Orcs

by Stan Nicholls

  “Sometimes it is. Unless you can see a better way.”

  “That’s just it, damn you, I can’t.”

  “I know you’re worried there’s so much that could go wrong. So am I. So we’ll take a little time getting this right.”

  “Not too much,” Alfray interjected. “What about Hobrow?”

  “We bloodied his nose. I don’t think he’ll be here for a while yet, if at all.”

  “It isn’t only Hobrow. For all we know, everybody’s out for us. And moving targets are the hardest to hit.”

  “Granted. But targets that hit back tend to get left alone too.”

  “Not when the whole damn country’s after their heads.”

  “What did you mean about taking time, Stryke?” Coilla asked. “How much?”

  He glanced up at the gathering twilight. “The light’s nearly gone. We could spend tomorrow searching for another way in. A really thorough search, with the area sectioned out. If we find a better way in, we’ll use it. Otherwise we’ll go for the entrance we know.”

  “Or what we think is an entrance,” Coilla corrected him.

  “Stryke, I don’t want to put a damper on things,” Jup said, “but if there’s a star here and if we can get it . . . what then?”

  “I was hoping nobody would ask that question.”

  Alfray backed Jup. “It has to be asked, Stryke. Else why go on here?”

  “We go on because . . . well, because what else is there for us to do? We’re orcs. We need a purpose. You know that.”

  “If we carry on as we have, if we’re being logical, and assuming we get out of Scratch in one piece, then we need a plan to find out where the other stars are,” Coilla reckoned.

  “We’ve been lucky so far,” Jup said. “It won’t hold forever.”

  “We make our own luck,” Stryke maintained.

  Coilla had an idea. “I was thinking that if trading the star, or stars, with Jennesta is out —”

  “Which it is,” Stryke interrupted, “as far as I’m concerned.”

  “If that’s not an option, perhaps we could trade them with somebody else.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know! I’m clutching at straws here, Stryke, like the rest of you. I’m just thinking that if we can’t find all five stars then the others aren’t of any use to us. Whereas a good hoard of coin might make our lives easier.”

  “The stars mean power. A power that could maybe do a lot of good for orcs and all the other elder races. I won’t let that go easily. As for coin, you’re forgetting the pellucid. Even a small amount would bring a good price.”

  “What about the crystal, by the way?” Alfray asked. “Have you thought of how it should be distributed?”

  “I reckon that for now we keep it as communal property, for the benefit of the band in general. Any of you object?”

  None did.

  Haskeer, who had been standing at a distance and taking no part in the conversation, wandered over to them. He wore the vacant expression they’d almost got used to.

  “What’s happening?” he said.

  “We’re talking about how to get into Scratch,” Coilla told him.

  Haskeer’s face lit up as a notion hit him. “Why don’t we talk to the trolls?”

  They laughed. Then it dawned on them that he wasn’t trying to be funny.

  “What do you mean, talk?” Alfray said.

  “Think how much better things would be if the trolls were our friends.”

  Alfray’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  “Well, they could be, couldn’t they? All our enemies could if we talked rather than fought them all the time.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this, Haskeer,” Coilla confessed.

  “Does it seem wrong?”

  “Er, it just seems not . . . you.”

  He considered the proposition. “Oh. All right. Let’s kill them then.”

  “That’s kind of what we thought we’d do, if we have to.”

  Haskeer beamed. “Good. Let me know when you need me. I’ll be feeding my horse.”

  He turned and walked away.

  Jup said, “What the hell?”

  Coilla shook her head. “He’s seriously dippy these days.”

  “Do you still say it’s something he’ll get over, Alfray?” Stryke asked.

  “He’s taking his time about it, I’ll admit. But I’ve seen something similar to this before when troopers were recovering from heavy fevers. Or when they get ague of the lungs; you know, water in ’em. Quite often they spend days afterwards in a sort of daze, and it’s not unknown for them to behave out of character.”

