Orcs

by Stan Nicholls

  “I believe Katz. And they’re building that temple to house something.”

  “They might have moved the star somewhere else since he was here.”

  “We’ll never know unless we take the trouble to find out.”

  “How? Walk into the temple and ask?”

  “I want your permission to try getting into that place to check.”

  “It’s risky.”

  “I know that. But when did risk figure too highly in what we’ve done lately?”

  “All right,” he replied warily. “But only when the time’s right, and only a look. Now’s obviously not the time to steal it.”

  “Obviously,” she returned dryly. She allowed herself a little petulance at what she considered an unnecessary comment and fell silent.

  They returned to staring at the army.

  Outside Ruffetts, in the broadest part of the valley, Kimball Hobrow walked through the massed ranks of his army with Mercy at his side. Men called out good wishes to them, and godly supplications.

  “The failure of the first onslaught is a disappointment,” he confessed to his daughter, “but at least it did the heathens some damage. Generally God has been good. He got us here before the Whore.”

  “And the Wolverines are inside. He delivered them to our justice, Daddy.”

  “His justice, Mercy. As it’s His will that we expunge this nest of vermin from His good earth. When we burn this place it’ll be the first beacon, letting the whole land know that the righteous are on the move. Then let the sub-humans beware.”

  She gave an excited little clap of her hands, taking an almost childlike delight at the prospect.

  “If need be we’ll build siege engines to get us in there.”

  They came to a crowd of custodians, gathered around a punishment detail. The men parted at sight of them. A man was spread and tied, face forward, on a whipping frame. His bare back was bloody and lined with red weals.

  “What’s this man’s crime?” Hobrow asked of the custodian with the whip.

  “Cowardice, Master. He ran from the fight at the settlement.”

  “Then he is fortunate to keep his life.” He raised his voice for the benefit of them all. “Heed this well! The same fate awaits any who defy the Lord’s will! Proceed with the punishment.”

  The whip-man resumed his lashing.

  Mercy wanted to linger and watch. Her father didn’t like to deny her.

  14

  The more Stryke saw of the settlement’s defences, the more he realised how tenuously protected the place was.

  He was walking the streets of Ruffetts View with Commander Rellston. The human’s surly nature had hardly improved, but at least he was now amenable to the orcs helping with the defences. And Stryke admitted to himself that he had some admiration for the man, as far as he could have for any human. They saw eye to eye on military matters.

  What shocked Stryke was that Coilla’s estimate of ten per cent under arms was probably optimistic. Seasoned warriors were in a definite minority here.

  They came to a group of citizens, twenty or thirty strong, practising in pairs with staffs. A soldier was drilling them. It took no more than a minute to realise they were at best raw, at worst useless.

  “You see what I have to work with?” Rellston complained.

  “It’s been obvious since we got here, with the exception of your crew. How did the settlement come to this?”

  “It’s never really been any different. A legacy of the founders. This colony was established on the principle of harmony, and even those of us who chose the martial life agree with that. But times have changed. It’s always been hard, but in recent years it’s become a lot more dangerous. Our military force hasn’t grown to match the threat. And so much goes into the new temple: manpower, coin. Now I fear we’re paying for it.”

  It was the longest speech Stryke had heard him make. “The land grows more perilous daily,” he agreed. “But right now we have to see what we can do to shorten our odds on getting through this. I wanted to suggest that I break down my force into five or six more manageable groups. That way we spread their expertise around.”

  “It would give the citizens a bit of backbone, yes. Hmm. All right. Let me know what I can do to help.”

  “There’s something you can help me with now.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Tell me where to find the High Priestess.”

  “It’s no secret. Go to the back of the temple. You’ll find just two houses in the roadway directly opposite. She occupies the first.”

  Stryke thanked him and they parted.

  He followed the directions and found the house easily. It was large and built well of durable materials, but he guessed that reflected her rank. He had no need to approach the door. The building had a small, low-walled garden to one side, and Krista Galby was working in it. Her child played nearby.

  She saw Stryke coming and greeted him.

  “Well met,” he returned. “Am I troubling you?”

  “No.” She dusted her hands. “I tend the plants as much for spiritual reasons as anything else. It’s good to have contact with the earth at a time like this. Is there news?”

  “Not really. The Unis are getting themselves organised out there. Just biding their time for the attack, I reckon.”

  “There’s no chance they’ll go away?”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Are they here because of you?”

  The question took him by surprise. “I . . . If they are, I’m sorry. It wasn’t our plan, I promise you that.”

  “I believe you. I’m not blaming you for anything, Captain. It’s just . . .” Her gaze went to the boy. “It’s just that I hate warfare. Oh, I know it’s necessary sometimes. I’m not so naive as to think we shouldn’t defend ourselves. But war is usually stupid, wanton and pointless. I hope you’ll forgive me for insulting your trade.”

  “Some call it an art.” He smiled thinly. “I take no offence. We orcs are born to war, but we take no pride in suffering or injustice. Though most won’t believe it.”

  “I do. You know, you’re the first member of your race I’ve actually spoken to. Orcs follow the Tetrad, don’t they? The Square?”

