Coilla sank her teeth into it. He shrieked. She bit down harder. One-Eye thrashed wildly, but couldn’t free himself from the tangle of limbs. She tore at the ear savagely, provoking ever louder agonised howls. Flesh stretched and began parting. There was a salty taste in her mouth. With a final jerk of her head, a chunk of ear ripped off. She spat it out.
One-Eye struggled free and rolled on the ground, clutching the side of his head and wailing.
“Bitch . . . whore . . . freak . . . !”
Suddenly Pox Face was looming over Coilla. His fist came down several times on her craggy temple, knocking her senseless. Big and Stupid clamped her shoulders and finished the job.
“Tie her,” Pox Face ordered.
The big man hauled her to a sitting position and took a length of cord from the pocket of his squalid jerkin. Roughly, her wrists were bound.
Stretched in the dirt, One-Eye was still shouting and cursing.
Pox Face lifted Coilla’s sleeve and took away her knives. He commenced patting the rest of her for more weapons.
Behind them, One-Eye moaned loudly and thrashed about some more. “I’ll . . . fucking kill . . . her,” he bleated.
“Shut up!” Pox Face snapped. He dug into his belt pouch and found a piece of grubby cloth. “Here.”
The balled cloth landed beside One-Eye. He took it and tried to staunch the blood. “My ear, Micah,” he grumbled. “The fucking little monster . . . My ear!”
“Ah, stow it,” Pox Face said. “You never did listen anyway, Greever.”
Big and Stupid boomed with laughter. Pox Face took it up.
“It ain’t funny!” One-Eye protested indignantly.
“One eye, one ear,” the vast human cackled, jowls undulating. “He’s got . . . the set!”
The pair of them roared.
“Bastards!” One-Eye exclaimed.
Pox Face looked down at Coilla. His mood changed instantly and completely. “I reckon that wasn’t too friendly, orc.” The tone was pure menace.
“I can be a lot more unfriendly than that,” she promised him.
Big and Stupid sobered. Muttering, One-Eye climbed to his feet and tottered over to them.
Crouching beside her, reeking fetid breath, Pox Face said, “I’m asking again: are the other Wolverines still in Scratch?”
Coilla just stared at him.
One-Eye kicked her in the side. “Talk, bitch!”
She took the blow and repaid it with another show of silent defiance.
“Cut it out,” Pox Face told him. But he didn’t sound overly concerned about her welfare.
Glowering, One-Eye pressed the cloth to his ear and looked murderous.
“Is it Scratch?” Pox Face repeated to her. “Well?”
“You really think the three of you could go against the Wolverines and live?”
“I’m asking the questions, bitch, and I’m not good at patience.” He pulled a knife from his belt and held it in front of her face. “Tell me where they are or I start with your eyes.”
A slow pause and some quick thinking occurred. Finally she said, “Hecklowe.”
“What?”
“She’s lying!” One-Eye interjected.
Pox Face looked sceptical too. “Why Hecklowe? What are they doing there?”
“It’s a freeport, isn’t it?”
“So?”
“If you have something to sell, it’s where you’ll get the highest price.” She made it seem that she was giving this out with reluctance.
“Hecklowe’s that kind of place, Micah,” Big and Stupid offered.
“I know that,” Pox Face retorted testily. He returned his attention to Coilla. “What have your kind got to sell?”
She baited the hook with a strategic silence.
“It’s what you stole from the Queen, ain’t it?”
Coilla slowly nodded, desperately hoping they’d buy the lie. “Seems to me it must be something real precious to go renegade and upset the likes of Jennesta. What is it?”
She realised they didn’t know about the instrumentalities, the artifacts she and the band called stars. No way was she going to enlighten them. “It’s a . . . trophy. A relic. Very old.”
“Relic? A valuable of some kind? Treasure?”
“Yes, a treasure.” She meant the word in a way he’d never understand.
“I knew it!” There was avarice in his eyes. “It had to be something big.”
Coilla realised these bounty hunters, which was obviously what they were, could accept that the Wolverines had gone rogue in pursuit of gain. They would never have bought the notion of them acting for an ideal. It fitted their jaundiced view of the world.
