Orcs: Bad Blood

by Stan Nicholls

  The opposite side of the fort, where its entrance was situated, faced a grassy plain that stretched to the city of Taress. Not that the city could be seen. Even if it hadn’t been too far away, a semicircle of squat hills obscured the view, and set the fort in a depression. As a result, the road that ran to its gates was on a slight incline. To the south-west, also hidden, a major river flowed.

  A force of orcs, some ninety strong, had approached covertly, and now concealed themselves behind the hill crests. They brought three wagons, the horses’ hooves muffled with sacking. The orcs took care to mask their advance. Patrols had been ambushed and lookouts purged.

  Brelan commanded the force. Haskeer, Dallog and Pepperdyne were part of it, along with Wheam. Roughly half the Wolverines were present, and resistance members made up the rest.

  Peeking over the ridge, Brelan surveyed the fort. It was constructed of stone. There were two towers, and sentries toured the battlements. But there was no moat or portcullis. The road swept straight down to its wooden gates, which were not unlike barn doors, albeit taller and sturdier.

  Brelan pulled back and ordered the wagons to be brought up almost to the peak of the hill, where they were still out of sight. The horses were unhitched and quietly led away, and the wagons’ shafts were removed. Each wagon carried a stout tree trunk with its fore-end iron-capped. These were hauled forward and securely lashed in place, so that the points jutted from the front.

  The wagons had a central lever installed at the driver’s end which connected to chains attached to the front axle.

  Pepperdyne studied the arrangement. “Clever. But how much control does the lever give?”

  “Not a lot,” Brelan admitted. “Just enough to steer it a little to the left or right, though it takes some strength to do even that. Which is why we’ll have two pairs of hands on each.”

  “How about braking?”

  “There’s only the wagon’s brake. But we’re not sure that’d work, given the weight we’ll be shifting. We’re relying on the things stopping of their own accord, once the gates and level ground slow them.”

  “Bit iffy, isn’t it?”

  “It’s the best we could do.”

  Pepperdyne turned and saw Wheam standing nearby. His lips were silently moving and he wore a look of intense concentration. “All right, Wheam?”

  The youngster nodded, and said out loud, “One hundred and four, one hundred and five, one hundred and six…”

  “You’re doing fine,” Pepperdyne told him. “Keep it up.”

  “One hundred and seven, one hundred and eight, one hundred and nine…”

  “Good,” Stryke said. “Try to keep to that pace.”

  Spurral gave him a thumbs up and continued counting under her breath.

  They were part of a group, numbering about fifty, cautiously edging their way along the base of the cliff below the fort.

  Stryke led them. Spurral, Jup, Coilla and Chillder were acting as his lieutenants. The remainder of the group comprised the balance of the Wolverines, all of the Vixens, and a contingent from the resistance.

  They pressed as close to the cliff face as possible, sheltering beneath a narrow overhang to avoid being seen. Their path took them to the first of the derelict buildings.

  “We need the third one,” Chillder reminded him in a whisper.

  Stryke nodded.

  He didn’t want to take the risk of breaking cover and approaching the building they wanted head-on. So he beckoned a couple of grunts and they set to carefully prising off rotting planks on the side of the first building. When a big enough gap was opened, Stryke began shepherding the group through.

  The interior stank of mould, and the floor was strewn with rubble. Just enough light lanced through cracks in the building’s fabric for them to see. Stumbling across to the opposite wall, they repeated the process, levering planks off with dagger blades.

  Fortunately the buildings abutted each other, which meant no open space between them where the orcs might have been spotted. They had to get through two sets of planks, but they were so decayed it didn’t present a problem.

  The second building was very much like the first. Except that a mass of fallen timbers blocked the far wall and had to be cleared.

  “How we doing, Spurral?” Stryke asked.

  “Four hundred and seventy-nine, four hundred and eighty…”

  “Right. Move it,” he urged the others. “Time’s running out.”

  They got the timbers shifted and attacked the final wall. It was in the same state as the others and they were soon through.

