Of course, most people associate orcs with Tolkien. But while he undoubtedly brought them into the general consciousness, he didn’t create them. I’m fond of saying that Tolkien didn’t invent orcs any more than Bram Stoker invented vampires or Anne McCaffrey invented dragons. Needing agents of evil—arrow fodder, to put it bluntly—he took creatures from European myth and fashioned them to his purpose. Not that this is in any way a criticism of Tolkien. The Lord of the Rings is a wonderful, unique creation that I have enormous respect for. No one will ever equal it on its own terms, and anybody who tries is wasting their time. I’m not trying to add anything to it, or take anything away, which would be impossible. I’m just offering my own take on a species, as you might call them, in the same way others have explored elves, trolls, gnomes, dwarfs, fairies, and all the rest. I wanted to look at them in a different way, and give them their due.
Do you have a favorite character? If so, why?
For some reason my favorite characters in any of my books are usually female. I’m not sure why. Perhaps it’s because I was raised in an almost completely matriarchal environment. It might have something to do with the fact that I’m the sort of man who generally gets along better with women than with my own gender—at any given time my female friends usually outnumber the males. Maybe it’s because I’ve long regarded myself as profeminist and enjoy writing strong female characters. Though some critics have questioned my intentions in this respect because of Jennesta, the villain in the Orcs trilogy, who gets up to some pretty vile things. But it seems to me that saying you shouldn’t have a bad character who’s female, and by extension that women should only be cast as “good,” implies a patronizing and outmoded mind-set. And it ignores the heroic female characters who more than balance her. So to answer your question, my favorite character in the Orcs series is Coilla. I’m very fond of her, and find her the easiest character to write. If I was forced to pick a second favorite, I’ll contradict what I’ve just said slightly and go for Haskeer. He’s a dolt, and you wouldn’t want to run into him under any circumstances, but I can’t help feeling a certain affection for the character.
In terms of cover art, have you found it interesting to see how different countries have published Orcs?
The books are published worldwide now, and it’s been fascinating to see all the different interpretations. To refer back to The Lord of the Rings for a moment, if you read what Tolkien says about orcs you’ll find that he’s very light on describing them. And just an aside here: when I started writing the series I deliberately didn’t reread Tolkien, except for some of the passages about orcs. As this was going to be my exploration of the race, I didn’t want to be influenced in any way. But I decided to do as he had and keep my description of orcs fairly basic. I did this because of what you might call the Charlie Brown Syndrome. When the animated versions of the Peanuts strip started appearing, a common criticism was “They’ve got the voices wrong! They don’t sound like that!” What people meant was that they didn’t sound like that in their heads. Everybody had their own idea of how the characters should sound. It’s a bit like that with orcs. Given that they’ve never been fully described before—with the possible exception of some interpretations in the gaming world, of which I’m largely ignorant—everybody has a picture of orcs in their mind. And the movie versions of Lord of the Rings and its view of orcs didn’t come into this because I started writing the books well before the films were released. The point is that I didn’t want to fall victim to the Charlie Brown Syndrome by describing them in too much detail. I wanted to leave enough room in my depiction of these creatures for people to fill in the gaps themselves. In fact, that’s not a bad rule as far as many aspects of fantasy fiction are concerned—leave some space for the reader to dream in.
So it’s been really interesting seeing how different countries handle the covers, and I often wonder whether the artwork conveys some kind of national characteristic. Some countries, for example Holland, go for abstract covers implying martial artifacts like shields. The German editions started that way, with the stark image of an ax, but lately the illustrations have turned into something almost demonic. In the Czech Republic they see orcs as quite monstrous, while the French go for a slightly cartoonish but definitely epic quality. The Chinese orcs have something of Eastern mythology about them and the style of the covers has a faint echo of manga. My Italian editions are very hard-edged and feature scary armored helmets. The Russians . . . well, one of the Russian editions had me in stitches. Their orc looks just like Alfred E. Neuman!
