Orcs: Inferno

by Stan Nicholls

  “And I’ll levy no interest,” she replied, giving him a smile designed to be charming without quite achieving it.

  “Until later then.” He bobbed his head. Glancing at the lightly steaming remains of his dead follower, he added in a softer tone, “You must teach me that sometime.”

  “I might just do that,” she said.

  They left, and she returned to her quarters.

  Killing the goblin had fatigued her further. Not seriously, just enough to be annoying. But there was one more thing to do before she could take nourishment.

  She ordered complete privacy, and in the cool of her tent enacted a ritual. One that forged a mental link with another party. Someone not too far away, and approaching.

  Dynahla leaned against the rail on a quiet part of the orcs’ ship, head in hands, crimson locks flowing in the breeze.

  “Hey.”

  There was no response.

  “Hey. Dynahla!”

  The shape-changer stirred and slowly turned.

  “You all right?” Stryke asked. He was accompanied by Jup.

  “Yes. I’m… fine. I didn’t know you were—”

  “What were you doing?” Jup said.

  “Communing.”

  Stryke frowned. “You better explain that.”

  “I was in touch with someone. Mentally, that is.”

  “Who?”

  “Serapheim.”

  He was nonplussed. “You can do that?”

  “Under certain circumstances. Though it’s not easy.”

  “How do you do it?”

  “We have a psychic link, you might say. It’s hard to explain.”

  “You said Serapheim couldn’t talk to us directly,” Jup recalled. “That’s why you brought his message.”

  “He can’t communicate directly with any of you. There has to be the link, and even with it, it’s difficult. But none of that’s important. What he told me is.”

  “So spit it out,” Stryke demanded.

  “He has an idea where Jennesta is, and it’s not far. We have to change course.”

  “An idea?”

  “More than that. A… sense.”

  He slowly shook his head. “I don’t know…”

  “I thought you wanted to find your mate more than anything.”

  “I do. But I don’t know if I want a wild-goose chase based on a hunch.”

  “Trust me, Stryke, this is more likely to be right than wrong. Besides, what other option do you have?”

  “You said that about us going to Serapheim,” Jup reminded him. “And you said we needed him to help fight Jennesta.”

  “Ideally, he’d be there. But she’s nearer than he is, and we need to seize this opportunity before she’s on the move again. What do you say, Stryke?”

  “I thought we needed Serapheim’s magic to stand a chance against her.”

  “We’ll have to make do with mine, and your band’s undoubted martial skills.”

  He thought about it. “All right. But this better not be a waste of time. I’ll get Pepperdyne to alter course.”

  “I was just on my way up to take a turn at the wheel,” Jup said. “I’ll tell him.”

  “All right, go ahead.”

  “What am I telling Pepperdyne? About the new course, I mean.”

  Stryke looked to the shape-changer. “Go with him, Dynahla. I’ll brief the band.”

  Jup and the shape-changer made their way to the bridge in silence. As usual, Coilla was there alongside Pepperdyne. They were told of the change of direction and why it came about.

  “Where exactly are we going?” Pepperdyne asked as he took out the well-thumbed chart.

  “We need a southward bearing,” Dynahla explained, tracing a line with his finger. “In this direction.”

  “There’s nothing there. Just like the last time we looked at this map, before setting our present course. You have a thing about invisible islands?”

  “I don’t think anybody’s ever fully mapped out this world. There’s a lot more to it than this chart shows. Believe me, our objective lies there.”

  Pepperdyne shrugged. “If that’s what Stryke wants.” He began spinning the wheel.

  “I’m supposed to have a turn at steering, remember,” the dwarf said. He glanced at Coilla. “And yes, I can reach it.”

  “I wasn’t going to say a thing!” she protested. “You’re confusing me with Haskeer.”

  Jup smiled. “Yeah, I guess he’s the one who’d offer me a box to stand on, the irritating bastard.”