  The third building was the biggest so far, with barn-like dimensions and a high roof.

  “This way,” Chillder said, heading for the rear.

  Stryke ordered hooded lamps to be lit and they saw heaps of debris and wood stacked against the back wall.

  “Here,” Chillder instructed.

  They all piled into moving the obstructions and made short work of it. What was revealed was the bare cliff face. But when the lanterns were held close the light showed a large semi-circular area that wasn’t the same colour as the rock.

  “It’s just mortar,” Chillder explained. “We’ve already done the work. You’ve only to break through.”

  Three or four orcs came forward with sledgehammers that had cloth wrapped around their heads to deaden the sound. They pounded at the mortar and it fell away in great chunks. Dust swirled in the already fusty air, and there was a chorus of coughing and spitting. In minutes an opening like a cave mouth had been excavated.

  Stryke had more lanterns lit and torches fired.

  “It’s a labyrinth in there,” Chillder warned. “I’d better go first.” She took one of the torches.

  They found themselves in a long tunnel low enough that all but the dwarfs had to stoop. It sloped upwards on a steep gradient, and the floor was worn so smooth their boots had trouble gaining purchase.

  At last they came to a level. Facing them were the mouths of two more tunnels. Chillder took the one on the right. It was taller than the one they entered by, but much narrower, making its transit oppressive. This led to a circular chamber. On its far side was a stairway carved out of the rock. They started to climb.

  The stairs, perhaps a hundred in total, delivered them to a passageway. Along its length were the entrances to a dozen or more tunnels. Without hesitating, Chillder strode to one and entered. It was short.

  They came out in a high but constricted gallery. On both sides were ledges of stone reaching to the ceiling. The ledges were packed with skulls. There were bones too. Thigh bones, arm bones, ribs, all neatly stacked and forming solid yellowy-white walls. Every few yards there were complete skeletons, standing to attention as though guarding the house of death.

  If an archer had loosed an arrow from where they stood, it would have scarcely reached the far end of the gallery. The skulls and various bones, unmistakably from orcs, numbered in their thousands. Quite possibly hundreds of thousands.

  “Welcome to one of the catacombs of Acurial,” Chillder announced, a certain awe in her voice.

  “How long has this been here?” Coilla asked, taking in the display.

  “It’s ancient,” Chillder explained. “Older than we can guess. At one time, long ago, all orcs were placed in galleries like this when their end came. Our ancestors have slept here for untold centuries.”

  “The humans don’t know about this?” Jup said.

  “Most of our own don’t know about it. It’s just another part of our lost heritage. The resistance discovered it by accident when we were looking for a way into the fortress.”

  “We should keep moving,” Stryke said.

  They walked the length of the gallery, their footsteps echoing eerily. The empty eye sockets of the long dead seemed to follow their progress.

  At the end of the gallery was another passage and yet more tunnels. Chillder entered the first they came to, and counted as she paced along it. It was so low they could touch the ceiling
with ease. Suddenly she stopped and looked up.

  “This is the place,” she stated.

  Their torches showed a white cross marked on the ceiling.

  “How we doing, Spurral?” Stryke wanted to know.

  “Seven hundred and eleven, seven hundred and twelve, seven hundred and…”

  “Let’s get on with it.”

  He called over grunts with picks and shovels.

  “Wait!” Jup exclaimed.

  They turned to see that he was standing with his arms held high and palms pressed to the wall.

  “What is it?” Chillder demanded.

  “Not here,” Jup said. “It’s not right.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Stryke went to him. “What do you sense, Jup?”

  “Sense?” Chillder said, obviously bewildered.

  “This isn’t a good place,” Jup replied. “There’s a concentration of… I’m not sure. But above this point isn’t where we want to come out. There’s activity up there. Malevolent.”

  “Will somebody tell me what’s going on?” Chillder demanded.

  “Jup has a…” Stryke faltered. “He’s sensitive to certain things. You’re sure, Jup?”

