Stryke and Haskeer emerged from the undergrowth, spears in hand, and followed stealthily. They were downwind, catching the noxious odour the beast exuded.
The orcs and their prey meandered for some distance. Occasionally, the bilker stopped and clumsily turned its head, as if suspecting their presence, but the orcs took care to stay out of sight. The creature gazed back along its wake, sniffed the air, then trudged on.
Passing a small copse, the bilker waded a pebbly stream. On its far side was a broad rocky outcrop, dotted with caves. To carry on the pursuit, Stryke and Haskeer had to break cover. Keeping low, they dashed for the shelter of a lichen-covered boulder. They were within five paces of it when the bilker swung its head round.
The orcs froze, mesmerised by the beast’s merciless, fist-size eyes.
Hunters and hunted stood transfixed for an age. Then a change came over the creature.
“It’s bilking!” Haskeer yelled.
The colour of the animal’s skin started to alter. It took on the hue and mottled appearance of the sandy granite wall behind it. All except its swaying tail, which aped the green and brown of an adjacent tree. With increasing rapidity the bilker was blending into the background.
“Quick!” Stryke shouted. “Before we lose it!”
They ran forward. Stryke lobbed his spear. It struck square in the creature’s flank, drawing a thunderous bellow from the wounded beast.
Camouflage was a bilker’s principal defence, but far from all it relied on. Its fighting capacity was just as effective. Turning head on, it charged, the spear jutting from its bloodied side. As it splashed back across the stream, its cloaking ability, triggered by self-preservation and working overtime, continued to mirror the terrain. But with concealment giving way to attack, it functioned chaotically. The bilker’s upper body still imitated the rock-face, while its bottom half mimicked the water. Charge gathering pace, its hide shimmering bizarrely, the creature’s lower quarters seemed almost transparent.
Stryke and Haskeer stood their ground. Haskeer had held on to his spear, preferring to use it as a close range weapon. Stryke drew his sword.
They stayed put until the last possible second. When the bilker got close enough for them to feel a gust of its rank breath they dived clear; Haskeer to the left, Stryke to the right. Immediately they commenced harrying the animal from either side. Haskeer repeatedly thrust his spear, puncturing flesh. Stryke slashed with the blade, his strokes deep and wide.
Roaring, the bilker lashed out at them, spinning from one to the other, its great jaws snapping loudly. It raked the air with its claws, coming perilously close to shredding orc heads. And it brought its tail into play.
Haskeer felt the brunt. Whipping round shockingly fast, the tail struck him a glancing but potent blow. It knocked him flat and almost senseless, and parted him from his spear. The bilker moved in to finish the chore.
Stryke darted in and scooped up the spear. With a heave he drove it into one of the animal’s hind legs. That proved enough of a distraction for Haskeer to be forgotten. The bilker turned about, its drooling jaws wide open, looking to tear its antagonist apart. Stryke had hastily sheathed his sword before reaching for the spear. Now he groped for it.
A throwing knife zinged into the side of the bilker’s snout and the beast recoiled. It was enough of a sting to hinder the advance on Stryke. Haskeer was on his knees, plucking another knife. Stryke wrenched his sword free. The bilker came at him again. He saw inky black orbs floating in jaundice-yellow.
Stryke plunged his blade into the beast’s eye. There was an eruption of viscous liquid and an unholy stink. The bilker mouthed a piercing shriek and pulled back, writhing in agony.
Haskeer and Stryke moved in and set to hacking at the animal’s neck. They struck alternately, as though hewing the sturdy trunk of a fallen oak. The bilker thrashed and howled, its hide transmuting through a succession of colours and patterns. One moment it faked the blueness of the summer sky, the next it copied the grass and earth of its deathbed. It briefly wore the image of Stryke and Haskeer as they laboured to stifle its life with their blades.
Just before they parted its head it settled for a coat of crimson.
Stryke and Haskeer backed off, panting. The bilker twitched, blood pumping from the stump of its neck.
The orcs slumped on a downed tree trunk and regarded their kill. They breathed the pure air of victory, and relished the way life seemed brighter, more immediate, after a kill.
