Orcs:Bad blood o-1

by Stan Nicholls

  Haskeer gave a grudging nod. "But this ain't over," he growled. He jabbed a finger in Wheam's direction. "Just keep that freak away from me."

  7

  They should have honoured tradition and disposed of their dead with flame. But they couldn't afford the attention fire might bring. So they buried Liffin and Yunst deep, their swords in their hands. Dallog proved adept at carving, and fashioned small markers bearing the symbols of Neaphetar and Wystendel, the orc gods of war and comradeship.

  By the time that was done, and some of the humans' abandoned horses were tracked down, a good chunk of the day had gone. At last, with the watery sun high, the band set out for the dwarves' homeland.

  There weren't enough mounts for everybody, even with doubling up, and a third of the band had to take turns walking. The sole exception was Haskeer, whose mood was so foul Stryke encouraged him to ride alone. And he saw to it that Wheam, paired with Dallog, was as far away from the sergeant as possible. None of it made for rapid progress.

  Stryke and Coilla headed the party, sharing a ride, and tried to take a route offering fewest chances for ambush. The landscape was chill and miserable, and they saw no other living creature in four hours of travelling. No one was particularly talkative, and the convoy moved quietly.

  Coilla broke the silence, albeit in an undertone. "He was right, you know, Stryke."

  "Hmm?"

  "Haskeer. Not the way he acted; what he said. We've not started well."

  "No."

  "I feel bad about Liffin. He was a brother in arms, and we've been through a lot with him. But I feel worse about Yunst somehow. What with it being his first time out, and depending on us to — "

  "I know."

  "Don't think I'm blaming you."

  "I don't."

  "I blame myself, if anything. About Yunst, I mean. I led that detail. I should have looked after him."

  Stryke turned his head to glance at her. "How do you think I feel?"

  Silence returned for a while.

  "Who do you think those humans were?" Coilla asked, steering the conversation into less murky waters.

  "Just marauders, I reckon. They didn't have the look of Unis or Manis, nor the discipline."

  "If they're typical, Maras-Dantia's sunk even deeper into anarchy."

  "All the more reason I should do this," Stryke said, reaching into his belt pouch. He brought something out and passed it to her. "If you still want to take it."

  She held an instrumentality. The blue one, with four spikes. It felt strange in her hand, as though it was too heavy and too light at the same time. And it had another, deeper quality Coilla found even harder to understand.

  "Course I want it," she replied, pulling out of her reverie. She slipped the star into her own pouch.

  "If it starts to trouble you, give it back."

  "What about getting the band to carry it in turns, a couple of hours each? Not all of them, of course, just the true Wolverines."

  "And what happens when Haskeer wants his turn? No, it just makes problems. But if you don't want it — "

  "I said I did, didn't I?" Her hand instinctively went to the pouch, and she wondered how it was for him, carrying four of the things. She changed the subject again. "How long to Quatt, do you think?"

  "Couple of days at this rate."

  "Assuming that's where Jup's going to be."

  "Well, we're not going to find out tonight, that's for sure."

  The pewter moon was up, big and fat, tendrils of cloud swathing its face. Colder winds blew.

  "Where do you want to strike camp?"

  "You're our strategist. What looks like the most defensible spot?"

  Coilla scanned the drab terrain. It was flat and mostly featureless. "Not much choice in these parts. Wait. What's that?" She pointed.

  Well ahead of them, and not far off the trail they followed, there was a jumble of shapes.

  "Can't tell," he replied, straining to make them out. "Curious?"

  "Sure."

  "Then let's head that way."

  As they got nearer they saw that the shapes were ruins. A small settlement had once stood there, but now only shells of buildings remained, or just their foundations. Charred timbers indicated that fire played its part in the destruction. There were tumbledown fences and the hulk of an abandoned wagon. Sickly green lichen grew on the stonework. Weeds choked the paths.

  Stryke ordered the band to dismount.

  "Humans lived here," Coilla said.

  "Looks like it," Stryke agreed.

  "I wonder what destroyed the place?"

  "Probably other humans. You know what they're like."

