Orcs: Bad Blood

by Stan Nicholls

  The riders barged through the crowd, dragging their captives. They passed heckling street urchins, hard-eyed guardsmen and merchants leading strings of overloaded donkeys. People stared, and a few flung insults.

  They went by vendors’ stalls heaped with bread, goat’s cheese, spices, meat and limp vegetables. Some offered wine, hogsheads of brandy or pails of beer. The prisoners turned particularly envious eyes on these wares. All they got was a half-hearted pelting with rotten fruit, each piece raising a little puff of dust when it struck their backs.

  The fortress gates were suitably imposing, their surrounds frothing with epic statuary and heraldic symbols. But old and faded. Inside was a large inner courtyard. There was noise and bustle here too, though of an ordered, soldierly kind.

  Greetings were exchanged. The prisoners were glared at or ignored. Everyone dismounted. Grooms came forward and led the horses to troughs, which was more than the captives were allowed. Left with their wrists bound, they sank exhausted to the warm paving slabs. Nobody rebuked them.

  They slumped next to a small garden enclosed by a low wall. It dated from earlier, more verdant times, and had long dried out. The soil was like powder, and the pair of trees at its centre were desiccated and skeletal.

  Most of the prisoners’ escort dispersed. Four remained, eyeing them from a distance while they conferred with an officer.

  The elder prisoner turned his face from them and whispered, “Let’s make a run for it.”

  “Bad idea,” his companion judged. “We’ve no allies here. That crowd wouldn’t be a haven.”

  “It’s a better chance than waiting on our fate like cattle, isn’t it?”

  “Not unless you want an arrow in your back.” He indicated the battlements. Several archers were looking down at them.

  “They aren’t going to kill us. Hammrik would be furious if they denied him that pleasure.”

  “But I doubt they’re under orders not to wound. If you fancy a couple of bolts through your legs, go ahead. Master.”

  The older man glowered at the fresh impertinence, then returned to sulking.

  A minute later the guards were rousing them with cusses and kicks. He asked if there was any chance of a drink.

  “Favours are my lord’s privilege, not mine,” the highest-ranking replied, jerking them to their feet.

  The brief rest had made their aches more noticeable now they were moving again. They were stiff, and their muscles were knotted. But their captors treated them no more gently for it. Stinging blows from leather riding crops hurried along their progress.

  They were driven to a set of double doors opening into the castle proper. The interior was gloomy to their dazzled eyes, and it was cooler, which was a mercy.

  Like many fortresses that had been added to and built on over the years, there was a warren of passages, corridors and stairways to be negotiated. They passed through checkpoints and locked doors, but saw few windows, save arrow slits.

  Finally they arrived at a sizeable hall. It was wood panelled and high-ceilinged, and its drapes were drawn to keep out the heat. Light came from oil lamps and candles, and the air was stuffy. High up, where the panelling ended and a stone wall began, there had been coats of arms. But they were freshly defaced, their features smashed, revealing whiter granite beneath.

  The guards in attendance wore the livery of a personal bodyguard. A handful of civilian officials were also present.

  There was no furniture except an oak throne on a dais at one end of the room. It, too, had been vandalised; someone had hacked away the device on its tall backrest. The prisoners were made to stand in front of it.

  A minute passed, glacially. They exchanged bleak glances.

  Behind the throne was a cleverly concealed door, set flush to the panelling. It opened, and someone entered.

  Rulers come in a variety of guises. Those who inherit leadership can be unprepossessing. Those who seize it often have the appearance of brutish warriors. Kantor Hammrik looked like a clerk. Which was appropriate for someone who had effectively bought a kingdom. Bought in the sense of financing the bloody overthrow and regicide of an existing monarch.

  Hammrik resembled a quill-pusher because, in a way, that’s what he was. Early on in his illicit career he realised the efficacy of the equation between money and power. Learned it, and took it to what passed for his heart. He grew adept at using his ill-gotten riches to manipulate the greed of men without scruples, and rose on a tide of other people’s blood, bought and paid for.

  His build was more suited to running from a fight than engaging in one; what some called wiry framed. Any muscularity he had was restricted to his brains. He responded to hair loss by having his head completely shaved, which stressed the angularity of his skull. His raw-boned, beardless face was dominated by acute grey eyes. But woe to anybody who took him for a book-keeper.

  As Hammrik swept in, the prisoners were forced to their knees. Everyone bowed.

  “Ah, Micalor Standeven,” the usurper uttered as he perched on his stolen throne. “I was beginning to think I’d never have the pleasure of your company again.”

  The elder prisoner looked up. “How delightful to see you, Kantor.” He went for casual bonhomie.

  Hammrik gave him a stony, threatening look.

  “That is,” Standeven hastily corrected, “greetings, my liege. And may I take this opportunity to congratulate you on your elevation to —”

  Hammrik waved him to silence. “Let’s take the fawning as read, shall we?” His gaze fell upon Standeven’s companion. “I see you’ve got your lapdog with you, as usual.”

  “Yes, er, sire. He’ s —”

  “He can speak for himself. What’s your name?”

  “Pepperdyne, sir,” the younger prisoner replied. “Jode Pepper-dyne.”

