Orcs: Bad Blood

by Stan Nicholls

  “What is it?” Chillder asked, following her gaze.

  Coilla shook her head. “Nothing.”

  Standeven drew back from the door and retreated into the gloomy stable. “Look at them,” he said, his fury barely in check. “They’ve even got the females involved now.”

  “What’s the problem?” Pepperdyne answered. “They’re just practising.”

  “I should have known you’d take their part.”

  “In what? They’re only training.”

  “They’re getting ready for more trouble.”

  “It’s what they do. They’re a warrior race.”

  “These creatures are fighting against our side. Doesn’t that worry you?”

  “Our side?”

  “Our race, then. Our kind.”

  “They’re fighting oppression. They want their freedom back.”

  “They’re provoking the wrath of the rulers of this place, and we’re in the middle.”

  “What you call the rulers are usurpers. This isn’t their land. They took it.”

  “Trust you to see it that way.”

  “It’s hard not to, given my people’s history.”

  “That’s no excuse for going native now.”

  “You’ve a short memory. It wasn’t me who crossed Hammrik. We’re in this situation because of you.”

  Standeven’s complexion turned a deeper scarlet. “There was a time when you wouldn’t dare speak to me that way!”

  “That time’s over. It’s not about master and slave now. It’s about survival.”

  “And you think you’ll ensure that by throwing in your lot with these creatures?”

  “They’ve grounds for discontent. It’s a just cause.”

  “I wonder how interested they’d be in you as an ally if they knew what I know about you.”

  “No idea. Maybe they look at these things differently. Why don’t you try telling them?”

  Standeven said nothing.

  “Your threats don’t wash here,” Pepperdyne told him. “You need me to get through this and you know it. That’s what sticks in your craw, isn’t it, master?”

  Outside, the Vixens had paired off to rehearse swordplay. The clatter of blades filled the air.

  “I want to get out of this place,” Standeven said, more subdued. “Preferably in one piece.”

  “So do I. But it’s not in our hands.”

  “Well, it should be. It’s only the instrumentalities that stand between us and going home.”

  “Knowing how to use them might help. And taking them away from Stryke would need a damn sight more than luck.”

  “Not that he has all of them.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The female, Coilla; she’s carrying one.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “There’s a lot to be said for keeping low and using your ears.”

  “It’s called snooping.”

  “I happened to overhear,” Standeven came back huffily. “Seems Stryke wanted to split up the artefacts for some reason. Though we can only wonder why.”

  Pepperdyne shrugged. “Probably to stop somebody like you getting hold of them.”

  “I got the impression it was something more than that.”

  “None of this matters. We’re not going to get the instrumentalities away from the orcs. Even if we could, we’d need that amulet Stryke has as well, and to make sense of it.”

  “But we have to have them. If we do get back to our world we’d never be safe from Hammrik. They’re the only thing we could barter with.”

  “Sell to the highest bidder, more like. I know how you operate.”

  “Buy off Hammrik with them, or sell them for enough to get us far away from him; either way they’re our warranty.”

  “Our?”

  “I’d not be ungrateful to a loyal servant who stuck with me through this mess.”

  “As I said, it’d take a miracle to get hold of them here. We’d have to try for it once we got home. If we ever do.”

  “So we’ll have to stay on the Wolverines’ good side, if they have such a thing, in the hope they’ll take us back. I’m not as sure of that as you seem to be.”

  “What’s the alternative?”

  Standeven looked him in the eye, and there was a chill in his gaze. “Perhaps there are such things as miracles.”

  22

  “Well, here we go,” Coilla said, adding a hatchet to her other concealed weapons. She wrapped a shawl about her shoulders.

  “Think this is going to work?” Pepperdyne asked.

  “A human and a bunch of orc females? We can’t fail to get in.”

  “Never did get the stain completely out of this.” He licked his fingers and rubbed at the front of his stolen uniform tunic.

  “Stop fussing, it’s all right.”

  “We’ve pulled this trick once before. Are they going to fall for it again?”

