Orcs: Bad Blood

by Stan Nicholls

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the commander thundered.

  “Just taking the air,” Stryke replied, feigning innocence.

  “Just… taking… the… air,” the human repeated, his tone pure mockery. “And the curfew be damned, is that it?”

  “Didn’t know there was one.”

  The commander’s face reddened. “Are you trying to —” He checked himself and stared past Stryke at Jup and Spurral. “What are they?”

  “Not again,” Jup sighed under his breath.

  Shoving forward for a better look, the commander caught sight of Pepperdyne and Standeven at the back of the crowd. His confusion doubled. “Are you these creatures’ prisoners?”

  “No,” Pepperdyne told him, “we’re together.”

  “Together? You’re fraternising with the natives?”

  “What’d you mean, natives?” Haskeer objected.

  “We’ve got a troupe of jesters here,” the commander declared, loud enough for his men to hear. “A company of fools. But we’ll see who has the last laugh.”

  “Doubt it’ll be you,” Coilla said.

  He turned to her. “What did you say?”

  “Won’t be you laughing.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Sure. You need a heartbeat for that.”

  “Which I have.”

  “Not for long.”

  “Are you threatening me?” He seemed to find the notion amusing.

  “Call it… a prediction.”

  “Well, here’s a prediction of mine. You freaks are about to pay the price for disrespecting your betters.”

  Coilla smiled. “Bring it on.”

  He clutched a pair of studded leather gloves. Seething with fury, he cracked her savagely across the face with them.

  The band tensed.

  Coilla lifted a hand to her cheek. Blood was trickling from the corner of her mouth. She spat it out, narrowly missing the commander’s shiny boots. Staring into his eyes, she announced evenly, “He’s mine.”

  The commander laughed. “Oh, really. And since when did your kind have the guts to stand up to a superior?”

  “How about since now?” she informed him pleasantly.

  Quick as thought she delivered a mighty kick to his crotch. He let out an agonised yelp and doubled. She sprang forward and grabbed him by the ears. Pulling his head down, she pounded his face against her upraised knee a couple of times. There was a satisfying crunch of cartilage.

  As she let him drop, Stryke and Haskeer whipped out their blades. Haskeer rammed his sword deep into the chest of one lieutenant. Stryke buried twin daggers into the flanks of the other.

  It all happened so fast that the rest of the humans were too stupefied to act. Many wore expressions of shocked disbelief.

  Then someone yelled, “Terrorists!” and mayhem broke out.

  Weapons drawn, the mob of Wolverines and the line of humans rushed at each other. In the middle of the square they melded, then spiralled into a score of fights.

  Though outnumbered, the more so as Standeven and Wheam effectively counted as non-combatants, the orcs made up the deficiency by battling with their habitual ferocity. And at first, they had another edge: the humans seemed stunned that orcs would fight at all.

  There was a terrible harmony in the way the warband worked together. They hacked, cleaved, slashed and battered their way through obstructing flesh. If there was finesse, Pepperdyne was its only practitioner.

  In this, his fighting style was nearer the humans. Where orcs pummelled, he engaged. Though whether employing savagery or swordsmanship the upshot was the same. Soon the cobblestones ran red and slippery. Of the human company’s original number, only a third were still on their feet. The Wolverines had taken minor wounds, but no fatalities.

  “We’ve got ’em licked!” Haskeer bragged.

  “Don’t crow too soon,” Stryke told him. “Look.”

  More uniformed men were running into the square from the streets on its far side. There were at least twice as many as in the unit the orcs were fighting.

  Haskeer was contemptuous. “Since when did we worry about odds?”

  “They could be the van of a lot more.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Kill ’em,” Stryke hissed.

  “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” He turned and swiped at an encroaching human, cleaving his ribs.

  Fighting alongside Jup and Spurral, Coilla spotted the newcomers too. “They’ve got back-up!” she yelled.

  Jup shattered a skull with his staff. “I see ’em. Never a dull moment with this band.” He spun to break a foe’s arm, before toppling him into Spurral’s path, who deftly finished the job with twin knife thrusts.

  Coilla admired their teamwork.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have taken on this lot,” Spurral said.

  “And missed a scrap?” Coilla replied. “We don’t think like that.”

  But she could see that the humans were taking heart from the reinforcements and fighting harder.

  And then a fresh element was added.

  As though obeying an unheard signal, the humans fighting the orcs began to disengage and pull back. They left their dead and dying where they fell.

  Jup punched air. “They’re retreating!”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Coilla said.

  As the humans hastily withdrew they moved aside, giving a clear view of the new contingent. At their head stood three figures dressed differently to all the others. They wore what appeared to be robes, and they were hooded.

  Where there had been the cacophony of battle, there was now a deathly silence. The Wolverines held their ground, looking on.

  “Are they priests or what?” Haskeer wondered.

  Stryke shrugged.

  “Whatever the fuck they are, what are we waiting for?”

  “Steady. Something’s going on.”

  The three hooded figures pulled objects from their robes. It was difficult to tell what they were from a distance, but they resembled small metal tridents the size of long daggers.

  “What the hell they doing?” Haskeer said.

