth—and the female gave off a startling shriek. “Don’t worry,” Borkul said. “There’s enough for everyone.”

Quinn said, “We don’t, ah…. I’ve never eaten….” He nodded toward the wrigglers.

“They’re good for you,” Borkul said through a half-chewed mouthful. “Nice and fresh. Put some meat on those bones.”

Quinn considered this. “Different creatures have different diets. You wouldn’t feed your oxen meat, for instance. What’s good for orcs isn’t necessarily good for us.”

“More for me.” Borkul dug down into the soft, decaying wood to get at the firmest grubs. “But if you’ve got designs on that hardtack, I’d soak it first, if I were you. Can’t see how else your funny little teeth would get through it.”

We ate our fill of wrigglers and let the humans figure out how to divvy up the hardtack. The young male, Archie, could barely stop coughing long enough to get it down. We were fortunate that they were so sentimental, so invested in keeping him alive, since without my supply of purchased herbs, I didn’t know what to do.

The female, Bess, found a medicinal tree. Its outer bark was soft, even crumbly, and its inner bark was slick with sap. “Normally we would dry it out, then brew a tea.” She handed Archie a bit of the slippery, pale inner bark. “Try sucking on this. Maybe it’ll help.”

After a few moments, his constant hacking slowed to a few occasional coughs.

We decided to leave the humans unchained, since Archie wasn’t going anywhere, and shackling them together only left them less able to fend for themselves. But that didn’t mean we trusted them. Forging off into the wilderness alone might be stupid. Making off with our oxen and cart, however, would be a reasonable plan.

I took first watch. While Borkul found a flat spot by the bushes and settled down to sleep, the humans huddled together in the cart for warmth.

They were talking low amongst themselves, but their discussion was never about running off. Archie was too weak. And besides, they had no desire to run across more goblins.

Mainly, they whispered about the goblins. None of them had seen one before, though Bess said her parents threatened to feed her and her siblings to goblins if they didn’t behave. A sure sign that they had no idea what they were talking about. Goblins might be greedy and treacherous, but of course, they don’t eat sentient beings.

Maybe they’d mistaken a goblin for a troll.

It wouldn’t be the first story to get lost as it passed from mouth to ear.

Later on, when Borkul relieved me, I went to the opposite end of the camp where I could defend us if need be, while keeping out of earshot. I didn’t need to hear the thumping of Bess’s heart or the shallow, desperate sound of Archie’s breath to know that he was getting worse.

In the morning, I woke the horseman and told him to help me with the oxen. Animals prefer the scent of humans...despite the fact that a human is just as likely as an orc to beat or eat them. I wasn’t so sure I cared for the smell—the sharp sweat, the strange musk. But I supposed I was getting used to it.

Quinn’s muscles strained as we hefted the heavy yoke, but he didn’t complain. Despite his soft, pale skin, he seemed sturdy enough. As I ran the peg through the oxbow, he let out a gasp. “Wait—is that blood?”

I glanced at my forearm. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s from the last night, isn’t it? When you got between the goblin and me.”

“Better see to that goblin wound,” Borkul called over. “You know they shit on their weapons so the cuts fester—then dip them in dreamweed so you don’t feel it till it’s too late.”

That was just a rumor…or at least, I hoped it was. “There’s no time,” I snapped.

But Quinn didn’t seem accustomed to taking orders. “What happens if you founder? Dragging Archie along might not slow down the oxen, but you’re another story. It’ll only take a few minutes to clean it out. Take off that bracer.”

We needed to press on. We were barely a day’s travel from the bazaar, and in the daylight, our wheel tracks would be hard to miss. This hunting territory was unguarded. It would be at least two more days until we were close enough to the village to stop watching our backs and sleeping with one eye open.

Even so, it was faster to allow the horseman to tend the wound than it would’ve been to argue. I took off my cuff and let him see to the cut. Though it didn’t hurt much, it was still bleeding. I hoped Borkul’s predictions about the dreamweed and shit were only talk.

Quinn said, “Your blood is so dark, almost brown.”

“Hard to track,” I said. “Especially in the forest.” Trolls had even better camouflage. Their green blood blended right into the foliage, and in the winter it froze black, impossible to discern from stone.

