Orcs: Inferno

by Stan Nicholls

  “Now!” Stryke bellowed.

  The archers were first. A swarm of burning arrows streaked towards the groping tentacles. All struck. The range was close enough that many penetrated, sizzling as they delivered their blazing cargo. Those that didn’t pierce still left a stamp of fire on the creature’s moist flesh. The nearest tentacle, peppered with glowing, fizzling bolts, dropped back underwater. Another immediately replaced it, and a second cloud of radiant arrows soared its way.

  The main bulk of the Krake, its ravenous eyes and gaping maw, could be seen clearly now beyond a growing forest of waving limbs. Arrows like darting fireflies sprayed them. Once the tentacles were running with flame they fell back, but the Krake was only slowed, not deterred.

  Stryke was fearful that if it got into range the creature would dispatch tentacles under the ship to upend or crush it. And it was almost near enough to do that. His dilemma was that the Krake was still too far away for the bombards or spears to reach it. The point at which it would be near enough, yet not threaten the ship, was a fine judgement. All Stryke could do was urge on the archers and bide his time.

  On the bridge, Pepperdyne and Coilla watched as the fiery rainbow of arrows arced towards the encroaching beast.

  “The arrows can’t last much longer, surely?” Pepperdyne said, spinning the wheel.

  Coilla had an arrow nocked herself. She applied flame, aimed and sent it winging to the Krake. “No,” she replied, plucking another shaft from her quiver. “I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long, the rate we’re using them.”

  He looked to the mass of living flesh bearing down on them, then back at her. “I don’t know that we can get away from this thing.”

  “If anybody can do it, you can.”

  “I’m flattered, but your faith might be misplaced. The Krake’s moving nearly as fast as we are, despite what we’re throwing at it.”

  “We haven’t thrown everything yet.”

  He gave the wheel another hard tug. “Maybe we’d better start.”

  Coilla unleashed her arrow.

  A wave of displaced water swept in, rocking the ship again, and more violently than before. The orcs in the rigging had their work cut out hanging on.

  Stryke judged the time right to strengthen the assault; the Krake seemed near enough. He just hoped his estimate of the gap separating them was accurate.

  At his command, the band began lighting bombards’ fuses. A moment later they were flinging them hard, adding their power to the volley of arrows. The distance was a challenge, and took all the throwers’ strength, but most of the missiles found their target. On contact with the Krake they exploded with much greater force than the arrows. Some burst reddish when they struck, others yellow-blue or orange, depending on the glutinous liquid mixed with the oil.

  “Best you can do?” Haskeer taunted.

  Jup glared at him. “I might be throwing less than you, but at least I’m hitting the bastard.”

  “Yeah? Beat this.” He lit a fuse, drew back his arm and took aim. With a grunt he lobbed the flame-tipped pot.

  They watched it streak against the darkening sky. It briefly disappeared from sight in the confusion of explosions, flaming arrows, smoke and thrashing limbs. It showed itself again when a reddish-orange bloom erupted on the side of the creature’s gigantic head. Tendrils of fire rippled out from the blast, marbling the Krake’s leathery hide.

  Haskeer shot the dwarf a superior smirk.

  “Stand back,” Jup said, hefting a bomb.

  He launched it like a discus, spinning round for momentum and letting go with a roar. The projectile soared high and fast. It, too, impacted on the monster’s glistening dome; a blood-red blossom, sending out rivulets of lava.

  “Right,” Haskeer grated. He rolled up his sleeves and reached for a bomb.

  Another wave hit the ship, sending a fierce tremor through it. The roll that followed was the most acute yet. Much of the clutter that was unsecured had already shifted to the port side. This bigger blow shifted some of the heavier objects, including the brazier Jup and Haskeer were standing beside. It toppled, spilling its red hot coals. As the deck was wet that wouldn’t have mattered. Except that the jolt caused Haskeer to drop the bomb he was about to light. The pot shattered and its content instantly burst into flames. Leaping back, they were lucky to avoid being splashed by liquid as tenacious as a limpet and as scathing as acid. But they were confronted by a spreading wall of fire. They set about beating at it, Haskeer using his jerkin, Jup a piece of sacking.