  “Don’t know. But I don’t like it.”

  The trio raised the tridents and pointed them in the orcs’ direction.

  Stryke bellowed, “Everybody down!”

  There was a blinding flash of light. The tridents spewed intense shafts of red, green and yellow iridescence.

  The band hit the ground a split second before the crackling beams of energy streaked above their heads. Two struck buildings behind the prone warband, demolishing a heavy door and punching a hole in a wall. Bricks and mortar rained down. The third bolt impacted the corner of the gallows, instantly igniting it.

  A second volley had Wolverines rolling in the dirt to avoid the searing beams. The shafts raked the ground like small lightning strikes, dislodging cobblestones and throwing up sparks.

  Stryke lifted his head and looked around. He saw Hystykk and Jad stretched out nearby. Both had bows. Hugging the ground, he slithered over to them.

  “Bring those bastards down!” he ordered.

  Awkwardly, the grunts wriggled the bows from their backs. They quickly nocked arrows and took aim at the robed figures.

  An arrow zinged into the chest of one of the trident bearers. He staggered and fell.

  “Eh?” Hystykk muttered.

  He hadn’t loosed his arrow. Neither had Jad.

  Arrows peppered the other two robed figures. One unleashed a glaring energy bolt as he fell. It lanced straight up, illuminating the sky. Then died.

  There was a roar.

  Another mob swept into the square. They outnumbered the humans, and rushed to attack them.

  Stryke clambered to his feet.

  Coilla ran to him. “They’re orcs!”

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Haskeer exclaimed.

  Stryke shook his head. “Pull back the band. Get ’em into a defensive pattern.”
r />   Obeying yelled orders, the Wolverines quickly came together.

  Ahead, a bloody melee raged. A group of five or six orcs peeled off from it and raced their way.

  The one leading them shouted, “Who’s in charge?”

  “Me,” Stryke told him.

  “Come with us.” He saw the humans and dwarfs. “Prisoners?”

  “No, we’re together.”

  The orc was taken aback. “You’re kidding.”

  “They’re with us,” Stryke repeated.

  “We can’t take humans,” one of the other orcs protested. He glared in turn at Standeven and Pepperdyne, and at the dwarfs.

  “We’ll sort this out later,” the leader decided. “Let’s move!”

  “Where?” Stryke asked.

  “More of them are on the way. Stay and you’ll die.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Come on!” He began to move off.

  Stryke hesitated for a second, then signalled the band to follow.

  As they ran into the darkened streets, Coilla said, “Stryke, those humans used magic!”

  15

  If the structures rulers occupy reflect their regard for the ruled, then the fortress that stood at Taress’ heart spoke volumes.

  Its entryways were heavily guarded and its gates were locked. Archers walked its ramparts. Lookouts were positioned on its towers, and a garrison was permanently stationed within its grim, impenetrable walls.

  It was a measure of the castle’s reputation, or more accurately the nature of its inhabitants, that few entered willingly.

  An entire level at one of its highest points was the exclusive province of a single individual. Given his status, it would be reasonable to assume that the chambers were well appointed, if not actually luxurious. But they were sparse. Furnishings were minimal, there was little in the way of embellishment and nothing of comfort. In this, the apartment reflected the disposition of someone who had given his life to military service. To the subjugated, Kapple Hacher was commonly known as Iron Hand.

  Yet his appearance and manner were at odds with the epithet. He was of advancing years; not yet old, but in the later stages of maturity. His close-cropped hair was silver, and those who didn’t know him assumed that was the reason he was beardless. But he displayed no trace of vanity. He had the physique of a much younger man, for all that his face was lined and the backs of his hands were liver-spotted. His bearing was javelin straight, and he wore his immaculate uniform as though born in it. Overall, the impression was of a somewhat meticulous, kindly uncle. At least, that was the impression he gave to other humans.

  For someone in such a position of authority he seemed to wear his responsibilities lightly. And the power he exercised was great. Hacher was both governor of what its conquerors regarded as a province, and commander of an occupying army. In the latter capacity he held the rank of general.

  He was dining. As was his custom, he ate alone. He fed sparingly, and the fare was plain; fowl, bread and fruit. Wine was something he rarely drank, and when he did, it was watered. Which made him doubly unpopular with his poison tasters.

  He was served by a pair of ageing orc females. They placed the food, such as it was, on a well-scrubbed table that constituted the main item of furniture, and performed their duties in silence. For all the attention Hacher paid to them, they could have been invisible.

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come!” Hacher responded crisply.

  Two humans entered, one in a dark blue military uniform, the other in a brown robe with the cowl down. Both men were half the general’s age.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” the uniformed aide said, “but we have news of —”

  Hacher raised a hand to pause him, then dismissed the servants with a nod. They went out with heads bowed, the visitors looking on disdainfully.

  “You were saying, Frynt?” Hacher laid down the knife he was eating with.

  “There’s been another disturbance. And during curfew.”

  “Casualties?”

  “We’re still counting, but significant.”

  “Including three members of the Order,” the robed one added, shooting Frynt a hard look.

