Copyright © 2004 by Stan Nicholls
(Bodyguard of Lightning © 1999; Legion of Thunder © 1999; Warriors of the Tempest © 2000; The Taking © 2000, first appeared in Swords Against the Millennium, ed. Michael Chinn, published by Alchemy Press)
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Orbit
Hachette Book Group, USA
237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017
Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com.
First eBook Edition: September 2008
ISBN: 978-0-316-04284-0
Contents
Book 1: Bodyguard of Lightning
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Book 2: Legion of Thunder
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Book 3: Warriors of the Tempest
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
Meet the Author
Praise for ORCS
“Stan Nicholls takes his well-deserved place beside Robert Jordan and George R. R. Martin as a modern star of fantasy.”
—The Independent
“Incorporating wall-to-wall action with undercurrents of dark humor, Bodyguard of Lightning is a gritty, fast-paced novel with a neat twist. The heroes are orcs—though you wouldn’t want to meet any of them on a dark night!”
—David Gemmell
“Weirdly charming, fast-moving, and freaky, Bodyguard of Lightning is the most fun you’re ever likely to have with a warband of orcs. Remember, buy now or beg for mercy later.”
—Tad Williams
“A neat idea and Stan Nicholls pulls it off with great panache . . . enough weird sex to keep the tabloids outraged for weeks. You’ll never feel the same about Lord of the Rings.”
—Jon Courtenay Grimwood, SFX
“A warning: if you don’t wish to become addicted to the most impressive new fantasy sequence in many a moon, you should avoid Bodyguard of Lightning.”
—Genre Hotline/LineOne Science Fiction Zone
“Stan Nicholls tries to correct the bad press authors such as Tolkien have given to orcs. Nicholls tells his tale briskly and entertainingly. . . . If you like lots of hacking and slashing, Bodyguard of Lightning is for you!”
—Starburst
“Bodyguard of Lightning is naturally full of fighting, blood-letting, and double-crossing. Nicholls has created a fast-paced adventure.”
—The Mentor
“In the fantasy field, Stan Nicholls’s Legion of Thunder demonstrates a truly coruscating imagination in its outrageous narrative.”
—Publishing News Books of the Year 1999
“Nicholls knows how to describe a battle in gritty detail, in such a way that it grabs your interest and yet still appears as unglamorous and unromantic as it should. A strange tale of magic, fantastic creatures, and mythical elder races that warps your expectations.”
—The SF Site
“Warriors of the Tempest is, above all, a wonderful piece of storytelling; fast-paced with plenty of hairpin twists, crammed with loads of juicy battles and properly bad baddies, racing towards a carefully set up conclusion that’s both exciting and genuinely moving. . . . Underlying all the fun and games are a core of skillfully drawn, fully realized characters who engage your sympathy from the start and never let go. . . . Sweet and sour orc, a feast for the most jaded fantasy-lover’s palate.”
—Tom Holt, SFX magazine
“The prose flows smoothly and the story is exciting.”
—Science Fiction Chronicle
“Breathless and ruthless, menacing and fun. Easy to read and totally engaging.”
—The Alien Online
“Stan Nicholls’s excellent Orcs sequence . . . is a welcome counterblast to the anti-orc onslaught due with the film launch of The Lord of the Rings.”
—The Guardian
“Now’s your chance to catch up with one of the most unusual writers in the genre. And it’s particularly wonderful not to have to put your brain to bed while reading Nicholls —unlike many of his writing peers, there’s a real intelligence always at work here. Not that we don’t get the requisite rip-roaring action and colorful world-building—along with some cutting humor.”
—Tiscali SF Zone
“It is an excellent adventure read. A good adventure story with plenty of action, humorous and well crafted. Thoroughly recommended.”
—SF Crowsnest
BY STAN NICHOLLS
“Gladiators” Game Book No. 1
Tom and Jerry: The Movie
Cool Zool
Strange Invaders
Spider-man: The Hobgoblin
The Nightshade Chronicles
The Book of Shadows
Shadow of the Sorcerer
A Gathering of Shadows
Fade to Black
Dark Skies: The Awakening
Orcs
The Dreamtime Trilogy
The Covenant Rising
The Righteous Blade
The Diamond Isle
Nonfiction
Wordsmiths of Wonder: Fifty Interviews with Writers of the Fantastic
Ken and Me
Gerry Anderson: The Authorized Biography
Graphic novels (as adaptor)
David Gemmell’s Legend
David Gemmell’s Wolf in Shadow
The Orcs omnibus is dedicated to
Marianne Gay and Nick Fifer, for being happy,
and for being a loving inspiration.
