Orcs:Bad blood o-1

by Stan Nicholls

  "He's no Alfray."

  "Nobody said he was."

  "So why do we need him?"

  "Chain of command, remember? We have to have another corporal, and a band healer. I reckon Dallog fits the bill."

  "Well, I don't like it."

  "Too bad. You just heard me say I'm in charge. If that's not to your liking either — "

  "Oh, shit."

  Stryke balled his fists. "You want to make an issue of this, Sergeant?"

  "No. What I meant was, look who's coming."

  The youth walking their way was barely on nodding terms with adulthood. He dressed extravagantly for an orc. His jerkin consisted of strips of different coloured material, and his breeches were lilac. He wore gaudy boots. Looped about his neck was a stringed instrument. It had a long fingerboard and a body the shape of a sliced strawberry. He cradled it as tenderly as a babe.

  "Oh, shit," Stryke said. "Be tactful. Remember who he is."

  Haskeer gave a weary grunt.

  "Stryke! Haskeer!" the youth greeted. "I've been looking for you."

  "Wheam," Stryke replied.

  "What do you want?" Haskeer demanded, stony-faced.

  "You're about to set out on a great adventure," Wheam enthused, "and it should be celebrated."

  "Maybe they'll be time for feasting when we get back," Stryke responded. "But at the moment — "

  "No, no, I mean celebrated in verse."

  "We couldn't put you to the trouble."

  "This is history in the making; it must be recorded. Anyway, I've already started an epic ballad about this mission. It's work in progress, of course, but — "

  "Well, if it's not finished…"

  "How can it be? You haven't started yet, have you?"

  "True."

  "So I thought I'd let you hear the opening, as a kind of inspiration."

  "Must you? I mean, must you now?"

  "It won't take long. There's only about forty verses so far."

  "We're very busy just now and — "

  Wheam began discordant plucking. He cleared his throat loudly and proceeded to sing off key. "On battle's eve the Wolverines Whet their blades and readied their spleens…

  "It's hard to get anything to rhyme with Wolverines, but I'm working on it. "Their Captain bold he seized his chance To take up dagger, sword and lance And spitting in the face of fate He marched his band to the magic gate…"

  "Gods," Haskeer muttered. "With swelling breasts and hearts so true They smote the foe for me and you…"

  Coilla arrived, pulling a face behind the minstrel's back. She saw the expressions of appeal Stryke and Haskeer wore, and took pity. "Upon the field of slaughter red His gallant crew he bravely led And taking up his cleaver keen…"

  "Excuse me."

  " He hacked his way to — "

  Coilla prodded Wheam's shoulder-blade with a bony finger.

  " Ouch! "

  "Sorry," she smiled, "but I have to talk to my superior officers. You know; operational matters."

  "But I've barely got going."

  "Yes," Stryke intervened, "and it's a pity. We'll just have to hear the rest some other time."

  "When?" Wheam asked.

  "Later."

  Stryke and Haskeer grasped the protesting balladeer's elbows and impelled him towards the crowd.

  Rejoining Coilla, Stryke breathed a sigh. "Thanks. We owe you one."

  "At least we won't be seeing him again for a while."

  "Never would be too soon," Haskeer suggested.

  "Did you want something, Coilla, or was this just a rescue?" Stryke said.

  "Actually, I was wondering how things were going with the stars."

  "We had them hidden in five locations, as you know. I've got four of them back. The fifth — " There was a commotion at the edge of the crowd. "Matter of fact, this should be it now."

  A massively built individual appeared, a retinue in his wake. He was elderly but still fearsome. At his throat he wore an emblem of valour; a necklace of snow leopards' teeth, numbering at least a dozen. He was battle-scarred and proud.

  "Hard to think he could have sired such a fop," Coilla remarked.

  "Best keep that opinion to yourself," Stryke advised.

  The chieftain and his entourage swept in.

  Stryke welcomed him with, "Good of you to come, Quoll."

  Quoll snorted. "You left me little choice."

  "Sorry for the short notice. We have to move quickly."

  "You're leaving soon?"