  “You’re bonded to him?”

  Pepperdyne nodded.

  “Then you’re equally liable.”

  “If this is a misunderstanding about money,” Standeven said, as though it had just occurred to him, “I’m sure we can settle such a trifling matter cordially.”

  “Trifling?” Hammrik repeated ominously.

  “Well, yes. For a man of your newly acquired status it must be a mere —”

  “Shut up.” Hammrik beckoned to a studious-looking old functionary standing to one side. “How much?”

  The old man was carrying a dog-eared ledger. Wetting a thumb, he began flipping pages.

  “A round figure will do,” Hammrik told him.

  “Certainly, sire.” He found the entry and squinted. “Let’s see. With interest, call it… forty thousand.”

  “Is it that much?” Standeven exclaimed in mock surprise. “Well, well. Still, I’m a little puzzled as to why you should call us in over this. I can understand it might have been necessary when you were a money len — when you were providing pecuniary services. But surely, sire, you don’t need it now?”

  “Look around you. This hardly resembles a thriving kingdom, does it? Overthrowing Wyvell was a costly business, and though his followers were beaten, they’re not entirely crushed yet. It all takes money.”

  “Of course.”

  “A debt is a debt, and yours is overdue.”

  “Absolutely. It’s a matter of honour.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?”

  Standeven stared at him. “Do you think I might have something to drink? We were out in that sun for an awfully long time, you see, and…”

  Hammrik raised a hand, then called for water. A young flunkey brought him a hide pouch. Hammrik rose and stepped down to the kneeling Standeven. But he didn’t give him the pouch. Instead, he tilted it, so that a single drop splashed into Standeven’s outstretched palm. Frowning, the prisoner licked up the moisture with his parched tongue.

  “One drop,” Hammrik said. “How long do you think it’d take to feed you say, forty thousand?”

  Standeven was baffled, and said nothing.

  “Probably no time at all,” H
ammrik decided, “if you had it all in one go. In a tankard, for instance.”

  “Kantor… I mean, sire, I —”

  “But suppose you had it one drop at a time, like just now. How long would that take? Days? Weeks?” Hammrik held the water pouch at arm’s length, as though studying it. “This stuff’s going to be precious here soon, given the way this land’s going. The way the whole world’s going. I can see water being as valuable as… blood.”

  Standeven shifted uncomfortably. Pepperdyne betrayed no emotion.

  “That’s the deal,” Hammrik continued. “Repay me in coin or I’ll take it in blood. Forty thousand drops, one at a time.” He leaned closer to Standeven’s face. “I don’t mean that as any kind of figure of speech.”

  “I can pay!” Standeven protested.

  “Does he have the money?” Hammrik addressed the question to Pepperdyne.

  “No.”

  “You’re asking a slave about my financial arrangements?” Standeven complained. “What would he know?”

  “He’s smarter than you. Or maybe not, seeing as he hasn’t yet cut your throat while you were sleeping. But at least he didn’t insult me with a lie. That earns him a quicker death than yours.”

  “You can have him.”

  “What?”

  “To settle the debt. He’s strong and hard working, and —”

  Hammrik laughed. “And I thought I was a bastard. He’s not worth a fraction of what you owe me. Why would I want another mouth to feed?”

  “I can pay you, Hammrik. I just need a little time to get together the —”

  “I’ve wasted enough time as it is. I’ve no alternative but to have you both executed. Guards!”

  Men came forward and took hold of the prisoners.

  “There’s no need for this,” Standeven pleaded. “We can work it out!”

  Hammrik was walking away.

  “Suppose we could get you something more valuable than money?” Pepperdyne called after him.

  The upstart king halted and turned. “What could you possibly have to interest me?”

  “Something you’ve long wanted.”

  “Go on.”

  “Everybody knows about your search for the instrumentalities.”

  A passionate glint lit Hammrik’s eyes, though his words belied it. “And many have lied about knowing where they’re to be found.”

  “We’re different. We really could help you gain them.”

  “How?”

  “As it happens, my master wasn’t being entirely untruthful when he said he could pay you. The plan was to locate them, sell them to the highest bidder and settle your debt from the proceeds. In fact, we were following their trail when your men picked us up.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this before?”

  “Would you in our position, and run the risk of losing such a prize?”

  Standeven had looked bewildered at this turn of events. Now he was nodding furiously. “It’s true. Like you, I’ve heard the stories, though I confess to being unclear about what the instrumentalities are supposed to actually do. But I’ve always thought that anyone who found them would make a fortune.”

  “I’ve no interest in making money out of them,” Hammrik stated.

  “You’re not interested in their value?” Standeven was shocked.

  “Not that kind of value. If they function as they’re rumoured to, there’s a chance me and my people can escape this stinking world.”

  Pepperdyne and Standeven were puzzled at the remark, but thought it wise to keep quiet.

  “So what makes you think you’ve a chance of finding them when everyone else has failed?” Hammrik asked.

  “We’ve come across evidence,” Pepperdyne replied.

  “What evidence?”

  “You’ll forgive us for not throwing away our only bargaining chip,” Standeven said.

