Orcs

by Stan Nicholls

  As they left, the orcs passed another attendant coming in. Momentarily wide-eyed at the sight of their blood-soaked bundle, the elf hastily adopted a bland, impassive expression.

  The menial was new, and Jennesta found it as hard to guess its sex as she had its recent predecessor. Although she’d found out in the end, of course. She made a mental note, again, to slow down the rate at which she was getting through the servants. None of them was around long enough to learn the job.

  Curtly instructed, the elf assisted the Queen in dressing. Jennesta chose black, as was her custom for excursions outside the castle; skin-tight leather top and riding breeches, the latter tucked into thigh-high, tall-heeled boots of the same material. Over this she donned an ankle-length sable cloak, fashioned from the pelts of forest bears. Her hair was pinned up under a matching fur cap.

  She discharged the servant brusquely. The elf retreated, bowing low and ignored.

  Jennesta went to a table by the altar and inspected a collection of coiled whips. She selected one of her favourites to complete her ensemble. Slipping a slender hand through its wrist thong, she walked to the door, pausing for a second to check herself in an adjacent mirror.

  The orc bodyguards outside snapped to attention as she exited, then made to accompany her. She dismissed them with a careless wave and they resumed their positions. Following the corridor, she came to a staircase, lit by burning torches in iron brackets every ten or twelve steps. As she climbed, she lifted the hem of her cloak, almost daintily, to stop the trim getting dirty.

  She reached a door. An orc sentry opened it for her. Jennesta stepped out into a large courtyard surrounded by high walls, the castle towers looming far above. It was dusk and the air was frigid.

  A dragon was tethered in the centre of the quadrant, one foreleg ringed by an iron fetter the size of a barrel. An equally colossal chain ran from the shackle and encircled the stump of a mature oak.

  The dragon’s snout was buried in a small mountain of fodder that blended hay, brimstone, the carcasses of several whole sheep and other, less identifiable titbits. Ample quantities of steaming droppings, containing white slithers of bone and shiny clinker, had already been deposited at the beast’s rear end.

  Jennesta pressed a delicate lace handkerchief to her nose.

  The dragon’s handler walked towards her. She was dressed in tan-coloured garb of various shades. Her jerkin and trews were chestnut and soft as chamois, her sturdy knee boots mahogany-hued brushed suede. The only variations were a white and grey feather in her narrow-brimmed hat, and discreet cords of gold about her neck and wrists. Unusually tall even by the standards of her rangy species, she wore a proud, near-haughty expression.

  The Dragon Dam’s race always intrigued Jennesta. She had never had a brownie. But she harboured a small, grudging respect for them, too. Or at least as much as she was capable of feeling for any other than herself. Perhaps because, like her, brownies were hybrids, the offspring of unions between elves and goblins.

  “Glozellan,” Jennesta said.

  “Majesty.” The Mistress of Dragons gave a minimal bow of her head.

  “You’ve had your briefing?”

  “Yes.”

  “And my orders are understood?”

  “You wish dragon patrols sent out to search for a warband.” Her voice was high-pitched, reedy.

  “The Wolverines, yes. I sent for you in person to emphasise how vital your mission is.”

  Should Glozellan have thought it strange that the Queen wanted her own followers hunted down, she didn’t betray the fact. “What would you have us do if we find them, my lady?”

  Jennesta didn’t like the if, but let it pass. “That’s where you and your fellow handlers must take the initiative.” She selected her words with care. “In the case of sighting the band in a place where they can be captured, our land forces are to be alerted. But if there’s the slightest possibility of the Wolverines escaping, they are to be destroyed.”

  Glozellan’s pencil-thin eyebrows rose. She knew better than to comment more explicitly, let alone protest.

  “If you have to kill them you’ll send word immediately,” Jennesta continued, “and guard their remains, with your lives if necessary, until reinforcements arrive.” She was confident that the cylinder was capable of withstanding the heat of a dragon’s breath. Fairly confident, anyway. There was an element of unavoidable risk.

  The dragon chewed noisily on the spine of a sheep.