  "First light."

  "And you've everything you need?"

  "All except the item in your safekeeping. Do you have it?"

  "Of course. But I've been thinking."

  "With respect, Chief, what's there to think about?"

  "My thought is that you could render me a service."

  "We're always happy to help," Stryke replied warily, "if it's in our power."

  "This is well within your gift, Captain."

  "And providing it doesn't put our mission at risk."

  "There's no reason it should. You know my son?"

  Stryke felt a cold apprehension. "Wheam? He was just here."

  "Spouting nonsense, no doubt."

  "You said it," Haskeer remarked.

  Stryke shot him a poisonous look. "What about Wheam, Chief?"

  "I want him to go with you."

  " No way! " Haskeer exclaimed.

  "Who's in charge here?" Quoll asked. "You or your sergeant?"

  "I am," Stryke confirmed. "Shut it, Haskeer. Let's get this straight, Quoll; you want your son on this mission?"

  "That's right."

  "Why?"

  "Look at him." He pointed at Wheam, who was strumming his lute for a group of disinterested bystanders. "I spawned a popinjay. A fool."

  "What's that to do with us?"

  "I want the tomfoolery knocked out of him. He needs toughening."

  "We've no room for amateurs. The Wolverines are a disciplined fighting unit."

  "That's just what he needs: discipline. You're taking other unproven recruits, why not Wheam?"

  "They've shown combat skills. I don't see that in your son."

  "Then it's time he learnt some."

  "Why us? There must be another way of cutting his teeth."

  "None as good as an actual mission where his survival's at stake."

  "And ours. We've got six tyros as it is, without carrying somebody untrained and unsuited. It puts the whole band in peril."

  "Much as I hate to say this, Stryke, you and your band have had things pretty much your own way since you came here. Isn't it about time you did something to repay our hospitality?"

  "Much as I hate to say it, you don't own this land, Quoll. You're a clan chief, and we respect that, but you're not the only one in Ceragan."

  "I'm the only one in these parts, and I want Wheam signed on for this mission."

  "And if we refuse?"

  "If you were to do that, I'm afraid there might be some delay… some lengthy delay in finding the artefact I'm holding for you."

  Stryke sighed. "I see."

  "That's blackmail!" Coilla erupted.

  Quoll glowered. "I'll pretend you didn't say that."

  "Pretend what you like, it's still what you're doing!"

  "That's enough, Corporal," Stryke told her.

  "But he can't — "

  " That's enough! " He turned to Quoll. "All right. We'll take him."

  The chieftain smiled. "Good." He snapped his fingers.

  One of his followers came forward holding a small wooden chest. Quoll opened it and took out the remaining instrumentality. "I confess I'm glad to see the back of this. I've not been happy having such a powerful totem in my lodge."

  As Coilla and Haskeer silently fumed, he handed it to Stryke, who slipped it into his belt pouch.

  "I'll have Wheam report to you this evening," Quoll said. He started to leave, then stopped and added, "And Stryke, if anything happens to him, don't bother coming bac
k."

  The chieftain strode off, trailed by his helpers.

  "Oh, that's just great, isn't it?" Haskeer moaned. "Now we're fucking babysitters."

  "Calm down," Stryke advised.

  "Haskeer's right," Coilla reckoned. "The last thing we need is a hanger-on."

  "What else could I do?"

  "Refused, of course!"

  "And never see the star again?"

  "We could have taken it."

  "Not a smart move, Coilla. This is our home now."

  "It won't be if that idiot gets himself killed," Haskeer put in.

  "There's no point arguing about it. We're stuck with him. Let's just try to make the best of it, shall we? We'll put him on fatigues or something, and have one of the older hands keep an eye on him."

  "It doesn't bode well," Haskeer grumbled, "having a clown on the team."

  "I'm not going to apologise for it. But there's something I should say sorry to you about, Coilla."

  "What's that?"

  "By rights I should have promoted you, to fill the vacancy for a sergeant. You could do the job, and you certainly deserve it."

