Orcs: Inferno

by Stan Nicholls

  Coilla nodded reflectively. “I can see that. One other thing. It seems to bother him that you’re spending so much time with Pirrak.”

  “He’s bound to resent being replaced by one of the other tyros, as he looks at it.”

  “Why are you so interested in Pirrak?”

  “Unlike Wheam, he still needs his props.”

  “Why?”

  “In his way, he’s as uncertain of himself as Wheam. Only he’s better at hiding it. Mostly. You said yourself he was jumpy.”

  “So you don’t believe in the tough approach in every case.”

  “They’re different orcs. Wheam’s had his nurturing. Pirrak’s isn’t over just yet.”

  “Can we rely on him? In a fight, I mean.”

  “As surely as any other in the band. He’s already proving himself. Like Wheam.”

  She weighed his words. “All right. I’m obliged, Dallog.”

  “You’re welcome, Corporal.”

  Coilla left thinking he was a wise judge of character. She was impressed.

  Heading back towards Pepperdyne, she saw Standeven shuffling away from him. Halfway there, Spurral joined her.

  “Know what I’m thinking?” she said.

  “Nope,” Coilla replied. “Mind-reading’s not one of my talents.”

  “I’m thinking how much Stryke’s search for Thirzarr mirrors what happened to me and Jup.”

  “When the Gatherers took you, you mean. S’pose it does. It was a hard time for you both.”

  “Yes, but that ended happily.”

  “You think this won’t?”

  “I don’t know. I hope it will, of course. But the difference between my situation and Thirzarr’s was that you had some idea of where I was being taken.”

  “Yeah, it’s tough knowing what to do next.”

  “Coilla, do you ever wonder…”

  “What?”

  “Do you ever wonder what you’d do if the same thing happened to you and Jode? If you were parted and—”

  “It hadn’t occurred to me. Go a bit nuts, I expect.”

  “You feel that strongly about him, then.”

  “That’s a sneaky way of getting me to open up about it, Spurral.”

  “Sorry.”

  Coilla grinned. “I don’t mind.”

  “Does anybody else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You must know there are some in the band who frown on what you’re doing.”

  “You one of them?”

  “Me? Come on, Coilla, you know me better than that, I hope.”

  “Well, I don’t give a damn what any of the others think.”

  “Nor should you. And Jode feels the same way?”

  “I guess so. Why do you ask?”

  “To give you a little support, if you need it, and to say I know how Jode might feel as an outsider. Like me, a dwarf in an orc warband.”

  “Do we make you feel like an outsider? Or Jup?”

  “No, far from it; and I wouldn’t expect it from orcs. If anybody knows what it’s like to be outcasts it’s your race. But when all’s said and done you’ve got your ways and we’ve got ours. We can’t help our differences. Though it has to be said that dwarfs are more acceptable to orcs than humans, given your history.”

  “I can’t argue with that.”

  “Mind you, Jode doesn’t seem typical of his kind.”

  “No, that’s Standeven.”

  They shared a low, conspiratorial chuckle over that, and both of them glanced at Standeven, picking his way through surly groups of Wolverines lounging on the sand.

  “I just wanted you to know somebody in the band backs you,” Spurral said, “and I suspect Jup and me aren’t the only ones.”

  “Thanks, Spurral.”

  “Hey, look, here comes Stryke.” She nodded in the direction of the jungle’s fringe.

  “Let’s hope he’s bearable.”

  As he drew nearer, Coilla’s impression was that Stryke seemed a jot restored. There was a hint of purpose in his gait that had been missing earlier.

  He acknowledged them with a slight bob of the head. “What’s happening?”

  “We were hoping you’d tell us,” Coilla replied. “Got a plan?”

  “An issue of brandy tots to buck up the band. They look as though they could use it.”

  “That’s not much of a plan, Stryke.”

  “For where we go next, no, it isn’t. That I don’t know. What I do know is that this fighting unit works best, and figures things out best, when it’s in good order. Let’s get ’em up and busy.”

  “Then what?”

  “We’ll see.”