  "Yeah."

  "Let's get organised. I want sentries posted. See to it."

  She set off.

  Stryke called to the nearest grunt. "Finje! That could be a well. Over there, see? Go and check it."

  Haskeer arrived, face like granite.

  "Have this place searched," Stryke told him. "We could do without any more little surprises."

  "Right," his sergeant grunted morosely, turning to obey.

  "And Haskeer."

  Haskeer looked back.

  "What happened with Liffin and Yunst is done. Live with it. Your moods put the band off whack, and I won't have it. Save your temper for enemies."

  Haskeer nodded, curtly. Then he went off to scare up a search party.

  " Well's dry! " Finje shouted. He demonstrated by upending a shabby bucket. Only dirt and gravel came out of it.

  Coilla returned. "How are we for water?"

  "It's not a problem yet," Stryke replied. "But we could do with finding a clean source soon. Guards in place?"

  "Done. But there's something you should see."

  "Lead the way."

  She took him to the largest and most intact of the ruins. Parts of three walls were still standing, and they could see that it once had peaked eaves. A pair of large, heavy doors lay in the debris. They showed signs of having been breached with force.

  As they scanned the scene, Haskeer joined them.

  "What's so special about this?" he asked.

  "I reckon it's a place of worship," Coilla explained.

  "So?"

  "Look over here."

  They followed her to a low dry stone wall. Parts had collapsed, and there was what was left of a gate. The wall enclosed about an acre of land. Very little grew in it beyond three or four gaunt trees. Dozens of stone slabs and wooden pointers jutted from the ground, many at skewed angles.

  "You know what this is, don't you?" Stryke said.

  "Yes. A burial ground."

  "Oh, great," Haskeer muttered.

  "Not afraid of a few dead humans, are you?"

  He glared at her.

  "But why is nothing growing in there?" she wanted to know. "Look out here; they're weeds everywhere. Nature's reclaiming it. Why not there?"

  "Maybe they did something to stop things growing," Stryke suggested. "Sowed it with salt, or — "

  "Why?"

  "Out of respect for their dead? Who knows with humans."

  "Too right," Haskeer agreed. "They're fucking crazy."

  Stryke thought this a little rich coming from Haskeer, but kept the observation to himself. "This is as good a place as any to pass the night. The wall can serve as a windbreak. Get them to pitch camp, Haskeer. But no fires."

  "That won't make for much cheer."

  "Just do it."

  Haskeer strode away, looking unhappy.

  Coilla watched him go. "He's being his usual joyful self then."

  "That's not our only problem right now."

  "Wheam?"

  "Wheam."

  "What you gonna do about it?"

  "Give him some kind of job that keeps him out of our faces, and clear of Haskeer. Come on."

  Looking bemused at the bustle of activity going on around him, Wheam was standing by Dallog further along the wall. An uncomfortable expression came to his face when he saw Stryke approaching.


  Before Stryke could speak, Wheam said, "You're going to punish me, aren't you?"

  "Because of Liffin?"

  "Of course. But I was afraid and — "

  "Nobody under my command gets punished for being afraid."

  "Oh." Wheam was confounded.

  "Only fools don't feel fear," Stryke went on. "It's what you do despite the fear that affects our survival. So you'll be trained in combat, and you'll practise what you're taught. Agreed?"

  "Er, yes."

  "But we don't carry non-combatants; everybody's expected to fight. That's your part of the bargain. Understand?"

  "Yes, sir, Captain."

  "All right. I'll work out a training rota for you. If you want to honour Liffin, you'll stick with it. Meantime you need to have a proper role. What special skills do you have?"

  "I could be our official balladeer," Wheam replied hopefully, holding up his lute.

  "I meant something useful." Stryke turned to his new corporal. "Dallog, what are you doing?"

  "I was about to check the wounded. Change dressings, that sort of thing." He nodded to a small group of waiting orcs.

  "Wheam can help. All right with you?"

  "Fine. If today's anything to go by I could use an aide."

  Wheam looked apprehensive.