  “Out of character!” Coilla exclaimed. “He’s about as far from his character as he can get.”

  “I don’t know whether to be worried or to thank the gods for the mood he’s in,” Jup confessed.

  “At least it’s giving you a break from his bullying, and all of us a rest from his constant grumbling.”

  “You’re assuming he’s this way because of the illness, Alfray,” Stryke said. “Is it possible there’s another reason? Could he have taken a blow to the head we don’t know about?”

  “There’s no sign of that. He might have, I suppose, but you’d expect to see some marks of it. I’m no great expert on head injuries, Stryke, I just know, like you, that they can cause an orc to do and say odd things.”

  “Well, he seems harmless enough, but keep an eye on him, all of you.”

  “You can’t let him take part in the mission, can you?” Coilla wanted to know.

  “No, he’d be a burden. He’ll stay behind, along with a grunt or two to guard the camp and horses. Not to mention the crystal. I thought you might like to stay with them, Coilla.”

  She flared her nostrils. “You’re not saying I’d be a burden?”

  “Course not. But you’re not keen on enclosed places, you’ve made that clear more than once, and I need to leave somebody I can rely on. Because I’m not taking the stars with me. That’s too much of a risk. You could look after them until we get back.” He noticed her expression. “All right, it had crossed my mind that if we don’t get back you could carry on the work, so to speak.”

  “All by myself?”

  Jup grinned. “You’d have Haskeer.”

  She glared at him. “Very funny.”

  They all looked in Haskeer’s direction.

  He was patting his horse’s head and feeding it from the palm of his hand.

  23

  It was the Lord’s wrath in action. Kimball Hobrow had no doubt of it.

  His search for the ungodly, the thieving non-humans that had taken what was his, had led him to range the shores of Calyparr, a group of followers ten score and more at his back. Now, as night fell, they had come upon a charnel scene. The bodies of some two dozen humans, mostly women and children, littered a stretch of land beside the merchants’ trail.

  Hobrow recognised their dress. It was immodest and self-indulgent, its bright colours pandering to vanity. He knew their kind: blasphemers, deviators from the path of righteousness. Wretched adherents of the Manifold spoor.

  He walked among the slaughtered, a clutch of custodians in his wake. If the signs of butchery, of mangled limbs and rendered flesh, had any effect on the preacher he didn’t show it.

  “Take heed,” he intoned. “These souls digressed from the true and only way. They embraced the obscene paganism of the impure races, and the Lord punished them for it. And the irony, brethren, was that He used non-humans as His tool, the instrument of His revenge. They lay down with the serpent and the serpent devoured them. It is fitting.”

  He continued his inspection, studying the faces of the dead, the severity of their wounds.

  “The arm of the Almighty is long and His ire knows no limit,” he thundered. “He strikes down the unrighteous as surely as He rewards His chosen.”

  A custodian called out to him from the other side of the killing ground. He strode to the man.

  “What i
s it, Calvert?”

  “This one’s still alive, master.” He pointed to a woman.

  She had a braid of long blonde hair. Her breast was bloody, her breathing shallow. She was near her end.

  Hobrow knelt beside her. She seemed dimly aware of him and tried to say something, but no words came from her quivering lips.

  He leaned closer. “Speak, child. Confess your sins and unburden yourself.”

  “They . . . they . . .”

  “Who?”

  “They came . . . and . . .”

  “They? The orcs, you mean?”

  “Orcs.” Her glazed eyes focused for a second. “Yes . . . orcs.”

  “They did this to you?”

  “Orcs . . . came . . .”

  The custodians had gathered around. Hobrow addressed them. “You see? No humans are safe from the accursed inhuman races, even those foolish enough to take their part.” He turned back to the dying woman. “Where did they go?”

  “Orcs . . .”

  “Yes, the orcs.” He spoke slowly and deliberately. “Do you know where they went?”