  Spurral felt a little superfluous. She wandered away, just a few paces, and stared at their ship, gently swaying at anchor offshore.

  She noticed splashes of foam on the otherwise calm surface. As she watched, the splashing became more of a commotion. Others saw it, too. Orcs were standing, and some were calling out.

  Stryke and Coilla joined her.

  There was a great disturbance in the water now.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Stryke wanted to know.

  A large area of the sea was churning. Through the misty spray they caught a flash of glistening, leathery skin.

  Spurral whispered, “My gods…”

  “What is it?” Coilla said.

  Something very big and bulky was rising out of the water.

  Spurral tried to speak, but nothing came.

  “What is it?” Coilla repeated.

  Turning to her, Spurral managed, “The… Krake.”

  12

  For what seemed an eternity the band was rooted, staring at the spectacle.

  The mass of grey, rubbery flesh rose ever higher, streaming cascades of seawater. Thick as mature tree trunks, a dozen tendrils emerged and swayed menacingly.

  Stryke was the first to come alive. “It’s moving this way!” he yelled. “To arms!”

  The band took up their weapons. Coilla and Pepperdyne found each other, as did Jup and Spurral. The tyros gathered around Dallog. Standeven backed away, stumbling in the direction of the jungle, hands shaking.

  With amazing swiftness the creature came towards the beach. Its progress threw up a vaporous haze, but beyond it was the impression of multiple eyes as big as hay-cart wheels and rows of fangs the size of gravestones. The forest of tentacles wriggled horribly and gigantically like independent organisms. Water displaced by the leviathan’s bulk rushed towards the island and lapped its shore.

  At Stryke’s order seven or eight members of the band fired their bows. They used bodkin arrows, the meanest they had. All struck, but at least half simply bounced off the toughened skin. Others lodged but didn’t seem to have any effect. The archers kept firing.

  “We have to do better than this,” Jup said.

  “We can’t fight the thing,” Spurral insisted.

  “If it lives it can be killed.”

  “I dunno about that.”

  “Oh, come on, Spurral!”

  “I’ve seen what it can do. We have to retreat!”

  But retreating was the last thing on the band’s mind. Several of the heaving, sucker-encrusted limbs were towering over the beach. Others began to probe it, sliding in like enormous, bloated snakes. A group of orcs ran to the nearest with axes drawn. It lashed out, swiping them with enough force to bowl most of them over. Scrambling to their feet, they set to hacking at the appendage and succeeded in severing it, releasing a dark green, foul-smelling fluid. The remainder of the writhing limb was quickly withdrawn, leaving a trail of the glutinous liquid to soak into the sand.

  The whole band pitched in, attacking the advancing tentacles with swords, spears and hatchets. It was Reafdaw’s misfortune to get too close to one particular limb. Quick as fury it whipped around him. Trapped in a crushing embrace, and bellowing, the grunt was dragged seaward. His sword was lost, but he held on to a dagger. He slashed at the tentacle, and what passed for the creature’s blood flowed
copiously. But it didn’t weaken its grip.

  A bunch of his comrades gave chase, Stryke in the lead. Catching up, they cut, stabbed and pummelled the limb. Its hold on Reafdaw stayed firm. Then it began to rise, hoisting the struggling grunt off the ground. Its destination was obvious: the creature’s cavernous maw.

  Stryke leapt, caught hold of the tentacle and scrambled astride it, as though riding a horse. Its upward motion stalled a fraction. The other orcs got the idea. They followed their captain’s example, jumping to the raised limb and hanging there until their combined weight brought it down again. A frenzied onslaught saw the limb hacked off, freeing Reafdaw. There were vivid red sucker marks wherever his flesh was bare. He stumbled to snatch up his dropped sword and rejoined the fray.

  Haskeer’s approach was direct. Scaling a large rock embedded in the sand, he threw himself at one of the questing tentacles. The spear he was holding, tip down, penetrated the thick hide and passed clean through. Temporarily pinned, the squirming limb was chopped to pieces by a swarm of grunts.