  "We can't risk kindling any light for you," Stryke said. "Got enough to work by?"

  "The moon's good enough."

  "Make a start then."

  Dallog got Wheam to move closer, then beckoned over the first in line. Pirrak, one of the new intake, stepped forward, a grubby dressing on his forearm.

  "How's it been?" Dallog enquired.

  "Bit sore," Pirrak answered.

  Dallog began unwinding the bandage. "Did you know blood flows more copiously when the moon's full?" he remarked conversationally and to no one in particular.

  "Course I did," Coilla replied. "I'm a female."

  "Ah. Yes." There was just a hint of awkwardness in the corporal's response.

  He carried on unravelling. As the layers of binding peeled away they grew more soiled, until finally the wound was exposed. Dallog absently draped the gory bandage over the graveyard wall.

  "Hmm. Lot of congealed blood. Might need to sew this gash. See how the flaps of skin hang loose on either side, Wheam? And all this pus — "

  There was a groan and a weighty thud.

  "He's fainted," Coilla said.

  The queuing orcs burst out laughing. Pirrak laughed, though he winced at the same time.

  "What kind of an orc is he?" Using her teeth, Coilla pulled the cork from her canteen and poured a stream of water over Wheam's ashen face.

  "Go easy with that," Stryke warned, "we've none to waste."

  Wheam spluttered and wheezed, causing more hilarity among the onlookers.

  "I'll take care of him," Dallog sighed, kneeling to his new patient.

  Stryke and Coilla left them to it.

  "Perhaps medicine isn't Wheam's calling," she commented dryly.

  "I wonder what is."

  "He should have some kind of job."

  "Such as? I wouldn't trust him on sentry duty, or in a hunting party. He might cope with digging latrines and preparing rations, though I wouldn't put it past him to poison us."

  "I don't think that's what Quoll had in mind."

  "To hell with him. He should have raised his spawn right in the first place, rather than dumping him on us."

  "Maybe that training you promised will sort Wheam out."

  "Maybe."

  "It's bound to be a bit of a struggle fitting new members in, Stryke."

  He nodded. "What do you think of Dallog?"

  "I like him. He fought well today, and he's all right with the medic thing. I know he's not Alfray, but who is?"

  "I wish everybody felt that way."

  Reaching the wrecked hay wagon, they perched themselves on the still intact shafts. They watched the band making camp and attending to chores. The breeze grew colder as evening shaded into full night.

  Working his way through the wounded, Dallog continued to absent-mindedly deposit their bloodied bandages on the stone wall behind him. More than a dozen white strips had accumulated, fluttering in the wind. Unnoticed, a stronger gust whipped most of them away. They blew into the cemetery. One became entangled in the emaciated branches of a tree, another was caught by a wooden grave marker. The rest were scattered across the barren ground.

  High above, the stars were sharp and hard, like diamonds.

  "Funny to think we were born under these skies," Coilla reflected. "Do you ever feel homesick?"

  "No."

  "Not even a twinge of longing?"

  "It was a different land then. Humans ruined it."

  "That's true. But it still feels strange to be back here. Everything seems so long ago, and yet as near as yesterday. If that makes any sense."

  He smiled. "I know what you mean."

  They passed time in silence, surveying the scene. The band went about the business of preparing to settle for the night. Weapons were cleaned and rations passed round. In the distance, sentries patrolled.

  The few grunts waiting to be seen by Dallog had seated themselves on the graveyard wall. Wheam, still looking unsteady, had been sorting lengths of bandages for the corporal.

  "I've finished," he announced. "What else can I do?"

  "I'm busy here," Dallog replied, intent on cleaning a lesion Wheam couldn't look at. "Use your initiative." He thought better of that and looked around. "Make yourself useful and pick up those dressings. Can't have infections spreading."

  "What do I use to — "

  "Here." Dallog thrust a small canvas shoulder bag at him, normally used to carry shot for catapults.

  Wheam set about the task with minimal enthusiasm. Making a face, he collected the couple of bandages still clinging to the wall, lifting them with thumb and forefinger at arm's length. The watching orcs elbowed each other's ribs and snickered.