  After mulling over what had been said for a moment, Glozellan replied, “We’d be looking for a small group. We don’t know exactly where they are. It won’t be easy, unless we fly low. That leaves us vulnerable.”

  Jennesta’s composure was strained. “Why does everyone bring me problems?” she snapped. “I want solutions! Do as I say!”

  “Your Majesty.”

  “Well, don’t just stand there! Get on with it!”

  The Dragon Dam nodded, turned and loped to her mount. Having clambered up the rigging to the saddle, she signalled an orc guard waiting by a far wall. He approached bearing a mallet. Several heavy blows to the shackle clasps released the chain. The guard retired to a safe distance.

  Glozellan stretched forward, a lean hand on either side of the dragon’s neck. It twisted its head, bringing a cavernous ear to her face. She whispered into it. Sinewy wings spread and billowed with a leathery crackling sound. The dragon let out a thunderous roar.

  Gigantic muscles in its legs and flanks stood out like smooth scaly boulders. The wings flapped, sluggishly at first, then with gathering speed, displacing great gusts of air that lashed the courtyard with the strength of a minor storm.

  Jennesta held on to her cap, and her cloak swirled as the dragon rose. The feat seemed impossible for such a behemoth, but the miracle was achieved, marrying the absurdly cumbersome with the surprisingly graceful.

  For a few seconds the creature hung motionless, save for the laboured strokes of its mighty wings, about halfway up the side of the castle’s edifice. The newly visible moon and stars were part obscured by its bulky, ragged-edged silhouette. Then the shape continued its ascent, took a heading towards Taklakameer and soared away.

  The door Jennesta had passed through opened. General Kysthan emerged, escorted by a small contingent of her personal guard. He looked pale.

  “You have word of our quarry?” she asked.

  “Yes and . . . no, Majesty.”

  “I’m in no mood for riddles, General. Just tell me straight.” She patted the side of her leg impatiently with the coiled whip.

  “I’ve had a message from Captain Delorran.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

  The General fished a square of folded parchment from his tunic pocket. Despite the cold, he was sweating. “What Delorran has to say may not immediately seem like news Your Majesty would wish to hear.”

  With a deft flick of her hand, Jennesta unwound the whip.

  The night was moonlit and starry. A gentle breeze pleasantly tempered its warmth.

  He stood at the door of a grand lodge. There were sounds inside.

  Stryke looked around. Nothing troubled the genial countryside and it did not feel threatening. In itself that was almost beyond his comprehension. The normality seemed disturbing.

  Hesitantly, he reached out to try the door.

  Before he could, it opened.

  Light and noise blasted him. A figure was outlined by brightness. He couldn’t see its features, only an inky contour. It came toward him. His hand went to his sword.

  The shape became the female orc he had met before. Or imagined. Or dreamt. She was just as handsome, just as proud, and her eyes held the same tender steel.

  Stryke was taken aback. She was, too, but less so.

  “You’ve returned,” she said.

  He stammered some banal reply.

  She smiled. “Come, the festivities are well under way.”

  He let her usher him into the great hall.

  It was crowde
d with orcs, and only orcs. Orcs feasting at long tables laden with food and drink. Orcs engrossed in good-natured conversation. Orcs laughing, singing, enjoying raucous horseplay and rough games.

  Females made their way through the company bearing tankards of ale and horns of ruby wine, baskets of fruit and platters of tender meats. A fire burned in the middle of the floor on slate blocks, with joints of game and hunks of fowl roasting over it on spits. Smoke suffused with dancing sparks drifted up to a hole in the roof. Perfumed woods released their aromas to mingle with the myriad other smells scenting the air. Among them, Stryke thought he detected the sweetly pungent odour of crystal.

  At one end of the hall, adult males lounged on skins of fur, drinking and roaring at ribald jokes. At the other, boisterous adolescents engaged in sham combat with wooden swords and muffle-ended staves. Drummers beat jaunty rhythms. Squealing youngsters chased each other through the throng.

  Many revellers greeted Stryke warm-heartedly, despite him being a stranger.

