Orcs: Bad Blood

by Stan Nicholls

  “Thanks, Stryke, but I don’t mind. Really. To hell with that much responsibility. I like the level I’ve reached.”

  “Well, I said the band needed two corporals, which didn’t go down well with everybody.” He glanced at Haskeer. “But it needs two sergeants, too.”

  “Who are you thinking of promoting then?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Come again?”

  “My idea’s to reform the band as completely as we can.”

  “Yeah, well, that would mean having Jup, and he’s… Oh.”

  “Right. We’re going back to Maras-Dantia.”

  6

  “They’re dangerous,” Coilla whispered. “Remember what they did to Haskeer. Hell, remember what they did to you.”

  Stryke was staring at the instrumentalities. He had them laid out on a bench in a kind of order: two spikes, four spikes, five, seven and nine. Grey, blue, green, yellow, red. He found them fascinating.

  “Stryke,” Coilla hissed.

  “It’s all right, I’m just looking. Nothing sinister’s going on.”

  “You know what they can do, Stryke. Or at least a part of what they can do. And it’s not all good.”

  “They’re just a tool.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Long as you don’t get too involved with them.”

  “My point exactly.”

  “Why are we whispering?”

  “It’s them.” She nodded at the stars. “When they’re all together like this, they make you want to.”

  “I wonder what they’re made of?”

  “Damned if I’ve ever been able to figure it out.”

  “Wish I had a blade forged from it.”

  “Don’t get too interested. We’ve got enough problems brewing in the band without you going AWOL from your senses.”

  “Thanks for putting it so delicately.”

  “I mean it, Stryke. If those things start singing at you again —”

  “They won’t.”

  “You’ll be carrying them. Exposed to them, all the time. It could affect you.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that. Once we get to Maras-Dantia, would you carry one? Maybe breaking them up will dampen their influence.”

  “I’m flattered. You’ve never been keen on parting with them in the past.”

  “And look what happened. Will you do it? I would have asked Haskeer, but he’s such a crazy bastard.”

  “Rather than burden the helpless female, you mean? Don’t go spoiling it, Stryke.”

  He smiled. “I’m no human. I could never think of you as helpless.”

  “Course I’ll do it. But what if it doesn’t work? Will you share them between more of us?”

  “I don’t want to up the risk of any being lost. So… I don’t know.”

  “Great. Something else for us to worry about.”

  “We’ll face that if and when. It’s near time. We should be getting ready.”

  They slipped into thick over-breeches and lined boots, then donned fur jerkins. Before she put hers on, Coilla laced a sheath of throwing knives to each arm.

  “Seems weird doing this in a heat wave,” she remarked.

  “Maras-Dantia’s going to be a damn sight cooler than here, that’s for sure.” He collected the instrumentalities and put them in his belt pouch.

  They buckled on swords, daggers and hatchets.

  “Don’t forget your gloves,” Stryke said.

  “Got ’em.”

  “All right, let’s go.”

  Outside, by the mouth of the cave where they first arrived in Ceragan, the band waited, sweating in their furs. Haskeer was keeping them in order, when he wasn’t shooting disgusted glances at Wheam, who’d insisted on bringing his lute.

  Quoll and his usual entourage were at the forefront of the crowd of spectators. Thirzarr was there too, along with the hatchlings. Stryke went to them.

  Before he could speak, Thirzarr mouthed, “We’ve already made our goodbyes. Let’s not stretch it out, for their sakes.” She indicated Corb and Janch.

  Stryke knelt. “I’m counting on you to look after your mother. All right?”

  They nodded solemnly.

  “And be good while I’m away.”

  “We will,” Corb promised.

  “Kill the witch!” Janch squeaked.

  His brother bobbed in gleeful agreement and they waved their miniature cleavers about.

  Stryke grinned. “We’ll do our best.”

  He took one last look at his brood and turned away.

  “Fare well,” Quoll said as he passed him.

  Stryke gave a faint tilt of his head, but didn’t speak.

  At the cave’s entrance, he faced the band.