  “I don’t think this is a good time for your lesson,” Pepperdyne said, “given the change of course. Sorry.”

  “It’s all right. The prospect of a fight appeals to me more than playing sailors, to be honest.”

  “I need to leave you,” Dynahla stated, as though their permission was needed. Nobody blinked, so he added, “See you soon.”

  They nodded and the shape-changer left.

  “What do you think, Jode?” Coilla asked in a low tone. “Is he on the level?”

  “Dynahla? I don’t know.”

  “This new course seems rum,” Jup said.

  “And again we’re heading for somewhere the map says doesn’t exist. Though I can’t see what he’d get out of lying. We’d find out soon enough if there really isn’t anything there.”

  “Might do to keep an eye on him though,” Coilla suggested.

  “I’m already doing that,” Jup told her.

  “Good idea,” Pepperdyne said. “There’s always a chance that—”

  Coilla shushed him, finger to lips. She flicked her head to indicate the stairs. Someone with a heavy tread was coming up them.

  Haskeer clambered into view. When he saw Jup his features lit up with something it took them a moment to recognise. It was a smile.

  “Jup!” he boomed. “I’ve been looking for you.”

  “If it’s a scrap you’re after,” Jup said, instinctively balling his fists, “forget it. I’m not in the mood.”

  “A scrap? You wound me, old friend. Why would I want to hurt you?”

  “Old friend?” Coilla mouthed.

  “You couldn’t hurt me if I was a nail and you had a hammer,” Jup assured him. “What’s the game, Haskeer?”

  “Is it a game to want the best for a friend?”

  “You appear in an unusually good mood,” Pepperdyne commented dryly.

  “And why not?” Haskeer boomed. “I’m surrounded by good companions, not least our human comrades.” He lifted a hand. Pepperdyne tensed. But instead of the expected blow he was rocked by a hearty slap to his shoulder that made him stagger.

  “I thought you hated humans,” Coilla said.

  “How’d you get that idea? Aren’t we all brothers in arms under the skin, ready to lay down our lives for each other?”

  “You been drinking sea water?” Jup asked.

  “Ever the joker, aren’t you, old pal? My Jup. My little Juppy Wuppy.”

  “That does it,” the dwarf decided. “He’s gone insane.”

  “If I’m insane,” Haskeer intoned gravely, “it’s with the passion of the fondness I feel for you.” He broke into a broad grin and lurched forward, arms outstretched. “Come on, gimme a hug!”

  “Keep him off me!”

  Haskeer stopped and began to chuckle.

  “Just a minute,” Coilla said. “There’s something fishy about all this.”

  Haskeer nodded. “Caught me.”

  A change came over his features. They softened, shifted and reformed themselves. An instant later, Dynahla stood before them.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I couldn’t resist that.”

  As their astonishment wore off, the others laughed.

  “That was… impressive,” Pepperdyne admitted.

  “You’re telling me,” Coilla agreed. “I could have sworn it was him. Except for the bullshit, that is.”

  “How do you do it, Dynahla?” Jup wanted to know.

  “How do you do farsight?”
r />   “I was born with it. Like all my race.”

  “But it improves with practice?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Most beings are born with at least the potential for magic. True, it’s stronger in some races than others. It’s much more latent in orcs, for example, but it’s there. The trick is to develop it.”

  “That takes willpower, right?”

  “The dominance of the will is the least important factor.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Imagination is much more important.”

  “Is it?”

  “What’s your favourite food, Jup?”

  “Huh?”

  “Let’s say… venison. You’re fond of it?”

  “Yeah. Who isn’t?”

  “Do you feel hungry?”

  “Now that you mention it—”

  “I reckon we all are,” Coilla said. “We’ve had no chance to eat.”

  Dynahla smiled. “Good. So picture a haunch of venison, turning on a spit, running with juices. See it in your mind. Smell that delicious aroma.”

  “You’re making my mouth water,” Jup confessed.