  Several of the grunts had been given the additional task of firewatcher. For Standeven it was his only job, and one it was thought even he couldn’t make a mess of. As the nearest firewatcher he had to respond, and arrived clutching two buckets, one slopping water, the other filled with sand.

  He took one look at the fire and froze.

  Jup and Haskeer were on the other side of it, feeling the heat and unable to get to him. They had to content themselves with shouting curses. Standeven was oblivious.

  Then Dallog was there with Wheam and Pirrak, and Spurral bringing up the rear. The buckets were snatched from Standeven and he was pushed aside, roughly enough that he went down and sprawled on the deck. They attacked the flames, thrashing it with clothing and sacks. Water was no good; pails of sand had to be chained over, until at last they were able to trample what remained of the fire and kill it.

  Standeven was still on the deck, propped on his elbow, staring dazedly at the scene.

  Haskeer dashed to him, grabbed him by the scruff and drew back his fist. “You bloody useless little—”

  Stryke arrived, panting. “Leave it.”

  “This stupid bastard would’ve let us burn,” Haskeer protested.

  “We’ve more important things to worry about. Get to your station.”

  “But—”

  “Do it!”

  Haskeer gave Standeven a murderous glare, then let him go. The cowering, ashen-faced human slumped. Haskeer returned to the fight.

  Casting Standeven a disgusted look of his own, Stryke ordered everyone back to their duties. He also had the spears brought into play.

  The bombardment of the Krake carried on. What was left of the band’s hoard of arrows continued soaring its way. The bombs exploded incessantly, joined by a cloud of blazing spears.

  The creature was on fire. Not in patches, as before, but totally. A fetid smell of charred flesh hung in the air. Punctured by numerous spears and arrows, the Krake slowed its advance, and stopped.

  To cheers from the band it began to sink below the waves. When it was completely submerged the fire could still be seen, permeating the water with a ghostly glow.

  Stryke raced up to the bridge. Dynahla was still there, surveying the scene.

  “Is it finished?” Coilla asked.

  “Don’t know,” Stryke replied, glancing at the turbulent water where the Krake had gone down. “But we’re not sticking around to find out.” He turned to Pepperdyne. “It’s up to you now, human. Get us out of here.”

  Pepperdyne nodded and spun the wheel.

  They headed west.

  15

  Not every landmass in the world of islands was populated. But one such, nondescript like so many others, was hosting surreptitious visitors.

  Jennesta didn’t want for comforts, whatever her followers had to cope with. While they bivouacked as best they could, her tented quarters offered a haven, and even a measure of luxury. But it was the privacy that she valued most when undertaking certain magical practices, as now.

  She stood by a small table. On it sat a representation of the Krake; a miniature, crudely fashioned model. It was on fire. Flames played across its entire surface, but they would never harm the Receptive Matter Jennesta had used to fashion the creature’s likeness.

  For a moment she was spellbound, literally. She willed the enchantment to unravel, until the link between her mock-up and the real beast was broken, and her control gone. She had been gazing at the flames. Wit
h a slight movement of her hand she extinguished them.

  She didn’t see the encounter between the Wolverines and the sea creature as a defeat. She had harassed the orcs, as she had with the fauns, which caused them trouble and delay. It was an agreeable pastime. A satisfaction.

  The Receptive Matter cooled instantly. If it had ever been hot. She picked it up, squeezed it in her palm and returned it to its usual shapeless, colourless state. It was displeasing to her touch, but had a sweet odour that was almost heady. She returned it to her precious stockpile, in its plain silver casket, then put the casket out of sight.

  The effort of maintaining the spell had tired her. There would have to be sustenance soon. Preferably fresh, warm and still beating. But that would have to wait.

