Orcs: Bad Blood

by Stan Nicholls

  “I reckon that’s enough to hurt anybody,” she told his lifeless body. “Improvise a couple of stretchers,” she ordered, “we’re getting out of here.”

  They smashed the legs off two benches and used the tops to transport the tortured orcs. Then they found the main entrance and left that way.

  Out in the compound, confusion still reigned.

  Somebody shouted, “Look!”

  Stryke, Haskeer and Pepperdyne were running their way. They had a large number of freed prisoners in tow.

  “All right?” Stryke asked.

  Coilla nodded. “Yeah. They’ve made suffering and death a fine art here.” She couldn’t help eyeing Pepperdyne. He said nothing.

  “At least we can get this bunch out,” Stryke replied.

  There was a thunderous crash. The burning supports of the water tower had given way. Shattering as it hit the ground, the huge wooden container disgorged its contents. Several hundred gallons of water swept across the compound, knocking nearby soldiers off their feet.

  “That should keep ’em busy,” Haskeer reckoned.

  “Time to leave,” Stryke said.

  They ran to the main gates and were joined by the pair of Wolverines they left as back-up. Almost as soon as they got out to the road, a couple of large covered wagons drew up. They were driven by the two resistance members who guided the Wolverines to the camp. The injured were put on board, then everyone else crammed in at the double.

  It was still early, and there wasn’t much in the way of people or traffic on the streets. In any event the journey wasn’t too long. Instead of driving into the city proper, the wagons skirted it and made for a rural area. Soon, they came to a collection of seemingly abandoned farm buildings. The gateway was guarded by a contingent of orcs who waved the wagons through. They pulled up in a spacious yard.

  Stryke got out. The place was full of resistance members. Brelan was foremost. Chillder hovered in the background.

  “You asked for seven,” Stryke said, jabbing a thumb at the disembarking passengers, “I’ve brought you thirty.”

  “I’m impressed,” Brelan admitted.

  “And here’s something else for you,” Stryke added. He balled his fist and delivered a heavy punch to Brelan’s jaw, flooring him. “That’s for putting my band in danger.”

  On all sides, resistance members went for their weapons. A number moved forward.

  Brelan raised a hand and stopped them. “Right,” he said, spitting a mouthful of blood. “I think we can work together.”

  17

  “What I still find hard to take in,” Brelan said, spearing a chunk of meat with his dagger, “is the idea of humans taking the side of orcs.”

  “The way I see it,” Pepperdyne replied, “it’s not about humans and orcs. It’s about right and wrong.”

  “And is that how your companion sees it too?” Chillder asked, staring at Standeven. “He doesn’t say much.”

  “Er… I…” Standeven jabbed a finger at Pepperdyne. “What he said.”

  “He’s a deep thinker,” Pepperdyne explained. “Not much of a way with words.”

  “Is he as good a fighter as I’ve heard you are?”

  “You’d be… surprised at his talents, Chillder.”

  Servers arrived to replenish their cups with wine, and conversation dwindled.

  It was evening. Brelan and Chillder had invited Stryke and his officers to join them for a meal. The humans had been included, along with Jup and Spurral, though Stryke wasn’t alone in thinking it was with some understandable reluctance on the twins’ part. The rest of the Wolverines were taking their food elsewhere in the dilapidated farmhouse.

  It was Stryke who broke the silence. “So what’s the plan?”

  “Plan?” Brelan said.

  “How are you going to stoke your rebellion?”

  Brelan smiled. It was more cynical than amused. “Rebellions need popular backing. Unlike your far northern lands, the orcs here have no taste for rising up. As I said, we of the resistance are different; we’re prepared to fight the invaders. But we’re no more than a thorn in their side. Though what you did today —”

  “You could do every day,” Coilla assured him. “Our numbers are small too, if you hadn’t noticed. Resolve counts more than numbers.”

  “Along with training and experience,” Stryke said.