  "Thanks, Stryke, but I don't mind. Really. To hell with that much responsibility. I like the level I've reached."

  "Well, I said the band needed two corporals, which didn't go down well with everybody." He glanced at Haskeer. "But it needs two sergeants, too."

  "Who are you thinking of promoting then?"

  "I'm not."

  "Come again?"

  "My idea's to reform the band as completely as we can."

  "Yeah, well, that would mean having Jup, and he's… Oh."

  "Right. We're going back to Maras-Dantia."

  6

  "They're dangerous," Coilla whispered. "Remember what they did to Haskeer. Hell, remember what they did to you."

  Stryke was staring at the instrumentalities. He had them laid out on a bench in a kind of order: two spikes, four spikes, five, seven and nine. Grey, blue, green, yellow, red. He found them fascinating.

  " Stryke," Coilla hissed.

  "It's all right, I'm just looking. Nothing sinister's going on."

  "You know what they can do, Stryke. Or at least a part of what they can do. And it's not all good."

  "They're just a tool."

  "Yeah?"

  "Long as you don't get too involved with them."

  "My point exactly."

  "Why are we whispering?"

  "It's them." She nodded at the stars. "When they're all together like this, they make you want to."

  "I wonder what they're made of?"

  "Damned if I've ever been able to figure it out."

  "Wish I had a blade forged from it."

  "Don't get too interested. We've got enough problems brewing in the band without you going AWOL from your senses."

  "Thanks for putting it so delicately."

  "I mean it, Stryke. If those things start singing at you again — "

  "They won't."

  "You'll be carrying them. Exposed to them, all the time. It could affect you."

  "I've been thinking about that. Once we get to Maras-Dantia, would you carry one? Maybe breaking them up will dampen their influence."

  "I'm flattered. You've never been keen on parting with them in the past."

  "And look what happened. Will you do it? I would have asked Haskeer, but he's such a crazy bastard."

  "Rather than burden the helpless female, you mean? Don't go spoiling it, Stryke."

  He smiled. "I'm no human. I could never think of you as helpless."

  "Course I'll do it. But what if it doesn't work? Will you share them between more of us?"

  "I don't want to up the risk of any being lost. So… I don't know."

  "Great. Something else for us to worry about."

  "We'll face that if and when. It's near time. We should be getting ready."

  They slipped into thick over-breeches and lined boots, then donned fur jerkins. Before she put hers on, Coilla laced a sheath of throwing knives to each arm.

  "Seems weird doing this in a heat wave," she remarked.

  "Maras-Dantia's going to be a damn sight cooler than here, that's for sure." He collected the instrumentalities and put them in his belt pouch.

  They buckled on swords, daggers and hatchets.

  "Don't forget your gloves," Stryke said.

  "Got 'em."

  "All right, let's go."

  Outside, by the mouth of the cave where they first arrived in Ceragan, the band waited, sweating in their furs. Haskeer was keeping them in order, when he wasn't shooting disgusted glances at Wheam, who'd insisted on bringing his lute.

  Quoll and his usual entourage were at the forefront of the crowd of spectators. Thirzarr was there too, along with the hatchlings. Stryke went to them.

  Before he could speak, Thirzarr mouthed, "We've already made our goodbyes. Let's not stretch it out, for their sakes." She indicated Corb and Janch.

  Stryke knelt. "I'm counting on you to look after your mother. All right?"

  They nodded solemnly.

  "And be good while I'm away."

  "We will," Corb promised.

  "Kill the witch!" Janch squeaked.

  His brother bobbed in gleeful agreement and they waved their miniature cleavers about.

  Stryke grinned. "We'll do our best."

  He took one last look at his brood and turned away.

  "Fare well," Quoll said as he passed him.

  Stryke gave a faint tilt of his head, but didn't speak.

  At the cave's entrance, he faced the band.

