Orcs: Inferno

by Stan Nicholls

  Jup was signalling him with one hand and pressing a finger to his lips with the other. He pointed at the jungle. The whole band quietened and looked that way.

  They stood in silence for some time, scanning the greenery. It got to the point where they began to think it was a false alarm. Then there was movement in the foliage. Restricted to just one or two places, making it unlikely to be the wind, it was accompanied by a rustling and the snap of dry twigs.

  In the undergrowth there was the briefest flash of what appeared to be a pair of vividly red eyes.

  “Looks like we’re not alone after all,” Coilla said, reaching for her blade.

  5

  “Spread out!” Stryke bawled. “And have your weapons ready!”

  The band fanned out, swords, axes and spears in hand.

  “Do we go in?” Haskeer asked, nodding at the area of jungle where they’d seen movement.

  “No,” Stryke decided. “If they’re friendly they’ll come to us. If they’re not, it’s a trap.”

  “We can’t stay here for ever,” Coilla said.

  “I know that,” Stryke came back irritably.

  Minutes passed. Nothing happened.

  Pepperdyne broke the silence. “Whatever’s in there, how likely are they to come out when we’re standing here fully armed?”

  Spurral nodded. “Good point.”

  “Yeah,” Jup agreed, “perhaps if we looked a little less confrontational…”

  “Stryke?” Coilla said.

  He sighed. “All right, stand down. But stay alert.”

  The band relaxed, or at least made a show of it. Some sat, or leaned on their axes, though their eyes stayed fixed on the jungle.

  More time passed.

  Stryke grew increasingly restless, and finally declared, “I can’t be doing with this.”

  “And?” Coilla said.

  “I’m thinking we should go in and deal with whatever we find, friendly or otherwise.”

  “Just say the word, chief,” Jup replied.

  Stryke took up his sword again. “Right. Forget groups; we’re going in mob-handed. Anything tries to stop us, we down ’em.”

  The band brightened. They were keen to relieve their frustrations with a fight.

  “ ’bout time,” Haskeer mouthed, speaking for them all.

  Stryke at their head, the band moved towards the tree-line.

  “Hold it!” Dallog yelled. “Look!”

  A figure was emerging from the jungle. It walked upright and was taller than most of the orcs. As it came nearer its features were revealed. From the waist upwards it resembled a human, albeit with a thin covering of dark fur. Below the waist it had legs resembling a goat’s, with a thicker, gingery pelt, that ended in hooves. It had a long tail, similar to some kind of monkey. The creature’s beard, like the hair on its head, was black, curly and luxuriant. A small pair of horns, again like a goat’s, protruded from just above the hairline. Its face was close to a human’s, excepting small, upswept ears and eyes with intensely red orbs.

  “What the hell is that?” Pepperdyne whispered.

  “A faun,” Coilla explained. “Back in Maras-Dantia they’re forest-dwellers.”

  “Are they friendly?”

  “We’ve not had a lot to do with them. Though we’ve killed a few in our time.”

  “I suppose that’s not having a lot to do with them.”

  The faun approached boldly, seeming undaunted by the sight of a heavily armed orc warband accompanied by dwarfs and a human. His step was certain, and he wore an expression that could have been called imperious. He bore no obvious weapons.

  Stryke went forward, raised an open hand and addressed the faun in Mutual. “We’re here in peace. We mean you no harm.”

  “You come well armed for beings with peaceful intent,” the faun replied. There was a commanding edge to his voice, a tone that suggested he was used to being obeyed.

  “It’s a violent world. But you’re right.” He made a gesture and the band put away their weapons. Though more than a few did it with reluctance.

  “Who are you?” the faun asked.

  “I’m Stryke, and this is my… these are my companions, the Wolverines.”

  “I am Levanda. If you really are here in peace, welcome.” He looked them over, his gaze lingering on Jup, Spurral and Pepperdyne. “If I may say so, you seem rather broad-minded in your choice of… companions.”

  “We like to get on with everybody,” Stryke replied, straight-faced.

  “Why are you here?”

