Orcs: Inferno

by Stan Nicholls

  Shortly after, in a rare lull, they both happened to catch sight of Gleaton-Rouk, skulking at the battle’s ragged edge, looking for prey.

  “Do you know him?” Pelli said.

  Wheam nodded. “His name’s Gleaton-Rouk. He killed one of our band.”

  “With an arrow?”

  “Yes. His bow’s enchanted. Didn’t you know?”

  “I guessed as much.”

  “An arrow smeared with his victim’s blood always finds its target. Always.”

  “That explains something.”

  “What?”

  A uniformed human came too close. Pelli fended him off and he was caught up in the swirl. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “I’ve got an idea about Gleaton-Rouk,” Wheam confided. “Something that could hurt him.”

  “Can I help you with it?”

  As they battled their way through the melee, so did Dallog and Pirrak, but moving in a different direction.

  Initially, Stryke and his tiny crew made good progress. They were well into the crush before they hit a foe, then trouble came thick and furious.

  But now, sweating and breathing hard, they were in sight of Jennesta. She had Thirzarr with her, rod straight and blank-eyed. There was also one of her once human zombies and a handful of troopers.

  “So how are we going to do this, Stryke?” Pepperdyne said as they worked their way closer.

  “I’m thinking just straight in, fell the guards.”

  “What about the biggest threat?”

  “I’m counting on Jennesta still wanting me and the band serving her. Why else would she keep Thirzarr alive?”

  “You better be sure about that,” Coilla said. “She might be keeping her as a pet.”

  “If you can think of another way in the time we’ve got—”

  “No, let’s do it. I’ve come to trust your hunches.”

  They fought their way to the battle’s rim, lingered in the crowd for an opportune moment then charged across the open ground. The guards were their first target. There were five of them, all human, so the odds were no problem. Gleadeg got the first with a single blow and surprise. Pepperdyne had as easy a time with his mark, felling him with a brace of strokes. Stryke and Coilla had a bit more of a slog. Their opponents had some fire and it took a moment to put them down.

  There was a human zombie present, but for some reason Jennesta hadn’t set him on them. He stood immobile, and they recognised him as what was left of Kapple Hacher.

  The sorceress had a jewelled dagger at Thirzarr’s throat.

  “Give it up,” Stryke advised.

  “You dare to speak to me like that, you snivelling animal? And while I’m holding a blade to your bitch?”

  “I was never much of a one for niceties.” He wished Serapheim and the others would turn up. Equally, he hoped none of Jennesta’s supporters in the battle would notice what was going on and come to her aid.

  “If anyone should give up,” Jennesta announced haughtily, “it’s you.” She pressed the dagger closer to Thirzarr’s throat. The crease in her flesh was plainly visible.

  “I think if you were going to kill Thirzarr you would have done it by now.” He prayed she wouldn’t call his bluff. And thought of the Tetrad and what Serapheim had told him.

  “You think I wouldn’t?”

  It was sliding into a stalemate. Stryke was wondering how far to push it when they were all distracted by movement and noise.

  A couple of Jennesta’s troopers had detached themselves from the battlefield, as Stryke had feared, and were rushing to save her. But as they neared and Stryke fought to bring up his sword, another figure ran into their path and viciously engaged them. It was Pirrak. He felled one man in quick order. The other put his sword through Pirrak’s guts. In his turn, the attacker was felled by a Wolverine’s blade.

  Dallog came out of the scrum and joined the others around Pirrak.

  The youth was mortally wounded and they all knew it. He was losing blood fast and could hardly talk, but he tried. “Sorry… sorry about… Acurial.”

  “What was that?” Stryke said.

  “Acurial… didn’t want… he…”

  “I can’t make it out,” Coilla said. “What do you mean?”

  “No… choice… in Acurial… sp—Uhh.”

  Pirrak had a dagger in his heart, with Dallog’s hand on it. The deed was quick and smooth.

  “What the hell?” Stryke exploded.

  “What are you doing?” Coilla exclaimed.

  “He was suffering and I put an end to his misery. It was a kindness.”