  “Conditions were bad in Maras-Dantia when we were last there,” he said. “They’re going to be much worse now. Expect extreme hostility, and not just from the weather. This particularly applies to you new recruits, so stick by the buddy you’ve been assigned. As I’m assuming we’ll fetch up in Illex, in the far north, we can’t take horses; they couldn’t handle the conditions. Be prepared for a long, hard march south.” He weighed his next words carefully. “Last time, we had to face the Sluagh.” He bet more than a few of the band suppressed a shudder remembering the repellent demon race. “I don’t know if we’ll run into them this time. But we beat ’em once, and we can do it again if we have to. Are we all set, Sergeant?”

  “Ready and eager,” Haskeer replied.

  “If anybody’s having second thoughts about this mission, this is your last chance to pull out. They’ll be no dishonour in it.” He stared pointedly at Wheam. No one said anything. “Any questions?”

  Wheam raised a hand.

  “Yes?”

  “Going through this… portal thing. Will it hurt?”

  “Not as much as my boot up your arse,” Haskeer assured him.

  Laughter eased the band’s tension a little.

  Stryke checked that the crowd was held well back, then nodded.

  Haskeer barked an order. Brands were lit, and jerkins fastened.

  A rhythmic pounding started up. The onlookers were beating their spears against their shields in a traditional farewell for orcs off to war. There was some shouted encouragement, and a few cheers.

  Stryke led his band into the cave.

  It was cool and echoing inside.

  Coilla caught up with Wheam. “Going through’s unsettling,” she explained. “Just remember we’re all doing it together.”

  He looked pale. “Thanks,” he said, and walked on.

  Stryke overheard. “Unsettling?”

  “I couldn’t say terrifying, could I? He’s just a kid.”

  They reached the centre of the cave, and Stryke had them all gather round. He studied the amulet by the light of the brands. Next, he took out the stars and began manipulating them.

  For a clammy moment, he thought he couldn’t do it. There seemed no sense in the way they linked to each other. He started to fumble and grow confused.

  Then four stars slotted together smoothly, in quick succession, and he could see exactly where the final one should go.

  “Brace yourselves,” he warned, pushing it into place.

  They fell, plunging down a shaft made of light.

  Sinuous, pulsating, never ending. Beyond its translucent walls was blue velvet, smothered with stars.

  They dropped ever faster. The starscape melted into a blur of rushing colours.

  Transient images flashed by. Fleeting glimpses of perplexing other-wheres.

  There were sounds. An inexplicable, discordant, thunderous cacophony.

  It lasted an eternity.

  Then a black abyss swallowed them.

  Stryke opened his eyes.

  He felt like he’d taken a beating, and his head throbbed murderously.

  Getting to his knees, it took him a moment to focus on his surroundings. But he didn’t see what he expected.

  There was no snow or ice, though it was cold. The gri
m landscape seemed gripped by deepest winter. Trees were leafless. The grass was brown and patchy, and much of the foliage wasn’t just dormant, but dead. Black clouds dominated the sky. It was in total contrast to the balmy climate they’d just left.

  He climbed to his feet.

  The rest of the band was scattered around him. Some were on the ground, still dazed, and several were groaning. Others, recovering more quickly, were already standing.

  “Everybody all right?” he called.

  “Most of us,” Haskeer said. He scornfully jerked a thumb at Wheam, who was being sick against a rock, with Dallog in attendance.

  Coilla and Haskeer went to Stryke. They looked shaken after the transference, but rode it well.

  “This isn’t Illex,” Haskeer pronounced.

  “You don’t say,” Stryke told him.

  “But it is Maras-Dantia,” Coilla said. “I recognise some of the landmarks. I reckon we’re near the lip of the Great Plains, not far from Bevis.”

  “You could be right,” Stryke agreed. “Looks like the stars don’t put us down in exactly the same place each time.” He realised he was still clutching them, and began dismantling.

  “At least it cuts the amount of marching we’ll have to do.”

