Orcs:Bad blood o-1

by Stan Nicholls

  "So?"

  "I think I've seen her before. Though I'm damned if I can remember where."

  "Humans all look the same to me."

  "That's true." She shrugged. "Don't suppose it's important."

  Stryke joined them. He was wiping the gore from his blade with a cloth. "Well, that was a lucky meeting. For us."

  "Who do you think they were?" Coilla asked.

  "Does it matter?"

  "Notice how many of them were dressed alike? Could have been Unis."

  "So humans are still divided amongst themselves. Surprise. Let's get on with it, shall we? That wagon should have drinking water and victuals. And now there's enough horses for everybody. If we move ourselves we can reach Quatt today."

  For all that they were travelling south, and into supposedly milder climes, the terrain grew even more bleak. The trees were bereft of greenery, and a brook they passed ran yellow with filth.

  "You sure we're on the right path?" Coilla asked.

  Riding alongside, Stryke cast her a wry look. "For the tenth time, yes."

  "Doesn't look much like the way I remember it, that's all."

  "This place's had four more years of being broken by humans. That takes a toll on the land. And they've spoilt the magic. Those bloodsuckers were one upshot of that."

  "At least Wheam seems to be on the mend." She turned and looked back down the line to where Wheam and Dallog were riding abreast. The youth wore a miserable expression, as usual, and his neck was bound, but some of his natural olive-grey colour was back.

  "What's this?" Stryke said.

  Coilla returned her attention to the road. A small group of figures was approaching. Some rode a rickety wagon, most were walking.

  Haskeer galloped to the front of the line. "Trouble, Stryke?"

  "I don't know. They don't seem too threatening."

  "Could be a trap."

  " Stay alert! " Stryke warned the column.

  Coilla shaded her eyes and squinted at the newcomers. "They're elves."

  "And a mangy looking lot," Haskeer added.

  The party consisted of no more than a dozen. Those on foot trudged wearily. The wagon carried three or four old-timers, along with a couple of youngsters. All appeared fatigued and ill-nourished. They didn't react to the orcs in any noticeable way, or slow their somnolent plodding.

  Leading them was a male. He was mature, although it was always hard to determine exactly how old an elf might be. His once fine clothes were shabby and he bore grime from too many days on the road.

  When he reached the orcs he raised a painfully thin hand and his entourage ground to a halt.

  "We have nothing," he declared by way of greeting.

  "We've no need of anything from you," Stryke replied.

  "Does that include our lives? It's all we have left." There was only fatalism in his voice.

  "We don't harm those who show us no threat." Stryke eyed their sorry state. "You're a long way from home."

  "What's brought a noble race like the elves down to this state?" Coilla said.

  "I could ask the same of orcs."

  "We're doing all right," Haskeer informed him gruffly.

  "Then you're rare among your kind," the elf returned. "No race prospers in this land anymore. Except one."

  "You mean humans," Stryke said.

  "Who else? They are in the ascendancy and the elder races are being pushed back to ever remoter enclaves. Soon, our kind will retreat into myth as far as humans are concerned."

  Stryke could have told him that this was the humans' world by birthright, let alone conquest. Instead he asked, "Where are you headed?"

  "Few havens remain, and all in distant parts. We decided on the far north."

  "That's a bleak region to choose."

  "It will be no more bitter than life here has become."

  "You can't be all that's left of the elf nation, surely?" Coilla remarked.

  "No. Our numbers are greatly decreased, but not to this extent. We are merely the remnants of one clan."

  "And the rest of your race?"

  "Those who aren't dead are enslaved or scattered. We seem destined to be a diaspora. If we survive at all."

  "Why run?" Haskeer growled. "Stand up to 'em. Fight the human bastards."

  "We don't possess the superior combat skills of orcs, or have as strong a taste for bloodshed. Magic was our only real weapon. But that's so depleted as to be near useless. It's come to one thing only for us: the hope that we may continue to exist."

  "Is there any way we can aid you?" Stryke asked.

  "You've spared our lives. That's aid enough in these troubled times. Now if you'll permit us to pass…"

  Stryke brought out his water pouch and offered it to him. "You can probably use this. And we can spare a little in the way of food."