They sat silently for some time before Stryke became fully alert to where they were. A stone’s throw away stood the gaping mouth of the largest cave. Not for the first time he reflected on how often he was drawn to the spot.
Haskeer noticed too, and looked uncomfortable. “This place gives me the creeps,” he confessed.
“I thought nothing spooked you.”
“Tell anybody and I’ll tear your lungs out. But don’t you feel it? Like a foul taste. Or the smell of carrion. And I don’t mean the bilker.”
“Yet we still come here.”
“You do.”
“It reminds me of the Wolverine’s last mission.”
“All it reminds me of is the way we arrived. I’d like to forget that.”
“Granted it was… troubling.” Stryke flashed the memory of their crossing, as he thought of it, and suppressed a shudder.
Haskeer’s eyes were fixed on the cave’s black maw. “I know we came to this land through there. I don’t understand how.”
“Nor me. Except for what Serapheim said about it being like doors. Not to billets, but worlds.”
“How can that be?”
“That’s a question for his sort, for sorcerers.”
“Magic.” From Haskeer, it was an expression of contempt. He all but spat the word.
“It got us here. That’s all the proof we need.” Stryke indicated their surroundings with a sweep of his hand. “Unless all this is a dream. Or the realm of death.”
“You don’t think… ?”
“No.” He reached down and yanked a fistful of grass. Grinding it in his palm, he blew the chaff from his stained fingers. “This is real enough, isn’t it?”
“Well, I don’t like not knowing. It makes me… uneasy.”
“How we came here is a mystery beyond an orc’s grasp. Accept it.”
Haskeer seemed less than pleased with that. “How do we know that thing’s safe? What’s to stop it happening again?”
“It’d need the stars to work. Like a key. It was the stars that did it, not this place.”
“You should have destroyed ’em.”
“I’m not sure we could. But they’re kept safe, you know that.”
Haskeer grunted sceptically and continued staring at the cave mouth.
They sat like that for a while, neither speaking.
It was quiet, save for the rustling of small animals and the faint chirruping of insects. Flocks of birds flapped lazily overhead as they made for their nesting grounds. With the sun going down, the evening was growing cooler, though that didn’t stop a cloud of flies gathering over the bilker.
Haskeer sat up. “Stryke.”
“What?”
“Do you see… ?” He pointed at the cave.
“I can’t see anything.”
“Look.”
“It’s just your fancy. There’s noth —” A movement caught Stryke’s eye. He strained to make out what it was.
There were tiny pinpoints of light inside the cave. They swirled and flickered, and seemed to be getting brighter and more numerous.
The orcs got to their feet.
“Feel that?” Stryke said.
The ground was shaking.
“Earthquake?” Haskeer wondered.
The vibrations became stronger as a series of tremors rippled the earth, and their source was the cave. In its interior the specks of luminosity had coalesced into a glowing multicoloured haze that throbbed in unison.
Then there was an intense blast of light. A powerfu
l gust of blistering wind roared from the cave. Stryke and Haskeer turned their faces from it.
The light died. The trembling ceased.
A shroud of silence descended. No birds sang. The insects quietened.
Something stirred inside the cave.
A figure emerged. It walked stiffly, moving their way.
“I told you, Stryke!” Haskeer bellowed.
They drew their blades.
The figure was near enough to reveal itself. They saw what it was, and the recognition hit them like a kick in the teeth.
The creature was quite young, insofar as it was possible to tell with that particular race. Its hair was a shock of red, and its features were flecked with disgusting auburn spots. It was dressed for genteel work, certainly not for combat. No weapon could be seen.
Cautiously, they edged forward, swords raised.
“Careful,” Haskeer cautioned, “might be more.”
The figure came on. It didn’t so much walk as lurch, and it gaped at them. With an effort, it raised an arm. But then it staggered, legs buckling, and fell. The ground was uneven, and it rolled a way before finally coming to rest.
Warily, Haskeer and Stryke approached.
Stryke lightly toed the body. Getting no response, he booted it a couple of times. It lay still. He crouched and felt for a pulse in the creature’s neck. There was nothing.
Haskeer tore his attention away from the cave. He was agitated. “What’s this thing doing here?” he wanted to know. “And what killed it?”
