Orcs

by Stan Nicholls

  “You got a better idea, let’s hear it,” Stryke flared.

  “Heads up,” Coilla interrupted.

  They looked the way she indicated. Keppatawn was approaching. Already his withered leg had improved noticeably. New, healthy skin was forming, and he walked with less of a limp. His whole demeanour seemed more robust.

  When he reached them, Stryke commented on this.

  “My affliction improves by the hour,” the centaur replied, “though it’s not entirely healed yet. Hedgestus tells me tonight’s final application will complete the process.”

  “That’s good.”

  “It’s thanks to you.” He included Alfray and Coilla in his smiling approval. “All of you. I’m in your debt for this miracle.”

  “You owe us nothing.”

  “How go your preparations?” Keppatawn enquired. “Have you decided on your next move?” He added hastily, “Don’t think we’re being inhospitable.”

  “We don’t. And in truth, no, we haven’t settled on a destination. But we’ll be going today, in any event. We know having us here would only make our enemies your enemies.”

  “I’m glad you understand. The weapons we’re forging for you are ready, and —”

  A shout stopped him. Jup ran to them, arms pumping.

  Stryke glared at him. “I thought I told you —”

  “Look what’s coming,” the dwarf panted.

  Centaurs were escorting a group into the clearing. Four or five of the newcomers had the unmistakable physique and gait of pixies. They led strings of mules and horses, laden with saddlebags, bolts of cloth, sacks and chests.

  Grunts abandoned their chores and came to watch, followed by Haskeer. Stryke didn’t reprimand them.

  “See?” Jup nodded at a knot of figures, a dozen strong, marching at the caravan’s rear.

  They were orcs.

  Alarm spread through the band. Weapons were drawn.

  “Betrayal!” Haskeer growled.

  Keppatawn reached out and grasped Stryke’s sword hand. “No, my friend. You aren’t in danger. These traders are regular visitors.”

  “And them?” He indicated the orcs.

  “Not all of your kind are in hordes, you know that. Some manage an independent existence. These are freelance bodyguards. What better protection could the merchants buy? Trust me.”

  Stryke slowly resheathed his blade, then ordered the rest of the band to do the same. With some reluctance, particularly from Haskeer, they did as they were told.

  The bodyguards were looking on, their bearing tense.

  “It’s a comedown for orcs,” Alfray remarked, “reduced to hiring themselves out as chaperones for peddlers.”

  Pixies and centaurs began unpacking the wares. Silks and rugs were shaken out, boxes levered open, sacks upended. An orc moved away from the crowd and headed for the band.

  “Please remember that they are guests too,” Keppatawn said.

  “Of course,” Stryke replied. “We don’t pick fights with our own kind.”

  “Unless they pick one with us,” Coilla appended.

  Keppatawn seemed a little pained at that, but held his tongue.

  The orc arrived. He kept his hands well away from his weapons and looked as diffident as his nature allowed.

  “Well met,” he offered.

  Stryke returned the greeting. The rest of the Wolverines contented themselves with wary nods.

  “I’m Melox,” the orc went on, “leader of our group. I was surprised to see you here.”

  “The feeling’s mutual. I’m Stryke.”

  “Thought so. Wolverines, eh?”

  “What of it?”

  “We’re out of Jennesta’s horde too. Not in a band. Footsoldiers.”

  “How did you come to this?” Alfray wanted to know, a hint of disdain in his voice.

  “Desert a horde and what’s an orc to do? Still got to eat. Anyway, I could say the same about you. No disrespect.”

  “None taken,” Stryke decided. “Nobody’s judging you. These are hard times.”

  “Why did you leave Jennesta?” Coilla asked.

  “Same reason you did, I reckon. Couldn’t take no more.”

  “Wasn’t quite like that with us. But it came out the same.”

  “Well, we think what you’re doing’s right. Should have happened long ago.” He nodded the caravan’s way. “This job, we’d drop it in a minute, all of us, if you’d take us on, Captain.”

  “We’re not recruiting,” Stryke told him. His tone was dismissive.