Quinn’s hands were deft as he cleaned the wound and bound it with a poultice of the tree bark we’d been using to treat Archie. Humans have incredibly dextrous fingers, and their close eyesight was just as keen. I hadn’t thought we would need to make use of them already, but when I saw the deep gash in my arm, I was glad for those nimble hands.

Once I was wrapped up, we headed deeper into the forest.

If not for the wagon, we could take a more circuitous route to try and evade any potential goblin pursuit. But our shaman, Taruut, had been insistent about bringing back the male with the copper-colored hair—and the handprint on the human’s cheek had sealed the deal. And so, unless we wanted to carry Archie all the way back to the borders of the Red Hand Clan, we’d need to stick to the main path.

The off ox actually nuzzled Quinn when we got back on the road. That beast was so stubborn the best I’d ever hoped for from him was to move off my foot—and only if I gave him a good shove. I’d been leery of going all this way to obtain some humans. The shaman had claimed what we found under the slaver’s tent would be the key to everything. But Taruut said many things. These days, most of them were scarcely even coherent.

Bess had been an obvious choice. She was young and hardy, and the embroidery on her tunic was filthy from her time in the cage, but it had been done with skill. From nets to ropes—maybe even chainmail—her skills would be in high demand.

Quinn, I’d nearly passed over. He was obviously stronger than the others, and confident, too. The sort of behavior you’d want in a clanmate, but never a slave. Humans were bad enough at following their own authorities, let alone that of an orcish master. It had been risky to buy him. He could have been lying about his training, after all. But one look at him caring for the oxen and it was obvious he was exactly who he’d claimed to be.

“Step lively,” Borkul told the humans. “We’re too close to the river for my liking.”

“Why’s that a problem?” Quinn asked.

A captain could cut out his soldier’s tongue for challenging his authority like that—but this wasn’t war. And Borkul was only amused by the human’s audacity. “It’s a problem because the Lame Stag River has been so fickle lately. Dwindling to a stream of piss in the dry season. Swelling like a pregnant doe with the rains. And meandering around like a drunkard who can’t hold his ale. It wouldn’t much matter…if it weren’t the border between us and our ‘friendly’ neighbors across the bank.”

“The Stag has always shifted,” I told them, “But never too far. Last spring, though, it redrew itself, curving like a snake, cutting well into Red Hand territory on one curve, and the lands of the Two Swords Clan with the other.”

Borkul said, “It was a fair enough exchange. Until the great storm changed its course again and created an island right smack in the middle. Now the clans are at war over a strip of land—land that’ll probably choose its own side the next time the rains are low.”

He didn’t go so far as to say our chieftain was wrong to fight…though I doubt he would have spoken so freely within earshot of our village.

And as for me…I dared say nothing at all. I was lucky the chieftain hadn’t exiled me—or worse—after my last command went so horribly wrong.

I wouldn’t have consulted with the senile shaman—would never have been on this wild goose chase for a human with hair like copper—if not for the decimation of my troop. I was still unconvinced these humans would be my salvation.

But if my clan rode in on warhorses…not only would the Two Swords Clan stop harrying us.

They’d surrender.

And a conflict simmering for a decade would finally be over.

We pushed ourselves as fast as Quinn deemed the oxen could go. When nightfall came, I was fairly sure the goblins hadn’t followed. Goblins are vindictive, yes. But their legs are short, and they’re notoriously lazy. Besides, we would’ve heard their chatter by now.

On the off-chance that those goblins were stealthier and more persistent than I thought, I didn’t want to risk a fire. But Bess was shivering, Archie looked like death, and even the strong horseman was chafing his hands together. “A small fire,” I allowed. “But make sure the wood is good and dry so we don’t send up a giant, billowing signal.”

I brushed against Quinn when we unyoked the oxen, and his hand came away stained with blood—rich red-brown blood like the clay of the riverbank. Orcish blood.

“Let me see your arm,” he demanded, and I was too curious myself to make him check his tone. “The bindings are still tight. It’s hardly bled through at all. Then where…?” He pointed with a gasp at my flank. “Marok—you’re really hurt.”