“So why ain’t you with ’em?” One-Eye butted in, glaring at her suspiciously.
It was the question she was dreading. Whatever she came out with had to be convincing. “We had some trouble on the trail. Ran into a bunch of Unis and I got parted from the band. I was trying to catch them up when—”
“When you ran into us,” Pox Face interrupted. “Your bad luck, our good fortune.”
She dared to hope that he at least believed her. But Coilla knew she was taking a risk if they did. They might decide she’d served her purpose, kill her and be on their way. Taking her head with them.
Pox Face stared at her. She braced herself.
“We’re going to Hecklowe,” he announced.
“What about her?” asked One-Eye.
“She’s coming with us.”
“Why? What do we need her for now?”
“A profit. Hecklowe’s just about the best place to strike a deal with slavers. Some pay plenty for an orc bodyguard in times like this. Particularly for an orc from a crack fighting unit.” He jerked his head at the big man. “Get her horse, Jabeez.”
Jabeez trudged toward her mount, which was grazing a little way off, unconcerned.
One-Eye, still fussing with what was left of his ear, didn’t look happy. But he kept his peace.
To Coilla it seemed like a good time for token objections. “Slavery.” She almost spat the word. “Another sign of Maras-Dantia’s decline. That’s something else we owe you humans for.”
“Shut your noise!” Pox Face snapped. “Get this straight, orc. All you mean to me is the amount you’re worth. And you don’t need a tongue to ply your trade. Understand?”
Coilla breathed an inward sigh of relief. Greed had rescued her. But all she’d done was buy a little time, both for her and, she hoped, the band.
The band. Shit, what a mess. Where were they? Where was Haskeer? What would become of the stars?
Who was there to help?
For a long, long time he had done nothing but watch. He had contented himself with observing events from afar and trusting fate. But fate couldn’t be trusted. Things just got more involved, more unpredictable, and chaos loomed ever larger.
The draining of the magic brought about by the destructive ways of the incomers meant that when he finally decided to act even his powers were too unreliable, too weakened. He had to involve others in the search and that proved a mistake.
Now the instrumentalities were back in the world, back in history, and it was just a matter of time before somebody harnessed their power. Whether it would be used for good or ill was the only question that mattered a damn now.
He couldn’t argue to himself any longer that none of it affected this place. Even his own extraordinary domain was threatened. With his abilities diminishing it was all he could do to maintain its existence, notwithstanding that his small elite of acolytes called him Mage and believed he was capable of anything.
It was time to take a more direct hand in what was happening. He had made mistakes and he had to try rectifying them. Some things he could do to help. Others he couldn’t.
But he saw what had been, and something of what was to come, and knew he might already be too late.
3
The large, spherical chamber, deep in the underground labyrinth of Scratch, was poorly
lit. Such light as there was came from innumerable, faintly glowing crystals embedded in the walls and roof, and from a few discarded torches scattered about the floor. Half a dozen ovals of pitch blackness marked tunnels running off from the cavern. The air was unwholesome.
Above, two score trolls were gathered. Theirs was a squat, beefy race, covered in coarse grey fur and of waxen complexion. Incongruously, their heads were crowned with a mass of vivid, rusty orange hair. Their chests were expansive, their limbs overly long, and their eyes had evolved into vast black orbs to cope with subterranean darkness.
For all Stryke and Alfray knew, the chamber was only a small part of the troll kingdom, and these warriors were only a fraction of its population. But separated from the rest of their band by a rock fall, the Wolverine captain and corporal were destined never to find out. Their hands were bound and they stood with their backs pressed against a sacrificial altar. The trolls arrayed against them were armed with spears, and some had bows.
At their head was Tannar, the troll monarch. He stood taller than any other present. His build was brawnier than all save the orcs’. Robes of gold, a silver crown and the long, ornate crook he bore marked his status. But it was what he held aloft in his other hand that mesmerised the captives. He brandished a curved-bladed sacrificial knife, and fixed to its hilt was the very thing the Wolverines had braved Scratch to find.