  “We need water. Nothing more.”

  “Of course.”

  “We’ll trade for it if—”

  Levanda waved the offer aside. “Your presence is payment enough.”

  From behind her hand, Spurral said to Jup, “Bit of an old smoothie, isn’t he?”

  “You will honour me by accepting our hospitality,” Levanda told Stryke, “for which the fauns are renowned.”

  “Thanks, but we’ve pressing business elsewhere. So just the water. No offence.”

  “My clan will be disappointed. We put great value on visitors. Come.” He turned and made for the jungle.

  Exchanging glances, the warband followed.

  It was much cooler, and a lot darker, when they entered the greenery. At first, trailing the faun, they had little sense of where they were heading, beyond it being deeper into the tangle. But at length they met a well-trod path and the going became a mite easier. The path meandered, veering round large clumps of bushes, dipping through gullies and over vegetation-smothered hillocks. Eventually it calmed and widened, and led them to an open space. This housed dozens of sturdy, mature trees, and the trees cradled dwellings. They looked a little like huts that had somehow been hurled and caught in the trees’ embrace. A mixture of timber, wattle and wicker, many of their frontages had loggias. There were fauns clustered on these, looking down.

  More were in the clearing below. They were going about their daily occasions; preparing food, tending several fires in pits, or just lounging and passing time. One sat on a stump playing softly on a bone flute. Every so often fauns scampered up and down stout ropes dangling from the trees. Despite their ungainly physiques, they did it with remarkable ease.

  As the band arrived, the fauns stopped whatever they were doing and stared.

  Looking around, Pepperdyne said, “I can’t see any women. Or do they all have beards too?”

  Coilla stifled a giggle. “There aren’t any females.”

  “What, they hide them?”

  “No, there are no female fauns. That’s how it was in Maras-Dantia anyway.”

  “No females? How do they—”

  “It’s said they breed with nymphs. But they only come together when they need to. So I guess there’s an island in these parts where nymphs live.”

  “You saw those other islands. Nothing lived on them.”

  “Well, further away then.”

  “Yet these fauns don’t seem to have ships, or even boats. We didn’t see any.”

  “Maybe the nymphs come to them. Does it matter?”

  “I suppose not.”

  The piping of the flute tailed off as the band halted. There were many fauns present, but they kept their distance, standing all around. They were silent.

  “Where’s the renowned hospitality?” Jup mumbled.

  “Where’s the water?” Spurral said.

  Stryke echoed that. “If you’ll just show us to your spring, Levanda, we’ll be on our way.”

  “Are you sure I can’t press you to food and drink?” the faun replied.

  “Like I said, we’re in a hurry.”

  “Pity. It could be your last chance for a while.”

  There was a smattering of laughter from the fauns surrounding them.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We like to fatten up the merchandise.”

  More laughter, and louder.

  “We’ve no time for jests.” Stryke’s anger was rising.


  “Oh, this is no joke. Not for you, anyway.”

  “So what the hell is it?”

  “Trade. With his kind.” He nodded at Pepperdyne. “Gatherers.”

  Given recent events that was particularly inflaming to Stryke, and to Jup and Spurral.

  “What?” Stryke grated.

  “The Gatherers bring us nymphs in exchange for whatever beings fetch up on our shores. Your race is a valuable commodity; we’ll get a good price. All you have to do is surrender.”

  Again, Haskeer spoke for them all. “You can kiss our arses, goat breath.”

  “We know you to be a belligerent race, but you can see that you’re outnumbered.” He pointed at Haskeer. “Throw down your weapons, or we’ll disarm you.”

  “We do the disarming,” Stryke told him. In one smooth, rapid movement his sword was out and swinging.

  The blade sliced through Levanda’s outstretched arm. He screamed, staggered back and sank to his knees, blood gushing from the wound. His severed limb lay twitching wetly on the ground.

  There was a split second of shocked immobility on the part of the fauns. Enough time for the Wolverines to draw their weapons.

  Then all hell broke out.

  Producing hidden blades, the fauns rushed in on all sides, and the band spun to meet them.

