Orcs: Bad Blood

by Stan Nicholls

  Pepperdyne put a little more pressure on the blade and took over. “Sergeant, the axle’s broken on the wagon. We need help shifting it.”

  “Sir!”

  The sergeant and one of the other guards sidled in.

  Stryke and Haskeer leapt on them. A flurry of blows and kicks put them down.

  They used the rope to tie them, and the guard Pepperdyne held. Securely trussed, they were dragged into a small gatehouse, along with the dead sentry.

  “This is taking too long,” Haskeer complained.

  As if on cue an arrow zinged towards the nearest watchtower. It struck the lookout and he dropped from sight.

  “It’s started,” Stryke said.

  Haskeer scowled. “We’re not ready. There’s still one of ’em outside.”

  Another arrow soared overhead, winging its way to the second tower.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Pepperdyne told them.

  He slipped out of the gates. Seeing him, the remaining guard snapped to attention.

  “We need you too,” Pepperdyne said.

  The guard hesitated. “Sir, I —”

  “What?”

  “Standing order, sir. This post is never to be left unmanned.”

  “But… Oh, to hell with it.” He booted the guard’s solar-plexus. The man doubled and Pepperdyne dragged him through the gates.

  While they were dealing with him, flaming arrows cut across the sky towards the thatched buildings.

  “Get those gates opened wide!” Stryke ordered.

  When they had, they saw Coilla and the other Wolverines tearing down the hill.

  “Here they come,” Haskeer said.

  “And here comes somebody else,” Stryke added.

  A group of soldiers were running their way across the compound. Others were moving in another direction, towards rising black smoke.

  “Onto the wagon!” Stryke yelled.

  They jumped aboard, and this time Stryke took the reins. He urged the horses and drove straight at the approaching soldiers. Pepperdyne and Haskeer stood in the back, hanging on with one hand, outstretched swords in the other.

  The wagon picked up speed. Stryke kept on course, and the advancing troops went from distant figures to clearly defined individuals. Several were shouting, but their words were impossible to hear.

  Then the wagon was on them. Soldiers scattered, and there were yells and curses. Most leapt clear. Several avoided the wagon but fell prey to Haskeer and Pepperdyne’s blades. One managed to loose an arrow. It flew hopelessly wide.

  Stryke got his bearings and swerved. The wagon turned so sharply that on one side its wheels briefly left the ground. The jolt when they came down again all but dislodged everyone on board.

  They glimpsed the thatched buildings in flames. Men were dashing in all directions. Buckets of water were being chained.

  The wagon turned again and headed for the prisoners’ block.

  Coilla’s team got to the main gates. There were just six Wolverines with her. Dallog and his archers were bringing up the rear and had yet to arrive.

  There was no chance for Coilla’s group to properly collect themselves. Eight or nine of the troops Stryke ploughed through had kept on to the gates. They reached them at almost the same time as the Wolverines.

  Coilla took on the first of the troopers. He was an officer, and spitting mad. She liked angry opponents; it clouded their judgement.

  He attacked in a frenzy, slashing wildly with his sword and bellowing incoherently. It took no great skill on her part to dodge his blows. Getting past his blade’s lacerating passes was a bit harder. And she was all too aware that there was no time for delay.

  She grew furious in her response. Flaying the man’s blade, she laid siege to his defences, such as they were. Having bludgeoned her way past his guard, she bored steel into his chest.

  Coilla looked about, ready to engage another foe. There was no need. The group was putting down the last of the humans without her help.

  Seafe joined her. “Not much of a scrap, was it?” He looked disappointed.

  “I think they’re not used to orcs standing up to them. But it won’t take long to soak in.”

  “Corporal!” one of the privates shouted.

  It heralded the arrival of Dallog and his four archers.

  He surveyed the corpses. “You’ve made a good start then.”

  “There’s going to be more than just these. Now let’s get organised. You and you.” She nodded at two grunts. “Stay here and guard our exit. The rest, follow me.”

  They hastened into the compound.