  “But that’s why you went AWOL, ain’t it? To go against Jennesta? To get things back the way they were for us?”

  “No.”

  “It’s what everybody thinks.”

  “They think wrong.”

  A strained silence descended. Jup broke it. “You’re being called.”

  The bodyguard’s comrades were waving him back.

  “Maybe we can talk later,” Melox said.

  “We’re moving out today,” Stryke replied.

  “Oh. Right. Well, if you change your mind about letting us join . . .” He turned and walked away.

  Coilla directed, “Good luck!” at his back. Then, “You were a bit hard on him, Stryke.”

  “I’m not leading a crusade, I’ve told you that.”

  “Looks like not everybody agrees.”

  “Another visitor,” Haskeer rumbled.

  One of the merchants was coming their way.

  Keppatawn smiled. “This is somebody you should meet.”

  The individual who joined them was short and fairly robust, yet somehow gave an impression of fragility. His features inclined to the feminine, with lush lips, slightly tapering, dreamy eyes and smooth pale skin. His nose was pert and just a tad upturned. His ears were small and swept back to a point. A green felt cap didn’t entirely confine his mop of black hair. His tunic and leggings were green too, but the effect was offset by a wide brown leather belt with a gleaming buckle, and by a black cape, lined in green. The ankle-length soft hide shoes he wore, whose necks curled outward petal-fashion, were known universally as “pixie boots.”

  It was impossible to tell his age because all his race had faces like infants’. The voice was no clue either. It could have been a child’s, albeit a rather knowing one.

  “Keppatawn!” the pixie gushed. “Wonderful to see you again, you old knave you!” His pitch rose to a near shriek. “And your leg!Such an improvement! How delightful!” He winked theatrically. “Suits you.”

  Laughing, Keppatawn accepted the pixie’s delicate, outstretched hands in greeting. They were tiny compared to his. “Welcome back. It’s good to see you.” He wheeled his guest around. “Meet some friends, the Wolverines.”

  “I’ve heard of you,” the pixie exclaimed. “Aren’t you outlaws?”

  “This is Stryke, band captain,” Keppatawn explained. “Stryke, this is Katz, master merchant.”

  “Honoured, Captain.” Katz thrust out a limp hand.

  Bemused, Stryke took it, but didn’t shake too vigorously for fear of fracture. “Er, me too.”

  The other officers were each introduced, and the grunts en masse. Katz simply nodded this time and didn’t try offering his hand to any of them. Which in Haskeer’s case was probably wise. He looked as though he might have bitten it off.

  “You know, for a race with such a fearsome reputation, you orcs aren’t at all bad,” Katz prattled. “I’ve found that with my own retinue. Splendid fellows, every one of them. Always happy to oblige, nothing’s too much trouble, and the best protection coin can buy, naturally. We pixies aren’t warlike by nature, as I’m sure you know, and we—”

  “Don’t you ever shut up?” Haskeer grumbled.

  “Of course, how thoughtless of me. Here I am engaging you in idle chit-chat when all you want is sight of my goods.”

  “Wha —?”

  “I know what you’re thinking. You’re asking yourself how you can afford the amazing commodities I’m about to lay
before you. Don’t worry about it. My prices are so reasonable you’ll think I’m robbing myself, which in truth I am, and if even the paltry cost is too much I’m open to trade.”

  “But I don’t—”

  “What’s your need?” Katz ploughed on. “Cooking pots? New boots? A saddle? The finest handwoven horse blankets?” He prodded Haskeer’s chest with a tiny finger. “How about a length of high quality cotton fabric with attractive flower patterns?”

  “What would I want with that?”

  “Hmmm, well, it might improve that dowdy uniform for a start.”

  A series of expressions crossed Haskeer’s face as he tried to decide whether he’d been insulted. Shoulders heaving, Jup clamped a hand to his mouth. Coilla found her feet of great interest.

  “How . . . how’s business?” Alfray quickly put in.

  Katz shrugged philosophically. “If you were selling hats they’d be born without heads.”

  “Sure as the sun rises,” Keppatawn said, “merchants complain about trade.”

