Orcs

by Stan Nicholls

  “Thieving little fuckers,” Haskeer responded indignantly. “Let’s get after ’em!”

  The Wolverines chorused approval.

  “Think!” Stryke bellowed. “By the time we’ve cleared this shambles, rounded up the horses, tended our wounded—”

  “Why not send a small party after them now, and the rest can follow?” Coilla suggested.

  “They’d be well outnumbered, and those kirgizils can go where we can’t. The trail’s cold already!”

  “But what good is it if we wait until we sort ourselves?” Alfray put in. “Who knows where they’ve gone?”

  “There’s plenty of their wounded lying about,” Haskeer reminded them. “I say we make ’em tell us.” He slipped out a knife and flicked his finger against its edge to underline the point.

  “Can you speak their infernal language?” Stryke demanded. “Can any of you?” They shook their heads. “No, I thought not. So torture’s hardly the answer, is it?”

  “We should never have entered this valley without scouting it first,” Haskeer grumbled lowly.

  “I’m just in the mood for your griping,” Stryke told him, his expression like flint. “If you’ve got something to say about how I’m leading this band, let’s hear it now.”

  Haskeer held up his hands in a placating gesture. “No, chief.” He turned on an empty grin. “Just . . . thinking aloud.”

  “Thinking’s not your strong point, Sergeant. Leave it to me. And that goes for all of you!”

  A tense silence descended. Alfray broke it. “What do you want us to do, Captain?” he asked.

  “Find as many horses as we can, for a start. If Meklun can’t ride, make a litter for him.” He bobbed his head at the carnage. “Don’t leave any kobolds alive. Cut their throats. Get on with it.”

  The Wolverines melted away.

  Coilla remained, looking at him.

  “Don’t say it,” he told her. “I know. If we don’t get that damn thing back for Jennesta, we’re as good as dead.”

  6

  Jennesta stood on the highest balcony of her palace’s tallest tower.

  The eastern ocean was to her back. She looked north-west, where curling yellow mist rose over Taklakameer, the inland sea. Beyond that, she could just make out the city spires of Urrarbython, on the margin of the Hojanger wastelands. In turn, Hojanger eventually gave way to the ice field dominating the horizon, bathed by a crimson sun.

  To Jennesta it resembled a frozen tidal wave of blood.

  An icy breeze swept in, acute as a blade, stirring the heavy cerise drapes on the balcony’s entrance. She wrapped the cloak of milky-hued sabrewolf pelts tighter around herself. Autumnal conditions belied the season, and each passing year was worse.

  The advancing glaciers and frigid winds were harbingers of the encroaching humans, ever expanding their hold, tearing the heart from the land, interfering with the balance.

  Eating Maras-Dantia’s magic.

  She heard that in the south, where they were most densely concentrated and sorcery worked poorly if at all, humans had even abandoned the hallowed name and taken to calling the world Centrasia. At least the Unis had, and they were still more numerous than the Manis.

  Not for the first time, she fell to wondering what her mother, Vermegram, would have made of the schism. There was no doubt she would favour the Followers of the Manifold Path. After all, they adhered to pantheistic tenets remarkably similar to those of the elder races. Which was why Jennesta herself supported their cause, and would continue to do so for as long as it suited her. But whether her mother, a nyadd, would have approved of Jennesta actually siding with incomers was a moot point. Notwithstanding Vermegram’s human consort.

  And what of him? Would Jennesta’s father have approved of Unity and its nonsensical monotheistic creed?

  Whenever she dwelt on these matters she always came up against the ambiguity of her hybrid origins. Inevitably, that led to thoughts of Adpar and Sanara, and anger rose.

  She brought her mind back to the artifact. It was the key to her ambitions, to victory, and it was slipping out of her grasp.

  Turning, she entered the chamber.

  An attendant stepped forward and took her cloak. Slimly built, almost petite, the servant was pallid-skinned and dainty of face. The sandy hair, powder-blue eyes with long golden lashes, button nose and sensuous lips were typically androgynous.