  "Conditions were bad in Maras-Dantia when we were last there," he said. "They're going to be much worse now. Expect extreme hostility, and not just from the weather. This particularly applies to you new recruits, so stick by the buddy you've been assigned. As I'm assuming we'll fetch up in Illex, in the far north, we can't take horses; they couldn't handle the conditions. Be prepared for a long, hard march south." He weighed his next words carefully. "Last time, we had to face the Sluagh." He bet more than a few of the band suppressed a shudder remembering the repellent demon race. "I don't know if we'll run into them this time. But we beat 'em once, and we can do it again if we have to. Are we all set, Sergeant?"

  "Ready and eager," Haskeer replied.

  "If anybody's having second thoughts about this mission, this is your last chance to pull out. They'll be no dishonour in it." He stared pointedly at Wheam. No one said anything. "Any questions?"

  Wheam raised a hand.

  "Yes?"

  "Going through this… portal thing. Will it hurt?"

  "Not as much as my boot up your arse," Haskeer assured him.

  Laughter eased the band's tension a little.

  Stryke checked that the crowd was held well back, then nodded.

  Haskeer barked an order. Brands were lit, and jerkins fastened.

  A rhythmic pounding started up. The onlookers were beating their spears against their shields in a traditional farewell for orcs off to war. There was some shouted encouragement, and a few cheers.

  Stryke led his band into the cave.

  It was cool and echoing inside.

  Coilla caught up with Wheam. "Going through's unsettling," she explained. "Just remember we're all doing it together."

  He looked pale. "Thanks," he said, and walked on.

  Stryke overheard. " Unsettling? "

  "I couldn't say terrifying, could I? He's just a kid."

  They reached the centre of the cave, and Stryke had them all gather round. He studied the amulet by the light of the brands. Next, he took out the stars and began manipulating them.

  For a clammy moment, he thought he couldn't do it. There seemed no sense in the way they linked to each other. He started to fumble and grow confused.

  Then four stars slotted together smoothly, in quick succession, and he could see exactly where the final one should go.

  "Brace yourselves," he warned, pushing it into place.

  They fell,
plunging down a shaft made of light.

  Sinuous, pulsating, never ending. Beyond its translucent walls was blue velvet, smothered with stars.

  They dropped ever faster. The starscape melted into a blur of rushing colours.

  Transient images flashed by. Fleeting glimpses of perplexing other-wheres.

  There were sounds. An inexplicable, discordant, thunderous cacophony.

  It lasted an eternity.

  Then a black abyss swallowed them.

  Stryke opened his eyes.

  He felt like he'd taken a beating, and his head throbbed murderously.

  Getting to his knees, it took him a moment to focus on his surroundings. But he didn't see what he expected.

  There was no snow or ice, though it was cold. The grim landscape seemed gripped by deepest winter. Trees were leafless. The grass was brown and patchy, and much of the foliage wasn't just dormant, but dead. Black clouds dominated the sky. It was in total contrast to the balmy climate they'd just left.

  He climbed to his feet.

  The rest of the band was scattered around him. Some were on the ground, still dazed, and several were groaning. Others, recovering more quickly, were already standing.

  "Everybody all right?" he called.

  "Most of us," Haskeer said. He scornfully jerked a thumb at Wheam, who was being sick against a rock, with Dallog in attendance.

  Coilla and Haskeer went to Stryke. They looked shaken after the transference, but rode it well.

  "This isn't Illex," Haskeer pronounced.

  "You don't say," Stryke told him.

  "But it is Maras-Dantia," Coilla said. "I recognise some of the landmarks. I reckon we're near the lip of the Great Plains, not far from Bevis."

  "You could be right," Stryke agreed. "Looks like the stars don't put us down in exactly the same place each time." He realised he was still clutching them, and began dismantling.

  "At least it cuts the amount of marching we'll have to do."

  "And with any luck we won't have to go to Illex next time we use them." He was stuffing the instrumentalities into his belt pouch. "But I'm sorry we didn't bring those horses."

  "It's not morning here," Haskeer decided.

  Coilla sighed. "You're an expert in stating the obvious now, are you?"

  It looked to be late afternoon, going on early evening.

  "And the season's wrong," Haskeer added.

  "I'm not so sure about that," Stryke said. "This could be what passes for summer in Maras-Dantia these days."