  “The farsight works well here. Clearer than I ever knew it in,” he glanced at Chillder, “in the north. Believe me, this isn’t where we should be. Can we move on a bit? Find another spot?”

  “Have you gone insane?” Chillder fumed.

  Stryke fixed her with a resolute gaze. “If Jup says it’s dangerous for us to break through here, then we’d better listen. He’s never wrong about these things. Believe me.”

  “If you think we’re going to change the plan at the last minute on the say so of a —”

  “Eight hundred and seventy-one, eight hundred and seventy-two… ,” Spurral chimed in, glaring at them.

  “Trust us, Chillder,” Stryke said. “That or stand aside. Only make up your mind now. There’s no time for this.”

  “Gods, you’re all crazy,” Chillder decided. “This was worked out with care.” She jabbed a thumb at the ceiling. “Coming up here puts us behind an outbuilding, somewhere there’s less chance of being seen.”

  “We can’t do it. Where else?”

  She hesitated for a split second, took in the resolution on his face, and sighed. “I must be damn crazy myself.” She turned and looked further along the tunnel. “Let’s see…”

  “Hurry,” Coilla urged.

  “Let me think!”

  Chillder walked the tunnel, staring upwards as though trying to remember or imagine what lay above. They others shuffled along behind her. She stopped, looked as though she was about to say something, then moved on.

  The tunnel was a dead-end, and they almost reached it before she halted again. “Here. I think.”

  “Jup?” Stryke said.

  The dwarf put his hand to the ceiling and closed his eyes. Time slowed to a glacial pace before he opened them again and nodded.

  “Move yourselves!” Stryke ordered.

  Grunts rushed forward and attacked the ceiling with their picks.

  “Nine hundred and thirty-four,” Spurral recited, “nine hundred and thirty-five…”

  “. . . nine hundred and thirty-six,” Wheam chanted, “nine hundred and thirty-seven…”

  “Right.” Brelan turned to Haskeer and Dallog. “Get the wagons ready.” They went off to relay the order. To Pepperdyne he said, “Clear about the timing?”

  Pepperdyne nodded.

  “And the archers?”

  “Waiting on your word.”

  “Good. Take your position.”

  Pepperdyne left him.

  “Wheam?” Brelan said.

  “Nine hundred and forty-nine, nine hundred and fifty…”

  Several dozen orcs were pushing the first wagon to the summit of the hill. The second and third were being readied for their turn. On either side of the road, teams of the resistance’s archers were keeping low and looking Brelan’s way.

  He signalled to the first wagon. It stopped just short of the crest. Fourteen or fifteen heavily armed orcs scrambled aboard.

  Brelan looked to Wheam again.

  “Nine hundred and seventy-two, nine hundred and…”

  Further down the hill, behind the waiting wagons, Haskeer was gathering together the forty or fifty warriors whose job was to provide the motive force, and later be part of the assault on foot. His method seemed to consist largely of swiping at their backsides with the flat of his sword and lots of muttered swearing.

  “Wheam,” Brelan repeated.

  “Nine hundred and eighty-nine, nine hundred and ninety…”

  “Keep it aloud.”

  “Nine hundred and ninety-one, nine hundred and ninety-two…”

  Brelan unsheathed his sword and raised it. He could feel every eye on him.

  “. . . nine hundred and ninety-four, nine hundred and ninety-five…”

  The pushing crew flowed to the first wagon. Archers nocked their arrows.

  “Nine hundred and ninety-seven, nine hundred and ninety-eight…” Wheam’s voice strained with tension. “Nine hundred and ninety-nine… one thousand!”

  Brelan’s sword came down in a decisive slash.

  The archers leapt up, aimed and fired. Arrows winged towards the fort’s battlements. Sentries fell.

  The pushing crew shoved the first wagon to the crest of the hill, then over it. Once it reached the downward incline it began to move of its own accord and the crew let go. As it rumbled past Brelan he grabbed hold and scrambled aboard. The wagon picked up speed, bumping and bouncing on the potholed road, with Brelan and a fellow resistance member clutching the steering lever.

