Orcs: Inferno

by Stan Nicholls

  “I thought you said they didn’t work here,” Stryke complained. “You’ve let her get away!”

  Jennesta’s parents and her sibling looked truly mournful. Vermegram and Sanara might even have had moist eyes, as was the way with humans.

  It was Serapheim who spoke, his tone weighed down. “No, they don’t work here, and she hasn’t got away. That was our plan.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Working together, because that’s what it took, even with a counterfeit set of instrumentalities, we managed to alter them from afar. Jennesta thought she could use them to get away, and no doubt had the coordinates for a safe location. We changed those coordinates.”

  “Where’s she gone?” Coilla asked.

  Serapheim looked up at the sky. “I’ll explain.”

  The world Serapheim created was in every respect artifice, fuelled and maintained by magic and the force of his will. But for all practical purposes it was real. The food it produced could be eaten, the rain that fell was wet, the perfume of flowers was just as sweet. Pleasure could be experienced there, and pain and death. The reality extended to its sun. It was no less the giver of warmth and light than any that existed in the so-called natural universe.

  And so it was that as Serapheim explained what had happened to his depraved daughter, on the surface of the sun he had brought into existence there was the tiniest blip. A minute, incredibly short-lasting flare of energy as a foreign body, newly arrived, was instantly consumed by that terrible inferno.

  Jennesta’s going had a number of effects on the battlefield. Her human zombies simply stopped functioning, and fell to dust. The entranced orcs had the chains binding their minds severed, and came to their senses. Others, of many races, also felt her influence seep away, and they threw down their arms. Yet others, those far gone in depravity who followed the sorceress willingly, fought on. As the battle descended into part dazed chaos, part fight to the death, it was one of the latter who was responsible for what happened next.

  Stryke and Thirzarr stood with Coilla and Pepperdyne, a little apart from the others, watching the turn of events when a fighter on the battlefield took aim and unleashed an arrow.

  Given the unpredictability of a conventional longbow, it could have struck any of them. It chose Pepperdyne. The arrow plunged deep into his chest, passing through the side of his heart as it travelled. He fell without a sound.

  The cold hand of horror clutched at Coilla’s own heart. She went down on her knees to him, and if confirmation of what had just happened was needed, she saw his white singlet rapidly turning scarlet.

  On the battlefield, the archer who sent the bolt, a Gatherer perhaps or some other form of lowlife, was cut to pieces by an avenging pack of Wolverines.

  Stryke got hold of the arrow jutting from Pepperdyne’s chest, thinking to remove it. Pepperdyne winced and groaned. Stryke let go. Spurral caught his eye, and almost imperceptibly, shook her head.

  Coilla took her lover’s hand. Pepperdyne’s eyes flickered and half opened. He stared up at her face.

  “Take it easy,” she whispered. “We’ll patch you up and—”

  “No… my love,” he replied almost too softly to be heard. “I’m… beyond… patching up.”

  “Don’t leave me, Jode.”

  “I’ll… never… leave you.”

  Coilla squeezed his hand tighter. “How can I go on? How can I live without you?” She turned to Serapheim and his kin. “Can’t you do something?” she pleaded. “With your great powers, surely—”

  Serapheim shook his head sadly. “There are limits to even our abilities. Some things must take their course. I’m sorry.”

  Desolate, she returned her gaze to Pepperdyne. He tried to speak again, and Coilla had to put her ear to his mouth to catch what he said. Whatever it was, it brought the flicker of a smile to her face before grief replaced it.

  Epilogue I

  Stryke, Jup, Spurral, Pelli Madayar and Standeven stood in the semiarid wastes of a drought-ridden slice of Maras-Dantia. The sun beat down without mercy, the air was verging on foul.

  “This isn’t fair,” Standeven whined. “You could at least have brought me somewhere other than Kantor Hammrik’s fiefdom.”

  Stryke pointed across the desert. “I reckon if you walk for about three days in that direction you’ll be out of it.”

  “I’ve no supplies, no proper clothing, no—”

  “Here’s a bottle of water. You better make it last.”