  “Not that you couldn’t do with a much bigger force,” Dallog added.

  “I’d give my sword arm for another thousand warriors,” Brelan agreed. “But warfare’s not in the nature of orcs. At least, not in this part of the world.”

  Haskeer had been stuffing his mouth with fowl. He dragged a sleeve across his greasy chin. “Yeah, why are they so gutless in these parts?”

  Stryke shot him a look. “Sorry. My sergeant’s not used to civil company.”

  Haskeer shrugged and tore a large chunk from a loaf of bread.

  “Orcs tend to be blunt in their opinions,” Chillder replied. “It seems we are like our northern brethren in that way, and long may it last. But he’s right. Our race’s weakness shames us.”

  “And we find it puzzling,” Stryke remarked. “That orcs should shy from a fight… well, that’s something we don’t understand.”

  “I think we’ve become too civilised. It seems you of the northern wastes aren’t as soft in your ways. Life here has been too easy for too long, and it’s buried our natural passions.”

  “But underneath the fire’s still there. You’re proof of that.”

  “You’re the proof,” Brelan said. “We differ a little from Acurial’s citizenry; you could almost be from another world.”

  Stryke smiled stiffly. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “I would. You’re unlike any orcs I’ve ever known. I mean, you even have ranks, like the humans. How did that come about?”

  Stryke felt as though he was about to start walking on eggs again. He could hardly say it was imposed on them as members of a horde headed by an insane sorceress. “We got organised, created a clear line of command so we could better fight the enemy. It’s something you should think about doing yourselves.”

  “It’s so like the way humans do it, and what with those tattoos you all had, I thought you might have been press-ganged by them.”

  “Is that something they do here?” Coilla asked.

  “No. They’ve tried, mind you. But they find orcs poor material for fighting. We’ve been such an unwarlike race there isn’t even a tradition of weapon-making. We have to forge our own, or steal them from the occupiers.”

  “Things do seem in a bad way here,” Stryke reflected.

  Chillder nodded. “They are. But what your band managed in one day gives us hope. If you’d help us organise and train, we could do some real damage to the occupiers, not just harass them.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Haskeer said. He gulped his wine. Some of it dribbled down the front of his jerkin.

  “We can help,” Stryke confirmed.

  Chillder looked to the dwarfs. “Jup, are your folk as warlike as these orcs of the north?”

  “We hold our own.”

  “As well as any in the band,” Stryke told her.

  “And how do you see us faring against the humans here, Jup?” Brelan asked.

  “I’d imagine their greater numbers would be a problem.”

  “They aren’t that great. Granted there’s more than the resistance. A lot more. But not as many as you might think to cow a nation.”

  “How so?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? With a population this meek, they don’t need vast regiments to keep us down. That’s why we were such a tempting prize. It’s not force of arms that holds the balance, it’s damn magic.”

  “And with orcs lacking that ability, it’s not likely to change.”

  “Yet it was the lie that we could control magic that led to the invasion.”

  “How is it with dwarfs?” Chillder said.

  Spurral had been picking at her food. She loo
ked up. “What do you mean?”

  “We know some humans can master sorcery. Is it the same with dwarfs?”

  “We may look a little like them, but we don’t share that particular gift. Our troubles would have been over long before now if we did.”

  “Pity.” Chillder turned her gaze to Pepperdyne and Stand-even.

  “It’s no good looking at us,” Pepperdyne said, raising his hands in denial. “Magic’s practised by an elite we’ve never been acquainted with.”

  “You can’t help us turn sorcery against them then,” Chillder sighed.

  “Forget magic; it’s not likely to be part of the orcs’ armoury,” Stryke reckoned. “But cold steel can match it.”

  “How?” Brelan wanted to know.

  “A dead wizard casts no spells. Humans are flesh, and they bleed. Concentrate on that.”

  “It’s easier said,” Chillder reminded him. “What can we do to bring it about?”