  She wasn’t alone, although she could have been for all the awareness her captive had. Thirzarr was seated at the far end of the quarters. She was stiffly motionless, her gaze vacant.

  Jennesta moved to the tent’s entrance, stopped just short of it and clapped twice, sharply. Shortly after, there was a scrabbling at the canvas flaps. A pair of her undead menials came through awkwardly, and awaited her pleasure, their expressions as vacuous as Thirzarr’s.

  “Take her back to the others in their cage,�� Jennesta ordered, pointing at the orc.

  One of the zombies obeyed, and began to shuffle in Thirzarr’s direction. The other was Hacher, who remained immobile. Sluggishly, he turned his head towards Jennesta and fixed her with a dull but even stare. She repeated the order, more firmly, but still Hacher hesitated.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Jennesta snapped. “Do as you’re told!”

  He slowly moved. Not towards Thirzarr, but Jennesta. She flicked a jolt of energy at him, as a herdsman might chastise livestock with a whip. The impact half spun Hacher, and he would have fallen if some buried instinct hadn’t surfaced and made him reach out to the table for support. His hand came down hard on its edge, causing one of his desiccated fingers to snap off. It dropped to the heavily carpeted floor.

  Jennesta laughed scornfully. “Not much of an iron hand now, are you, General?” Her expression returned to harsh and she added coldly, “Obey my order.”

  Hacher had been staring dumbly at his disfigurement. He looked up when she spoke, and after a moment’s wavering began to shamble in Thirzarr’s direction.

  Jennesta told Thirzarr to rise. In her almost catatonic state she meekly complied, and flanked by Hacher and the other undead was escorted from the tent, the trio moving at a languid pace.

  Almost immediately a human officer entered, bowed his head and begged Jennesta’s pardon for intruding.

  “What is it?”

  “Your… guest has arrived, my lady. Along with something of a retinue.”

  “Send him in. Alone.”

  “Ma’am.”

  “And take that with you.” She indicated Hacher’s severed finger.

  Doing his best to hide his distaste, the officer gingerly picked it up with his thumb and forefinger. He left holding it out in front of him, as though he were a nervous scullery maid ordered to dispose of a drowned rat found in a pot of soup.

  Jennesta didn’t have long to wait for her next visitor. He strode in, his black bow slung over one bony shoulder, a quiver of arrows at his hip.

  “I am Gleaton-Rouk,” the goblin declared sibilantly.

  “Welcome,” Jennesta replied, a syrupy, artificial sincerity in her tone. “I’m obliged to you for accepting my invitation.”

  “It wasn’t your words that brought me.”

  “You found the gems and coin I sent spoke more eloquently. I understand. But that was a trifling gift compared to what you could gain.”

  Avarice flashed in his dark eyes, along with suspicion. “What do you want of me?”

  “Two things. First, I need an additional ship.”

  “Why?”

  Jennesta fought down the impulse to tell this creature to mind his business. “I’m recruiting a certain number of… helpers on my travels. I need another ship to transport them, and I understand you’re best placed to supply one.”

  “It could be possible. If you make it worth my while.”

  “I’ve no shortage of funds.”

  “I will see what I can do. You said there were two things.”

  “I take it that’s your famous bow,” she said, eyeing it and seeming to ignore his question. “It’s a handsome weapon.”

  “It’s not for sale,” Gleaton-Rouk hissed.

  She laughed. “I didn’t intend making an offer.”

  “Nor can it be taken from me,” he added charily.

  “Really? Don’t worry; I’ve no need of it.”

  “Then why speak of it?”

  “Partly out of what you might call a professional interest, as a practitioner of the ancient art myself.”

  He gave a derisive snort. “Any power you might command would be no match for Shadow-wing’s.”

  “Be that as it may, I didn’t ask you here to debate the efficacy of magic. The bow touches on the second reason I wanted to meet with you.”

  “How so?”

  “I know you used it recently to kill an orc.”