  “I’m counting on them thinking we wouldn’t try it twice.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  “Then they’ll find they’ve got more than feeble menials to deal with.”

  His expression turned sombre. “You’re trusting me with a lot, you know.”

  “You’ve shown yourself as upright before. You going to change now?”

  “I’m one of their kind, when all’s said and done. The enemy.”

  “Don’t sweat it. If I think you’re up to anything, I’ll kill you.” She smiled pleasantly.

  “Let’s move,” he said.

  The Vixens occupied two open wagons. Coilla and Pepperdyne climbed aboard the first, he taking the driver’s seat. Spurral sat at the back, near the centre, wedged between a pair of females, a generous headscarf hiding her features. Like all the Vixens, she wore drab workers’ clothing. Brelan drove the second wagon.

  For a settlement founded by orcs, Taress was arranged along surprisingly organised lines, at least at its heart. Most of what a city needed to function — the storage and distribution of supplies, the provision of drinking water, the housing of livestock and so on — had its own quarter. Since the invasion, the humans had added another, to direct the running of their colony. It was to this sector that the wagons headed.

  Orc labourers were still repairing damage caused by the stampede. Under the cold watchfulness of human overseers, trees were being hauled away and walls rebuilt. Gangs of workers shovelled debris into fleets of drays.

  The Vixens’ journey was short, but not without risks. There were roadblocks to negotiate. The first, at the main thoroughfare leading into the administrative sector, was the most formidable. A guard-post stood on one side, and the road was sealed with a timber blockade. Sentries were out in strength.

  The pair of wagons joined a queue of vehicles waiting to be let in. A couple were orc merchants’ carts. There were several carriages bearing humans with an officious look; and a gig occupied by a woman who could have been an officer’s wife, riding next to a beefy driver. The line was made up with a handful of men on horseback, mostly uniformed.

  “They seem to be waving the humans through quicker,” Pepperdyne whispered.

  “Course they are,” Coilla replied. “What’d you expect? But don’t count on it being the same for us.”

  They finally reached the head of the queue. A sergeant stepped forward, saw Pepperdyne’s rank insignia and saluted. If he noticed the ominous stain on the phoney officer’s jacket, he gave no sign.

  He held out a calloused hand. “Your papers, sir?”

  Pepperdyne gave him a folded sheet of parchment.

  The sergeant studied it, paying particular attention to the seal. He nodded at the wagons’ passengers. “Who are they?”

  “Clean-up detail,” Pepperdyne said.

  “For where, sir?”

  “Bureau of Tallies.”

  The sergeant moved along the side of the wagon and looked in. All the females kept their heads bowed submissively. Several held wooden pails on their laps. Brooms, scrubbing br
ushes and other tools were laid on the deck. He walked to the second wagon and gave that a cursory once-over too. Then he sauntered back to Pepperdyne.

  Coilla eyed the sergeant’s jugular and fingered a concealed knife, just in case. He caught her look, read it as simple impertinence and glared at her. She dropped her gaze and tried for passive.

  “Need any help keeping ’em in order, sir?” the sergeant asked Pepperdyne. “I could spare a couple of troopers to go with you.”

  “To mind these bitches? Waste of manpower. This lot are meek as cows.”

  The sergeant glanced at the orcs and grinned. “Take your point.” He handed back the parchment, then waved them on.

  A safe distance later, Coilla turned to Pepperdyne and hissed, “Bitches? Cows?”

  “It’s what they expected to hear.”

  “You could have put a bit less bile into it.”

  “Just playing my part.” He stuffed the parchment into his pocket.

  “You humans have a high regard for your pieces of paper.”

  “Too much, if that sergeant’s anything to go by. It’s not a very good forgery.”

  “Good enough. It got us through.”

  “Don’t relax yet. We’ll have to show it again soon.”