What’s next for Stryke and his warband?
It was always my hope and intention to continue the story of Stryke and the Wolverines, and at this moment I’m halfway through writing the second trilogy, Orcs: Bad Blood. The first volume’s called Weapons of Magical Destruction and the second has the working title Army of Shadows. These books carry on the story begun in the original trilogy—we find out what became of the Wolverines after they entered the portal in search of their home world, and what happened next. All the characters from the first trilogy are featured—or at least the ones who survived—and we discover Jennesta’s true fate. There are quite a few new characters too, including some unlikely companions for an orc warband. And the plot opens out a lot more, in that it isn’t restricted to a single world. What I certainly didn’t want to do was serve up a rehash of the first trilogy—you owe readers better than that—and I’m working hard to give this continuation some fresh twists. The fact that I worked out a story arc that included the events in this new trilogy before I started writing the very first book has helped with that.
Finally, if you were walking down a dark alley, who would you be more scared to come across, Jup or Coilla?
Well, as I created them, I’d like to think they’d grasp my wrist warrior-style and invite me to join them for a tankard of ale. But let’s assume that didn’t happen. Jup would be a formidable opponent and tough as old leather, so you wouldn’t want to get on his wrong side. But in terms of savagery, fighting skill, and a propensity for bloodletting, Coilla would have to be the one to steer clear of. She’s an orc.
Short Story
It was always my intention to write a series of short stories centering on the characters featured in the Orcs series. “The Taking” is the first of these. Set before the events depicted in Orcs, it takes place on the day Coilla joined the Wolverines. I’m proud of the fact that “The Taking” was shortlisted for the 2001 British Fantasy Award.
—Stan Nicholls, February 8, 2008
THE TAKING
Humans were eating the magic.
The ice was encroaching and autumn had arrived in early summer. There was war on all sides and the rape of Maras-Dantia continued unchecked.
But today none of that seemed to matter.
It didn’t matter to Stryke. His only concern was the arcing blade threatening to cleave his skull. He ducked and let it rip vacant air. Bringing up his shield, he blocked the follow-through, taking the jolts as his opponent beat the steel like a forge. Once that spent itself Stryke was back on the offensive. He sent out two rapid passes. The first was parried, metal ringing. The next breached his rival’s guard, forcing him into a staggering retreat.
They circled, breathing heavily, looking for an opening.
Stryke advanced, shield levelled, sword prowling. Another flurry ensued, the combatants toe to toe, neither giving. The onlookers roared and catcalled.
Raining blows, Stryke powered forward, delivering a mix of thrusts and slashes that ribboned the other’s defences. There was a brief rally, a further exchange of swipes and counter swipes. But Stryke’s greater skill paid off. A jarring hit dashed away his foe’s sword. More pounding dislodged the shield, sending it bouncing across the yellowed grass. Then Stryke was looming over his downed opponent with raised blade. The watchers bayed.
He plunged his sword into the earth and tossed aside his shield. Offering the fallen his hand, he hoisted him to his feet. “Not bad,
Kestix. But watch that guard.”
The grunt managed a broken-toothed grin. “Right, chief,” he panted.
Somebody yelled, “Heads up!”
As they all turned to look, Stryke snapped, “ ’ten-shun!”
The figure striding toward them was a good forty seasons in age. His ramrod bearing and war weathered face told of status, never mind the rank tattoos marking his cheeks. He regarded the assembled band, two dozen or so grunts and four officers, through rheumy eyes.
“General Kysthan, sir!” Stryke greeted, saluting with fist to chest.
“At ease, Captain, and the rest of you.”
The troop relaxed, most of them eyeing the second figure, who stayed mounted a spear’s lob distant.
“Sorry to spoil your pleasure,” the general told them, “especially today.”
“No problem, sir,” Stryke assured him. “What do you need?”
“Just for you to take delivery of that corporal you’re lacking. I’ve brought a replacement.”