  “What is that to you?”

  “I commend you for it. I, too, have a blood feud with the Wolverines, and particularly with its leader. Working together, you and I could bring about a reckoning.”

  “I’ve no taste for being recruited.”

  “I said working together. What I’m proposing is an alliance.”

  “You have a small army, and you claim magical powers. Why do you need me?”

  “Because you have something greater than mere magic. You have a passion for vengeance. As do I.”

  “Yet you seek an ally.”

  “I need one I can trust. I’m surrounded by fools.”

  “And what would we achieve?”

  “We could pour pressure on the warband, and bring about the death of its damnable captain, Stryke.”

  “What’s in it for me?”

  “I should hope that the sweetness of revenge would be reward enough.” She noted his expression and added, “Though of course I would also show my appreciation in the form of further riches.”

  Gleaton-Rouk thought about it, and at length hissed, “I agree. Subject to the details being to my liking.”

  “Of course,” Jennesta replied smoothly, reflecting on how best to betray this new partner. She had no doubt he was thinking the same. “And as a token of my good faith I would like to present you with a further pecuniary offering. As a down-payment, let’s call it.” Having looted the treasury before fleeing Acurial, her apparent generosity was of no consequence. Besides, she could always get more, one way or another.

  The goblin gave her the tiniest nod by way of acceptance. “And for my part I shall make arrangements concerning the ship you require.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “It will be settled before the day’s end.”

  “Then I suggest you return here to continue our discussion.”

  Gleaton-Rouk nodded, and together they left the tent.

  There was a lot of activity outside. Her troops were going about their chores, along with a few of the zombies. The latter were watched with suspicion and not a little bewilderment by Gleaton-Rouk’s entourage. They numbered about a dozen, and stood together not far from Jennesta’s tent, clutching their tridents.

  As Gleaton-Rouk headed their way, Jennesta stopped him with, “There’s one more small matter to clear up.”

  “What might that be?” he said, turning to her.

  “When my delegation approached you to arrange this meeting, one of them was killed.”

  “A regrettable occurrence. We had no idea who this group of humans were, or whether they were hostile. We thought to defend ourselves.”

  “I see.”

  “It was no more than you would have done yourself, I expect.”

  “Your feud with the Wolverines is over them having killed some
of your kin, is that right?”

  He was puzzled by the turn the conversation had taken, but replied, “You know it is.”

  Jennesta looked at his retinue. “These are your kin?”

  “Some are, some aren’t. All are my clan.”

  She pointed at a goblin. “Is he kin?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about him?” She indicated another.

  “Him? No, we do not share blood.”

  Without a further word, Jennesta raised her open hand, palm up, and placed its heel against her chin. Like a child dispersing dandelion heads, she gently blew. A jet of black vapour streamed from her hand. As it flowed it solidified into something resembling a cluster of catapult shot. Faster than the eye could follow, the cloud of shot flashed towards the goblin she had singled out. It struck with tremendous force, riddling his body with a myriad of tiny crimson explosions. Many passed clean through him. Instantly he was rendered little more than pulp, collapsing in a gory heap.

  Such was the precision of Jennesta’s spell that the dead goblin’s companions, although standing with him, were completely untouched, except by their comrade’s blood. For an instant they froze, then they began brandishing their weapons, their faces twisted with outrage. Jennesta’s followers tensed and reached for their own blades.

  “You took one of mine, I’ve taken one of yours,” she told Gleaton-Rouk, her voice strident enough to be heard by his retinue.

  For the first time since he arrived the goblin leader wore an expression that betrayed his true feelings. It was disbelief and awe. But as the realisation of what he was dealing with dawned on him it gave way to the kind of grudging respect one bully feels for another. The whole thing was fleeting, and he quickly returned to seeming passivity, but Jennesta saw.

  “I understand the need for… compensation,” he said, signing his bodyguards to stand down with a flick of his bony hand. They did so uneasily. “Let us regard this as a debt paid.”