One of the ancient instrumentalities. A relic the orcs referred to as a star.
The trolls were chanting a guttural dirge. Tannar slowly advanced, intent on murder in the name of his fearful Cimmerian gods. Hardly crediting the bitter irony of their situation, Stryke and Alfray readied themselves for death as the chanting reached a mesmeric pitch.
Eyeing the dagger, Alfray said, “Some joke fate’s played on us, eh?”
“Shame I don’t feel like laughing.” Stryke strained at his bonds. They held firm.
Alfray glanced his way. “It’s been good, Stryke. Despite everything.”
“Don’t give in, old friend. Even to death. Die like an orc.”
A mildly indignant look passed across Alfray’s face. “There’s another way?”
The dagger was close.
There was a flash of light at the mouth of one of the tunnels. What followed seemed to Stryke like an hallucinogenic experience brought on by pellucid. Something shot across the cavern. For a fragment of a second whatever it was left an intensely bright yellow and red trail line.
Then a burning arrow struck the head of one of the trolls standing next to them. Sparks flew as the arrow hit, and the impact knocked the troll to one side. His bushy mane burst into flames as he went down.
Tannar froze. The chanting stopped. A ripple of gasps ran through the chamber. The trolls turned en masse to face the tunnel. There was a commotion there. Yells and shrieks rang out.
The rest of the Wolverines were fighting their way in. They were led by Jup, the band’s dwarf sergeant, laying into the startled enemy with a broadsword. Orc archers began picking off more targets with fire-tipped arrows. Light was anathema to trolls and the flaming shafts sowed utter confusion in their ranks.
As best he could with hands tied, Stryke took advantage of the distraction. He rushed at the nearest troll and delivered an orc’s kiss, a vicious head-butt that buckled the creature’s knees and dropped him like a dead weight. Alfray charged an off-guard troll and rapidly kicked him twice in the crotch. The anguished victim collapsed with rolling eyes and twisted mouth.
Tannar had lost interest in his captives and was bellowing orders. His subjects needed directing; their response to the attack was shambolic. The entire chamber housed a furious battle, lit by bursts of illumination from winging arrows and torches the orcs employed as clubs. Screams, wails and the clash of steel echoed from all sides.
A pair of orc grunts, Calthmon and Eldo, battled their way through the tumult to Alfray and Stryke. The prisoners’ bonds were slashed and weapons pressed into their eager hands. They immediately turned the blades on anything that moved and wasn’t a Wolverine.
Stryke wanted Tannar. To get to him he had to pass through a wall of defenders. He set about the task with a will. The first troll blocking his path thrust a spear at him. Stryke side-stepped, avoiding the lunge by a whisker, and brought his sword down hard on the spear. The blow sliced it in two. A stab to the bewildered spear-carrier’s guts put him out of the picture.
The next defender came at Stryke swinging an axe. He ducked and the cleaver whistled in an arc inches above his head. As the troll pulled back to try again, Stryke bought a second’s grace by lashing out at his shin with a boot. The kick connected heavily. Unbalanced, the troll’s next swing was wild, and well off its mark. Stryke exploited an opening and slashed at his chest. The blade cut deep. Staggering a few steps and spraying blood, the troll went down.
Stryke moved in on another foe.
Jup was employed carving his way towards Stryke and Alfray. Behind him, grunts were igniting more brands, and the light from them was increasingly affecting the trolls. As they covered their eyes, roaring, the band felled them. But many were still fighting back.
Alfray faced a pair of trolls trying to corral him with levelled spears. He sparred with them, his sword bouncing off the javelins’ sharpened metal points. After a moment’s to-ing and froing, one opponent overreached himself, his leading arm exposed, and Alfray hacked into it. The troll screamed, let go of his spear and caught the full might of a follow-up slash to the chest.