  “Are you celebrating?” She snatched a flagon from a tray held high by a passing server, and drank from it. Then she passed it to him.

  Stryke took a deep draught. It was mulled ale, flavoured with honey and spices, and it tasted wonderful. He drained the cup.

  The female moved closer to him. “Where have you been?” she asked.

  “That’s not an easy question.” He put his flagon down on a table. “I don’t know if I’m sure of the answer myself.”

  “Again you shroud yourself in mystery.”

  “I see you as a mystery, and this place.”

  “There’s nothing mysterious about me, or this place.”

  “I know it not.”

  She shook her head in good-natured pique. “But you’re here.”

  “That means nothing to me. Where is here?”

  “I see you’re no less eccentric than when we first met. Come with me.”

  She led him across the hall to another, smaller door. It opened to the back of the lodge. The cooler air outside had a sobering effect, and closing the door deadened most of the clamour.

  “See?” She indicated the calm night-time landscape. “All is as you’d expect.”

  “As I would have expected once, perhaps,” he replied. “Long ago. But now . . .”

  “You’re talking giddiness again,” she cautioned.

  “What I mean is, is it like this . . . everywhere?”

  “Of course it is!” A second passed as she made a decision. “I’ll show you.”

  They walked to the end of the lodge. When they turned its corner they came to a stand of horses. Most were war chargers, magnificent, immaculately groomed animals with elaborate, gleaming tackle. The female selected two of the finest, a pure white and a pure black stallion.

  She told him to mount. He hesitated. She climbed onto the white, her movements fluid, dextrous, as though she were born to the saddle. He took the black.

  They rode off. At first she led, then he caught up and they galloped through the velvety countryside together.

  Silver moonlight dusted the boughs of trees and painted the meadows with spurious frost. It bathed the upper slopes of rolling hills, as though snow had fallen, despite the temperate climate.

  Burnished rivers and shimmering lakes were fleetingly sighted. Flocks of birds took wing at the approach of pounding hooves. Swarming insects lit the heart of brooding forests with their mottled fireglow. All was fresh, vibrant, teeming.

  Above hung a glorious array of stars, crystalline in the virgin night sky.

  “Don’t you see?” she called. “Don’t you see that all is as it should be?”

  He was too intoxicated by the undefiled air, by the sense of innate rightness, to reply.

  “Come on!” she cried, and urged her horse to greater effort.

  Her mount surged ahead of him. He spurred his own ride to match the pace.

  They raced, exhilarated, the wind buffeting their faces. She laughed at the sheer joy of it, and so did he. It was a long time since he had felt quite so alive.

  “Your land is wondrous!” he shouted.

  “Our land!” she returned.

  He looked to the way ahead.

  The way ahead was barren.

  It was cold. The trail was rocky. Nothing stirred. The moon and stars were visible, but dingy in the clouded sky. Stryke was riding alone at the head of the column.

  The chill hand of fear caressed his spine.

  What in the name of the gods is happening to me? he thought. Am I going insane?

  He tried to be rational. He was exhausted and under pressure. They all were. All that had happened was that he’d fallen asleep in the saddle. Fatigue had conjured the pictures in his mind. They were vivid and realistic, but only pictures. Like a story the wordsmiths told around winter fires.

  It would be comforting if he believed that.

  He unclipped his canteen and took a gulp of water. As he replaced the stopper, he caught a familiar bouquet on the breeze. A whiff of pellucid. He shook his head, half convinced the smell had carried over as a sort of olfactory memory from his dream. Then it came again. He looked around.

  Coilla and Alfray were riding behind him. Their faces were tired and passive. His gaze travelled beyond them, down the lines of sleepy grunts. He saw Jup, slumped with weariness. A place or two further back, near the column’s end and riding alone, was Haskeer. He seemed furtive, turning his head in an obvious attempt to avoid scrutiny.

  Stryke swung his horse out. “Take the lead!” he barked at Alfray and Coilla.

  They reacted and at least one said something. He didn’t hear it, and ignored them anyway. His attention was focused on Haskeer. He galloped his way.