  It wasn’t the orc way to stand and wait for the tide to hit, and Stryke was the first to move. He charged at the oncoming wave, sword and long-bladed dagger in his hands, a roar in his throat. And there was no fancy swordplay or mannerly rules when he met the foe. His only aim was carnage and he dealt in it wholesale.

  Under his onslaught a faun collapsed with a split skull, and the next took steel to his gut. Advancing in unison, a trio tried to bring Stryke down. He dispatched the first with ease, slashing his neck with a vicious blow. The second he came at low, hamstringing him; and the third succumbed to a thrust to his chest. Vaulting over their bodies, Stryke set about another opponent.

  The rest of the band weren’t idle. Coilla employed the store of snub-nosed blades she kept in her arm sheaths. Confirming her status as the best knife-thrower in the band, her first couple of lobs were true, striking a faun square between its eyes and another in the windpipe. Her third effort merely wounded, though grievously. Then the enemy were too close for throwing knives and she switched to her sword.

  Pepperdyne fought beside her, their blades expertly carving flesh as the fauns kept coming. Wrenching his sword free from a foe’s innards and spinning to face the next, he caught a glimpse of Haskeer. He had a hatchet in one hand and Levanda’s amputated arm in the other, which he was using to bludgeon a particularly muscular adversary. Sprawled in a crimson pool, Levanda himself looked on, his expression a mixture of agony and open-mouthed amazement.

  As was their practice, Jup and Spurral worked as a team. Favouring his staff, Jup cracked heads adroitly, or used it to tumble opponents, bringing them within range of Spurral’s wickedly keen pair of knives. In unison, the dwarfs penetrated deep into the fauns’ ranks, leaving a trail of dead and injured in their wake.

  The new recruits had also got into the habit of fighting together, like a small band within the band, less able but improving with every engagement. Wheam, Keick, Pirrak, Harlgo and Chuss, steered by Dallog, gave a good account of themselves, valour making up for their lack of experience.

  No sooner had the Wolverines bettered something like half of their attackers than a further group emerged from the jungle. Armed with spears and battleaxes they swept towards the fray. The veteran band members needed no order to react. Those who could, peeled off from the battle and headed for the fresh incomers; Seafe, Gleadeg, Prooq, Gant, Reafdaw, Nep and Breggin among them.

  Leaving Pepperdyne to deliver a death thrust to a wounded faun, Coilla caught up with Stryke. He stood over his latest kill, eyeing a bunch of circling foes.

  “Need a hand?” she asked.

  He gave her a sidelong glance and she saw that he was in a killing state, an almost dream-like reverie that came on when the bloodlust took hold. It was something she knew and respected.

  No words were necessary. Together, they advanced. One of the fauns who had been holding back warily lost his nerve and fled. It was enough to trigger the others. They turned and ran, and it had a knock-on effect. Those fauns still standing began to withdraw.

  “I think they’ve broken,” Coilla said.

  Stryke was coming to himself. The crazed look was leaving his eyes. “Maybe. But we have to—”

  There was a high-pitched whistling sound. Something hit the ground close by.

  “Archers!” Coilla yelled.

  Several more arrows winged from the tree houses, peppering the sward.

  “Everybody down!” Stryke bellowed.

  Those of the band who weren’t still actively engaged with the enemy dived for whatever cover they could find. Several, including Stryke and Coilla, used faun corpses for shelter, meagre protection as that was.

  Band members armed with bows, principally Reafdaw, Eldo, Zoda and Finje, immediately began returning fire.

  The advantage wasn’t entirely with the faun archers. They had to avoid hitting their own kind remaining below. The orcs had no such restraint.

  A faun was struck and fell, drawing a ragged cheer from the orcs. Seconds later another plunged to earth.

  “We’ll never get ’em all at this rate,” Coilla complained. “They could keep us pinned here till doomsday.”

  Arrows continued to rain down.

  There were shouts behind them. Stryke and Coilla looked to their rear. An orc had taken an arrow.

  “Can you make out who it is?” Stryke said.