  “And with any luck we won’t have to go to Illex next time we use them.” He was stuffing the instrumentalities into his belt pouch. “But I’m sorry we didn’t bring those horses.”

  “It’s not morning here,” Haskeer decided.

  Coilla sighed. “You’re an expert in stating the obvious now, are you?”

  It looked to be late afternoon, going on early evening.

  “And the season’s wrong,” Haskeer added.

  “I’m not so sure about that,” Stryke said. “This could be what passes for summer in Maras-Dantia these days.”

  Coilla stared at the terrain. “Things have got that bad?”

  “It was heading that way when we left, so why not?”

  Haskeer frowned. “What’ll we do? Camp ’til first light?”

  “I say march on,” Coilla suggested. “I mean, we only got up about two hours ago. It’s not as though we need the rest.”

  Stryke nodded. “Makes sense. If we are where you think, Coilla, we need to bear south-west. It’s still a hell of a march to Quatt, but not near as far as we reckoned on.”

  “Maybe we can rustle up some transport on the way.”

  “I’m counting on it. All right, let’s get ’em organised. Haskeer, see how the new intake are faring; Coilla, secure the area. Get some lookouts posted.”

  Coilla went to pick sentries. Haskeer walked over to Dallog and Wheam.

  The band’s banner thrust into the ground beside him, the aged corporal was offering the young recruit a drink from his canteen. Wheam took it with trembling hands.

  “Why the idling?” Haskeer snapped.

  “He was shaken by the crossing,” Dallog explained.

  “He can speak for himself.” Haskeer turned his glare on Wheam. “Well?”

  The youth flinched. “Going through that… thing… really… unsettled me.”

  “Oh, what a shame. Would you like your daddy?”

  “You don’t have to be so —”

  “This is no fucking picnic! We’re in the field now! Get a grip!”

  “Go easy, Haskeer,” Dallog advised.

  “The day I need your advice,” Haskeer thundered, “is the day they can take me out and cut my throat. And it’s Sergeant to you. Both of you.”

  “I’m only doing my job, Sergeant.”

  “You’re nurse-maiding him.”

  “Just cutting the boy some slack. He doesn’t know the ropes.”

  “You and him both. You’ve never been on a mission, and you don’t know this band.”

  “Maybe not. But I know orcs, Sergeant, and I know how to mend ’em.”

  “Only been one Wolverine could do that, and you ain’t him.”

  “I’m sure Alfray was a —”

  “You’re not fit to use his name, Dallog. Nobody matches Alfray.”

  “Pity you were so careless with him then.”

  Haskeer’s face darkened dangerously. “What’d you say?”

  “Things change. Live with it. Sergeant.”

  Wheam gaped at them.

  “Being old don’t excuse you from a beating,” Haskeer growled, making fists.

  “Whenever you want to try. But maybe this isn’t a good time.”

  “Now you’re telling me what’s what?”

  “I meant we shouldn’t brawl in front of the band.”

  “Why not?” Haskeer said, moving in on him. “Let ’em see me knock some respect into you.”

  Somebody was shouting. Others took it up.

  “Er, Sergeant…” Wheam pointed.

  Haskeer stopped and turned.

  A group of riders could be seen, moving their way across the sward. It was hard to gauge their number.

  “We’ll settle this later,” he promised Dallog.

  “What’s happening, Sergeant?” Wheam asked. “Who are they?”

  “I doubt they’re a welcome party. Be ready to account for yourselves. And try not to shame the band by dying badly.” He left Wheam looking terrified.

  By the time Haskeer reached Stryke and Coilla, the approaching riders were recognisable.

  “Oh, good,” Haskeer muttered. “My favourite race.”

  “What do you think,” Coilla said, “around sixty?”

  “More or less,” Stryke replied. “And they look ragtag; no uniforms.”

  Dallog arrived, exchanging glowers with Haskeer as he passed. “What are they, Captain?”

  “Humans.”

  “They’re… freakish.”

  “Yeah, not too pretty, are they?”

  “And they’re getting closer,” Coilla reminded them.