  When he reached him, the rich odour of burning crystal was unmistakable, and the sergeant was making a ham-fisted job of trying to conceal something.

  “Give it up,” Stryke said, icy menace in his voice.

  With lazy insolence, Haskeer opened his hand to reveal the tiny clay pipe he’d been hiding. Stryke snatched it.

  “You took this without permission,” he growled.

  “You didn’t say we couldn’t.”

  “I didn’t say you could either. You’re on your last warning, Haskeer. And think on this.” Lightning fast, Stryke leaned in and swung his fist at the sergeant’s head. It landed on his temple with a meaty smack. The blow knocked Haskeer clean off his horse. He hit the ground heavily.

  The column stopped. Everybody was watching.

  Haskeer groaned and got unsteadily to his feet. For a moment it looked as though he might retaliate, but he thought better of it.

  “You’ll walk till you learn some discipline,” Stryke told him, gesturing for a trooper to take the reins of Haskeer’s mount.

  “I haven’t slept,” Haskeer complained.

  “Never leave off bellyaching, do you, Sergeant? None of us have slept, Wolverine, and none of us are going to till I say. Got it?” Stryke turned to the rest of the band. “Anybody else feel like defying me?”

  They let silence answer for them.

  “Nobody touches the crystal until, and if, I say so!” he told them. “I don’t care how much there is, that’s not the point. It might be all we’ve got to bargain for our lives with her. Jennesta. Particularly if we don’t get that fucking cylinder back, which right now looks pretty unlikely. Understood?”

  Another eloquent silence spoke for them.

  Coilla eventually broke it.

  “Looks like we’ll get to find out about the cylinder any time now,” she said, nodding at what was coming into sight as they rounded a bend.

  A vast outcrop of granite sat by the trail, squat and contorted, as though melted by inconceivable heat. It was an unmistakable landmark even to those who had never set eyes on it before. Whether by chance or some design of the gods, the likeness it bore was true enough to have been carved by a titanic sculptor.

  “Demon’s Claw,” Stryke declared, though none of them needed telling. “We’ll b
e in Black Rock in less than an hour.”

  11

  Stryke knew that if the Wolverines were to function properly, if they were to survive, he had to put the disturbing dreams out of his mind. Fortunately, the prospect of a raid into enemy territory was more than enough to keep him occupied.

  He ordered a temporary camp to be struck while they prepared for their assault on Black Rock. Several troopers were sent to rendezvous with the forward scouts spying the land. The rest of the Wolverines set about checking their kit and honing their weapons.

  Stryke decided that no fires were to be lit, in order not to betray their position. On this, Alfray asked him to think again.

  “Why?” Stryke said.

  “We’ve got a problem with Darig. He took a leg wound when we fought the Unis. Fact is, it’s in a worse state than I thought. Gangrenous. I need a fire to heat my blades.”

  “It’s got to come off?”

  Alfray nodded. “He loses the leg or he loses his life.”

  “Shit. Another wounded trooper to move. We don’t need it, Alfray.” He nodded at Meklun. “How’s he?”

  “No improvement, and there are signs of fever now.”

  “At this rate we won’t need to worry about Jennesta. All right, a fire. But small, and covered. Have you told Darig?”

  “He’s guessed, I think, but I’m about to spell it out to him. It’s a damn shame. He’s one of the youngest in the band, Stryke.”

  “I know. Anything you need?”

  “I’ve got herbs that might dull the pain a bit, and a little alcohol. Probably not enough. Can I try some crystal?”

  “Have it. But it won’t block the pain that much, you know.”

  “At least it should take his mind off it. I’ll get to work on an infusion.”

  Alfray went back to his patient.

  Coilla took the field surgeon’s place. “Got a minute?”

  Stryke grunted that he had.

  “You all right?” she said.

  “Why ask?”

  “Because you’ve not been yourself lately. Kind of distant. And then piling into Haskeer back there —”

  “He’s been asking for it.”

  “You can say that again. But it’s you I’m talking about.”