  Standeven snatched it. “I was as upset about what happened to Jode as any of you, you know.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  He was still whining and muttering curses when the others vanished and left him to it.

  Stryke, Jup, Spurral and Pelli looked out at a considerably more pleasant world. It was blessed with fecundity and almost entirely unspoilt. In the valley below was a small village of round huts and longhouses. Smoke lazily climbed from cooking stoves, and in an adjacent field cattle were grazing.

  “A world comprised solely of dwarfs,” Pelli said, sweeping an arm at the scene. “The Corps has had contact with the inhabitants before, and we’re on good terms. They’re expecting you down there. Just mention my name.”

  Jup and Spurral thanked her, then turned to Stryke. Pelli moved off to a discreet distance.

  “Well, we’ve already had our goodbyes,” Jup said, “and you know I’m not one for emotional gestures, so I’m offering you my hand, Stryke.”

  Stryke took it in a warriors’ grasp and squeezed hard.

  “You and your I’m not one for emotional gestures,” Spurral teased as she shoved past Jup. “Well, I am.” She gave Stryke a powerful hug, her head not quite up to the level of his chest. “Thank you, Captain. For everything.”

  “And you,” he returned.

  Spurral had tears in her eyes. Jup pretended there was a speck of dirt in his.

  They didn’t linger, but set off down the hill to their new life.

  Stryke and Pelli watched them go.

  “Is Coilla going to be all right?” she asked.

  He sighed. “I hope so. There’s a great sadness weighing on her now. But just before we came here she told me about something that I think is going to keep her mind off it for a while.”

  “I trust time will heal her. Oh, there’s just one more thing, Stryke.” She held out her hand.

  He dug into his belt bag and produced the instrumentalities. For a moment he studied them, then handed them over.

  “Sorry to part with them?” she asked as she slipped them into her tunic.

  “No.” He thought about it. “Well, yes and no.”

  She smiled. “They do have an enticing quality. But the Corps is right. They shouldn’t be abroad.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  “Come on, let’s get you all home.”

  Epilogue II

  In the months that followed, the destruction Jennesta had brought to the orcs’ settlement on Ceragan was cleared up. New longhouses were built and corrals repaired.

  The more personal hurts took longer to fade.

  Stryke wandered through a fine summer’s day. The sky was blue, the birds were singing, there was abundant game in the vales, forests and rivers.

  He passed Thirzarr, sitting at a wooden bench outside their lodge, chopping a carcass with a razor-keen hatchet. They exchanged a smile. Nearby, Haskeer was fooling on the grass with Corb and Janch, the hatchlings fit to burst with laughter. Stryke increased his pace a little at that point, lest Haskeer collar him to say, once more, how right he’d been about Dallog.

  Wheam and his father, Quoll, were sitting on the steps of the chieftain’s longhouse. Wheam was plinking on his battered goblin lute. Quoll was acting as if he enjoyed it.

  Farther along, in a quieter corner, he spotted Coilla sitting on the ground by Pepperdyne’s grave, a spot she still came to frequently. He went to her.

  When she saw him she said, “What do you think Jode would have thought o
f it here?”

  “I reckon he would have liked it. Might have been a bit of a change from what he was used to though.”

  “I don’t think he minded change. None of us should. Didn’t somebody say the only thing that stays constant is change?”

  “Probably. And it’s just as well you feel that way.” He reached out and gave her greatly swollen stomach an affectionate pat. “Because nothing’s going to be the same again.”

  extras

  meet the author

  Peter Coleborn

  STAN NICHOLLS is the author of more than two dozen books, most of them in the fantasy and science fiction genres, for both children and adults. His books have been published in over twenty countries. Before taking up writing full-time in 1981, he co-owned and managed West London bookstore Bookends, and managed specialist SF bookshop Dark They Were and Golden Eyed. He was also Forbidden Planet’s first manager, and helped establish and run the New York branch. A journalist for national and specialist publications, and the Internet, he was the science fiction and fantasy book reviewer for London listings magazine Time Out for six years, and subsequently reviewed popular science titles for the magazine. He received the Le’Fantastique Lifetime Achievement Award for Contributions to Literature in April 2007.

  introducing

  If you enjoyed

  ORCS: INFERNO,

  look out for

  THEFT OF SWORDS

  by Michael J. Sullivan

  THEY KILLED THE KING, THEY PINNED IT ON TWO MEN. THEY CHOSE POORLY.