  “Sink your teeth into the succulent flesh. Think of how good it tastes.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Now let’s suppose that you can’t allow yourself to eat the venison. It’s very important that you don’t. Let’s say your life depends on not eating it. You must use your will to resist wanting to eat that meat.”

  “Easier said than done when I’m this hungry.”

  “Use the power of your will. Really concentrate. Refuse it. Close your eyes if it helps.”

  He did, and they all watched in silence for a moment.

  “How did you do?” Dynahla asked.

  “Well…”

  “Not too good?”

  “You put a pretty tempting image into my head. It’s hard not to want it.”

  “All right. Picture that hunk of meat again.”

  Once more, Jup closed his eyes.

  “Look at how delicious it is,” Dynahla went on. “It’s golden brown. Succulent. Smell that delicious tang of cooking meat. But hang on! What’s this? Look closely. The venison’s lying in a latrine. It’s covered in filth, and swarming with maggots and beetles.”

  “Yuck!” Jup made a face. Coilla and Pepperdyne didn’t look too cheerful either.

  “How easy did you find it to resist that time?” Dynahla said.

  “No problem.” He looked a little queasy. “I don’t feel quite so hungry now. But what does it prove?”

  “That sorcery is only partially about exercising the will. Much more important is imagining the improbable with enough intensity that you make it real. The imagination is stronger than the will. When you understand that, you’re some way towards understanding magic.”

  Jup found that intriguing, and began questioning Dynahla about it. Engrossed, the dwarf and the fetch waved vaguely at Coilla and Pepperdyne as they left the bridge together.

  “Quite a character,” Pepperdyne said.

  “Impressive though,” Coilla replied. “It was the dead spit of Haskeer.” She grinned. “And you’ve got to admit it was funny.”

  “Yes. But one thing worries me, just a bit.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Dynahla can impersonate any of us, perfectly. How comfortable are you about having someone like that in the band?”

  16

  The veil between the worlds is thin as gauze, unbridgeable as an ocean. It separates an incalculable number of realities, an infinite array of glittering pinpoints hanging in the velvet firmament. Seen closer, if that were possible, they reveal themselves as globes. Some are barren rocks, or beset with volcanic activity, or icebound. A few are fertile.

  Two species lived beneath the blue skies and pure white clouds of one such world. The race of humans had carved out a far-flung domain, the Peczan empire, now suffering its first setback despite its great military strength and possession of magic. The newly liberated race of orcs, cause of that humiliation, occupied a more remote, much smaller segment of the planet. Bolstered by their reawakened martial spirit, they were resolved never to fall under human dominance again.

  The orcs’ land was Acurial. Taress, its largest city by far and the capital, had borne the brunt of the recent occupation. Free at last, the populace determined to erase all trace of Peczan’s regime. Buildings that had been commandeered were returned to their original purpose. Structures built by the empire were being torn down, with detention camps, torture facilities and execution blocks the objects of particular fury. Guard stations, billets, signposts and anything else pertaining to the overthrown were demolished and consigned to bonfires, along with portraits of Peczan bureaucrats and military chiefs. Marble busts were pounded to smithereens.

  At the same time, Taress was rebuilding itself. Invasion and rebellion had devastated many parts of the city, and legions toiled on reconstruction.

  The main square had been one of the first areas to be reclaimed. Work there took a commemorative form. Statues had been erected. The tallest, although in many ways the simplest, honoured the late Principal Sylandya. Acurial’s ruler before Peczan’s occupation, and leader of the resistance, her martyrdom was the spark that gave fire to the revolution. She was shown seated, but didn’t give the impression of being enthroned, as would be expected of a head of state. Her attire and demeanour were humble, her expression mild. The sculptor had made no effort to flatter her memory by disguising her advancing years, as might have been the case with a more vain subject. Her frame was slight, even frail. Yet she exuded an unmistakable authority.