  “You’re bluffing, the pair of you.”

  “Can you afford to take that chance?”

  “And what do you have to lose if we’re lying?” Pepperdyne added.

  Hammrik considered their words. “What does finding the instrumentalities involve? What would I have to do?”

  “With respect, sire,” Pepperdyne told him, “not you, us.”

  “Explain.”

  “The information we have indicates that they’re to be found upcountry.”

  “How far upcountry?”

  “All the way north, to the new lands.”

  “Centrasia? From what I hear it’s full of freaks and monsters.”

  “They say there’s magic there too, of a sort. But that makes it the logical place to find what we’re seeking, doesn’t it?”

  “What can you do there that I couldn’t achieve with an army?”

  “Do you have one to spare? Besides, we have the contacts.”

  “Why don’t I just have you tortured to find out what you know?”

  “Our contacts will only deal directly with us. If anybody else turns up they’ll be long gone.”

  A long moment of silence ensued as Hammrik weighed the options. At last he said, “On balance, I don’t believe you. But if there’s a chance, I’d be a fool not to take it.”

  It was all Standeven could do to suppress a loud sigh of relief.

  “There’ll be a time limit, naturally,” Hammrik explained, “and I’ll be hand-picking your escort.”

  “Escort?”

  “Of course. You didn’t think I’d let you two swan off by yourselves, did you?”

  “No. No, of course not.”

  “If you get the instrumentalities, the debt’s cancelled. I’ll even reward you on top. If this is a ruse you’ll just be delaying your deaths with a brief reprieve in a land of horrors. You’ll be brought back here and I’ll kill you. Understood?”

  They nodded.

  Without further word, he walked away.

  Standeven turned to his bondsman. “What were you thinking of?” he whispered. “We don’t know where to find those things, or even if they exist.”

  “You’d prefer it if they killed us? I had to come up with a story that bought us time.”

  “And what happens when his thugs find out we were talking through our arses?”

  “I don’t know. We’ll think of something.”

  “It’d better be a damn good —”

  “Ssshh.”

  An officer approached, the same one who earlier refused them water.

  “As you’re in my master’s good books,” he announced, “at least for now, I thought you could use that drink.”

  Standeven looked up expectantly.

  To laughter from most of the other people in the room, the officer poured the contents of a canteen over Standeven’s raised face.

  He shook his head, like a dog leaving a river, scattering a million droplets of water.

  5

  Glass was an uncommon commodity. Orc artisans knew how to make it, but rarely bothered except for specific purposes, such as casements in certain places of worship and one or two of the chieftains’ grand lodges. It was occasionally found in taverns.

  As Stryke and Haskeer approached the inn they sought, they witnessed why glass was so infrequently used as a building material.

  With a resounding crash, an orc was propelled through one of the windows. He bounced a couple of times before coming to rest in the shards.

  The tavern’s door was stout. But not so strong as to resist another flying body. The battered orc that crashed through it managed to stumble a couple of paces before collapsing.

  There was uproar inside. A wild cacophony of shattered earthenware, breaking furniture and yelled curses.

  Stryke said, “This must be the place.”

  They stepped through the splintered doorframe. An orc landed on his back in front of them. He came down heavily, shaking the floorboards.

  Stryke nodded to him. “Morning, Breggin.”

  “Captain,” the orc groaned.

  The interior of the inn was essentially a singl
e, large room. There was a serving bench at one end and a storm in the middle. The storm’s eye stood astride a table.

  Coilla wielded an iron cooking pot. Clutching the handle, she swung at the heads of the half-dozen males struggling to reach her.

  She was a handsome specimen of orc womanhood, with attractively mottled skin, dark, flashing eyes, barbed teeth and a muscular, warrior’s physique. Most alluring of all, she fought like a demon with toothache.

  As Stryke and Haskeer entered, she delivered a well-aimed kick to the jaw of an opponent who ducked too late. He met the floor as surely as a dropped sack of offal. The others tried to catch her legs and topple her, but she skipped away with ease. They started rocking the table.

  “Should we help?” Haskeer wondered.

  “I don’t think we could beat her,” Stryke replied dryly.

  Chiming like a bell, Coilla’s cooking pot caught one of her antagonists square to the side of his head. Knocked senseless, he tumbled floorward.

  Haskeer spotted a half-full tankard of ale. He lifted it and started drinking. Stryke leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching the brawl.

  The four remaining males finally upended the table. Coilla leapt clear, feet-first into someone’s chest. He spiralled out of play. Quickly righting herself, she swiped at the next in line, flattening his nose with her pot. Driven backwards, he came to grief in a tangle of chairs.

  The two still upright rushed her in unison. One was dispatched by the simple expedient of running into her raised elbow. It connected with the bridge of his nose, sending him downhill and comatose. She dodged the clutches of the last orc standing and pounded his features with the fist of her free hand, rendering him insentient.

  Coilla briefly savoured the scene, then, tossing the cooking pot aside, gave Stryke and Haskeer a cheery greeting.

  “What was that about?” Haskeer asked. He thumped down the empty tankard and belched.

  “It started as a fight over me, then kind of developed into one with me.” She shrugged. “The usual.”