  She made no reply. He grasped her hand and squeezed it. “Where did they go?” he repeated.

  “Scr . . . Scratch . . .”

  “My God.” He let go of her and stood. Her hand reached for his and, unnoticed, feebly dropped back.

  “To your horses!” he boomed, messianic passion burning in his eyes. “The vermin we seek are in league with others of their kind. We embark upon a crusade, brethren!”

  They dashed for their mounts, infected with his fervour.

  “We’ll have our revenge!” he vowed. “The Lord will guide us and protect us!”

  The Wolverines spent the entire day searching for another way into Scratch. If such existed, it was too well hidden for them to find. But they didn’t encounter any trolls either, as they had feared they might, and that at least was a stroke of luck.

  Stryke decided they would enter the labyrinth by the main entrance, as they’d come to call it, first thing in the morning. Now that night had fallen, all they could do was wait for the dawn. As some held that trolls came to the surface in the dark, double guards were posted, and all kept their arms near to hand.

  Alfray suggested that a little pellucid be shared out. Stryke had no objection, providing they kept to a small quantity and none was allowed the guards. He didn’t use any himself, but instead laid out a blanket at the edge of the camp and settled down to think and plan.

  The last thing he was aware of as he drifted into sleep was the crystal’s pungent odour.

  Stars were beginning to show through in the gathering twilight. They were as sharp and clear as he had ever seen them.

  He stood on a cliff’s edge.

  A good spear throw away a corresponding wall of sheer rock faced him. He saw trees on the other side, tall and straight. The space between was a deep canyon. Far below roared a white-foamed river, throwing up clouds of vaporous mist as it pounded at boulders in its path. The channel of rock extended for as far as he could see on either side.

  The cliffs were spanned by a gently swaying suspension bridge built from stout rope and woven twine, with wooden slats to walk on.

  For no other reason than that it was there, he set his foot upon it and began to cross.

  Away from the shelter of the rock face, a stiff breeze tempered the pleasant warmth of the maturing evening. It carried a fine spray of droplets from the torrent beneath, cooling his skin. He walked slowly, savouring the magnificence of the scenery and breathing deep of the crystal air.

  He was perhaps a third of the way across when he became aware of someone walking towards him from the other side. He couldn’t make out their features, but saw that they moved with a purposeful step and easy confidence. He kept on and didn’t slow his pace. Soon the other traveller was near enough to be properly seen.

  It was the orc female he had met here before. Wherever here might be.

  She wore her head-dress of flaming scarlet war feathers, and her sword was strapped to her back, its hilt visible above the left shoulder. One of her hands lightly touched the guide rope at her side.

  They recognised each other at the same time, and she smiled. He smiled too.

  They came together midway.

  “Our paths cross again,” she said. “Well met.”

  He felt the same strange tug at his feelings that he had in his previous encounters with her.

  “Well met,” he returned.

  “You’re truly an orc of passing strangeness,” she told him.

  “How so?”

  “Your comings and goings are veiled in mystery.”

  “I might say the same of you.”

  “Not so. I’m always here. You appear and disappear like the haze bred by the river. Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere. That is, I . . . explore, I suppose. And you?”

  “I move as my life dictates.”

  “Yet you carry your sword where it can’t be quickly drawn.”

  She glanced at his blade, hanging in its belt sheath. “And you don’t. My way is better.”

  “Your way used to be the custom in my land, at least when travelling in safe parts. But that was long ago.”

  “I offer none a threat and travel as I please without danger. It’s not so where you come from?”

  “No.”

  “Then your land must be grim indeed. I offer it no offence in saying that.”

  “I take none. You speak the truth.”

  “Perhaps you should come here and make your camp.”

  He wasn’t sure if it was some kind of invitation. “That would be pleasant,” he replied. “I wish I could.”

  “Something stops you?”

  “I don’t know how to reach this land.”

  She laughed. “You can always be counted on for riddles. How can you say that when you’re here now?”