  Emboldened, Haskeer tried it again. Launching himself from another rock, clutching his spear, he fell towards a snaking tentacle. The spear struck, and snapped in two. He was propelled sideways by the awkward impact, landing heavily on the beach. For a moment he lay there, the wind knocked out of him, his head swimming. Until he felt something nasty brushing against his leg.

  The tentacle darted at him. Thicker than he would have been able to hug, had he wanted to, it moved with shocking speed. Haskeer rolled clear, narrowly avoiding its embrace. He kept moving, backing off, hands pushing at the sand, feet kicking; scuttling like a crab, the need to move outweighing his inability to get up. The tentacle came after him. He took a chance and scrambled to his feet, a whisker shy of getting caught. Still retreating, engaged in a grotesque dance to avoid being seized, he tried staving off the thing with a hastily drawn dagger.

  Wheam arrived, along with a couple of the other tyros, Keick and Chuss, the latter still game despite nursing his wounded arm. They laid into the tentacle.

  “What kept you?” Haskeer barked.

  They were too busy to reply. He added a hatchet to his knife and joined in.

  Pepperdyne and Coilla battled a rearing tentacle. Their blades slashed it in a dozen places, yet still it came on. After much dodging and swerving they managed to get either side of it. Their determined, coordinated hacking separated a goodly length of flesh, releasing its foul odour. The rest of the tentacle pulled away. But there was a legion of replacements

  “This is hard work,” Pepperdyne said. He was panting.

  “It’s gonna get harder,” she told him, pointing.

  The Krake had got a lot nearer. It was not far off the shore now, a mountain of quivering grey flesh, uncurling more of its tentacle emissaries.

  “Can it come on land, d’you think?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “We have to pull back!”

  “Too right.” She looked around, spotted Stryke. “Stryke! Stryke! Look!”

  He saw, and began bellowing orders.

  The Wolverines disengaged, leaving the beach to the fleshy invaders, and headed his way.

  “Inland!” he cried, urging them on. “To the trees!”

  Haskeer was the last to retreat. Passing a hunting tentacle on his way, he gave it a mighty kick, which proved ineffective but satisfying.

  As the band ran for cover the shadow of the Krake fell across the beach. They crashed into the jungle, and kept going until Stryke judged they had penetrated far enough and called a halt. A movement in the undergrowth had them raising their weapons. Hoisting out the source, not too gently, few were surprised to find it was a cowering Standeven.

  “What now, Stryke?” Jup wanted to know.

  “I guess we wait it out.”

  “That’s it, is it?” Haskeer said. “We hide in here and hope that thing goes away.”

  “Got a better plan?”

  “Fight it.”

  “You go ahead.”

  “It’s what we do, Stryke. We don’t run from a fight like frightened hatchlings.”

  “And we don’t waste lives going against something we can’t fight. Maybe we’d stand a chance if we were an army and not just a war-band. But we’re not.”

  “Well, I reckon—”

  There was a sound from the direction of the beach. A rustling, splintering noise. Something was moving their way.

  “Look!” Coilla exclaimed.

  A tentacle ploughed through the jungle. It came to a particularly large tree, wrapped itself around it, uprooted it with ease and tossed it aside. Hardly slowed, it continued towards them. Some way to their left a second tentacle appeared, destroying all in its path.

  “Back!” Stryke ordered. “Everybody back!”

  They needed no urging. As they retreated deeper into the jungle the sounds of destruction kept pace, from behind and on either side. The vegetation was much thicker here, and the air was fetid with the sickly sweet smell of rotting things and stagnant water. A reminder that living places were also dying places.

  A little further on, the commotion of the pursuing tentacles still plainly heard, they passed a small clearing. At its centre stood a modest-sized altar, made of stone and simple in its design. Four icons were carved on its face. To most in the band there was a familiar look about it.

  They pushed on, everyone alert. The band were using swords to hack through the foliage; Jup and Spurral preferred to beat obstructions aside with their staffs. As usual the tyros stuck together, with Dallog to the fore. Wheam plodded grimly, his precious lute strapped to his back. Standeven shadowed Coilla and Pepperdyne, as though the latter was still his beholden protector. In the event, any rescuing Pepperdyne did was confined to hauling up Standeven every time he tripped over a root.