  “Are you insane? He would have been dead in a heartbeat anyway.”

  “Or was it something he was about to say that you wanted to put a stop to?” Stryke ventured.

  “Ah,” Dallog said, and rose from the corpse.

  In the turmoil they had almost forgotten about Jennesta. Now Dallog crossed to her. When he reached her side he turned and faced them. “Yes, it would have been embarrassing if Pirrak had talked. Not that it matters now that my allegiance is no longer a secret.”

  “Your what?” Coilla said.

  “I serve the Lady Jennesta. At least this once.”

  “You serve me whenever I want you to,” she informed him coolly.

  “This started in Acurial, didn’t it?” Stryke hazarded. “It was you.”

  “Who?” Coilla said. “What happened in Acurial, Stryke?”

  “We know what happened. We just didn’t know who did it. When that orc was found dead in the resistance safe house.”

  “You think he did that?” She pointed at Dallog.

  “I’m not denying it,” Dallog told her.

  “And we’ve been blaming Standeven,” Pepperdyne said, “the poor bastard.”

  “How did you do it, Dallog?” Stryke wanted to know.

  “I got the youngster to help me. We were passing information about the resistance to the Peczan forces, and to my lady here. Something I’ve done more recently about the band.” He flicked a finger at his head, then indicated Jennesta’s with it. “We have a way of talking. I called it praying, you’ll remember, Captain.” He smiled. “The dead orc back in Acurial was a cohort, strictly for coin. He got greedy and said he’d expose me. It suited me to let Standeven take the blame.”

  “You said you got Pirrak to help you. How did you do that?”

  “He was no saint. He fell in with my scheme easily enough.”

  “You mean he was young and green, and easily swayed. Or bullied. You slur Pirrak’s name. He died an honourable death.”

  “Saving you,” Dallog sneered.

  “Why did you do it?” Coilla wanted to know. “What did she promise you?”

  “Something you could never offer. Something that’s wasted on Pirrak and Wheam and all the other whey-faced hatchlings I’ve had to wipe the arses of. She’s promised me my youth back. I’ll be young again, now and for ever.”

  “You’re a fool,” Stryke told him.

  “This is all very interesting,” Jennesta said, “but I was about to cut your mate’s throat.”

  “Reward me now, my lady,” Dallog said.

  She gave him a look usually reserved for dog shit. “What?”

  “I’ve done all you asked, and more. We had a pact. I’ve fulfilled my part.”

  “You don’t have a great sense of timing, do you? It may have escaped your notice but I’m a little busy at the moment, what with a war and everything.”

  “My true loyalty’s in the open now; there’s no point in delaying. And with my youth restored I can serve you so much better. You can do it easily, I know you can.”

  “Enough.” She extended her free hand. “Come then, claim your reward.”

  Stryke and the others looked on impotently as Dallog, beaming, took a step closer and bowed slightly so that Jennesta could lightly touch his forehead.

  “As age is your problem,” she said, “let this put an end to it.”

  A change came over him, but not necessa
rily the one he was expecting. More wrinkles appeared on his face, not less, and his skin began to grey. Blue veins started to stand out on his neck, arms and the backs of his hands. His fingernails were turning yellow. The smile had vanished now and there was terror in his fading eyes. He tried to struggle, but whatever enchantment she was using prevented him from breaking free.

  The others watched in horror as flakes of skin fell away and his face sagged. His body shrank, the bones showing through rice paper flesh. His rotting teeth dislodged as his mouth gaped in a silent scream. He shrivelled, his flesh turning to dust until his skeleton could plainly be seen. Then that crumbled too, falling like poured sand. In seconds he had been rendered to a scattering of ashes.

  Jennesta was still holding a portion of his skull with discoloured skin attached. She casually tossed it aside and it shattered when it met the ground. “The old are such a trial, don’t you think?” she said.

  “We’re taking a hell of a risk,” Pelli said as they got themselves nearer to their target.

  “We can do it if we’re quick,” Wheam assured her.

  “Are you sure you’re right about this?”