  The wagon Stryke was driving arrived at the prison block. An imposing building, it was tall and windowless, save for a series of niches, like arrow slits, way up near the roof. They saw only one entrance; a pair of solid double doors, set smack in the middle of the facade.

  As Stryke slowed down, one of the doors opened a fraction. Just enough to show a pale human face gazing out from the ill-lit interior. Ponderously, the door began to close again.

  Pepperdyne vaulted from the still moving wagon and ran towards it.

  “Hold!” he shouted.

  The muscular doorkeeper froze. Pepperdyne saw that he held a length of thick chain suspended from a point somewhere overhead. It obviously worked a mechanism of pulleys and weights that operated the heavy door.

  “Let me in!” Pepperdyne demanded.

  The doorkeeper stared at Pepperdyne. Then his gaze flicked over his shoulder to Stryke and Haskeer pulling up in the wagon. “I can’t do that, sir.”

  “This is an order!” Pepperdyne thundered.

  Ignoring him, the man resumed hauling the chain. The door started to move again.

  Pepperdyne tried to stop him. He put his shoulder to it, pushing with all his strength. The door inched closer to the frame.

  Haskeer ran over and added his muscle. Straining, they halted the door’s progress, but couldn’t reverse it. The doorkeeper continued tugging mightily on the chain, face contorted with effort. For a few seconds, there was stalemate.

  Then Stryke joined them. Drawing his sword, he stooped and thrust it through the gap in the door. The tip penetrated the doorkeeper’s thigh. He cried out, but stubbornly hung on. Stryke jabbed at him repeatedly, staining the man’s breeches crimson. Trying to squirm away from the blade and maintain his hold on the chain at the same time proved too much. He let go and fell. The tautness went out of the chain and it shot up, jangling. Released, the door suddenly gave under Haskeer and Pepperdyne’s weight. They practically fell in.

  On his knees, the gatekeeper was scrabbling for his own sword. Stryke cut him down.

  Stepping over his body, they took in their surroundings.

  They were in a chamber just about large enough to accommodate their wagon. Its ceiling was as high as the building itself, and near the top was one of the slit windows they saw from outside, presumably for ventilation. Apart from a couple of wall-mounted brands providing the only real light, the walls were plain and unadorned.

  On the other side of the chamber was another, much smaller door. Hanging beside it was a bunch of keys on a metal ring the size of a female orc’s anklet. The door was locked, unsurprisingly, and they went through the keys until they found a fit.

  Entering cautiously, they found themselves in the core of the building. It was long, quite narrow, and simply laid out. There was a central aisle, with cages on either side. Not cells, as they might have expected, but what were essentially pens, fashioned from metal bars. They were too low for the occupants to stand, and their floors were covered in grubby straw. Each cage contained a despondent-looking orc, and the place stank.

  “Kept like animals,” Haskeer growled.

  “Why’re you looking at me?” Pepperdyne said.

  “Why do you think?”

  “I didn’t do this.”

  “Your kind did.”

  “Shut up,” Stryke hissed, “the pair of you. We’re not out of this yet.”

  The p
risoners had begun to notice what was happening and were growing noisily restive. At the far end of the aisle a door opened and a man in uniform entered. He didn’t notice the intruders. His attention was on quietening the prisoners, and he went about it with something that looked like a javelin. Shoving the pole between the bars, he jabbed at them with its barbed point.

  “I’ve had enough of this shit,” Haskeer declared. He headed down the walkway at a run.

  “Leave him to it,” Stryke said, clutching Pepperdyne’s sleeve.

  Haskeer was halfway along the aisle and gathering speed before the human noticed him. For a second he just stared, bemused. Then he started withdrawing the pole from a cage, working frantically, hand over hand. He almost had it clear when Haskeer smashed into him.

  The human was knocked backwards, losing his hold on the pole. He should have fallen, but Haskeer seized him by the shoulders in a steely grip. The man cried out. Haskeer propelled him to one side, savagely driving his head into the bars of a cage, the impact raising an almost melodic chime. He kept on pounding him against the cage until his skull was a bloody pulp. At length he let go, and the human dropped lifeless to the floor.