“Nothing obvious I can see,” Stryke reported, examining the corpse. “Here, give me a hand.”
Haskeer knelt beside him and they turned the body over.
“There’s your answer,” Stryke said.
The human had a knife in its back.
2
They ventured into the cave to make sure there were no more humans lying in wait.
There was a lingering smell of something like sulphur in the surprisingly large, high-roofed interior. But the gloom proved empty.
They went back to the body.
Stryke stooped, took hold of the dagger and tugged it from the corpse’s back. He wiped the blood on the dead man’s coat. The blade had a slight curve, and its silver hilt was engraved with symbols he didn’t recognise. He thrust it into the ground.
They turned the body over again. The colour was draining from its face, making the ginger hair and freckles all the more striking.
The human wore an amulet on a thin chain about its neck. It bore symbols different from the ones on the dagger, but they were unfamiliar too. There was nothing in the pockets of the corpse’s jacket or breeches. Nor did it have a weapon of any kind.
“Not exactly kitted out for a journey,” Haskeer remarked.
“And no stars.”
“So much for them being a key.”
“Wait.”
Stryke pulled off one of the man’s boots. Holding it by the heel, he shook it, then tossed it aside. When he did the same with the other boot, something fell out. It was the size of a duck’s egg and wrapped in dark green cloth.
The object bounced and landed nearest Haskeer. He made to reach for it, but checked himself. “What if —?”
“He doesn’t look too dangerous,” Stryke said, nodding at the corpse. “Same probably goes for whatever’s in his boot.”
“You never know with his kind,” Haskeer replied darkly.
“Well, we have to find out some time.” Stryke scooped the thing up.
Once the cloth was unwound, instead of some smaller version of the stars, as they half expected, they found a gemstone. Whether it was precious, or deceiving glass, they couldn’t say. It covered an orc’s palm, and it was weighty. One side was flat, the other multifaceted, and at first they thought it was black. Looking closer, they saw that the gem was the colour of darkest red wine.
“Have a care,” Haskeer warned.
“Seems harmless enough.” Stryke ran his fingers across its shiny surface. “I wonder if — Shit!” He tossed the gem away.
“What is it? What happened?”
“Hot!” Stryke complained, blowing on his hand and waving it around. “Damn hot.”
The gemstone lay on the grass. It appeared redder than before.
“It’s doing something, Stryke!” Haskeer had his sword out again.
Stryke forgot his pain and stared.
The gem had a glow about it. Suddenly, silently, it sent up a beam, not so much of light as something resembling smoke. Disciplined smoke, pale as snow, that flowed in a perfectly straight column, untroubled by the evening breeze. At the top of the column, taller than the orcs, the creamy smoke formed a large oval shape. It swirled and shimmered.
“It’s a hex!” Haskeer yelled, and would have dashed the gem with his blade.
“No!” Stryke protested. “Wait! Look.”
The pillar of smoke issuing from the gem had changed colour from white to blue. As they watched, the blue gave way to red, and the red to gold. Every few seconds the hue changed, so that the column hosted all colours in rapid succession. In turn these bled into the egg-shaped cloud suspended above their heads, giving it a rich vibrancy.
Haskeer and Stryke were mesmerised by it.
The coloured haze took on the appearance of solidity, as though it were a canvas hanging in the air. A canvas upon which a deranged artist had hurled pots of paint. But order soon swept away the chaos, and a distinct feature came into focus.
A human face.
It belonged to a male. He had shoulder-length auburn hair, and a beard, trimmed short. His eyes were blue, his nose hawkish, and his well shaped mouth was almost feminine.
“It’s him!” Haskeer exclaimed. “Serapheim!”
Stryke needed no confirmation. He, too, instantly recognised Tentarr Arngrim.
The sorcerer was of indefinite age to an orc’s eye, but they knew him to be much older than he appeared. And no matter how alien a race humanity might be, the man’s presence and authority were obvious to them, even filtered through an enchanted gem.
“Greetings, orcs.” Arngrim spoke as clearly as if he stood before them.
“You’re supposed to be dead!” Haskeer shouted.
“I don’t think he can hear you. This isn’t… now.”