  The servant was new, and Jennesta was still uncertain whether the creature was predominantly male or female. But everyone had that problem with elves.

  “General Kysthan is here, Your Majesty,” he or she announced in a piping, sing-song voice. “He, er, has been waiting for some time.”

  “Good. I’ll see him now.”

  The elf ushered in the visitor, bowed discreetly and left.

  Kysthan was probably in late middle-age, as far as she could tell, and in orc terms, distinguished-looking. He had ramrod-backed military bearing. An accumulation of criss-crossed tattoos on both cheeks recorded his rise through the ranks. His expression spoke of unease, and not a little apprehension.

  There were no opening formalities.

  “I can see from your face that they haven’t come back,” she said, regal displeasure barely in check.

  “No, Your Majesty.” He failed to meet her eyes. “Perhaps they ran into greater opposition than expected.”

  “Reports from the battle don’t indicate that.”

  He made no reply.

  “What do you propose doing about it?”

  “A detachment will be sent with all speed to find out what’s happened to them, my lady.”

  “Are we dealing with treachery here?”

  The General was offended. “We’ve never had reason to doubt the loyalty of any of the Wolverines,” he replied gravely. “Their service records are excellent, and —”

  “I know that. Do you think I’d send them on so sensitive a mission if it were otherwise? Do you take me for such a fool?”

  Kysthan’s gaze fell to his feet. “No, my lady.”

  “ ‘No, my lady,’ ” she mimicked sarcastically. After a tense pause she added, “Tell me about their leader, this Stryke.”

  He produced several sheets of parchment from inside his jerkin. She noticed that his hands were trembling slightly.

  “I had few dealings with him personally, Your Majesty. But I know he’s from a good clan. Been in military service since hatching, of course. And he’s bright.”

  “For an orc.”

  “As you say,” Kysthan muttered. He cleared his throat, awkwardly, and consulted the papers. “It seems that he decided early on to increase his chances of promotion by applying total dedication to every duty given to him. His superior officers report that he always obeyed orders instantly and took beatings without complaint.”

  “Intelligent and ambitious.”

  “Yes, my lady.” The General shuffled his notes, a task soldier’s hands were too gauche to achieve with grace. “In fact, it was during his very first detail that —”

  “What was it?”

  “Hmm?”

  “His first detail. What was it?”

  “He was assigned as a menial to the dragonmasters, working in the pens.” Kysthan scrutinised the parchment. “Shovelling dragon dung.”

  A small gesture of her hand indicated he should continue.

  “While on that detail he caught the eye of an officer who recommended his promotion from drone to footsoldier. He did well and was made a corporal, then sergeant. He was raised to his present rank shortly after. All within four seasons.”

  “Impressive.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Of course, up to then he’d served exclusively in the Expeditionary Force of the United Orc Clans —”

  “Although in truth it does not represent all orc clans and is frequently far from united.” She smiled at him with all the warmth of a Scilantium pit spider. “Is that not so, General?”

  “It is so, my lady.”

  She relished his hum
iliation.

  “As you know,” he went on, “the Orc Supreme Council of War, short of coin to feed and supply the troops, was forced into certain economies. One of those economies involved several thousand warriors being . . .”

  “The word is sold, General. To me. You were part of the purchase, as I recall.”

  “Yes, Majesty, as was Stryke. We both came into your gracious service at that time.”

  “Don’t ooze. I despise crawlers.”

  He blushed, a light cerulean tint colouring his cheeks.

  “How long before the detachment you’ll send reports back?” she asked.

  “About five days, assuming they don’t run into problems.”

  “Then they must be careful not to. Very well. I expect this . . . shit shoveller to be brought here in five days at most. But be clear, General; what he holds is mine, and I will have it. I want the cylinder above all else. Bringing back the Wolverines for punishment is secondary. Everything is secondary to the cylinder. Including the lives of Stryke and his band.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “The lives of those sent after them are also expendable.”

  He hesitated before replying, “I understand, my lady.”