More curious glances went the way of whoever was on the horse.
“Thank you, sir. And this replacement’s joining us now?”
“Yes, captain.”
“On Braetagg’s Day?” a hulking sergeant blurted. In a humbler tone he added, “Begging your pardon, General, sir.”
Stryke shot him a homicidal look.
The general appeared more benevolent. “That’s all right, Sergeant —”
“Haskeer, General.”
“Sergeant Haskeer. These are troubled times. Even Braetagg’s Day isn’t exempt from military needs. I want this corporal inducted and you back up to strength.”
Haskeer nodded sagely, as though imagining he conferred with an equal. Stryke suspected he only got away with it because of what day it was. He made a note to have him lightly flogged later.
Kysthan waved the rider to approach. “Good kill tally in the horde,” he explained as they waited. “Meets the band’s standard, and a gift for strategy.”
The steed came at pace, reining in by them, spattering clods of soil. Its passenger slid from the saddle like mercury down slingshot.
“Corporal Coilla,” the general announced.
The new arrival gave them a smile with real flint in it.
Stryke regarded her. They were probably of an age, a score of seasons or thereabouts, and not far off in height. Her craggy, slightly mottled hide looked healthy enough and she was pleasingly muscular. She had obvious pride, and a hard certainty in her eyes. A fitting demeanour. There was no denying she was a handsome orc.
She returned his gaze. What she saw was what she’d expected: a battle-tempered, robust warrior stamped with command. But there might have been a hint of something more, a small quirk of manner that betrayed deeper concerns than even the martial. Perhaps because of that, there was no denying he was a handsome orc.
“Well met,” she said, extending her hand.
He took it warrior-style, forearm clasping forearm, and thought how nicely humid her touch was. “Well met. Welcome to the Wolverines.”
Coilla scanned the others, lingering on each face for a fraction of a second yet scrutinising them all. She dwelt just a little longer on the only dwarf present, whose facial tattoos indicated he was a sergeant. Then her eyes flicked back to Stryke. She said nothing.
“You know what a hardy outfit this is,” General Kysthan told her. “I’m relying on you to fit in. Your record says you can. But put a foot wrong in a warband like the Wolverines and you’re liable to end up dead.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kysthan was already moving towards his ride. The band stiffened to attention again. “Good luck, Corporal.” He tugged a pair of black leather gloves from his belt. “Stryke, keep me informed on her progress.” The gloves flicked out in a parting gesture, as though he were swatting at a fly. “Enjoy the day!”
They watched him mount, wheel the horse and gallop across the parade ground through swelling crowds. His route led to the sugar white edifice of Cairnbarrow’s royal palace, its walls shining from dawn rain, its lofty towers piercing leaden clouds.
Coilla and the band eyed each other.
“What happened to the corporal I’m replacing?” she asked abruptly.
“What do you think?” Stryke replied. “Warbands take casualties. If that’s a problem —”
“No, no problem. It’s what I’d expect. So when do we start getting me invested?”
“I dunno why we have to do it at all on Braetagg’s Day,” Haskeer grumbled again.
“It’s as good as any other day,” responded an orc who looked the oldest, and who, like Coilla, bore the markings of a corporal. He turned to Stryke. “Maybe we should introduce her to the band before we do anything else, Chief,” he suggested.
Stryke indicated he should do it.
“I’m Alfray,” the ageing corporal told her. “Haskeer you’ve already heard from. He’s —”
“A moron,” the dwarf rumbled.
The sergeants exchanged murderous glances.
“And this is Jup,” Alfray said.
The dwarf winked at her, a bit roguishly she thought. A flash of white teeth lit his bearded face.
Coilla spoke impetuously. “I was expecting . . .”
“Somebody taller?”
“Somebody a little less . . . dwarfish,” she replied dryly. “I mean, I didn’t think there were that many in warbands.”
“You orcs aren’t the only ones skilled in combat.”
“In your dreams,” Haskeer muttered.