  The elf hesitated for a moment, then took the pouch. He nodded his thanks. Then Stryke had a couple of the privates load some provisions on the wagon.

  As the elves were about to depart, their leader paused. "Let me repay your benevolence with a word of caution, though you should know what I'm about to say well enough. Maras-Dantia holds nothing but misery and peril, even for orcs. It's become a wheel that breaks the hardiest spirit. You'd be well advised to find yourselves a fastness and try to weather the storm, as we are." Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left.

  The Wolverines watched the little troupe make its way along the north-bound trail.

  When they were out of earshot, Haskeer said, "What do you think of that?"

  "I'll tell you what I think," Coilla replied. "Why won't you males ever ask for directions?"

  Riding hard, they arrived at Quatt three hours later.

  What was a particularly verdant district now looked as if it had been in the grip of an endless winter. In common with every other part of the land they'd seen, the terrain had an exhausted, washed-out quality.

  They looked down on the wooded heart of the dwarfs' homeland from the crest of a hill.

  "I feel a bit uneasy," Coilla admitted.

  "Why?" Stryke said. "Think they won't welcome us?"

  "We're orcs, Stryke; when is anybody ever pleased to see us? But it's not that so much. I'm more worried they might have moved on, like those elves. Or that Jup's dead."

  "Or maybe the unfriendly ones have taken over down there," Haskeer put in.

  Stryke stared at him. "Unfriendly?"

  "The ones who sided with the humans for coin."

  Coilla rolled her eyes. "Aah, not that again!"

  "Dwarfs can't be trusted, you know that."

  "Jup could," Stryke reminded him. "And his tribe didn't go over."

  "I'm just — "

  "You want to turn back?"

  "No. I'm only saying — "

  " What? What are you saying?"

  "Fuck me, Stryke, I'm just saying what we all know. Dwarfs are treacherous. They're notorious for it."

  "Keep that opinion to yourself. The band's got enough problems without your beef. Now get yourself back in line, Sergeant."

  "We should be alert, that's all," Haskeer grumbled as he wheeled and spurred his horse.

  Stryke caught Coilla's expression. "Was I too hard on him?"

  " Can you be too hard on Haskeer? All right, maybe you were. A little."

  "Well, it takes a lot to get through his thick skull. And I'd rather parley with Jup's folk than brawl with them."

  "If Jup's still alive, do you reckon we'll be able to persuade him?"

  "I don't know. He turned down the chance of leaving Maras-Dantia once before. We should be ready for a knock-back on this. But we're not going to find out sitting here. Come on." He gestured for the band to follow.

  Quatt nestled in a great valley, wide enough that its far side was barely visible through the misty air. The trees surrounding its core were sorry things compared to the fecundity the band remembered. But the foliage was still abundant enough to make a dense barrier.

  They followed a snaking,
overhung path that filtered the dreary day's mean light even further. The odour of the forest was far from summery; its acrid smell of decay was more autumnal. There was no sound save the thud of their horses' hooves on mulch. They kept one hand on their sword hilts as they weaved their way to the interior.

  Gloom gave over to watery daylight as they entered a sizeable clearing. At its centre was a large rock pool, fed by an underground spring, the sulphurous water gently bubbling. Garlands of withered flowers were heaped around it. Tracks branched off from the clearing in three different directions.

  "Which way?" Coilla asked.

  Stryke looked from one path to another. "Hold on, I've lost my bearings."

  "Oh, good."

  "Long time since I was last here. It all looks different."

  "Should we send scouts out?"

  "I'm not splitting the band. We'll find our way to the dwarfs together."

  "Er, I think they've found us, Stryke."

  Scores of stocky men poured into the clearing via the paths and through the undergrowth. They were armed with staffs and short-bladed swords, and outnumbered the Wolverines by at least four to one. Swiftly, they surrounded the orcs' column.

  " Steady! " Stryke warned the band.

  A burly dwarf stepped forward. "Who are you?" he demanded, scowling. "What are you doing in our forest?"

  "We're here in peace," Stryke told him. "We mean you no hurt."