  “These are tough times,” Katz protested. “The gods should give us honest tradesbeings a break.” He sighed. “But it’s preordained, I suppose.”

  Glad to shift the conversation away from Haskeer, who’d settled on fuming, Coilla took the bait. “You don’t believe in free will?”

  “Some. But I think most of what we do is set by the gods and the stars.”

  “Sol signs?” Haskeer sneered. “That’s all . . . pixieshit.”

  Katz ignored the slur. “Ah, there speaks a true Seagoat.”

  “Wrong,” Haskeer grunted.

  “A Viper, then.”

  “Nope.”

  “Er, an Archer?”

  “No.”

  “Balladier, Grapnel, Scarab?”

  “No, no and no.”

  Katz massaged his temple. “Don’t tell me . . . uhm . . . Bear?”

  “Wrong again.”

  “Eagle? Charioteer?”

  Haskeer folded his arms and rocked on his heels.

  “Basilisk? Longhorn? Ah! Yes! I see I hit the target there! Longhorn. Of course. I can always tell. It’s a gift.”

  Haskeer mumbled something low and threatening.

  “Anyway,” Katz continued, “as a discerning Longhorn I know you’ll appreciate the benefits of the exquisite fabrics I can offer you for only —”

  Haskeer snapped. With a roar he lurched forward and seized Katz by his throat, hoisting him clear of the ground.

  “Sergeant, please!” Keppatawn shouted. “Don’t forget that pixies —”

  There was a loud sound like ripping cloth and a spume of yellow flame shot from the merchant’s hindquarters. Grunts standing three yards back scattered, then danced on the ignited grass.

  “—have fire-starting abilities.”

  Haskeer dropped the pixie and swiftly retreated.

  Katz grinned sheepishly. “Oops. Sorry. Nervous bowel condition.”

  Keppatawn stepped in. “I think it might be best if we got on with our business,” he stated diplomatically, ushering Katz away.

  The band and Haskeer, open-mouthed, watched as the pixie moved off with smouldering breeches and a slight hobble.

  “They must have behinds like quartz,” Jup remarked admiringly.

  Gelorak placed a finger to his lips and quietly shushed her.

  At first Coilla couldn’t make anything out as she squinted through the tangled undergrowth. Then there was movement and she saw their quarry.

  There were two of them. They stood as tall as centaurs and looked muscular, particularly in the arms and legs, the latter completely covered in dark shaggy fur and ending in cloven feet. Their chests were bare and ordinarily hairy, again like a centaur’s, or an hirsute human’s. Both angular faces had pointed beards and upswept, bushy eyebrows. Their jet black, curly hair finished above their foreheads in widow’s peaks. They had eyes that were penetrating, with a somewhat cunning attitude to them. One of the creatures clutched a set of wooden musical pipes.

  “I’ve never seen one before,” Coilla whispered.

  “Satyrs are an extremely retiring race,” Gelorak replied. “Even we rarely encounter them though we often hear their piping.”

  “Is there ever conflict between you?”

  “No. They are forest dwellers too, and have as much right to be here as us. We leave each other alone.”

  She leaned forward for a better look and trod on a fallen branch. It gave a dry crack. The satyrs froze. Two pairs of yellow-green eyes, almost feline, briefly flashed in their direction. Then the creatures vanished with startling speed and remarkably little noise.

  “Damn. Sorry.”

  “Don’t worry, Coilla. We were fortunate to find them at all. You can count yourself as privileged.” He looked up through the leafy canopy to patches of sky. “It’s been over an hour. Your band will be readying to leave. Shall we go back?”

  She nodded, smiling. “Thank you, Gelorak.” Her mind was on whether Stryke had worked out where they were heading.

  They battled their way through the scrub and came eventually to the clearing.

  The Wolverines were packing up their gear. Most of the grunts clustered around the horses. Stryke, Alfray and Jup were talking with Katz. Haskeer stood off to one side, eyeing the pixie with suspicion.

  Gelorak went off on a chore. Coilla joined the band.

  Stryke was stuffing gear into his saddlebags.

  “Decided where we’re going yet?” she asked.