BOOK 1
BODYGUARD OF LIGHTNING
This is, of course, for Anne and Marianne.
Oh we’ll rant and we’ll roar like true orcish warriors
We’ll rant and we’ll roar for all that we be
We’ll march back from yonder all laden with plunder
&n
bsp; Oh what treasures, what pleasures, then you will see
Farewell and good-bye to you fair orcish ladies
Farewell and good-bye to you ladies of hame
We’ve taken a liking to mayhem and fighting
Our blades we will bring down and sharpen again
We’ll burn and we’ll plunder and then we will sunder
Their heads from their necks and their gold from their purse
We’ll meet them in battle and kill them like cattle
We’ll drink their beer dry while the poor bastards curse
The first land we sighted we saw a tall spire
We crept up in darkness and set it aflame
We took silver and chalice for we bore them such malice
And we hope that next year they won’t be there again
We found a fat farmer, we found his fair daughter
We tickled him up with the point of a knife
He babbled and gabbled, gave us gold without haggle
The girl ran off screaming so we roasted his wife
Now let every orc warrior take up his full tankard
Now let every orc warrior drink deep of strong ale
Our Wolverines’ spearpoints will skewer ’em like pork joints
Far richer and fatter the orcs will prevail!
Traditional warband marching song
1
Stryke couldn’t see the ground for corpses.
He was deafened by screams and clashing steel. Despite the cold, sweat stung his eyes. His muscles burned and his body ached. Blood, mud and splashed brains flecked his jerkin. And now two more of the loathsome, soft pink creatures were moving in on him with murder in their eyes.
He savoured the joy.
His footing unsure, he stumbled and almost fell, pure instinct bringing up his sword to meet the first swinging blade. The impact jarred but checked the blow. He nimbly retreated a pace, dropped into a half crouch and lunged forward again, below his opponent’s guard. The sword rammed into the enemy’s stomach. Stryke quickly raked it upward, deep and hard, until it struck a rib, tumbling guts. The creature went down, a stupefied expression on its face.
There was no time to relish the kill. The second attacker was on him, clutching a two-handed broadsword, its glinting tip just beyond the limit of Stryke’s reach. Mindful of its fellow’s fate, this one was more cautious. Stryke went on the offensive, engaging his assailant’s blade with a rain of aggressive swipes. They parried and thrusted, moving in a slow, cumbersome dance, their boots seeking purchase on bodies of friend and foe alike.
Stryke’s weapon was better suited to fencing. The size and weight of the creature’s broadsword made it awkward to use in close combat. Designed for hacking, it needed to be swung in a wider arc. After several passes the creature strained with effort, huffing clouds of icy breath. Stryke kept harrying from a distance, awaiting his chance.
In desperation, the creature lurched toward him, its sword slashing at his face. It missed, but came close enough for him to feel the displaced air. Momentum carried the stroke on, lifting the creature’s arms high and leaving its chest unprotected. Stryke’s blade found its heart, triggering a scarlet eruption. The creature spiralled into the trampling mêlée.
Glancing down the hill, Stryke could make out the Wolverines, embroiled in the greater battle on the plain below.
He returned to the slaughter.
Coilla looked up and saw Stryke on the hill above, not far from the walls of the settlement, savagely laying into a group of defenders.
She cursed his damned impatience.
But for the moment their leader would have to look after himself. The warband had some serious resistance to overcome before they could get to him.
Here in the boiling cauldron of the main battlefield, bloody conflict stretched out on every side. A crushing mob of fighting troops and shying mounts churned to pulp what had been fields of crops just hours before. The cacophonous, roaring din was endless, the tart aroma of death soured the back of her throat.
A thirty-strong flying wedge bristling with steel, the Wolverines kept in tight formation, powering through the struggling mass like some giant multi-stinged insect. Near the wedge’s spearhead, Coilla helped clear their path, lashing out with her sword at enemy flesh obstructing the way.
Too fast to properly digest, a succession of hellish tableaux vivants flashed past her. A defender with a hatchet buried in its shoulder; one of her own side, gore-encrusted hands covering his eyes; another silently shrieking, a red stump in lieu of an arm; one of theirs staring down at a hole the size of a fist in its chest; a headless body, gushing crimson as it staggered. A face cut to ribbons by the slashing of her blade.
An infinity later the Wolverines arrived at the foot of the hill and began to climb as they fought.
A brief hiatus in the butchery allowed Stryke to check again the progress of his band. They were cleaving through knots of defenders about halfway up the hill.
He turned back and surveyed the massive wooden-walled stronghold topping the rise. There was a way to go before they reached its gates, and several score more of the enemy to overcome. But it seemed to Stryke that their ranks were thinning.