  “It makes no more sense to me than it does to you.” He turned from her and looked down at the thundering water. “I understand my coming here no more than the river understands where it flows. Less so, for the river has always flowed to the ocean, and is timeless.”

  The female moved closer to him. “We are timeless too. We flow with the river of life.” She reached into her pouch and took out two small pebbles, round and smooth. “I took these from the river’s bank.” She let them slip from her hand and they fell away. “Now they’re one with the river again, as you and I are one with the river of time. Don’t you see how apt it is that we should meet on a bridge?”

  “I don’t know if I understand your meaning.”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I mean, I feel there’s truth in what you say, but it’s just beyond my grasp.”

  “Then reach further and you’ll understand.”

  “How would I do that?”

  “By not trying.”

  “Now who’s talking in riddles?”

  “The truth is simple, it’s we who choose to see it as a riddle. Understanding will come to you.”

  “When?”

  “It begins by asking that question. Be patient, stranger.” She smiled. “I still call you ‘stranger.’ I don’t know your name.”

  “Nor I yours.”

  “What are you called?”

  “Stryke.”

  “Stryke. It’s a strong name. It serves you well. Yes . . . Stryke,” she repeated, as though relishing it. “Stryke.”

  “Stryke. Stryke! Stryke!”

  He was being shaken.

  “Uh? Uhm . . . Wha . . . what’s your name?”

  “It’s me, Coilla. Who did you think it was? Snap out of it, Stryke!”

  He blinked and took in his surroundings. Realisation returned. It was daybreak. They were at Scratch.

  “You look strange, Stryke. You all right?”

  “Yes . . . yes. Just a . . . a dream.”

  “Seems to me you’ve been having a lot of those lately. Nightmare, was it?”

  “No. It was far from bein
g a nightmare. It was only a dream.”

  Jennesta dreamt of blood and burning, of death and destruction, suffering and despair. She dreamt of the principles of lust, and the enlightenment to be gained thereof.

  As was her wont.

  She woke up in her inner sanctum. The mangled body of a human male, barely into manhood, lay on the crimson altar amid the detritus of the previous night’s ritual. She ignored it, rose and wrapped her nakedness in a cloak of furs. A pair of high leather boots completed her wardrobe.

  It was first light and she had business to attend to.

  As she left the chamber the orc guards outside stiffened to attention. “Come,” she ordered briskly.

  They fell in behind her. She led them through a maze of corridors, up flights of stone-slab stairs and finally into the open air, emerging on to a parade ground in front of the palace.

  Several hundred members of her orc army were there, standing in well-ordered ranks. The audience, for that was what it amounted to, had been made up of representatives from each regiment. It was an efficient way of ensuring that word of what they were about to witness would spread quickly through the whole of Jennesta’s horde.

  The troops faced a stout wooden stake the height of a small tree. An orc soldier was lashed to it. There were bundles of faggots and kindling stacked almost to his waist.

  General Mersadion met Jennesta with a bow. “We’re ready to proceed, Your Majesty.”

  “Let the verdict be known.”

  Mersadion nodded at an orc captain. He stepped forward and raised a parchment. In a booming voice, the attribute that had landed him his unpopular task, he began to read.

  “ ‘By order of Her Imperial Majesty Queen Jennesta, let all note the findings of a military tribunal in the case of Krekner, sergeant ordinary of the Imperial Horde.’ ”

  All eyes were on the soldier at the stake.

  “ ‘The charges laid against said Krekner were, one, that he knowingly disobeyed an order issued by a superior officer and, two, that in disobeying that order he did show cowardice in the face of the enemy. The tribunal’s findings were that he be judged guilty on both counts and should be condemned to suffer such penalty as the above charges carry.’ ”

  The Captain lowered the parchment. It was deathly silent in the square.

  Mersadion addressed the prisoner. “You have the right of final appeal to the Queen. Will you exercise it?”