  “What you’ve been doing, only better. We’ve fought humans and we’ve fought magic. Both can be overcome. We’ll share our skills with you, show you how to make the best of what you’ve got.”

  “I had an idea about that,” Coilla ventured.

  “Go on,” Brelan said.

  “I noticed that you have a number of females in your ranks. But as far as I can see they’re menials. Do any of them fight?”

  It wasn’t Brelan who replied, but his sister. “Ah. You’ve touched on a sore point, Coilla. Of the resistance females, it’s just me who takes on the enemy in battle. And that’s only because my brother wouldn’t dare deny me.”

  “That’s not really true,” Brelan protested. He saw how his twin was looking at him. “Well, all right, it is. But as a general rule we don’t let the females fight.”

  “Why?” Coilla demanded.

  “I’ll say it again: we are few. We’ve a duty to protect the child-bearers.”

  “Have you asked them what they think? Look, Brelan, you’re an orc, but the way orcs are in Acurial isn’t… natural. You need to understand that females of our race are as ferocious as the males. Or could be. They’re an asset you’re wasting.”

  “That’s never been our way.”

  “Then change it. You’re fighting for freedom for all. All should fight.”

  Chillder backed that with, “Hear, hear.”

  Brelan was silent for a moment, and seemed to be mulling over Coilla’s words. Then he said, “They couldn’t fight alongside the males. Their lack of skill would endanger them.”

  Coilla nodded. “That’s what I thought. So why not let me put together an all-female band? Not to fetch and carry for you males, but to fight in their own right.”

  Chillder smiled. “It gets my vote.”

  “I hope you’d be a part of it; and you, Spurral.”

  “Why not?” Brelan conceded. “If it helps the cause —”

  “Good. There must be twenty or thirty females here who could form a warband.”

  “You should ask Wheam to join,” Haskeer muttered.

  “What did he say?” Brelan asked.

  “Ignore him,” Coilla said, aiming a glare at Haskeer.

  “All right then, we’ll make a start in the morning,” Chillder promised.

  Things wound down after that. One by one, the diners drifted from the table to find somewhere to sleep. Stryke and Coilla felt need of air, and slipped out of the farmhouse. They propped themselves against a fence rail, well away from the patrolling guards.

  “You look troubled,” she said.

  “I don’t like lying to these orcs. About who we are, where we’re from, why we’re here…”

  “You think they’d find the truth more to their taste?”

  “Hell, no. They’d probably burn us at the stake.”

  “So you’re doing the right thing. Just like Spurral did back there, denying dwarfs had any magical powers. They’re not ready for the truth, however let down Chillder seemed.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Everything’s on its head here. I mean, now we know why the humans haven’t despoiled this place the way they did Maras-Dantia. They understand that the magic depends on the land staying hearty.”

  “They’ll find another way of fucking things up.”

  “That’s for sure.” She turned to look at him. “I thought you might have been ticked off with me.”

  “Why should I be?”

  “This idea of a female warband. I should have asked you first. But just in the short time we’ve been here I’ve got crabby about the bullshit. You know, they call themselves civilised, but don’t seem so damned civilised when it comes to females doing their bit.”

  “Don’t be too hard on them. They’ve lost touch with their roots, with what it means to be an orc. And no, I don’t mind. Whatever gives the humans a kick in the arse is fine by me.”

  “Good. I even thought of a name for the band. We’re the Wolverines; I thought they could be the Vixens.”

  He smiled. “Sounds fitting.”

  “But we’re dodging the main issue.”

  “Which is?”

  “Jennesta. There’s no sign of her. And she’s why we’re here, isn’t she?”

  “Part of it.”

  “You saying we wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the chance to settle with her once and for all?”

  “No. But we’ve barely seen Taress yet. Jennesta’s not likely to be strolling around unprotected.”

  “Getting even with her is why most of the band signed on for this mission. You shouldn’t forget that.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And it’s all about a grudge for Pepperdyne and Standeven, too. They say.”