Filling his lungs with frigid air, he felt again the intensity of life that came when death was this close.
Coilla arrived, panting, the rest of the troop close behind.
“Took your time,” he commented drily. “Thought I’d have to storm the place alone.”
She jabbed a thumb at the milling chaos below. “Weren’t keen on letting us through.”
They exchanged smiles that were almost crazed.
Bloodlust’s on her too, he thought. Good.
Alfray, custodian of the Wolverines’ banner, joined them and drove the flag’s spar into the semifrozen earth. The warband’s two dozen common soldiers formed a defensive ring around the officers. Noticing one of the grunts had taken a pernicious-looking head wound, Alfray pulled a field dressing from his hip bag and went to staunch the blood.
Sergeants Haskeer and Jup pushed through the troopers. As usual, the former was sullen, the latter unreadable.
“Enjoy your stroll?” Stryke jibed, his tone sarcastic.
Jup ignored it. “What now, Captain?” he asked gruffly.
“What think you, shortarse? A break to pick flowers?” He glared at his diminutive joint second-in-command. “We get up there and do our job.”
“How?”
Coilla was staring at the leaden sky, a hand cupped over her eyes.
“Frontal assault,” Stryke replied. “You have a better plan?” It was a challenge.
“No. But it’s open ground, uphill. We’ll have casualties.”
“Don’t we always?” He spat copiously, narrowly missing his sergeant’s feet. “But if it makes you feel better we’ll ask our strategist. Coilla, what’s your opinion?”
“Hmmm?” Her attention remained fixed on the heavy clouds.
“Wake up, Corporal! I said —”
“See that?” She pointed skyward.
A black dot was descending through the gloom. No details were obvious from this distance, but they all guessed what it was.
“Could be useful,” Stryke said.
Coilla was doubtful. “Maybe. You know how wilful they can be. Best to take cover.”
“Where?” Haskeer wanted to know, scanning the naked terrain.
The dot grew in size.
“It’s moving faster than a cinder from Hades,” Jup observed.
“And diving too tight,” added Haskeer.
By this time the bulky body and massive serrated wings were clearly visible. There was no doubt now. Huge and ungainly, the beast swooped over the battle still raging on the plain. Combatants froze and stared upwards. Some scattered from its shadow. It carried on heedless in an ever-sharper descent, aimed squarely at the rise where Stryke’s Wolverines were gathered.
He squinted at it. “Can anybody make out the handler?”
They shook
their heads.
The living projectile came at them unerringly. Its vast, slavering jaws gaped, revealing rows of yellow teeth the size of war helms. Slitty green eyes flashed. A rider sat stiffly on its back, tiny compared to his charge.
Stryke estimated it to be no more than three flaps of its powerful wings away.
“Too low,” Coilla whispered.
Haskeer bellowed, “Kiss the ground!”
The warband flattened.
Rolling on to his back, Stryke had a fleeting view of grey leathery skin and enormous clawed feet passing overhead. He almost believed he could stretch and touch the thing.
Then the dragon belched a mighty gout of dazzling orange flame.
For a fraction of a second Stryke was blinded by the intensity of light. Blinking through the haze, he expected to see the dragon smash into the ground. Instead he caught sight of it soaring aloft at what seemed an impossibly acute angle.
Further up the hillside, the scene was transformed. The defenders and some attackers, ignited by the blazing suspiration, had been turned into shrieking fireballs or were already dead in smouldering heaps. Here and there, the earth itself burned and bubbled.
A smell of roasting flesh filled the air. It made the juices in Stryke’s mouth flow.
“Somebody should remind the dragonmasters whose side they’re on,” Haskeer grumbled.
“But this one eased our burden.” Stryke nodded at the gates. They were well alight. Scrambling to his feet, he yelled, “To me!”
The Wolverines sent up a booming war cry and thundered after him. They met little resistance, easily cutting down the few enemy still left standing.
When Stryke reached the smoking gates he found them damaged enough to offer no real obstacle, and one was hanging crookedly, fit to fall.
Nearby, a pole held a charred sign bearing the crudely painted word Homefield.
Haskeer ran to Stryke’s side. He noticed the sign and swiped contemptuously at it with his sword, severing it from the upright. It fell and broke in two.
“Even our language has been colonised,” he growled.
Jup, Coilla and the remainder of the band caught up with them. Stryke and several troopers booted the weakened gate, downing it.
They poured through the opening and found themselves in a spacious compound. To their right, a corral held livestock. On the left stood a row of mature fruit trees. Ahead and set well back was a sizeable wooden farmhouse.
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