  “I thought maybe north.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “Fair enough.” She wandered to Alfray and Jup.

  Stryke crouched and emptied his belt pouch, placing the stars on the grass in front of him. Katz came over and watched, vocally restrained for once. After a moment he remarked casually, “I’ve seen one of those before. Couple of months ago.”

  Nobody really took that in, least of all Stryke, absorbed by sorting. “Hmmm?”

  “One of these things. Here.” He pointed with his toe. “Or similar anyway. In the hands of humans.”

  Stryke looked up. “What?”

  “It was different to these. But near enough.”

  “These? The stars?”

  “That what you call them? Yes, one of these.” He saw Stryke’s face, then straightened and looked at the others. “What’s wrong?”

  A small window opened on bedlam.

  7

  The band crowded round him, firing questions. Numbed by the onslaught, Katz gaped, wordless.

  Haskeer pushed through and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck. “Where? Who?” he demanded, shaking the terrified pixie.

  “Careful!” Alfray shouted.

  “Don’t point his arse at me!” Jup yelled.

  “Steady, all of you!” Stryke ordered.

  Haskeer checked himself and gingerly put the merchant down. The hubbub calmed.

  “I’m sorry, Katz,” Stryke said. He forced the others back, giving him air.

  The pixie swallowed and took a breath. He rubbed his neck.

  His bodyguards were running towards the band. Stryke held up his hands placatingly and called, “It’s all right! No problem! Katz?”

  “Yes,” the pixie croaked, waving the bodyguards away. “Yes, I’m fine.”

  They stopped, and after a moment’s hesitation reluctantly dispersed.

  Stryke laid a hand on Katz’s shoulder. He winced slightly. “We shouldn’t have acted that way, but what you just said is very important to us. Can we go through it?”

  Katz nodded.

  “You say you’ve seen one of these before.” He indicated the stars at his feet.

  “Yes. Well, like them. Different colour and different number of bits sticking out. But the same sort of thing.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “It was a couple of months ago, but yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Ruffetts View. Know it?”

  “Mani township, down south.”
<
br />   “At the tip of the inlet, yes. There’s a lot of building going on there, thought it might be a good place for trade.”

  “What kind of building?”

  “You haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “They’ve got a breach. Earth energy escape. Big one. They were going to try capping it, store the magic somehow.”

  “Did they?”

  “I don’t know. When I left they weren’t ready. They won’t manage it, if you ask me. Nobody else has. Anyway, they were putting up some kind of holy place there, a temple, and that’s where I saw the star. The Manis didn’t like me seeing it, mind you. They had me out of there pretty quick.” He stared at the stars. “So what are these things?”

  “Some call them instrumentalities.”

  “Instru—The instrumentalities?”

  “You’ve heard of them?”

  “Who hasn’t? But I thought they were a myth. They can’t be genuine.”

  “We think they are.”

  “I’ve seen lots of so-called authentic relics all over Maras-Dantia. Not many of them turn out to be real.”

  “These are different.”

  A covetous light kindled in the pixie’s eyes. “If these really are the genuine items they’d be worth a fortune to the right buyer. Now if you let me act as your agent —”

  “No way,” Stryke replied firmly. “They’re not for sale.”

  Katz obviously found that a hard concept to come to terms with. “Why seek them if you don’t want to realise their value?”

  “There’s different kinds of value,” Coilla told him. “Theirs isn’t reckoned in coin.”

  “But I’ve told you where there might be another one. Isn’t that worth something?”

  “Yeah,” Haskeer drawled. “You get to live.”

  Keppatawn arrived, curtailing any unpleasantness. “What’s happening?” he said.

  “Looks like Katz here might have put us on to another star,” Stryke explained.

  “What? Where?”

  “Ruffetts View.”

  “Have you heard about a magic escape there, Keppatawn?” Alfray wanted to know.

  “Yes. It’s been going on for some time.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about it?”

  “Why should I? I had no reason to think it would interest you. Such fissures aren’t as rare as they used to be, sadly, with humans interfering with the energy.” He turned his attention to Katz. “You’re certain about your information?”