  “That’s unfortunate, Grentor,” Hacher commiserated. “The state recognises their noble sacrifice, and they’ll be honoured for it.”

  “Tributes are all very well. We would prefer adequate protection from the military. We have a right to expect that much.”

  “Given your brothers’ magical expertise, I would have thought they were quite capable of defending themselves.”

  “I do hope you’re not implying any criticism of my order’s competence, General.”

  “Far from it. I’m the first to acknowledge that their contribution is invaluable.”

  Frynt glared at Grentor. “They were afforded protection. The number of casualties we took confirms that.”

  “Yet my brothers accompanying the patrol were slain.”

  “You lost three. Our fatalities were much higher.”

  “What of the losses we inflicted on them, Frynt?” Hacher intervened to ask.

  “We killed a few, sir, and took half a dozen prisoners.”

  “You see, Grentor? The balance wasn’t entirely in their favour.”

  “And that’s supposed to be some kind of consolation, is it? What are the lives of those beasts compared to men’s?”

  “Every rebel we eliminate is one less. A step nearer purging Acurial of this… difficulty.”

  “But it’s a situation that shouldn’t have arisen at all!”

  “Let’s keep things in perspective. The vast majority of orcs are placid, you know that. How much resistance did they put up when we conquered this land? The present trouble is being caused by a small minority. A bunch of throwbacks, no more.”

  “And if these throwbacks should gain a hold on the rest of the populace? Fevers have a way of growing into a pestilence, General.”

  “This is one contagion they won’t fall prey to. It’s not in their nature.”

  “They have a rallying point; this Sylandya, their so-called Primary. She should never have been allowed to slip through our fingers.”

  “No one’s rallying to her. She could be dead for all we know. You’re aggrieved at the loss of your brothers, Grentor. I understand that. But it’s vital that our military and magical forces work in harmony.”

  “So what do you propose doing?”

  “More of a presence on the streets, a further drive to recruit informers, stricter punishments for those fraternising with the dissidents. And increased surveillance. The Order can be of great assistance in that respect, Grentor. If this nut requires a sledgehammer to crack, so be it. As for Sylandya, we’ll step up efforts to find her or confirm her fate.”

  “Your words are reassuring, General.”

  “I’m glad you approve.”

  “Approval depends on outcomes, not intentions. The Order will judge your measures on their results.”

  “Naturally.” Hacher rose. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Brother Grentor, you’ll appreciate that I have a great deal to discuss with my aide.”

  Grentor glanced at Frynt. There was no warmth in either’s gaze. “Of course.” He gave an almost imperceptible nod, turned and left.

  Frynt closed the door behind him and let out a weary sigh.

  “I know,” Hacher sympathised, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Our sorcerer confederates can be a trial at times.”

  “Anyone would think they bore the brunt of these disturbances rather than us.”

  “Quite. But I meant what I said about better cooperation between the services. We need everybody working together to be rid of incidents like tonight’s.”

  “Yes, sir. Talking of which, do you have any special instructions concerning this new batch of prisoners?”

  “You know my philosophy, Frynt. We must leave the world a better place than we found it. Execute them. After extracting whatever intelligence they possess unde
r torture, of course.”

  “Sir. And you’ll be issuing fresh orders pertinent to the tightening up of security?”

  “I will.” He massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. “In the morning.”

  “I think you might have impressed Grentor with these new measures,” the aide ventured. “You don’t normally concede so willingly to his demands, if I may say so, sir.”

  “It wasn’t entirely to placate Grentor and the Order.”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s a bad time for all of this to flare up again.” His tone had grown sober. “Keep it to yourself, but I’ve been informed to expect a visit from a higher authority.”

  “Is that a problem, sir?”

  “When it comes to this particular superior, that would be putting it lightly.” He suddenly appeared weary. “Leave me now, Frynt. I need to rest.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  The aide quietly removed himself.

  On the far side of the room there was a pair of doors. The evening being warm, they were wide open. Hacher walked out onto the balcony.

  He was renowned for his unruffled nature. But even he felt a pang of dread as he looked down at the darkened city.

  The gloomy streets the Wolverines were taken through looped and twisted so much that they soon lost their bearings.

  Eventually they were led along a narrow alley to a darkened house that appeared no different to hundreds of others they’d passed. The orc guiding them rapped a signal on the door with the hilt of his sword. Everyone was quickly ushered in. The door guard’s eyes widened when he saw the humans and dwarfs, but he said nothing.

  The house looked abandoned. There was no furniture and the bare floors were carpeted with dust. The large group was kept moving until its head reached a small back room. A pile of rotting wooden planks lay on the floor. Swept aside, a trapdoor was revealed. Stryke hesitated for a moment, then stepped onto the ladder. The band filed down after him.

  They found themselves in an extensive cellar. A large number of orcs were present, and their expressions were uniformly wary.

  The orc who brought the Wolverines there was the last one down. In the light thrown by brands and lanterns they got their first clear look at him. He was around four and twenty summers old, and fairly tall, almost rangy, by the standards of his race. His features were strong and his bearing upright. Self-evidently he was robust, and a female might well have seen him as fetching. From the way those present regarded him, it was also plain that he had authority.