  Royce Melborn, a skilled thief, and his mercenary partner, Hadrian Blackwater, make a profitable living carrying out dangerous assignments for conspiring nobles—until they are hired to pilfer a famed sword. What appears to be just a simple job finds them framed for the murder of the king and trapped in a conspiracy that uncovers a plot far greater than the mere overthrow of a tiny kingdom.

  Can a self-serving thief and an idealistic swordsman survive long enough to unravel the first part of an ancient mystery that has toppled kings and destroyed empires?

  And so begins the first tale of treachery and adventure, sword fighting and magic, myth and legend.

  Hadrian could see little in the darkness, but he could hear them—the snapping of twigs, the crush of leaves, and the brush of grass. There were more than one, more than three, and they were closing in.

  “Don’t neither of you move,” a harsh voice ordered from the shadows. “We’ve got arrows aimed at your backs, and we’ll drop you in your saddles if you try to run.” The speaker was still in the dark eaves of the forest, just a vague movement among the naked branches. “We’re just gonna lighten your load a bit. No one needs to get hurt. Do as I say and you’ll keep your lives. Don’t—and we’ll take those, too.”

  Hadrian felt his stomach sink, knowing this was his fault. He glanced over at Royce, who sat beside him on his dirty gray mare with his hood up, his face hidden. His friend’s head was bowed and shook slightly. Hadrian did not need to see his expression to know what it looked like.

  “Sorry,” he offered.

  Royce said nothing and just continued to shake his head.

  Before them stood a wall of fresh-cut brush blocking their way. Behind lay the long moonlit corridor of empty road. Mist pooled in the dips and gullies, and somewhere an unseen stream trickled over rocks. They were deep in the forest on the old southern road, engulfed in a long tunnel of oaks and ash whose slender branches reached out over the road, quivering and clacking in the cold autumn wind. Almost a day’s ride from any town, Hadrian could not recall passing so much as a farmhouse in hours. They were on their own, in the middle of nowhere—the kind of place people never found bodies.

  The crush of leaves grew louder until at last the thieves stepped into the narrow band of moonlight. Hadrian counted four men with unshaven faces and drawn swords. They wore rough clothes, leather and wool, stained, worn, and filthy. With them was a girl wielding a bow, an arrow notched and aimed. She was dressed like the rest in pants and boots, her hair a tangled mess. Each was covered in mud, a ground-in grime, as if the whole lot slept in a dirt burrow.

  “They don’t look like they got much money,” a man with a flat nose said. An inch or two taller than Hadrian, he was the largest of the party, a stocky brute with a thick neck and large hands. His lower lip looked to have been split about the same time his nose was broken.

  “But they’ve got bags of gear,” the girl said. Her voice surprised him. She was young, and—despite the dirt—cute, and almost childlike, but her tone was aggressive, even vicious. “Look at all this stuff they’re carrying. What’s with all the rope?”

  Hadrian was uncertain if she was asking him or her fellows. Either way, he was not about to answer. He considered making a joke, but she did not look like the type he could charm with a compliment and a smile. On top of that, she was pointing the arrow at him and it looked like her arm might be growing tired.

  “I claim the big sword that fella has on his back,” flat-nose said. “Looks right about my size.”

  “I’ll take the other two he’s carrying.” This came from one with a scar that divided his face at a slight angle, crossing the bridge of his nose just high enough to save his eye.

  The girl aimed the point of her arrow at Royce. “I want the little one’s cloak. I’d look good in a fine black hood like that.”