  "Since when did orcs go anywhere in peace?"

  "We do when we're seeking an ally."

  "You've no allies here." The dwarf pointed to the rock pool. "This is a holy place. The presence of any but dwarfs offends our gods."

  "Live underwater, do they, these gods of yours?" Haskeer piped up.

  The dwarf gave him a murderous look, and his companions tensed.

  " Haskeer," Stryke hissed ominously.

  "The gods dwell in all parts of the forest," the dwarf replied, swelling his barrel chest. "They are in the trees, and in the spirit of the woodland animals. They inhabit the very soil itself."

  "Oh, right. Having a bath, are they?"

  " Haskeer! " Stryke snapped. He turned to the dwarf. "Ignore my subordinate. He's… ignorant of your ways."

  "Stupidity is no excuse for blasphemy."

  Haskeer glared. "Who you calling — "

  " Shut up, Sergeant! " Stryke bellowed. "Look," he told the dwarf, "if you'd just let me explain — "

  "You can have your hearing. We're not unreasonable in Quatt. But give up your weapons first."

  "That is unreasonable for an orc," Coilla said.

  "She's right," Stryke agreed. "We don't do that."

  "You want 'em, you take 'em," Haskeer added.

  "If you won't disarm," the dwarf stated coldly, "then you're hostile. I'm giving you one last chance to throw down your blades."

  Haskeer hawked noisily and spat, narrowly missing the dwarf's boots. "You can kiss my scaly arse, sawn-off."

  Weapons raised, the dwarfs began advancing. The orcs drew their swords.

  A figure elbowed through the crowd.

  "Well fuck me slowly with a barbed pike."

  "Only if you insist," Coilla said. She smiled. "Hello, Jup."

  10

  "So you have control of the instrumentalities?" Jup said.

  "Some," Stryke replied. "Only because of this." He brought out the amulet.

  "Can I see it?"

  Stryke looped the chain over his head and handed it to him.

  Jup examined it, absently tugging at his beard. "I've never come across anything quite like this script before."

  "Nor me. But it's what got us here."

  Jup gave the amulet back. "What about the influence the stars have? You know, the way they… What's the word? The way they captivated you, and Haskeer. Doesn't that worry you?"

  "What's life without a few risks?"

  "You can't brush it off, Stryke."

  "No. Coilla's looking after one. I thought breaking them up might weaken their power."

  " You, loosening your grip?" He smiled. "But no, it's a good idea."

  They glanced to where she was standing, further along the row of oak benches.

  The tables were set out in tiers in an even larger clearing than the one they first entered. It held a village of thatched huts, storage sheds and livestock pens. Fires had been lit in several shallow pits, to keep the unseasonable chill at bay and to roast meat.

  Hospitality had been extended to the orcs once Jup insisted they were honoured guests. But many of the dwarfs appeared grudging. Now most sat apart, eyeing the Wolverines suspiciously.

  Haskeer came and plonked himself down next to Stryke and Jup.

  "And how are you, you old bastard?" Jup said.

  "Hungry." He fidgeted. "And these seats are too small."

  "They weren't made for a massive rear end like yours. Ah, how I've missed that scowl. You know, I can't get used to you all without your tattoos of rank. Looks odd. How'd you get rid of them?"

  "A sawbones back in Ceragan," Stryke explained. "He used some kind of vitriol. Stung like fury, took an age to heal."

  "Then itched like buggery for a month," Haskeer added. "Worth it though. Shows we're nobody's slaves." He stared at the struck-through crescents high on Jup's cheeks that indicated his one-time status as sergeant. "You should lose yours, too. Like me to cut 'em out for you?" He made to reach for his knife.

  "Don't think I'll bother, thanks. They give me a certain distinction around here."

  "Really?" Stryke said. "I'd have thought being in Jennesta's horde wasn't something to brag about."

  "Not everybody saw her as the evil bitch we knew and hated. And that's something else I can't get my head around: her surviving that… vortex thing."

  "Seems she did. If Serapheim's to be believed."

  "Big if."

  A dwarf arrived with tankards and deposited them on the bench without a word. Haskeer snatched one and gulped a long draught.