  The caged orcs, who had been clamouring throughout, fell silent.

  Stryke and Pepperdyne caught up. Stryke moved past Haskeer and made for the door the dead human had come out of. He booted it open. It was an empty guardroom.

  He still had the bunch of keys. Walking back to the centre of the aisle, he held them up for the prisoners to see. “We’re here for the Resistance members captured last night!” he told them. “We’ll sort out who’s who later! But remember: it’s not over when we unlock these cages! If you want to leave this camp alive, be ready to fight! You’ll have to scavenge weapons or improvise!” Glancing Pepperdyne’s way, he added, “And this human’s with us!” He tossed the keys to Haskeer and said, “Let ’em out.”

  Outside, there was chaos. The barracks and officers’ quarters were burning fiercely. Oily black smoke all but obscured the rising sun and the smell of charred timber perfumed the air. Most of the soldiers were fighting the fires; others milled in confusion. The Wolverine archers added to the turmoil by picking off random targets. For good measure they unleashed a few more flaming arrows at anything that might burn. A guards’ hut was ablaze, and the wooden supports of a bulbous water tower.

  Coilla and Dallog’s group arrived at the two buildings given over to torture and execution. They had no idea which was which. Not wanting to split their forces, they went for the first they came to. Like the prison block, it was a featureless structure with no windows and a single entrance. But they didn’t have Stryke’s good fortune. The door was firmly closed.

  “What now?” Dallog asked.

  “When in doubt,” Coilla replied, “blag your way through.”

  A couple of the Wolverines toted two-handed axes. She ordered them to take down the door. As they hammered at it, the archers stood by with taut bows. The door proved as solid as it looked, and it needed repeated blows before the wood began to splinter and groan. Finally it gave.

  They expected defenders to be waiting. There was no one to be seen. Kicking aside the jagged remains of the door, Coilla led the way into the building.

  There was a wide flight of stone steps that went down to a short corridor, with a further door at its end. It was also locked, but nowhere near as robust as they one they just broke down. After a couple of strokes from an axe it sprang open.

  Now they were in the heart of the building, and its function was immediately obvious. On one side stood a chest-high platform running the length of the room, with steps at each end. Above that was a sturdy beam of equal span, from which six ropes were suspended, each ending in a noose. Beneath each noose was a trapdoor. On the other side of the room there were tiers of benches for observers. The place seemed deserted.

  “There’s no doubt what they do here,” Dallog remarked grimly.

  Coilla nodded. “Let’s get out. There’s nothing —”

  “Corporal,” Reafdaw whispered. He bobbed his head towards the dark hollow under the platform.

  Everybody caught his meaning and listened. A second later there was the faintest of noises. Coilla silently gestured to the two orcs nearest the platform.

  Moving fast, they stooped and darted into the hollow. There was the sound of a scuffle and the smack of fists on flesh. Then they emerged dragging a human between them. His face was bloodied and his terror apparent.

  “Just him under there,” one of the grunts reported.

  “So what are you?” Coilla wondered.

  “Bet he’s an executioner,” Dallog offered.

  Reafdaw slipped out a dagger. “Shall we kill him?”

  The man turned chalk white. He started to plead.

  “Shut up,” Coilla said. “Hold on for a minute, Reafdaw.” She moved her face closer to the quaking human’s. “You’ve one chance to save your neck. Can you get us into the torture block?”

  His panicky gaze darted from her to Reafdaw to Dallog, then back again. He didn’t speak.

  “All right,” Coilla said, turning away, “cut his throat.”

  “No!” the human begged. “I can do it! I’ll get you in!”

  “Then get going.” She shoved him towards the door.

  The human resisted. “Not that way.”

  “Why not?”

  “I couldn’t get you through the main entrance. It’ll be secured because of… whatever’s going on outside.”

  “No point keeping you alive then.”

  “No, wait! There’s another way. Under there.” He pointed to the space below the scaffolds. “It’s where I was going when you caught me.”