  “Many do.”

  “Excuse my curiosity. But I am after all a High Priestess of the Followers of the Manifold Path. Naturally the topic interests me. Do you follow the Square?”

  It was another question that threw him. “I . . . suppose I do. It’s the way I was brought up. All of us were. I haven’t given these things much thought lately.”

  “Perhaps you should. The gods can comfort us in troubled times.”

  “Mine have done precious little of that for a while.” There was an edge of bitterness in his voice that startled even him. He tried changing the subject. “What happened to Aidan’s father?”

  “Should something have?”

  “I don’t see him here.”

  “He’s dead. In one of the endless conflicts with the Unis. Over something so trivial it would be amusing if it weren’t . . .” She gave up on the memory.

  “I’m sorry if I caused you pain.”

  “That’s all right. It was a while ago. I should be over it by now.”

  He thought of why he was there and felt a pang of guilt. “Loss is always with us,” he said. Then despite himself he shivered.

  She noticed. “You’re cold?”

  “No. Just . . .”

  “Like somebody walked over your grave, to coin a phrase?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Has this happened to you before, while you’ve been here in Ruffetts?”

  “Why the questions? I just shivered.”

  “I do it too, quite often. It’s the escaping earth energy. I feel it like goosebumps, or liquid trickling on my skin.”

  That was a fair description of what he’d just felt.

  “But it doesn’t happen to everybody,” she went on, “just the attuned. The energy flows through me, I’m aware of it a
ll the time. For most people, most of the elder races too, I think, it isn’t like that.”

  “You’re saying that I’m . . . attuned?”

  “It can’t be. Orcs don’t have any affinity with the magic, do they? No magical skills. Which we believe comes from you not absorbing the energy somehow, the way many of the other elder races do. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “Do you ever have sudden flashes of perception? Farsight, perhaps? Or prophetic dreams?”

  She was sharply intuitive and it troubled him.

  “You do, don’t you?” Krista gently insisted. “Your face betrays you, for all its inscrutable qualities.”

  He wrinkled his craggy brow. “What are you getting at?”

  “You could be a sport, like me. There are many different kinds. In my case, quaintness, as my people sometimes call it, means I can feel the flow. Of magic.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “From time to time all races seem to throw up a very small number of special individuals. They have a sort of . . . twist, compared to everybody else. Usually their twist has something to do with the earth energies. Sometimes it’s a completely wild talent. These special types are known as sports. Many wise beings have pondered their mystery. Some think they’re rare deviations from the racial norm. Mutations.”

  “Doesn’t that mean a freak?”

  “Only to the ignorant who want conformity. Like the Unis, Hobrow’s brand in particular, who would see it as some kind of abomination to be persecuted.”

  “You’ve made a lot out of a shiver.”

  She smiled. “There are other signs. Sports are said to be characterised by a higher than normal intelligence, for instance. Not always—there have been idiot savant sports—but usually.”

  “What cause have I given you to think that of me?”

  “Your actions.”

  “I’m just a simple soldier.”

  “I think you could be much more than that, Captain. You already have a reputation, you know. Even we’ve heard of it, and how there are many who would follow you. Sports are often leaders. Or messiahs.”

  “I’m neither. I want no followers.”

  “It seems to me you’ve already attracted some. Either that or warbands have grown considerably bigger.”

  “That wasn’t of my choosing. I didn’t ask them to dog me.”

  “Perhaps the gods desire it. You should learn to bend to their will, Stryke.”

  “What of my will? Do I have no say in it?”

  “Our will is as important as the gods’, because we use it to carry out their design.” Krista thought for a moment. “These strange experiences you’ve been having . . .” She saw the attempted denial in his face. “. . . that you imply haven’t happened, did they begin recently?”

  “There might have been one or two . . . odd dreams.” Stryke was amazed hearing himself admit it to her. “But I think you’re wrong about all this,” he added hurriedly. “As I said, I’m a soldier, not a mystic.”

  “If it has started recently,” she ploughed on, ignoring him, “and you had no hint of sport before, something must have triggered it. Or rather, boosted what was already there, what was innate.” Smiling, she added, “Of course, I could be wrong.”

  “I have to go,” he told her.

  “Not for anything I’ve said, I hope. Because, even if I’m right, it shouldn’t be seen as a bad thing. It can be a very rocky road or a blessing; it’s up to you.”

  “It’s nothing you’ve said,” he assured her. “I have to help with the defences.”

  “We should speak about this again.” When he made no reply to that, she asked, “Why did you come?”

  “No reason. Just passing.”

  Stryke left suffering another twinge of guilt. But at least he should have given Coilla enough time to check the temple without the High Priestess being there.

  Coilla should have been in and out by now. She hadn’t even got in. The guards had seen to that.

  Stryke had agreed that this was the best opportunity. For the first time, work had been suspended on the temple due to the siege and there were no workers smothering the place. He had gone off to distract Krista Galby, to prevent her turning up unexpectedly. It might be Coilla’s only chance. But for those damned guards.