  The second roadblock was less imposing. It consisted of a farm cart barring the way and a small company of troopers. Perhaps because the wagons had already passed the first checkpoint, scrutiny was casual. The counterfeit papers were given a token examination, and once a lone guard had made a lacklustre inspection of the passengers, the Vixens were let through.

  They didn’t have to do more than slow down at the third and final roadblock. An apathetic soldier barely looked up from his dice game to signal for them to keep moving.

  “That went sweetly,” Coilla said.

  “Let’s hope it’s as easy getting out. Assuming we live long enough.”

  Coilla glanced over her shoulder to see how Brelan was doing on the second wagon. He gave her a cautious nod, working to keep a neutral expression on his face.

  Being a restricted quarter, the streets were less crowded than the rest of Taress, and there were more uniforms about. Knots of troopers stood at crossroads and patrols walked the footpaths. Guardposts decorated the roadside.

  As they passed, the occupants of the wagons drew stares. Most were dutiful, or idly curious, but it was attention they could have done without.

  “This is uncomfortable,” Pepperdyne complained.

  “Just look as though you’ve a right to be here. It’s not far now.”

  There were new buildings in the neighbourhood, erected by the invaders at the expense of older structures they requisitioned and tore down. It was to one of these that the wagons were bound.

  They saw their goal as they turned into the district’s core. In common with many of the buildings put up by the conquerors, hurriedly assembled in the early days of the occupation, it was functional rather than attractive. Standing back from the road, behind a tall iron fence, it was fashioned from plain stone slabs with few windows, set high. It looked robust enough to withstand an all-out assault.

  The wagons halted at the gate. While they waited for a pair of guards to amble over to them, Pepperdyne beckoned Brelan. He climbed down.

  “You’re sure you’ve stopped the cleaning squad they’re expecting?” Pepperdyne asked.

  Brelan nodded. “They’re being delayed by a fake accident a dozen blocks from here.”

  “Won’t these humans be able to tell the difference when a new lot of faces turn up?” Coilla wondered.

  “They can’t tell us apart. Any more than we can them.”

  “What about him?” Coilla jabbed her thumb at Pepperdyne. “They’ll know he’s different.”

  “These details don’t always have the same escort.” He sounded a little exasperated. “We’ve been over this a thousand —”

  “Quiet,” Pepperdyne warned. “They’re here,”

  The guards opened the gates sufficient to squeeze through, and approached.

  They were brisk and moderately wary. The false papers came out again. There was the obligatory going over of the wagons, carried out indolently. The guards recited routine questions. Finally they nodded, parted the gates and guided the wagons through.

  At the substantial doors of the building itself, the Vixens disembarked, pails in hand. There were worries that Spurral’s height would attract attention, but no eyebrows were raised. As the resistance had explained, children were not unusual in work details. Coilla had the uncomfortable thought that the group might be subjected to a body search. But again the fear proved groundless. The humans seemed to have no conception that females could present a threat.

  One of the guards rapped on the door with the hilt of his sword. A panel slid aside and he spoke with someone. Then the door opened and everybody filed in.

  The interior was a little grander than the outside. Cool grey marble faced the walls, and there were mosaics. The lofty ceiling had ornate carvings. But the embellishments were unfinished, a work in progress.

  “They live a damn sight better than the rest of us,” Chillder whispered.

  “Surprise,” Coilla said.

  One of the guards leading the group turned his head and gave them a sour look. They fell silent.

  The building was large. Brooms over their shoulders, and clutching their buckets, the Vixens tramped a seemingly endless passageway. They passed a number of doors. Some were open, affording glimpses of humans poring over benches strewn with paper and ledgers; or orcs hauling boxes. One room, bigger than most, held scores of artefacts. Under human supervision, orc servants packed straw-filled crates with gold statuettes, carved wooden relics and ornamental weapons.

  “Damn!” Brelan muttered under his breath.

  “What?” Coilla mouthed.

  “Our birthright,” he hissed. “Looted to decorate the parlours of empire quill-pushers.”

  “Hey!” the guard yelled. “This ain’t a pleasure trip! Cut the mumbling!”