  Coilla gave him a chilling look. “If this is a trick…”

  “It’s not. I’ll show you.”

  They kept close to him as he moved underneath the platform. After hunching for about ten paces they came to an area where it was possible to stand. Overhead were the trapdoors.

  The human carried on to the wall. “Here,” he said.

  At first, Coilla couldn’t see what he meant. She reached out to touch the wall with her fingertips, and felt a ridge. Then she realised it was a doorframe, hidden in shadow. She pushed. There was light.

  They were looking along a tunnel. It was softly lit by fat candles set in recesses.

  “Straight from torture to death, eh?” Dallog said.

  “And to tidily remove the… deceased,” the human told him.

  “Tidily,” Coilla repeated, a note of menace in her voice. She gave him a hard shove. “Keep moving!”

  The tunnel ended at a series of metal rungs that climbed to a trapdoor.

  “How many are up there?” Coilla whispered.

  “I don’t know,” the human replied. “I really don’t.”

  Coilla looked back at the rest of her group, crowding the narrow tunnel. She didn’t like the fact that they could only go up the rungs one at a time. It seemed perfect for an ambush. “No lingering,” she told them. “We get up there fast. And be ready for anything.” To the human she said, “You first.”

  He climbed the rungs and lifted the trap. Coilla went next, with Dallog right behind her.

  They emerged in a building of roughly the same dimensions as the one they just left. But it was laid out differently. Ahead of them, hugging the left-hand side, was a paved walkway. The space to the right was divided into sections by floor to ceiling brick partitions, nine or ten paces apart, forming a succession of cubicles. It remind Coilla of a stable.

  The rest of the orcs were beginning to surface from the tunnel, and Dallog was hauling up the slower ones by their scruffs. Coilla turned her head to check the bottleneck. That fleeting distraction was all their captive needed.

  He bolted. Running along the gangway, he started shouting. Most of it was gabble, but the note of alarm was unmistakable.

  “Shit!” Coilla cursed.

  Before she could act, Dallog shot past her. He moved at a surpri
sing clip given his age, and caught the human with apparent ease. There was a brief, futile struggle. Then Dallog seized the man’s head and twisted it sharply. There was an audible crack as his neck broke. Man became corpse in the blink of an eye, and dropped.

  But his shouted warning had a result. Up ahead, several figures came out of cubicles. They headed towards the orcs, weapons drawn.

  “Down!” Coilla yelled.

  It took Dallog a second to realise she meant him. He hit the deck. A small swarm of arrows soared over his head. They thudded into the first two humans, flattening them. The third and final man dashed for shelter as Wolverine archers loosed another volley. He almost made it.

  “Nice move,” Coilla told Dallog as he got to his feet. “Search the place,” she ordered the rest of the group.

  Moments later she was called to one of the cubicles.

  A manacled orc was suspended on the wall. He was unconscious and bloodied.

  Nearby stood a brazier steeped with glowing coals. Cruel-looking irons were heating in it. Other tools of the torturer’s trade were laid out on a gore-splattered bench.

  “There’s another one a few cubicles along,” a grunt told her. “He’s in a similar state.”

  “Get them down. Have Dallog look at their wounds.”

  A commotion arose along the walkway. She went out and saw several of her crew with a captive. They frogmarched him towards her.

  “Look what we found,” one of them said.

  The man was big and powerfully built. He wore the traditional black leather garb of an inquisitor, complete with integral skullcap and eye mask. His chest was bare and sheened with sweat from his labours.

  “Your work?” Coilla nodded at the prisoner being taken down.

  “And proud of it.” His manner was contemptuous, and he showed little of the fear their last captive displayed. “Besides,” he added haughtily, “your kind don’t feel pain the way your superiors do.”

  “If you say so.” She swiftly snatched an iron from the fire and drove it into his chest.

  He howled. The smell of scorching flesh perfumed the air. Coilla contemplated doing it again, thought better of it and tossed aside the iron. Instead she raised her sword and cut off his shrieks with a clean thrust between the ribs.