  There were four of them and they took turns patrolling. One pair stayed at the gates while the other did the rounds, then it was turnabout and off again. She’d crouched miserably in a clump of bushes opposite for nearly an hour, watching the guards and keeping an eye on passing citizenry. If she didn’t see a way in soon she’d have to abandon the mission.

  No sooner had the thought occurred than her break came. Four relief guards arrived. They mustered at the bottom of the temple’s steps, and the old guards walked down to greet them. The doors were unprotected. If Coilla moved very fast, hugging the shadows, she might just get herself up the side of the steps and in. But it would take only one of the gossiping soldiers to turn and see her for the game to be up. A big risk, that had to be taken now or never.

  She took it. Stooping low, running fast, she rushed from her hiding place and got across the avenue. She scaled the steps two or three at a time. Then she was at the doors, which were conveniently in a pool of gloom. There was a moment’s anxiety when she thought the place might be locked. But obviously no one saw the necessity with guards about. The round iron handle, big as her hand, turned freely. Pushing the door just enough to sidle in, she carefully closed it behind her.

  Standing absolutely still and silent, she listened, just in case there was somebody inside. Detecting nothing, she looked around. There were no lamps or candles burning. But light came in from the open roof, lofty windows and a high section of uncompleted wall. It was dull but enough to see by.

  There were some internal furnishings, including rows of benches and the beginnings of an altar. Several pillars had been erected, taller and slimmer than the ones outside, presumably as roof supports. A single, shorter pillar, the circumference of a wagon wheel, stood beside the altar, near to a boarded window. She went over and saw that something was sitting on its flat top, arranged so that people on the benches could gaze up at it. Not being able to make out what it was, she climbed on to the altar to see better.

  It looked as though she had found the star. Details were hard to make out, but she reckoned it was red, and it certainly had more spikes than the others.

  That was all Coilla needed to know for now. She clambered down and padded back to the door. Very carefully and quietly she eased it open a crack. Then froze. Two sentries stood a couple of feet away, their backs to her. Worse, at the bottom of the steps the other guards were talking with the High Priestess and Commander Rellston. Praying she wouldn’t be seen, she gently closed the door and retreated.

  It was time to think fast. She scanned the massive building. Only one possibility presented itself, and it didn’t look easy.

  Creeping back to the altar, she scaled it again. Even standing on the edge, the stout pillar was just beyond reach. But she thought she might be able to jump to it if she took a short run. Her hands would have to connect with the flat top, and the pillar’s fluting would have to be pronounced enough to give her feet purchase. Two big ifs.

  She moved to the far side of the altar, beaded the target, took a breath and ran. As she leapt, it occurred to her that the pillar might be free-standing and go down when she hit it. In which case every guard in the settlement would be in here.

  Luck was with her. Her hands came down on the pillar’s top, painfully, and she held on. Her boots gripped on the fluting. The whole thing didn’t collapse, as she’d feared. Then it was a case of scrabbling her way up until she was able to perch unsteadily on the plateau, crowding the star. And it was the star, she saw that clearly now. As she thought, it was red, and she counted no less than nine projecting spikes.

  For a second she was tempted to take it. Good sense prevailed.

  She hadn’t finished yet. T
he next step was to get from the pillar to the boarded window, which fortunately had a deep sill. It was as long a jump as the one she’d just taken, and of course she couldn’t have a run at it. There was no point delaying. Tensing her muscles, she launched herself. She made it to the sill, but only just. For a dizzying second she thought she was going to fall. Clamping her palms on the sides of the window’s alcove saved her.

  Drawing a knife, she set to work on the nails holding one of the boards. It was fortunate that they’d been hammered in from her side. What seemed an eternity went by as Coilla prised them loose. She expected the guards to burst in at any moment, or the Priestess to enter. At last she got the board off, and was relieved to see scaffolding outside. The plank she passed out through the gap. Next she began squeezing through herself. That proved tense too; the space was only just wide enough.

  She kept low on the scaffolding, trusting she wouldn’t be seen. Then the board had to be wedged back in place behind her, lest it be thought someone had broken in. Finally she scanned the street, saw no one, and swiftly descended to ground level.

  Sighing with relief as she melted into the shadows, Coilla promised herself she’d never take up burglary as a profession.

  Jennesta tossed scraps of raw meat to the flock as she rode.

  The dozen or so scavengers swooped and screeched, catching the titbits in the air and gulping them whole.

  “Aren’t they delightful?” she enthused.

  Mersadion grunted a platitude and gazed at the harpies. He found their black leathery skin, bat-like crinkly wings and razor-toothed maws far from adorable. But it never did to gainsay his mistress.

  His bandages were off now, and he was depressingly self-conscious about the wound. Angry blisters pockmarked the whole of the right side of his face, leaving his cheek a ruin. He looked like a partially melted candle.

  For her part, Jennesta took pride in her handiwork, and had insisted that he ride on the left side of her chariot in order to admire it.

  “You know,” she mused, “I was a little piqued about that run-in earlier, letting Hobrow and the Unis beat us to Ruffetts View.”