  Orc archers kept up a steady stream of arrows, pinning down most of the fort’s own bowmen. But the garrison had started to return fire. Arrows zinged over and around the careering wagon.

  Wheam ran to Pepperdyne, by the second wagon. “Do you think they’ll make it?”

  “If they don’t, we’ve got two more tries. Now get to your place.”

  Wheam joined Dallog at the last wagon.

  Brelan’s party was travelling as fast as a galloping horse and still picking up speed. They hung on grimly as the wagon bucked at every rut it hit. But it was halfway to its destination and still on course. Brelan hoped it would stay that way. He was doubtful they could steer with any accuracy if it deviated.

  At the top of the hill the second wagon was trundled into place. Its crew climbed aboard, and Pepperdyne took the steering lever, along with Bhose. The pushers moved in, ready for the off.

  “Steady!” Pepperdyne cautioned. “Wait for it!”

  When Brelan’s team started their descent the fortress looked like a child’s plaything. Now it filled their world. They could make out the coarse texture of its stonework, the faces of the defenders on its battlements. And as the distance closed, the danger grew. The wagon became the prime target of the fort’s archers, and bolts rained down on the orcs’ raised shields.

  There was a jolt as the road levelled, but no loss of momentum. Nor did the wagon vary its course. It hurtled into the fort’s shadow, wheels blurred with speed. The defenders lobbed spears and rocks. Slingshot bounced off the orcs’ shields.

  Dead ahead, the towering gates loomed.

  “Hold on!” Brelan bellowed.

  Stryke saw nothing but blue sky.

  He hauled himself up and cautiously poked his head through the opening. After a quick look he ducked back down. “We need to move fast,” he told the others. “Follow me.” He climbed out.

  He was near one of the fort’s outer walls, on the edge of its parade ground. The gates could be seen on the far side of the square. There were several stone buildings a short sprint from where Stryke stood. He could see men on the battlements above, but as far as he could tell, no one had spotted him.

  The others began scrambling out of the hole. He hurried things on, directing them to shelter by one of the outbuildings.

&nb
sp; When Chillder emerged he pulled her to one side. “Where would we have come out if we stuck to the plan?”

  She got her bearings. Then she pointed to a large building about a hundred paces away. It was plain, with few windows, set high, and could have been a barracks. “On the other side of that.”

  Stryke sent her to join the others. He kept an eye on the place she indicated until the last of his party came up. Then he hurried after them, keeping low.

  “So what did we avoid?” Chillder wanted to know, still doubtful.

  “Whatever it is,” Stryke told her, “it’s behind that barracks.”

  A commotion interrupted them. They looked to the square. Dozens of soldiers were running towards the gates.

  “They’ve spotted Brelan,” Stryke said.

  Coilla drew her sword. “Then let’s stop ’em.”

  “I don’t like having that at our backs.” He nodded at the barracks.

  “So what do we do?”

  “Split our forces,” he quickly decided. “You and the Vixens as one unit; Jup and me take the rest.”

  Coilla fished out a coin. “Call.” She flipped it.

  “Heads.”

  She caught the coin and slapped it on the back of her hand. “Heads it is. What do you want?”

  “You get the gate.”

  She gestured to Chillder, Spurral and the other females. They peeled off from the group and followed her.

  Stryke, Jup and the remainder of the party sprinted for the barracks.

  They reached its nearest wall and flowed round to the side, lessening the chance of being seen from the square. It was a wonder to Stryke that no one up on the parapet had noticed them yet. But they seemed to be concentrating on whatever was happening outside the fort. He had a couple of his archers keep watch.

  Signalling the others to hold their position, he and Jup crept to the corner and peered round it. Some twenty or thirty paces along, in the broad space between the barracks and the fortress wall, there was a large group of soldiers. They stood silently in a wide circle, weapons drawn, staring at the ground.

  “That was our welcome,” Stryke whispered.

  “How did they know?” Jup asked.