“What?”
“His likeness has been poured into that gemstone somehow.”
“You mean he is dead?”
“Just listen.”
“Don’t be afraid,” the wizard’s image went on. “I realise how foolish a thing that is to say to a race as courageous as yours. But be assured that I mean you no harm.”
Haskeer looked far from comforted. They kept their swords raised.
“I’m speaking to you now because the stone was designed to be activated once it detected the presence of Stryke.” Arngrim smiled, adding mellifluously, “I hope this is so, and that you can hear my words, Captain of the Wolverines. I can’t see or hear you, as should already have been explained by Parnol, the emissary who delivered this message. He’s a trusted acolyte. And don’t be deceived by his youth. He’s wise beyond his years, and brave, as you’ll find.” The sorcerer smiled again. “Forgive me if this embarrasses you, Parnol; I know how you dislike a fuss.”
Stryke and Haskeer glanced at the messenger’s body.
“Parnol’s role, as I expect he’s already told you, was not only to bring you the gem, but to act as your guide, should you agree to my proposal.”
“Guide?” Haskeer said.
“What Parnol wouldn’t have told you is the nature of the task,” the sorcerer continued. “I judged it best to present that myself.” He paused, as though collecting his thoughts. “You believed me to be dead, perhaps. The circumstances in which we parted must certainly have led you to that conclusion. But I had the good fortune, and the necessary skills, to survive the destruction of the palace at Ilex. My story isn’t important at the moment, however. Of much more significance is the reason I’ve sought you out, and the
point of this message.”
“’Bout time,” Haskeer grumbled.
“Ssshh!”
“On the principle that a picture outweighs a torrent of words, consider this.”
Arngrim vanished. He was replaced by a kaleidoscope of images. Scenes of orcs being whipped, hanged, burnt alive or cut down by cavalry. Orcs fleeing, their lodges plundered and their livestock scattered. Orcs herded like animals, to internment or slaughter. Orcs humiliated, mocked, beaten, put to the sword.
In every case, their tormentors were human.
“I feel shame for my race,” said Arngrim, his voice accompanying the imagery. “Too often we act like beasts. What you see is happening now. These outrages are taking place in a world similar to yours. But a world less fortunate, where orcs are dominated by cruel oppressors and have had their freedom stolen, as yours was.”
“Orcs fucked over by humans,” Haskeer muttered. “What’s new?”
“You can aid your fellow creatures,” the sorcerer told them. “I’m not saying it would be easy, but your martial skills, your valour, might even help bring about their liberation.”
Haskeer grunted charily. Stryke shot him a glare.
“Why would you want to undertake such a mission? Well, if the plight of your orc comrades isn’t enough, look upon something else you know.”
The scenes of persecution and destruction faded. They were replaced by a female form, not entirely human, nor totally of any other race. Her eyes were somewhat oblique and unusually long-lashed, and they had dark, immeasurable depths. Her aquiline nose and shapely mouth were set in a face a little too flat and broad, framed by waist-length hair the colour of squid’s ink. Most striking was the texture of her skin, which had a faint glistening of green and silver, giving the impression that she was covered in minute scales. She was beautiful, but her allure was just this side of freakishness.
“Jennesta,” the wizard supplied unnecessarily.
The sight of her chilled Stryke and Haskeer’s spines.
“Yes, she survived the portal. I don’t know how. And even though she’s my own offspring, my bitterest regret is that she lived.” Jennesta was shown riding a black chariot at the head of a triumphant parade; addressing a frenzied crowd from the balcony of a palace; presiding at a mass execution. “Let me be blunt. Her continued existence is a bigger problem than the fate of your kin, no matter how dire their situation. Because if left unchecked, she’ll enslave more, of your kind and mine. Alone, I’m unable to defeat Jennesta. But it could be within your power, perhaps, to stop her, and to gain your revenge. If you choose that path, Parnol will thoroughly brief you. But he’ll need the instrumentalities you possess if he’s to be your guide. His journey to your world was one-way. I trust you still have them, else the enterprise is doomed before it’s begun.” Arngrim smiled again. “Somehow, I think you do.”
Orcs: Bad Blood Page 2