  The next attack came with little warning, save a rustling in the green canopy overhead. Suddenly, a tentacle jabbed down like an angry giant’s finger, hit the ground and surged in their direction. The band lobbed spears, and peppered it with arrows. Coilla tugged out one of her throwing knives and tossed it with sufficient force to penetrate the tough flesh. The limb withdrew. Not completely, but enough for them to continue their flight.

  “Looks like we slowed it down a bit,” Pepperdyne remarked to Coilla as they battled through the jungle.

  “All I’ve done is lost a good knife,” she complained.

  “Those tentacles are blind. Obviously, they’ve no eyes. So how do you think they home in on us the way they do?”

  “Who knows? Instinct?”

  “Maybe they can detect movement. You know, vibrations or—”

  “Does it matter? Getting clear of the things is more important, isn’t it?”

  “Yeah, course.”

  They kept going, and the sounds behind them grew more distant.

  “Reckon it’s given up, Stryke?” Jup asked.

  “Don’t know. Could be.”

  “How far do you think those limbs can reach?” Coilla wondered.

  “An incredibly long way,” Spurral told her.

  “More good news,” Haskeer grumbled.

  Stryke looked doubtful. “Not this far, surely?”

  “I wouldn’t count on it,” Spurral said.

  “This isn’t that big an island,” Jup reminded them, “and it’s much longer than it’s wide. So wherever we go we could be within its reach.”

  “Perhaps not,” Pepperdyne replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A creature the size of the Krake would live in deep water. It might not even be able to come on land, the same way a fish can’t. Which is why it uses its tentacles to snare prey.”

  “How does this help us?” Stryke wanted to know.

  “Those islands not far from the shore we’re heading towards. The scouts said the water’s shallow enough for us to wade across.”

  “There’s nothing but rock over there.”

  “The important thing is the dep
th of the water around the islands. It wouldn’t be deep enough for something as large as the Krake.”

  “You’re guessing that. Like you’re guessing those tentacles couldn’t stretch as far as the islands.”

  “If they can,” Jup said, “with no shelter over there we’d be ripe for the plucking.”

  “You’re right,” Pepperdyne said, “I’m guessing. But has anybody got a better idea?”

  The ensuing silence was broken by a fresh upheaval behind them. Two or three tentacles were coming their way.

  “We’ll do it,” Stryke decided. “Let’s move.”

  They had to travel faster, whatever the obstructions; the limbs were noisily closing the gap. After what seemed an age the jungle began to thin. The trees were sparser and they had glimpses of a much brighter, open space beyond.

  Shortly after, they burst out of the jungle. They were on a beach, meaner and more pebbly than the one they had started from. Not far offshore, perhaps a decent arrow shot away, was the nearest of the adjacent islands. It was much smaller than the one they were on, and completely stark.

  Snatching a spear from one of the grunts, Haskeer hurled it high and arcing, so that it came down about a third of the distance to the island. It landed almost upright, less than half its length submerged.

  “If it’s the same all the way across,” Coilla said, “we shouldn’t be more than waist deep.”

  Haskeer jabbed a thumb at the dwarfs. “Except for these two shortarses. It’ll be up to their necks.”

  “We’ll manage just fine,” Spurral told him coldly.

  “Even if it is too deep to wade,” Standeven said, making a rare contribution, “couldn’t you swim?”

  “With all our weapons, all our kit?” Pepperdyne retorted.

  “All right, all right. I only asked. It’s not as though I can swim anyway.”

  That drew a chorus of groans.

  Pepperdyne glared at him. “Just… shut up.”

  Ominous sounds were still coming from the jungle, faint but distinct.

  “Are we going to get on and do this, Stryke?” Coilla asked, eyeing the barren island.

  “Yeah.”

  “Suppose those tentacles can reach this far,” Haskeer said. “If we get caught out there we’re done for.”