“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 you
ng.”
“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 rallying 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.”
“No offence taken. I remember how I felt when I first saw an orc.”
“You didn’t think we were as revolting as humans, did you?” Wheam piped up.
Jup smiled. “Nowhere near. Though the storytellers would have us believe you ate the flesh of your own kind, among other things.”
“I’m a balladeer,” Wheam declared proudly.
“I noticed the lute.”
“That’s putting it a bit grandly,” Stryke said. “Hoping to be would give a better account.”
“I can prove it,” Wheam protested. “I could sing something.”
“Oh gods,” Haskeer groaned. He upended his empty tankard. “More drink.”
“That we do have,” Jup told him, beckoning a female dwarf carrying a laden tray.
She was fair of form, as far as the orcs could judge. Her skin was smooth as ceramic, and her long auburn hair was woven in plaits. She was hale, and though powerfully built she moved with graceful ease, for a dwarf.
Putting down the tray, she leaned over and kissed Jup. The clinch was lingering.
“Now that’s what I call service,” Coilla remarked.
The pair disentangled themselves.
“Sorry,” Jup said. “This is Spurral.”
“Somebody… special?” Stryke asked.
“She’s my cohort.” He saw they didn’t grasp what he was saying. “My other half. Perpetual companion, mate, partner. Spouse.”
“You were right,” Stryke said, “things really have changed.”
Coilla smiled. “Good on you both.”
Haskeer lowered his tankard. “Hell, I never thought you’d let yourself be tied down, Jup. Hard luck.”
“You must be Coilla.” Spurral smiled at her. “And you’re Stryke.”
“Good guess.”
“Oh, I’ve heard a lot about you all.” The smile faded. “And you just have to be Haskeer.”
Haskeer bobbed his tankard at her and downed more ale.
“Spurral and me have known each other since we were kids,” Jup explained. “When I got back here it just seemed right that we made it kind of official.”
“So two proud dwarf families were joined,” Spurral added. “Me being a Gorbulew and Jup a Pinchpot.”
Haskeer choked on his beer. “You’re right about that!” he spluttered.
“Pinchpot,” Jup repeated through grated teeth. “Pinchpot.”
Haskeer rocked with mirth. “So you,” he pointed at a stony-faced Spurral, “. . . you stopped being a… Gorbulew and… became a pis —”
“Haskeer,” Jup growled ominously.
“Talk about learning something new every day,” Haskeer ploughed on, hugely amused and insensible to their sour expressions. “You never told us you were a… Pinchpot.”
“I wonder why,” Spurral remarked dryly.
“That’s enough, Haskeer,” Stryke cautioned, a note of menace in his voice.
“Come on. I know getting hitched can kill your sense of humour, but —”
“We’re guests here. Be mindful of it.”
Haskeer sobered. “Seems to me there was no point in our coming.”
“How’s that again?” Jup said.
“Can’t see you joining us, what with you having a mate and all. It was a wasted journey.”
Jup and Spurral exchanged glances.
“Not necessarily,” Jup said.
Coilla swept her arm to indicate the throng of dwarfs in the clearing. “I thought you stayed here because of them.”
“Given the choice of spending your life with another rac
e or your own, wouldn’t you?”
“You could have been sent to the dwarfs’ home world. Serapheim offered.”
“I wouldn’t have known anybody there either.”
“So why the change of heart?”
“I never thought I’d say it, but I want to get away from here. The time’s come.”
“You can see this land’s dying,” Spurral said, “and our folk along with it. Did you get a close look at our tribe? Almost all are old, lame or infirm.”
Jup shrugged. “We don’t want to leave, but —”
“We?” Stryke said.
“There’s no way I’m going without Spurral.”
“That complicates things, Jup.”
“Why should it? Unless you’ve got a problem with dwarfs in the band.”
“You know it’s not that. But we’ve no idea what we’re going into, except it’ll be dangerous.”
“I can look after myself,” Spurral protested. “Or is it taking females along that you don’t like?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Coilla told her, “I’m a female myself. What’s important is being able to fight.”
More than one pair of eyes flashed to Wheam.
“Spurral’s a good fighter,” Jup replied. “She’s had to be.”
“You’re not going to shift on this, are you?” Stryke said.
“Nope. It’s both or neither.”
“I’m running this band just like I did in the old days, as a tight unit. Everybody in it takes orders.”
“We’ve no gripes with that.”
“Don’t say you’re going along with this, Stryke,” Haskeer complained.
“I make decisions about the band, not you.”
“Then don’t make a bad one. We’re carrying enough dead wood as it is, and —”
“Didn’t Stryke just say you all obey orders?” Spurral interrupted. “Doesn’t sound like it to me.”
“Stay out of this.”
“This is about me!”
“Call her off, Jup,” Haskeer snarled.
“She can fight her own battles.”
“Yeah,” Spurral confirmed, squaring up to Haskeer. “Want to put your fists where your mouth is?”
“I don’t hit females.”
Coilla laughed. “Since when?”
“That’s enough,” Stryke decided. “Haskeer, shut your mouth. Jup, Spurral; back off. Everybody, sit down.” They settled. “That’s better. I’ll think about Spurral, Jup. All right?”
Orcs: Bad Blood Page 10