  “That’s another bucket of worms.”

  “We’re getting in deep here, Stryke. In more than one way.”

  He raised a finger to his lips and nodded towards the farmhouse.

  Brelan was heading their way.

  “There you are,” he said.

  “I’m glad to have you without the others around,” Stryke told him. “About that punch I threw at you —”

  Brelan rubbed his chin, as though still stinging from the blow. “I got the message. But that’s done. I’m not here to go over it. We’ve had news.”

  “What is it?”

  “Seems an emissary of some kind’s about to arrive from Peczan.”

  “So?”

  “The word is this isn’t some lowly bureaucrat. They’re high up. Important. And it’s causing quite a stir among the governor’s staff and the garrison.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “Not all orcs want to fight, but some of them are happy to pass on intelligence. This came down the line from servants in Hacher’s headquarters.”

  “So if we could get at whoever it is —”

  “Perhaps. Or stage something that makes Hacher look inept in their eyes. Either way, with your help, we might be able to strike a blow.”

  “And you’ve no idea who this envoy is, or how much power they wield?”

  “None. Except that as far as Hacher’s concerned, their coming doesn’t bode well.”

  “Yes,” Coilla said, “but for who?”

  18

  The orcs of Acurial, and especially of Taress, were accustomed to having the military hammer on their doors at dawn. Usually it was a prelude to being locked up, tortured or summarily executed. Or perhaps to be forced to witness the execution of others. Sometimes it was part of a collective punishment for a real or imagined defiance of the occupiers’ will; the citizenry made to watch as their homes burned, their cattle were slaughtered and their fields sown with salt.

  It was much rarer for them to be turfed from their beds to line the streets. To be issued with pennants bearing the colours of their conquerors’ nation and compelled to acclaim a visiting dignitary.

  Most singular of all was to have the object of their ersatz approval gallop past at speed in a black carriage with its windows shuttered against curious eyes.

  The c
arriage, accompanied by an entourage of similarly impenetrable vehicles and an honour guard of hard-faced elite troopers, made its way to the fortress at the centre of the city. As soon as it entered, the gates were hastily secured.

  Near the castle’s apex, in Kapple Hacher’s eyrie, the governor awaited his guest.

  As ever, he was outwardly calm. The sorcerer Grentor, who stood at his side, was less so.

  “Tell me, Governor,” Grentor said, toying nervously with a string of worry beads, “have you met our guest before?”

  “I have. In Peczan.”

  “And your impression?”

  “I think… profound would be an appropriate word. And you, Brother? Have you been in the presence?”

  “No. Although our visitor is technically the head of our Order, I’ve never had that pleasure.”

  “Pleasure is a word you might wish to reconsider.”

  “How so?”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come!” Hacher called.

  His aide, Frynt, entered. “They’re here, sir.” He was breathless.

  “You seem flustered,” Hacher said. “I take it you’ve had sight of our guest.”

  “Yes, sir. The party’s on its way up.”

  “All right. Leave us. No, use the other door.”

  The aide went out, looking relieved to be going.

  Grentor wore a perplexed expression.

  “A word of advice, High Cleric,” Hacher told him. “You’ll find that the emissary is… let’s say strong willed, and does not easily tolerate dissent. This is a person of enormous power and influence. It’s as well to keep that in mind.”

  Grentor would have replied, had not the double doors leading into Hacher’s chambers not flown open with a crash.

  Two figures walked in. They were human. At least, nominally so. Both were males, and impressively muscular. They were dressed for combat, in black leather trews, jerkins and steel-tipped boots, and they carried scimitars.

  Beyond these superficialities, they were wrong. Their eyes were wrong. They had a fixed, glazed quality that seemed devoid of any spark of humanity. Their faces were wrong. The skin appeared overly taut and expressionless, and it had an unhealthy yellowish tinge. The way they moved was wrong. They progressed inflexibly, as though their spines were too rigid, and there was a slight tendency to shuffle.