  “One of the tyros,” Coilla told him. “I think it’s Chuss. But it looks like it’s just his arm.”

  “And who the hell’s that?”

  A Wolverine was dashing towards Chuss. He was running a zigzag path, trying to avoid the arrows zinging all around him, and it was hard to make out who he was.

  “It’s another newbie,” Coilla realised. “Harlgo.”

  “Take cover!” Stryke shouted at him. “Get down, Harglo!”

  Too late. An arrow pierced Harglo between his shoulder-blades. The impact threw him off his stride but he kept going. Slowing, his stride uncertain like a drunk’s, he managed a few more steps before a second arrow struck the back of his neck. He went down, a dead weight. It was the fauns turn to cheer.

  “Shit!” Coilla hissed.

  “Burn ’em!” Stryke hollered. “Burn ’em out!”

  The Wolverine archers were prepared. Their kit included bolts wrapped with tarred cloth. Quickly striking sparks, they began igniting them. In seconds, flaming arrows zipped towards the tree houses.

  It must have been some time since rain, because the dwellings were tinder dry, as was the foliage they nestled amongst. The burning arrows hit the houses’ walls, and passed through open doors and windows. Fires instantly broke out.

  Even as the houses blazed the fauns carried on showering arrows on their tormentors. The orcs likewise continued sending up their fire-tipped bolts. Soon almost all the lofty huts were alight and the fauns were forced to bail out. Some climbed down, braving orc shafts. Others fell, in many cases burning and shrieking.

  It was the final blow for the surviving fauns in the clearing. Those who were capable fled into the jungle, chased off by vengeful band members.

  But the Wolverines’ triumph was tempered.

  Stryke and Coilla stood and jogged to Harglo. He was surrounded by a group of kneeling comrades. Dallog was there, wearing a grim expression, and as they arrived he looked up and shook his head. As they suspected, Chuss’ wound was nasty but in no way life-threatening. It made the loss of Harlgo bitterly ironic.

  Stryke came away from the huddle and headed for Levanda, who still lay where he fell. A number of the band tagged along, Jup and Spurral among them.

  They gathered around the faun chief. He was conscious, but had lost a lot of blood, and his eyes were growin
g dull.

  Spurral pushed her way to the front and gazed down at him. “You know the joke?” she said. “There are no Gatherers anymore.” Then she took her blade and plunged it into his heart.

  No one begrudged her. But Haskeer looked disappointed at being cheated out of the act himself. He made do with spitting on the corpse.

  “Yeah,” he said, wiping the back of a hand across his mouth. “Don’t mess with orcs, shithead.”

  6

  “I say it’s your fault,” Haskeer contended, aggressively jabbing Dallog’s chest.

  “And how do you work that out?”

  “You’re supposed to be looking after these rookies, ain’t you?”

  “That’s the job Stryke gave me, yes, but—”

  “Not doing it too well, are you?” He pointed to Harglo’s body.

  “Not fair,” Dallog countered, trying to contain his own fury. “We were in a battle, and that means casualties.”

  “Battle? That was no battle, it was a skirmish. Not that you’d know the difference. You’re wet behind the ears for all your great age.”

  Half of the band looked on, waiting for a fight.

  “We Ceragan orcs might be new,” Dallog said, “but we’ve paid our dues on this mission. Harglo isn’t the first we’ve lost, remember. There was Yunst and Ignar too.”

  “Proves they weren’t up to it!” Haskeer came back triumphantly. “And talking of remembering, we lost Liffin. All ’cos of you, and him.” He nodded Wheam’s way. The youth looked at his feet, shamefaced. “But I blame you more. You should have known better.”

  “You’re staining Harglo’s name. He was brave.”

  “Stupid, more like.”

  “I resent that.”

  “Resent it all you want.”

  “Take it back!”

  Haskeer balled his fists and leaned in menacingly. “Make me.”

  Dallog raised his own hands. “Any time.”

  At that point Stryke arrived and roughly separated them. “What the fuck’s the matter with you two?” he demanded. “I turn my back and in no time—”