  “Too right,” Pepperdyne said, stepping in. “Button your lips! And don’t dawdle!”

  He underlined the point with a hard shove to Brelan and Coilla’s backs. When Coilla turned, glowering, he gave her a wink. She didn’t return it.

  At length they came to a tall pair of double doors. Beyond lay a spacious, hall-like chamber. It contained rows of writing tables with high stalls. The walls were shelved from floor to elevated ceiling, and there were ladders for the upper reaches. Scroll cylinders, bound volumes and document boxes filled the shelves. Little light entered through the slit windows. Despite being broad day outside, the room was lit by a series of wooden chandeliers, each bearing scores of stout candles, and by a plentiful scattering of lamps.

  There were perhaps a dozen humans present, mostly clerks, seated at the tables. Two or three orc lackeys fetched and carried for them.

  A stick-thin, gangly human approached. From his dress and bearing he could only be an overseer. The harassed look he wore strengthened the impression.

  He clapped his hands like a prissy schoolmarm, his bony palms producing a strangely brittle sound. “Listen to me!” he announced, his tone almost shrill. “You orcs couldn’t possibly understand what goes on here in the Bureau of Tallies. All you need to know is that it’s much more important than the sum of your miserable lives. Sloppy work will not be tolerated. If you damage so much as a sheet of parchment, you’ll be whipped. Is that understood?” He didn’t wait for an answer. Which was just as well, given that the Vixens were in no mood for compliance.

  Coilla and Spurral caught each other’s eye. Coilla nodded, very faintly.

  The overseer began issuing orders. Jabbing a lean finger at the ersatz cleaners, he dispensed chores. “And you, you and you,” he decided, pointing at Coilla, “can take care of the latrines.”

  “I don’t think so,” Coilla told him.

  The overseer stopped short. He looked to Pepperdyne. “Did that creature address me?”


  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

  “What did you say?”

  “Tell him, Coilla.”

  “Clean your own fucking shithouse,” Coilla said.

  The overseer turned scarlet. “How dare you talk to your betters like that!”

  “I just open my mouth and it comes out.”

  A vein began pulsing in the overseer’s forehead. “This is gross disobedience!” He turned to Pepperdyne again. “Have you no control over this creature?”

  Pepperdyne shrugged. “Looks like she doesn’t want to clean your latrines.”

  “I don’t believe you’re taking the brute’s part. Are you drunk?”

  “Chance would be a fine thing.”

  “If this is some kind of joke —”

  “Then the laugh’s on you,” Coilla said. “We might not understand what goes on here, but we sure as hell can stop it.”

  Alarmed, the overseer backed away and started yelling, “Guards! Guards!”

  The pair of sentries who accompanied the group on the way in had been watching bemused as the scene unfolded. Now they stirred. The nearest made a grab for Coilla. She deftly swung the bucket she was clutching and struck him square to the forehead. He tottered. She swung again, landing another hard blow, then a third. The guard collapsed. His companion went down under a flurry of punches and kicks from a bevy of Vixens.

  The overseer’s crimson complexion gave way to pallid. Coilla turned to him. “Now keep your mouth shut and do as you’re told.”

  She bawled an order. The Vixens produced their concealed weapons, and Pepperdyne drew his sword.

  “Traitor!” the overseer spat.

  Pepperdyne showed him the tip of his blade. “She told you to shut up!”

  The Vixens were levering out the false bottoms of their pails and retrieving sealed pots of oil.

  “Splash that stuff around as widely as possible,” Coilla ordered.

  The overseer’s eyes widened. “Louts!” he shouted. “Animals! How dare —”

  Pepperdyne drove his fist into the man’s jaw. He went out like a snuffed candle.

  Coilla nodded approvingly. To the Vixens, she said, “Let’s have the tithe detail.” Ten females stepped forward. “You know your job. Sniff out the taxes these bloodsuckers have wrung from the citizens. Remember, every coin you find puts another sword in the hands of the resistance. Now get moving.”