  Stryke took a drink himself. "Strange to think," he reflected, lowering his tankard, "that if it hadn't been for Jennesta we'd never have known about Ceragan. I wouldn't have met Thirzarr and sired young."

  "You have hatchlings?" Jup said.

  "Two. Boys."

  "Things have changed."

  "And like I said, if Jennesta hadn't sent us after that first star — "

  Haskeer slammed down his tankard. "We don't owe her a fucking thing. Whatever we got was our due."

  Jup nodded. "Much as I hate to agree with latrine breath here, that's how I see it, too. It seems a fair exchange for all the grief she doled out. Talking of Ceragan…" He looked about the clearing. "I see some new faces, and the absence of others."

  "The two are linked," Haskeer muttered darkly. He jabbed a thumb in the direction of Wheam and Dallog.

  "Take no notice of him," Coilla said, arriving to claim a seat.

  "When did I ever?"

  She lifted a tankard. "Hmm. Potent stuff."

  "We pride ourselves on our brew."

  Coilla had another mouthful, then remarked in a lower tone, "Your folk take their gods a bit seriously, don't they?"

  "Some do. More so since things really started to fall apart. Religious zeal's got even stronger in Maras-Dantia while you were away, and not just among humans."

  "We met a bunch of elves on the way here. They reckoned humans are going to be the end of the elder races."

  "I might have argued against that once. I'm not so sure they're wrong now fanatics have the whip hand."

  Coilla snapped her fingers. "Fanatics. Of course. It was her!"

  "Who?"

  "The female I saw when we took those humans' horses."

  "What about her?" Stryke said.

  "I thought she looked familiar. It was Mercy Hobrow. That lunatic Kimball Hobrow's daughter. Grown up now, but still recognisable."

  Jup expelled a low whistle. "You had a lucky escape then. She's as crazy as her old man, and she's carried on his work. Her group's a r
allying point for Unis, and she's got an army of followers even bigger than her father's. They're a scourge in these parts."

  "And we've given her another grudge against us," Stryke observed.

  "You'd be well advised to steer clear of her in future."

  "We don't intend being here that long. But talking of fathers and daughters, Jup, I meant to ask; last we saw of you, you were getting Sanara out of the palace in Illex. What happened to her?"

  "Good question. Jennesta's army was in chaos, and these helped us get through." He pointed at his tattoos. "Then we were days crossing the ice fields. The woman was tough, I can tell you that. When we got down to the plains… well, I didn't lose her, exactly. But she went. Don't ask me how. She was there one minute, gone the next."

  "Fucking magic-mongers," Haskeer grumbled. "Slippery as spilt guts."

  "Anyway," Jup finished, "I gave up looking for her and made my way here. Haven't seen her since."

  "Quite a family, eh?" Coilla said. "Serapheim and his brood."

  Dwarfs were heading their way carrying wooden trenchers heaped with steaming meat.

  Stryke nudged Haskeer. "Looks like your belly's about to stop rumbling."

  "Sorry if it's less than a feast," Jup stated apologetically. "The forest doesn't bring the yield it once did, and game's scarce."

  Wheam and Dallog wandered over.

  "Mind if we join you?" Dallog asked.

  "If you must," Haskeer grated.

  Coilla shot him a hard look. "Course. Park yourselves."

  Platters of spiced roast meat were set down on the table, along with baskets of warm bread. There were dishes of berries and nuts.

  "You don't know how welcome this is after field rations," Stryke said.

  "Hmmph," Wheam agreed, mouth full. "Food good."

  "We're grateful," Coilla put in, "especially with hunting so poor." She jabbed Haskeer's ribs with her elbow. " Aren't we?"

  He glared at her and dragged a sleeve across his mouth. "It's all right. Could be more of it."

  "Is this usual dwarf fare?" Dallog intervened diplomatically.

  "More or less," Jup replied. "Though we'd prefer a greater quantity." He aimed that at Haskeer, who stayed oblivious.

  "Those of us from Ceragan have never seen dwarfs before," Dallog said, "so don't take my ignorance for a lack of courtesy."