“More like a nightmare with your mug,” Jup returned.
“Shut up,” Stryke growled menacingly, “the pair of you.”
They retreated into morose silence.
Alfray cleared his throat. “The troopers,” he continued, commencing to point them out. “That’s Kestix. There’s Finje and Zoda. Hystykk, Bhose, Slettal, Darig. Let’s see. Vobe, Liffin, Noskaa . . . er . . . Calthmon, Wrelbyd, Prooq. That’s Meklun . . . Reafdaw, Gant, Jad . . . Gleadeg, Toche, Breggin.” He blinked at the farthest faces. “Talag and . . . Seafe. Oh, and Nep, Orbon and Eldo, at the back there.”
Some of the grunts acknowledged Coilla; others kept a wary reserve.
“Right,” Stryke announced, glad that was over. “You’ll be billeting here, Corporal.” He jabbed a thumb at the wooden longhouses behind them, bedecked with clan shields. “But there’s not much we’ll be doing this day. Let’s see how things are going with the celebrations.”
There were murmurs of approval from the band.
Coilla shrugged. “Fine by me.”
They strolled in the direction of the main square, Coilla walking beside the other officers. The grunts stuck together in their own group, indulging in a certain amount of horseplay she imagined Stryke wouldn’t normally allow.
Crowds were gathering for the festivities. They were mostly orcs, as would be expected on such a day, but with a smattering of other races, including a few humans of the Mani creed. A knot of gremlin emissaries passed by, solemn in grey robes. Daintily framed elf servants bustled on errands. Brownie dragon handlers, proud and aloof, weaved through the mass. Far overhead, a squadron of their charges circled on leathery, serrated wings.
Chill gusts came in from both the eastern ocean and the advancing ice sheet in the north. More rain threatened.
Wrapping his jerkin tighter, Alfray broke the silence. “It gets a little worse every year. In my time, Braetagg’s Day was a summer festival. Look at it now.”
“Humans,” Haskeer spat. “Fucking up the magic.”
“Unis anyway,” Alfray corrected. “Them and their wretched single god.”
“Manis, Unis; not much to choose between them if you ask me.”
“Don’t be too loose in spreading that thought, Haskeer,” Stryke cautioned. “You wouldn’t want it getting back to our mistress.”
“The Queen’s a chancer,” Alfray said, “we all know that. She’ll back the Manis only as long as it suits her.”
&nbs
p; “That’s enough careless talk,” Stryke decreed, glancing around for flapping ears.
“I don’t know a lot about Braetagg’s Day,” Jup confessed. “I’ve never actually been in Cairnbarrow for it before. Tell me about it.”
“Admitting you’re ignorant, eh?” Haskeer gibed.
“Ignorance I leave to you. You’re so much better equipped for it.”
“Braetagg was a great orc chieftain,” Alfray quickly put in. “You must know that much.”
“Course,” Jup said. “The rest of it’s a bit vague though.”
“To be honest, it’s not all that clear to us either. We don’t know where he came from or exactly when he lived, except it was about a century ago. What we do know is that he led our race in some famous victories. That was when the United Orc Clans was a real power. Before things started going down. He struck off the yoke at a time when some of the other elder races looked to enslave us. So, above all, we honour him as a liberator.”
“Pity it didn’t stick,” Coilla remarked sourly.
From his expression it was obvious Stryke thought that was dangerous talk too. But he kept his peace.
As they continued their trek, Coilla found herself slightly apart from the others, with only Jup to hand.
“Take a tip?” he asked in an undertone.
She nodded.
“Watch your tongue. You’re not in the horde any longer. Things get noticed more in a smaller group like this.” He let that soak in, then added, “Not that I’m saying we don’t agree with you.”
“All right. Question?”
“Sure.”
“What’s the beef between you and Haskeer?”
“I haven’t got one. Well, maybe a bit,” he relented. “It comes down to this thing about dwarfs. Lots of beings feel the way he does.”
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