  “Yes.” He pointed. “That goblin over there is some kind of healer, I reckon, and he seems to be looking after only Gleaton-Rouk. I’ve been watching him. And that bucket by him has got bloody bandages in it.”

  “Doesn’t mean it’s Gleaton-Rouk’s blood.”

  “No. But I think there’s a good chance. When we saw Gleaton-Rouk before I noticed that he had two bound wounds, on his upper and lower arm. But even if it isn’t his blood on those bandages it’ll be from some other goblin and that’s got to be a result, hasn’t it?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Yes. But remember to close your eyes when I tell you to. You’ll be all right when you open them again. But if you don’t close them when I say—”

  “Yes, I know. Let’s get going.”

  The healer was off the battlefield and to the side, some way from his master though in sight of him. He was alone, and rummaging through a bag of kit. They got as close to him as they dared.

  “Now!” Pelli ordered. “Close them!”

  She closed her own eyes too, and cast what was basically a simple spell but a very effective one. It generated a burst of incredibly intense light that briefly blinded everybody in range. That meant more than just the healer, but they thought that was justifiable as it gave nobody a real advantage, except in the unlikely event of someone who happened to be fighting with their eyes closed.

  The potency of the flash did its job. When Pelli and Wheam looked, the healer was rubbing at his eyes and blundering about. He wasn’t the only one.

  “Quickly!” Pelli urged. “It doesn’t last long!”

  Wheam darted towards the medic, dodging several of the temporarily sightless. He reached the bucket, grabbed a bandage and raced back. Then they lost themselves in the confusion.

  Finding a corner of the field away from the still churning battle, Wheam got out the distinctive black arrow he’d found on the battlefield earlier. They smeared it with blood from the bandage.

  “The next bit’s even trickier,” Pelli said.

  “You can do it.”

  “Let’s see.”

  They made their way to where they had last seen Gleaton-Rouk. He was still there, and aiming his bow, seemingly at random over the heads of the combatants. The arrow flew, circled a couple of times and came down to strike someone in the crowd.

  “That’s one more on our side he’s claimed,” Wheam remarked angrily.

  “Come on, let’s get nearer.”

  They approached the goblin as closely as they dared, and saw that the arrow sheath he wore was almost empty. But another, full one, stood on the ground beside him, presumably containing a store of arrows tainted with blood collected by his gang.

  Pelli took their arrow from Wheam. “Guard my back, will you? This takes some concentration.” She added under her breath, “I hope nobody sees it.”

  She laid the shaft across her outstretched palms and stared at it. Nothing happened for a second, then it twitched. The twitch became a more animated judder. Suddenly the arrow soared from her hands, and under her direction headed straight for the quiver. It did a neat flip and fell inside. It was all so swift that no one appeared to notice, least of all Gleaton-Rouk.

  “Well done,” Wheam congratulated.

  “We don’t know when he’ll fire it, or even if he will.”

  “We’ve done our best. Now let’s get away from here.”

  They rejoined the battle. But whenever there was a rare moment of stillness they glanced the goblin’s way. Twice they saw him loose arrows that seemed to hunt their targets like a living thing, and both times found them. Wheam and Pelli began to think their plan wasn’t going to work.

  A bit later, in another brief pause that starved them of anyone to fight, Wheam nudged Pelli and nodded towards the goblin. He was drawing his bow again. They watched with no great expectation.

  The arrow Gleaton-Rouk fired went way over the battlefield, made a couple of circuits and headed back in his general direction. He looked on, presumably to see who the latest casualty would be. But the shaft was coming towards him. When it was close enough for there to be no doubt of its goal the goblin’s expression turned to dread and he tried to run. The arrow took him square in the back. He went down heavily. Other goblins ran to him, but what they found looked pretty conclusive even from a distance.

  Wheam and Pelli slapped their right hands together and let out a whoop. It was joined by a cheer from pleased onlookers.

  Stryke was thinking of rushing Jennesta and overpowering her. It was a sign of his desperation that he would consider such an unwise move. The chances were that Thirzarr would suffer for it, and likely they’d all die. But Serapheim and his kin still hadn’t turned up and the situation was even more edgy after what Jennesta had done to Dallog.

