Jack slipped close enough, just on the edge of earshot, to make out the low murmur of conversation between Greaves and the slaver.

  “…of great renown. He’d be an asset to your great noble house, m’lord!” the slaver shouted over the din of the market. The thin, sickly-looking dark elf offered a half-bow as he concluded what must have been a long sales pitch.

  The Baron scoffed. “Oh, you’re being serious.” Greaves shook his head. “I thought you were giving up slavery to audition as a Kingdom-renowned Thespian with that performance. I was this close,” he held his thumb and forefinger a hair’s breadth apart, “to applauding and tossing you a few silver.” He chuckled at his own wit and clapped the slaver on the shoulder.

  The drow flinched at the touch. “M-M’lord, I assure you, he’s worth far more than 10 gold. I’m…” The elf paused to mop his clammy brow and fidget with his white hair. “He might be… mature in years, but he’s still a Master Warrior.” He straightened, trying to recapture his composure. Standing taller and looking more confident, he continued, “He’d make a fine guard, m’lord.” He gestured towards the Baron’s beastkin guards, implying the orc could replace them.

  The guards chuckled. The younger one’s tail wagged from side to side.

  The drow pressed on, “And if you don’t require a new guard, m’lord,” he gave the guards a disparaging glance, “he has an exceptionally high poison resistance, and his undead nature makes him an ideal test subject for your house’s esteemed alchemists.” He flashed a wide, hopeful grin.

  Greaves grinned back. “I believe you’ll find 3 gold an appropriate sum for substandard goods.” He twirled a strand of wispy blond hair as he stared down the sweating slaver. “I enjoy a good haggle as much as the next noble, but don’t test my patience.”

  The slaver gulped and tugged at the hem of his fine, pinstriped tunic. “I-I’m sorry, m’lord, but the collar alone is worth more than 2 gold. I couldn’t possibly go lower than 9 gol…” He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes glazing. In a flat, mechanical voice, he continued, “3 gold, my lord. As always, Baron Greaves is most fair.” The drow bowed far deeper than before.

  The Baron’s grin widened. He nodded, and his elder guard stepped forward, placing the 3 gold coins he’d been holding during the negotiation into the drow’s waiting palm.

  Jack frowned from his hiding place as the slaver accepted the payment and signalled for the slave. Why did he cave so easily? He wasn’t an expert in slave prices, but 10 gold for a disabled Master Warrior—even if it was an orcneas—sounded cheap.

  Baron Greaves, an administrator in the Royal Library, had little need for additional muscle. He already had two guards, which was more than adequate for a mid-tier noble. House Greaves held no relevance at court; its patriarch was an aged earl with waning political influence.

  Like all nobles, the Baron had enemies—Jack, for example—but Greaves wasn’t a threat to anyone of real importance who might hire Expert Assassins.

  Jack’s research had shown the twenty-year-old Baron had petitioned for the library role, a decision that puzzled many. Most nobles treated such posts as beneath them. It was the type of role given as a punishment for falling out of favour with the King. Yet Greaves had remained there for decades, but Jack had no idea why.

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  A loud laugh from Greaves cut through his thoughts. He winced. It was that same gleeful, mocking laugh that haunted his dreams. Rage twisted in his gut as he clutched his dagger’s handle. I hate him so much! He was less than six feet away, hidden behind a cart stacked with crates. His fingers twitched, and it was taking all his willpower to resist the urge to leap out and stab the heartless killer in the back.

  Greaves turned, peering towards Jack’s hiding place. The noble craned his neck as though looking for something or someone.

  Jack held his breath. Did he hear me? No, he couldn’t have…

  A movement drew their attention, as the slaver’s assistant returned alongside an eight-foot-tall orcneas.

  Jack’s eyes widened. By the Gods, it’s a damn orc warrior?

  Orcneas, or orcs as they were better known, were born for fighting and war. They were relentless, savage, and undead. The gladiatorial arenas loved them; renowned for their strength and ferocity in battle, orcs drew large crowds. Outside the blood pits, orcs often clashed with humans and other so-called civilised races. Their battles were marked by a brutal custom; orc warriors devoured the bodies of their fallen foes, a habit so feared and reviled that orcs were seldom seen beyond the arena walls. The only exception was when they were pressed into service as enslaved soldiers in the King’s Army.

  Among the Kingdom’s veterans, there was a saying that had passed from campfire to campfire for generations: ‘The only good orc is a dead orc.’

  Baron Greaves smiled as the orc warrior was brought before him. “Let’s get this done.” He gestured towards the leather and brass slave collar. “I have an appointment to keep.”

  The collar ritual began with Greaves and the slaver both pressing a thumb against a brass plate containing the alchemically reinforced control rune. The collar’s internal gears clicked and hissed as it synced with its new master; thin aether conduits running along the slave collar pulsed blue once, indicating a successful transfer.

  From this moment on, the orc could do nothing without the Baron’s permission. A cruel master could forbid a slave to eat, and the command would be obeyed without question, even if the starving slave sat surrounded by food.

  As the transfer process came to an end, Jack studied the placid, grey-skinned warrior. The orc was a massive beast, his body marked by the toll of many hard-fought battles. He wore tattered leather armour riddled with holes, and through those gaps, he glimpsed the pale ridges of old scars. Every tear and scrape in the armour told a story of survival, each mark proof that this warrior had faced death countless times and walked away.

  Jack wrinkled his nose at the sight of the warrior’s face, a raw canvas of battle scars. A deep scar split his face from his right eye, down through his nose and across his left cheek. He must have been blessed by one of the evil Gods not to have lost his right eye since the eyelid was so mutilated. The top of one of his pointed ears was missing; it appeared to have been chewed off.

  However, the worst injury for the warrior was the loss of his right arm. If the orc were right-handed, this injury would cripple his battle effectiveness. Making the Baron’s purchase all the more confusing.

  A Master Healer could replace lost limbs, but the cost was astronomical. Jack had once sought the aid of a Master Healer to treat his burn scars; it would have taken him at least two lifetimes to pay for such treatment. He couldn’t imagine the Baron paying for the old orc to be healed.

  Greaves dipped into his inner coat pocket and retrieved a thumb-sized messenger drone. The device, fashioned after a brass scarab beetle, flashed blue as the Baron tapped a sequence of control runes. “Package secured. ETA fifteen minutes,” he spoke aloud. With a final press, the rune-etched beetle pulsed once, its wings snapping open with a metallic clink before it launched skyward in a blur of brass and blue light.

  When the messenger drone was out of sight, Greaves ordered, “Follow.”

  The orcneas obeyed. He limped behind his new master as they left the slave market.

  Orcneas or Undead Orcs: Not important to the story for a long while, but to avoid confusion, here’s a bit of a lore dump regarding Undead Orcs. This sort of information will be weaved into the narrative in a future arc, which is why it’s in an author note and not the main text.