Page 31 of Shackled to the Orc

Shug is waiting outside of the stable, speaking to a white-haired man with a brown butcher’s apron. At his belt, there is a short, curved knife and a pair of scissors, and I place him as the drunken doctor. There’s a tall wagon with a wooden carriage, the doors open to show the bench seats, with four large horses whinnying in front. Next to the carriage is the prison wagon that I was transported to the estate in, thick iron bars to imprison the gladiators as they are moved to the arena.

Shug approaches me, and I stop in front of him.

“I fulfilled my end of the deal,” I say, in a hushed voice.

“You did. The cleaner confirmed it. And once the seed takes root, I will release you to your home. Until then, you’re going to earn your keep. There will be a new vial to fill tonight.”

“You said when I—”

“You think I am a novice? You are an expert of herbs and potions. Those vials could be filled with anything. Once it is confirmed that you have fulfilled your end of the bargain, I will fulfill mine.”

“You said three. You know how hard it was to get those? He’ll get suspicious.”

“You will do as I say. And you will speak to me with respect. Pitmaster, or sir.” He licks his lips. “But you’re right. I’ve amended the bargain to four vials. You will be rewarded for going above and beyond.”

I try not to think of those three poor women. Did he have the guards hold them down while he inseminated them like breeding mares? I can only imagine how horrified they must have felt. They look at the Orc like a monster.

“Yes, pitmaster,” I say, and a guard helps me up into the carriage next to the white-haired doctor. He’s got a bulbous red nose, and he hands me a folded-up, brown apron.

“Put this on. You’ll need it,” he says, and I pull it over my clothes. “You did well under pressure yesterday. Where did you train?” he asks as Shug’s guards pile in on either side of the pitmaster, sitting across from us on the wooden benches as the driver cracks his whip, the horses taking off.

“Our village had an excellent healer. She taught me everything I know.”

“Good talent. Wasted on these brutes. You could be a doctor in the Capital,” he says sourly as he looks out the window of the carriage to the left. I follow his gaze to the row of gladiators being marched out of the compound. Khan is in the middle, his arms tightly bound, the collar around his neck, arms and feet, so he can barely shuffle. My mind races—the other gladiators are unarmed, but except for the two half-orc warriors, the other seven warriors are unrestrained. There are four guards marching them towards the stables, two with crossbows, the other two with swords.

The gladiators are loyal to Khan. They respect him. Could he convince them to try to get the keys from the guard, to overpower them?

I glance up to the ramparts of the estate, where men with crossbows are leaning out, watching the gladiators carefully, and I get the image of Khan being struck by bolts, falling to the ground, and I stare down at the floor.

The gates are opened, and we drive out onto the main road that I was taken up on what feels like a lifetime ago, shackled to the orc who terrified me. Now I wish I was by his side.

“Pitmaster, may I ask a question?” I keep my voice deferential. He nods.

“What are the odds for Ethan and Felix’s fight?” I keep thinking to the pale-faced Felix, bent over on his bed, praying to any God that will listen.

One of the guards snorts derisively, and I wish I didn’t ask.

“One in ninety. Few bet on these fights,” says Shug, as if he is rattling off the price of wheat.

“I’ve got three bronze pieces on Grommash killing them in under a minute,” says one of the guards, grinning. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, and it only makes him smile more as he toys with me.

“And Khan? What are the odds of him against Thrukarr?”

“The betting line is at four to one. Quite a bit of action on this fight,” says Shug, his brown eyes watching me intently. “Khan’s odds are always high. He’s fought orcs a dozen times. Half-orcs twice that.”

“I’m more excited for the show,” says the grinning guard, and he looks me down, in a predatory way that makes me feel like he can see through my heavy apron and clothes.

I move myself farther away from him, my body pressed against the wall of the carriage, and look out the window at the rolling fields, but his comment festers in my mind. “The show?” I ask, finally.

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” Shug says, blandly, and the sadistic guard chuckles under his breath.

I pat the leather satchel. It always reassures me to have my tools, even if there’s no surgeon’s knife or scissors entrusted to me. I’m sure I’ll get them at the arena.

Soon, the formidable grey walls of Corwinhold loom in front of us. “Shut the window,” says the other guard to me, and I close them as the air fouls, the smoke of the city a constant blanket. The sounds of gears grinding and anvils clanging makes me long for my peaceful village. The driver coughs dryly from outside, with no protection from the smog that oppresses the lives of all who earn their living in the factory city.

The two guards talk about the upcoming fights, and I tune them out.

“What are the facilities like for us?” I ask the doctor.

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