  With deep-set eyes and sunbaked skin, the man closest to Hadrian appeared to be the oldest. He took a step closer and grabbed hold of Hadrian’s horse by the bit. “Be real careful now. We’ve killed plenty of folks along this road. Stupid folks who didn’t listen. You don’t want to be stupid, do you?”

  Hadrian shook his head.

  “Good. Now drop them weapons,” the thief said. “And then climb down.”

  “What do you say, Royce?” Hadrian asked. “We give them a bit of coin so nobody gets hurt.”

  Royce looked over. Two eyes peered out from the hood with a withering glare.

  “I’m just saying, we don’t want any trouble, am I right?”

  “You don’t want my opinion,” Royce said.

  “So you’re going to be stubborn.”

  Silence.

  Hadrian shook his head and sighed. “Why do you have to make everything so difficult? They’re probably not bad people—just poor. You know, taking what they need to buy a loaf of bread to feed their family. Can you begrudge them that? Winter is coming and times are hard.” He nodded his head in the direction of the thieves. “Right?”

  “I ain’t got no family,” flat-nose replied. “I spend most of my coin on drink.”

  “You’re not helping,” Hadrian said.

  “I’m not trying to. Either you two do as you’re told, or we’ll gut you right here.” He emphasized this by pulling a long dagger from his belt and scraping it loudly against the blade of his sword.

  A cold wind howled through the trees, bobbing the branches and stripping away more foliage. Red and gold leaves flew, swirling in circles, buffeted by the gusts along the narrow road. Somewhere in the dark an owl hooted.

  “Look, how about we give you half our money? My half. That way this won’t be a total loss for you.”

  “We ain’t asking for half,” the man holding his mount said. “We want it all, right down to these here horses.”

  “Now wait a second. Our horses? Taking a little coin is fine but horse thieving? If you get caught, you’ll hang. And you know we’ll report this at the first town we come to.”

  “You’re from up north, ain’t you?”

  “Yeah, left Medford yesterday.”

  The man holding his horse nodded and Hadrian noticed a small red tattoo on his neck. “See, that’s your problem.” His face softened to a sympathetic expression that appeared more threatening by its intimacy. “You’re probably on your way to Colnora—nice city. Lots of shops. Lots of fancy rich folk. Lots of trading going on down there, and we get lots of people along this road carrying all kinds of stuff to sell to them fancy fo
lk. But I’m guessing you ain’t been south before, have you? Up in Melengar, King Amrath goes to the trouble of having soldiers patrol the roads. But here in Warric, things are done a bit differently.”

  Flat-nose came closer, licking his split lip as he studied the spadone sword on his back.

  “Are you saying theft is legal?”

  “Naw, but King Ethelred lives in Aquesta and that’s awfully far from here.”

  “And the Earl of Chadwick? Doesn’t he administer these lands on the king’s behalf?”

  “Archie Ballentyne?” The mention of his name brought chuckles from the other thieves. “Archie don’t give a rat’s ass what goes on with the common folk. He’s too busy picking out what to wear.” The man grinned, showing yellowed teeth that grew at odd angles. “So now drop them swords and climb down. Afterward, you can walk on up to Ballentyne Castle, knock on old Archie’s door, and see what he does.” Another round of laughter. “Now unless you think this is the perfect place to die—you’re gonna do as I say.”

  “You were right, Royce,” Hadrian said in resignation. He unclasped his cloak and laid it across the rear of his saddle. “We should have left the road, but honestly—I mean, we are in the middle of nowhere. What were the odds?”

  “Judging from the fact that we’re being robbed—pretty good, I think.”

  “Kinda ironic—Riyria being robbed. Almost funny even.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  “Did you say Riyria?” the man holding Hadrian’s horse asked.

  Hadrian nodded and pulled his gloves off, tucking them into his belt.

  The man let go of his horse and took a step away.

  “What’s going on, Will?” the girl asked. “What’s Riyria?”

  “There’s a pair of fellas in Melengar that call themselves that.” He looked toward the others and lowered his voice a bit. “I got connections up that way, remember? They say two guys calling themselves Riyria work out of Medford and I was told to keep my distance if I was ever to run across them.”