  Two orcs stood at the monument’s base, looking up at the figure. They were twins, male and female, and less than thirty summers old.

  “What would she have thought of this?” Chillder wondered.

  “Not much, I reckon,” her brother replied. “Our mother had little time for the conceits of power. It was one of her many virtues.”

  “So was dealing with the mountain of parchmentwork that plagues us now.”

  “Not as exciting as fighting as rebels, is it?”

  “No, Brelan, it’s not.”

  “But it’s what running a state’s all about. It has to be done.”

  “You’re more like mother than I am in that way. I think you like shuffling paper.”

  He smiled. “Like I said; it has to be done. Taking care of the formalities is a price we pay for getting our freedom back.”

  “I wish she was here to guide us through it,” Chillder said, nodding at the statue.

  “Me too.”

  “And if it hadn’t been for that bitch Jennesta,” she added bitterly, “she would be.”

  “I know. But our mother’s death wasn’t in vain. If she hadn’t perished as she did the revolution might never have happened.”

  “I’m not sure about that. Either way, Jennesta went unpunished, and that sticks in my craw.”

  He gave her a moment, then, “Come on,” he urged gently, “we ought to be moving.”

  They headed across the square.

  “Of course, she might have been,” Brelan said.

  “Who might have been what?”

  “Jennesta. Punished. For all we know, the warband reckoned with her.”

  “Or they might have suffered the same fate as our mother. The frustrating thing is we’ll probably never know.”

  They arrived at the shadow of another monument, and slowed to a halt despite the pressing nature of their business. It was larger than Sylandya’s, though squat rather than tall, and housed on a pedestal no more than waist height from the ground. Five life-sized figures were depicted; four orcs, one of them female, and a dwarf. They were in heroic poses, weapons drawn. To the rear of the group was a low stone wall that acted as a backdrop. This bore a carving along its entire length, showing a further twenty or more of the principals’ comrades. Controversially for many in Taress, it also showed a human.

  The front of the monument
was strewn with necklaces of fangs, pots of wine, embellished weapons, sketches of the heroes, not all of them crudely executed, and other offerings. In a not very orc-like gesture, there were even some bunches of flowers. The monument’s base carried a plain inscription reading “The Wolverines.”

  “And what do you suppose they would think about this?” Brelan asked, echoing his sister’s earlier question.

  “Haskeer would have liked it. Not sure the others would care much.” She turned to him. “Where could they have gone, Brelan? Do you think they’re still alive?”

  “Well, you can bet they didn’t return to their so-called northern lands. I never did buy that. As to whether they’re still alive…” He shrugged. “Who knows? I’m just grateful they came here when they did.”

  “Except for the human. The slimy one.”

  “Standeven.”

  She nodded. “Orc killer.”

  “Maybe.”

  “How can you doubt it?”

  “You’re probably right. But I can’t help thinking even he wouldn’t have been stupid enough to murder one of us in our own land.”

  “The pity is we let him get away with it.”

  “There was no proof.”

  “How much did you need?”

  “That’s all water under the bridge, Chillder, and something else we can’t do anything about. Now can we get a move on? We’ve a problem to deal with, remember.”

  They resumed their journey.

  The streets leading off the square were bustling. Extensive rebuilding work was going on and laden carts jammed the thoroughfares. Passers-by stared as Brelan and Chillder passed, and some waved. They were public figures now.

  As they walked, Chillder said, “I sometimes wonder whether we should be doing all this work.”

  “Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Peczan’s pride took a battering. How do we know they won’t invade again, if only to save face?”

  “We’ve got as many hands putting up defences as rebuilding. More. If the humans come back we’ll know it, and this time they’d face a population ready to fight.”

  “Would they? Grilan-Zeat’s gone now. What worries me is that our warlike spirit’s going to fade along with the comet’s memory.”

  “I don’t think so. Our folk have had a taste of the freedom that fighting brought them. They won’t easily forget that.”