  “Be sure you do.” She made a series of swift, mysterious movements with her hands. “And lest you forget . . .”

  The General looked down. His uniform was smouldering. It caught fire. The blaze enveloped his jerkin, and instantly spread to his arms and legs. Intolerable heat scorched his limbs. Smoke billowed.

  Nostrils smarting from the odour of singeing, he beat at the flames. His palms stung and blistered. Fire leapt to his shoulders, neck, face. It completely engulfed him. His flesh blackened. Excruciating agony seared his body.

  He cried out.

  Jennesta’s hands moved again, in a perfunctory, almost dismissive motion.

  There was no fire. His clothes were not charred. The smell of burning had vanished, and there were no blisters on his hands. He felt no pain.

  Dumbly, he stared at her.

  “If you or your subordinates fail me,” she stated evenly, “that’s just a taste of what you’ll get.”

  Embarrassment, shame, and above all fear were stamped on his features. “Yes, Majesty,” he whispered.

  His reaction was gratifying. She enjoyed making a grown orc quake.

  “You have your orders,” she told him.

  He bowed stiffly and turned to the door.

  Once the General had left, Jennesta sighed. Making for a couch, she sank into its plump cushions. She was drained. With the natural energy sources so depleted, even casting a simple glamour took considerable effort. Though it was worth it to keep her underlings in line. But now she would have to replenish her powers. The other way.

  She remembered the elf servant.

  And decided that might be an agreeable way of doing it.

  In the corridor outside, Kysthan’s upright demeanour deserted him. His nerve was near doing the same. He slumped against a wall, eyes closed, slowly expelling the breath he’d been holding.

  It wouldn’t do for him to be seen this way. He fought to pull himself together.

  After a moment he straightened his shoulders and ran the back of his hand across his sweat-sheened brow. Then with measured deliberateness he resumed his short journey.

  The curving passageway took him to an adjacent anteroom. A young officer snapped to attention when he entered.

  “As you were, Captain,” the General told him.

  The officer relaxed, marginally.

  “You’re to leave immediately,” Kysthan said.

  “How long do we have, sir?”

  “Five days, maximum.”

  “That’s tight, General.”

  “It’s as long as she’ll allow. And let me make myself plain, Delorran. You’re to bring back that artifact. If you can return with the Wolverines too, that’s fine. But should they prove . . . uncooperative, she’ll settle for their heads. Given your past history with Stryke, I imagine you have no problem with that.”

  “None, sir. But . . .”

  “But what? You’ll outnumber them at least three to one. That seems like good odds to me. Or have I got the wrong orc for the job?”

  “No, sir,” Delorran quickly responded. “It’s just that the Wolverines’ kill tally is one of the highest of any of the warbands in the horde.”

  “I know that, Captain. It’s why I’ve assigned the best troopers we have to this mission.”

  “I’m not saying it’s going to be impossible, sir. Just difficult.”

  “Nobody promised you an easy ride.” He stared hard at the officer’s earnest face, and added, “Her Majesty’s position is that, as with the Wolverines, the loss rate of the troopers under your command is . . . without limit.”

  “Sir?”

  “Do I have to spell it out? You will spend as many lives on this mission as may be necessary.”

  “I see.” His tone was doubtful, troubled.

  “Look at it this way, Delorran. If you return without her prize, she’ll have you all put to death anyway. Horribly, knowing her. Weigh that against losing only some of your troop, and your certain promotion. Not to mention evening the score in the grievance you have with Stryke. Of course, if you’d prefer me to find someone else —”

  “No, General. That won’t be necessary.”

  “Anyway, such talk could be pointless. Your quarry may already be dead.”

  “The Wolverines? I doubt it, sir. I’d say they weren’t that easy to kill.”

  “Then why no word from them? If they’re not dead it’s just as unlikely they’ve been captured. They might have fallen prey to one of the afflictions the humans spread, of course, but I think them too careful for that. Which only leaves betrayal. And there were no grounds to believe any of them might turn out traitors.”