  He peered into the graveyard and saw the other scattered strips. Clumsily, he negotiated the wall. Once inside, he bent, picked up the first bandage and stuffed it into the bag. Spotting the next, hanging on the wooden marker, he went to retrieve that. Slowly, he worked his way through the cemetery, gathering the grubby windings of cloth.

  He stooped to a bandage lying across a grave. There was a sound. He froze, listening. Nothing. He reached for the bandage. As his fingers almost brushed it, the noise came again. Once more he paused, trying to work out what it might be. The sound had a kind of scuffling, scrabbling quality, as though something subterranean was burrowing. Wheam stared at the ground. The earth was bulging and shifting. He leaned closer.

  The ground burst open. A bony hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Wheam struggled against its iron grip. He opened his mouth to shout but nothing came.

  The earth was erupting on every side, spewing writhing shapes.

  Sitting on the wagon's shafts, Coilla and Stryke were savouring the night air and the quiet.

  "Doesn't seem so bad now, does it?" Coilla said. "With the moon up and the stillness, we could almost be back in Ceragan."

  "I wouldn't go that far."

  "So what would you be doing if you were there on a night like this?"

  "If I was at home I'd — "

  A piercing scream rent the air.

  Coilla leapt up. "What the fu — "

  "Over there! The graveyard. Come on! "

  They ran towards the cemetery wall. Others were dashing that way too.

  There was another loud yell.

  They arrived to see Wheam in the middle of the graveyard, bent over and apparently tugging at something like an oversized tree root. All around him, indistinct figures were hauling themselves out of the earth.

  Coilla and Stryke moved closer, most of the band at their heels, and took in the scene. The graves were disgorging strange fruit. What looked like rotting melons or oversized, cracked eggs were pushing through the soil. It took them a moment to realis
e that they were heads.

  Creatures rose, heaving from the loam with wriggling, undulating movements. As they emerged, their forms could be seen. They were human. Or had been. Their bodies were decayed. Some were merely putrid, with discoloured, rotting flesh. Others were near skeletal, scraps of skin and cloth hanging from their exposed bones.

  They progressed fitfully, decomposing limbs jerking and quivering, and their eyes were afire with malicious hunger. The smell that accompanied them was obnoxious.

  One of the creatures scooped up a gory bandage and crammed it into its mouth. Its dislocated jaw clicked loudly as it chewed on the sodden fabric.

  A score of the animated dead had surfaced, with more appearing. The orcs watched, transfixed.

  Haskeer arrived, panting. "What the fuck?"

  "That's what I said," Coilla told him.

  "Snap out of it, Wolverines!" Stryke yelled. "Let's deal with this!"

  Everyone drew swords and headed for the wall.

  "I'm going for Wheam," Coilla announced.

  "Can't we forget the little bastard?" Haskeer pleaded.

  Coilla ignored him.

  As the band approached, the walking corpses stopped and turned their heads as one. Then they advanced on the orcs.

  The creature hanging on to Wheam was out of its grave. It was far gone in corruption, with much of the flesh on its chest rotted away, revealing the ribcage and foul innards. Wheam struggled to escape its grasp. He pawed at his sword sheath with his free hand, trying to reach the weapon. The creature dragged him closer.

  The Wolverines swept to the wall. Coilla leapt over it and ran into the graveyard. Stryke and Haskeer chose its broken gate. A pair of the monstrosities were shambling through, and it seemed to Stryke that they were starting to move faster and with more fluidity. He charged at the nearest. The creature lurched to one side, but not quick enough to avoid the attack. Stryke's sword met no resistance as it plunged into the fetid chest. The only effect was to make his target stagger slightly, and as he swiftly withdrew the blade a puff of rank dust was liberated.

  Haskeer struck out with his sword, burying it deep in his foe's side. It hewed parchment flesh, and splintered bone, but hardly slowed the creature. Haskeer delivered a weighty slash across its belly. The contents spilled out, releasing an unspeakable stench. Entrails dangling, the abomination kept coming, arms outstretched, hands like talons.