  He got the impression that Gleadeg, Coilla and Pepperdyne might also be thinking about attacking Jennesta. Catching their eye, he tried to convey through facial expressions how reckless a move that would be. He hoped they got the message.

  “I’m getting bored with this,” Jennesta said, her knife still at Thirzarr’s throat.

  “That must be tough for you,” Coilla told her.

  “How shall I relieve it? By killing this one?” She twisted the dagger a touch. “By killing you four? Maybe both.”

  “You’re big on talk,” Stryke said. “Why don’t you let Thirzarr go, and face me, one to one?”

  She laughed. “And you think you’d stand a chance?”

  “Try me, then,” Pepperdyne offered. “I’d take you on.”

  Jennesta looked him over. “Hmmm. Not bad. For a human. Perhaps I should let you take me on, pretty boy.”

  Coilla stared daggers at her.

  At that moment there was what could only be called a shift in the air. It was rapidly followed by a burst of light. When everybody blinked back to normality there were three more beings present. Serapheim, Vermegram and Sanara had finally arrived.

  “Ah,” Jennesta cooed. “What a pleasant surprise. A family gathering.”

  “Let the female go, Jennesta,” Serapheim said. “She’s nothing to do with this.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t make me make you.”

  “You’re so melodramatic, Father.”

  “That’s rich coming from you,” Vermegram said.

  “And you have no sense of melodrama, Mother? There’s no attention-seeking when you take the form of some mangy animal?”

  “I don’t hold knives to innocent beings’ necks.”

  “You should try it, it might brighten up your dull, sanctimonious little life.”

  “That’s enough,” Sanara said.

  “Oh, please, little sister. You’re nothing but an even more prissy version of our mother. I couldn’t care less for your condemnation.”


  “Put the knife down,” Serapheim demanded, his tone like ice.

  “Go to hell.”

  He made a swift movement with his hands. The dagger Jennesta was holding became malleable, then melted like an icicle in a heatwave. It ended as a metallic coloured puddle at her feet.

  At the same time, Vermegram wove her own spell. Thirzarr started, staggered and seemed to come to herself.

  “Stryke!” Serapheim cried urgently.

  Stryke dashed to his bewildered mate, took hold of her and dragged her away.

  Alarmed at the speed of events, Jennesta’s perplexity turned to anger. Lifting her own hands, lips moving through some incantation, she prepared to retaliate.

  “Get clear!” Serapheim shouted.

  Stryke and the others didn’t need telling twice. They withdrew from the line of fire.

  Jennesta hurled energy at her kin. They repelled it by instantly throwing up a glossy protective bubble, and answered with fiery bolts. These Jennesta batted aside as though they were no more harmful than a swipe from a kitten.

  “What in hell is going on, Stryke?” Thirzarr asked. She looked exhausted as well as baffled.

  “I’ll tell you later,” he promised, pulling her closer.

  The duel built in intensity, so that even those fighting a short distance away took a step back from their opponents to watch.

  Then there was a development from an unexpected quarter. The zombie Hacher, who had stood to one side, forgotten through all this, now stirred himself. Perhaps there was just enough humanity left in what remained of his senses, or enough unforgiving malice. Lurching towards her from behind, he grabbed hold of Jennesta, encircling her in a death-like grip.

  “Get off me, you scum!” she shrieked, struggling to free herself.

  When she failed to break his hold she resorted to a more extreme measure. A small hand gesture was all it took. What had once been Hacher let out a moan of agony and began to writhe. He let go of her and his hands went to his head. They weren’t enough to hold it together. It erupted as surely as a melon hit with a mallet. A sticky black liquid seeped through his fingers and down his chest. He collapsed, truly dead.

  Serapheim and the others were still mounting their magical attack. It was all becoming too much for Jennesta. She reached into her gown and took out her ersatz set of instrumentalities. Four were already in place. Grinning triumphantly at her enemies, she quickly slotted the fifth into place and disappeared.