  “I’m not so sure. Not all orcs are happy with our present situation, as you know, sir.”

  “Do you have reason to believe Stryke and his band harboured such thoughts?”

  “I claim no knowledge of their thoughts, sir.”

  “Then keep your fancies to yourself, that kind of talk is dangerous. Think only of the cylinder. It has the highest priority. I’m relying on you, Delorran. If you fail, we both suffer Jennesta’s wrath.”

  The Captain nodded grimly. “Stryke’s death will prevent that fate. I won’t let you down, sir.”

  They were ready to move. The only disagreement was where.

  “I say we get ourselves back to Cairnbarrow and confess all to Jennesta,” argued Haskeer. A handful of his supporters in the assembled warband murmured approval. “We have pellucid, and that should stand for something. Let’s go back and throw ourselves on her mercy.”

  “We’d be in for a hard landing, comrade,” Alfray said. “And the crystal wasn’t what she sent us for.”

  “Alfray’s right,” Stryke agreed. “The only chance we have is to regain that cylinder.”

  “If we are going to look for it, why don’t we send one or two of the band to Jennesta to explain what the rest of us are doing?” Alfray suggested.

  Stryke shook his head. “To their deaths? No. All of us and the cylinder, or not at all.”

  “But where do we look?” Coilla wanted to know.

  “It has to be the kobolds’ homeland,” Jup said.

  “All the way to Black Rock?” Haskeer scoffed. “That’s long odds, shortshanks.”

  “Can you think of a better idea?”

  Haskeer’s resentful silence indicated he couldn’t.

  “They could have gone anywhere,” Coilla told the dwarf.

  “True. But we don’t know where anywhere is. Black Rock we know how to get to.”

  Stryke smiled thinly. “Jup’s got a point. We might spend our lives combing this countryside for those bastards. Black Rock makes more sense, and if the group that robbed us aren’t there now, they might turn up.”

  Haskeer spat. “Might.”

  “You wa
nt to head back to Cairnbarrow, Sergeant, go ahead.” Stryke scanned the Wolverines’ faces. “That goes for anybody here. You can tell Jennesta where we’ve gone before she skins you.”

  Nobody took him up on the offer.

  “It’s settled, then; Black Rock. What do you think, Alfray, a week?”

  “About that. Maybe more ’cause of the horses we lost. Five or six of us are going to have to double up. And don’t forget Meklun. It was bad luck not finding a wagon at Homefield. Dragging him’s going to slow us.”

  Heads turned to the wounded trooper, strapped to his make-shift litter. His face was deathly pale.

  “We’ll look for more horses on the way,” Stryke said, “maybe a wagon.”

  “We could always leave him,” Haskeer put in.

  “I’ll remember that if you ever catch a bad wound yourself.”

  Haskeer frowned and shut up.

  “What about splitting into two groups?” proposed Coilla. “One of the fit, going ahead to Black Rock; the other Meklun, the walking wounded and some able bodies, following on.”

  “No. Too easy pickings for more ambushes. I’ve lost the cylinder, I don’t want to lose half the band as well. We stick together. Now let’s get out of here.”

  Some of the Wolverines’ less essential kit had to be discarded, and the pellucid redistributed, to make up for the shortage of horses. There were a few petty squabbles over who had to share mounts, but several well-aimed kicks from the officers restored order. Iron rations and water were shared out. Meklun’s litter was harnessed.

  It was late afternoon before they set off on a southerly bearing. This time Stryke didn’t neglect to send scouts ahead of the main party.

  He rode at the head of the column, Coilla beside him.

  “What do we do when we get to Black Rock?” she said. “Would you have us take on the whole kobold nation?”

  “The gods alone know, Coilla. I’m making this up as I go along, if you hadn’t noticed.” He glanced behind him and added in a conspiratorial tone, “But don’t tell them that.”

  “This is all we can do, isn’t it, Stryke? Make for Black Rock, I mean.”

  “Only thing I could think of. Because the way I see it, if we can’t get the cylinder back, at least we can have the glory of dying while we try.”