  “Right,” Stryke said. “We assume they’re hostile.” He addressed Haskeer and Dallog. “Get the band into a defensive formation at that table rock over there. And keep an eye on the new recruits. Move!”

  They rushed off, barking orders.

  “What about me?” Coilla asked.

  “How many good archers we got?”

  “Five or six, counting a couple of the tyros.”

  “And you. Get yourselves on top of the rock. Go!”

  The rocky outcropping Stryke had indicated was a slab the size of a cabin. It jutted out of the ground at an angle. But its highest point, tall as a tree, was flat.

  Band members were drawing blades and discarding their heavy furs, the better to fight.

  Coilla steered her archers to the rock and they scrambled up. Stryke joined the rest of the Wolverines under the tapering overhang at its base.

  The humans were galloping in at speed, and a clamour rose from them. Stryke was sure he heard them chanting the word monsters.

  He slapped the rock above his head. “We’ve got a good natural defence here,” he told the band, “as long as we don’t break ranks.” The veterans knew that well enough; he was thinking of the recruits. “Let’s see those shields!”

  The old hands deployed theirs expertly, slipping the shields from backs to chests in a single, deft movement. The newbies fumbled. No more so than Wheam, who got himself in a tangle trying to swap his shield for his beloved lute.

  “Like this,” Stryke instructed, extricating the youth. “And hold your sword that way.”

  Wheam nodded, grinning dourly and looking bemused. Stryke sighed.

  A greater racket went up from the riders.

  They charged.

  Coilla’s unit had arrows nocked and were stretching their bowstrings. Some preferred kneeling. She stood.

  The leading humans were no more than a spear throw away, horses white-flecked and huffing vapour.

  “Hold fast!” Haskeer bellowed.

  Coilla waited until the last possible moment before yelling, “Fire!”

  Half a dozen bolts winged towards the charging attackers. One of the leadi
ng riders took a hit to his chest. Unhorsed by the impact, he tumbled into the path of those following, bringing several down.

  A handful of the humans had bows, and returned fire. But shooting from the saddle meant most of their shafts were wide.

  The orcs’ next volley found three targets. Arrows struck the thigh of one man and the shoulder of another. The third grazed a rider’s temple. He fell, to be trampled.

  Coilla’s team kept on firing.

  Within spitting distance of the rock the humans slowed and their charge turned into a confused milling. Shouts were exchanged, then they broke into two groups. The largest turned and began galloping around the outcrop, hoping for a breach. The rest advanced on the orcs at ground level.

  Some of Stryke’s cluster carried slingshots. As the humans approached, they deployed them. The salvo of hard shot cracked a couple of skulls and fractured an arm or two. But there was no time for more than a few lobs before the raiders were at their line.

  Their horses gave them the advantage of height, and flailing hooves could prove deadly. The snag was reach. To engage the orcs they had to lean and hack, making themselves vulnerable.

  All was churning mounts and slashing blades at the base of the rock. Blows rained on the orcs’ raised shields. They struck back, and fought to bring down the riders. A dagger to the calves was sufficient in some cases. In others, concerted efforts were needed to drag horsemen from their saddles. A grinding melee ensued.

  Around a dozen raiders dismounted of their own accord, the better to engage in close quarters fighting.

  One human singled out Stryke for particular attention. He was burly and battle-scarred, with an overlong, disorderly beard. Like his fellows, he wore mismatched, raggedy clothes. And he swung a double-headed axe.

  Stryke dodged and felt the displaced air as the weapon skimmed past. Before it reached the end of its arc, he lunged, slashing with his blade. The human moved fast, pulling back in time to avoid contact. Then he attacked again, unleashing another murderous swing. Stryke dropped and kept his head.

  The man fell to hammering at Stryke’s shield, looking to dislodge it. Stryke weathered the battering, and at the first let sent back a series of blistering swipes. He failed to penetrate the human’s guard. But it seemed that, for all his heftiness, his opponent was starting to slow under the effort of handling the axe. Stryke wasn’t about to break the formation, regardless of that. He forced the man to come to him.