His maddened companion attacked. Alfray found himself being pushed back as he batted at the menacing spear tip, trying to turn it aside. The troll was too determined for that and pushed on relentlessly. Alfray was close to being pinned to the wall. With the tip jabbing uncomfortably close to his face, he fell into a stoop, then pitched to one side, fetching up next to the troll. He instantly aimed a blow at its legs. The blade sliced flesh, not badly but usefully. It sent the troll into a limping retreat, his spear slackly held.
Alfray leapt to his feet and swung his blade at the creature’s head. The troll dodged to the left. Twisting to compensate, Alfray’s blade turned in flight, so it was the flat, not the edge, that smacked against the troll’s cheek. It yelled its pain and came in with crazy eyes and thrashing spear. The reckless move suited Alfray. He evaded the weapon with ease, spun himself parallel to the troll and sent in a blow. The blade chopped halfway through its neck. A shower of crimson drenched the area.
Alfray expelled a breath from puffed cheeks and thought he was getting too old for this.
Slipping on blood underfoot, Stryke all but collided with the last of Tannar’s defenders. This glowering troll had a scimitar. He proceeded to slash with it ferociously, trying to drive the orc away from his monarch. Stryke stood his ground and returned blow for blow. It was a stalemate for a moment or two as each fighter parried the other’s attacks.
The breakthrough came when Stryke’s blade rapped across the troll’s knuckles and laid them open. Mouthing a curse, the troll aimed a downward stroke that would have parted Stryke’s sword arm from his trunk had it connected. Some deft footwork on Stryke’s part made sure it didn’t. After that he swerved and took a chance on a swipe to the troll’s throat. It paid off.
At last he faced Tannar.
Racked with fury, the king tried braining Stryke with his ornamental crook. The orc was agile enough to avoid that. Tannar threw the unwieldy crook aside and drew a sword, its silvered blade inscribed with swirling runic patterns. He still had the ceremonial dagger, and prepared to work the weapons in unison. Troll and orc squared off.
“What are you waiting for?” Tannar rumbled. “Taste my steel and wake in Hades, overlander.”
Stryke laughed derisively. “You talk a good fight, windbag. Now put your blade where your mouth is.”
They circled, each seeking a flaw in the other’s guard.
Tannar eyed the combat going on all around. “You’ll pay for this with your life,” he vowed.
“So you sai
d.” Stryke kept his tone insolent.
The goading had its effect. Tannar roared in with a swingeing blow. Stryke checked it, the jarring impact he absorbed bearing witness to the strength of his opponent. He sent in a quick counterblow. The king blocked it. Now that their blades had met, the pair flowed into a regular exchange, attacking and defending by turn.
Tannar’s style was all power and little subtlety, though that made him no less dangerous a foe. Stryke’s technique was not dissimilar, but he had the advantage of much more experience, and was certainly nimbler. He also lacked Tannar’s bluster, which showed itself in excessive feinting. Stryke laid on some extra provocation.
“You’re soft,” he taunted, swatting aside a pass. “Lording it over this rabble’s spoilt you, Tannar. It’s made you mushy as tallow.”
Bellowing, the troll charged at him, knife slashing the air, sword raking. Stryke braced himself and swiped, targeting the point where hilt met blade. He struck true. The sword flew from Tannar’s hand, clattering beyond reach. He hung on to the dagger with its precious ornament and brought it to bear. But the shock of losing his sword had turned him leaden-footed. He hadn’t a hope of besting Stryke with the knife and every move now was defensive.
The orc crowded him. Tannar began to back off. What he didn’t know, but Stryke could see, was that Jup and a couple of grunts had got themselves behind him. Stryke hurried the pace of Tannar’s retreat with a torrent of blows.
Jup seized his opportunity. He leapt on to the monarch’s back and threw an arm around his neck. With his other hand he pressed a knife to Tannar’s jugular. The dwarf’s legs were clear of the ground and kicking. One of the grunts moved in and pointed his sword at the king’s heart. Tannar thundered his impotent anger. Stryke stepped forward and prised the sacrificial dagger from his hand.
One or two trolls saw what was happening. Most were unaware and continued fighting.
“Tell them to stop,” Stryke demanded, “on pain of your life.”
Orcs Page 28