Orcs

by Stan Nicholls

  “Am I intruding?”

  Stryke turned. “No, Jup. I was just trying to make sense of what we heard. Starting with why we should believe this Serapheim.”

  “Because there’s a certain kind of logic to it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Because we’re desperate?”

  “That’s more like it.”

  “Let’s think this through, chief. If this human’s speaking true, we assume the bounty hunters have Coilla because of the price on her head, yes?”

  “If not, wouldn’t they have killed her already?”

  “That’s what I figured. But why take her to Hecklowe?”

  Stryke shrugged. “Could be one of the places where the bounty’s doled out. Let’s work on believing him. That leaves us with a decision. Should we go after Coilla or keep the rendezvous with the rest of the band first?”

  “We’re nearer Hecklowe than Drogan.”

  “True. But if Coilla has a value she’s unlikely to be harmed.”

  “You’re not taking her nature into account. She’ll be no passive hostage.”

  “Let’s trust to her good sense. In which case things are going to be hard for her but not life-threatening.”

  “So that’s an argument for meeting with Alfray first and going into Hecklowe with the whole band.”

  “Yeah, better odds. The downside is that delay might mean Coilla being sent back to Jennesta. Then we really would have lost her.”

  They glanced in the direction of the stranger. He was still by the fire. The grunts by him seemed a little more relaxed, and several were engaged in conversations.

  “On the other hand,” Jup went on, “there is an agreed time for rendezvousing with Alfray. Suppose he thinks the worst’s happened to us and goes into Drogan to tangle with the centaurs?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past him.” Stryke sighed. “It’s on a blade’s edge, Jup, and we need to be absolutely sure that —”

  A chorus of shouts interrupted. Stryke and Jup spun around.

  The stranger had gone. So had his horse. They ran to the fire.

  Grunts were stumbling and yelling in the swirling whiteness.

  Stryke collared Gant. “What the hell happened, trooper?”

  “The human, Captain, he just . . . went.”

  “Went? What do you mean, went?”

  Talag intervened. “That’s right, sir. I took my eyes off him for a second and he was gone.”

  “Who saw him go?” Stryke shouted.

  None of the grunts owned to it.

  “This is crazy,” Jup said, squinting into the snow. “He couldn’t have just disappeared.”

  Sword in hand, Stryke stared too, and wondered.

  13

  Voices and laughter were all around him.

  He was walking in a crowd of orcs. Orcs of both sexes and all ages. Orcs he had never seen before.

  They sported tiny adornments of dress that told him they were from many different clans. Yet there was no obvious animosity. They seemed happy and he didn’t feel in any way threatened. In fact there was an air of anticipation, a holiday mood.

  He was on the sandy beach. The sun was at its highest point and beating down intensely. Shrieking white birds circled far overhead. The crowd was heading for the ocean.

  Then he saw that a ship was anchored a little way offshore. It had three sails, now resting, and from the foremost mast a flag flew, decorated with a red emblem he didn’t recognise. The carved effigy of a female orc, resplendent with raised sword, stood out from the prow. Battle shields lined the ship’s side, each bearing a different design. It was the biggest vessel Stryke had ever seen, and certainly the most magnificent.

  The leaders of the crowd were already wading out to it. They didn’t need to swim, so the ship was either flat-bottomed or stood in a deeper strait edging the beach. He was taken along by the flow of orcs. None of them spoke to him, but in a strange way that made him feel accepted.

  Over the hubbub he heard his name, or at least he thought he did. He looked around, taking in the torrent of faces. Then he saw her, moving against the crowd, coming his way.

  “There you are!” she greeted him.

  Despite his confusion, despite not knowing where he was or what was going on, he smiled.

  She returned the smile and said, “I knew you’d come.”

  “You did?”

  “Well, hoped,” she confessed. Her eyes sparkled.

  Emotions welled up in him that he didn’t understand, and certainly couldn’t articulate. So he didn’t try. He simply smiled again.

  “Are you here to help?” she asked.

  His reply was a baffled look.

  She adopted the expression of good-natured pique that he was growing used to. “Come on,” she said.

  Stryke went with her to the ocean. They walked into the mild, chalky-flecked waves lapping the beach and waded, thigh-deep, to the ship. Orcs were using ropes and ladders to reach the deck. He watched admiringly as the female, moving with athletic suppleness, joined the climbers and scaled the side. Then he hauled himself aboard the gently swaying vessel.

  A hold was open mid-deck. Crates, barrels and chests were being passed up. The orcs began carrying them to the rail and over the side, where another chain was forming back to the beach. Stryke and the female took places in the line, passing along the cargo. He admired the rippling of her arm and leg muscles as she hefted boxes and swung them to him.

  “What are these things?” he asked.

  She laughed. “How do you make your way in the world knowing so little?”

  He shrugged, abashed.

  “Do they not import needed things where you come from?” she said.

  “Orcs don’t.”

  “Oh, yes; you say your land is home to more than orcs. Those dwarves and gremlins and . . . what was it? Humans.”

  His face darkened. “Humans are not of my land. Though they would make it so.”

  She handed him another piece of cargo. “My point is that even where you come from, needful things must be brought in.”

  “Where do these things come from?”

  “From other orcs in other places that have things we don’t.”

  “I haven’t heard of other such places.”

  “You gall me.” Smiling, she waved a hand at the ocean. “I mean those lands across the ocean.”

  “I didn’t know there was anything across the ocean. Isn’t the water all there is?”

  “Obviously not. Where do you think all this came from?”

  Suitably chided, he caught the next box she sent his way. Thrown with a little more force than before, he thought. He tossed it to the next orc in line, turned back to her and said, “These are riches, then?”

  “You could say that.” She moved out of the line, taking the crate she had with her. “I’ll show you.” He stepped aside too. The line closed up; there were more than enough orcs to help.

  She put the crate on the deck. He knelt beside her. Producing a knife from her belt sheath, she used it to lever open the box. It was full of a reddish, powdery material that looked like dried leaves. He obviously didn’t know what it was.

  “Turm,” she explained. “A spice. It makes food better.”

  “This has value?”

  “If we want our food to taste good, yes! That’s its value. Not all riches come as coins or gems. Your sword, for example.”

  “My sword?” His hand went to it. “It’s a good blade, but nothing special.”

  “In itself, perhaps not. But in skilful hands, in the hands of a warrior born, it becomes so much more.”

  “I see. I really do see.”

  “And so it is with orcs. With all living things.”

  His craggy face creased. “Now I’m not so —”

  “They’re like blades. As sharp or as dull.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh.

  “Yet all have value,” she emphasised.

  “Even my enemies?”

  “It is right tha
t orcs have enemies. Even if they change, and today’s enemy becomes tomorrow’s friend.”

  “That’s not my situation,” he replied coolly. “It won’t happen.”

  “Whether it comes to pass or not, even mortal enemies have their value.”

  “How can they?”

  “Because it’s possible to respect, which is to say value, their fighting skills, their determination. Their courage, if they have it. Not least, they’re precious in just being there for an orc to face. We need a foe. It’s what we do. It’s in our blood.”

  “I’d never thought of it that way.”

  “But although we fight that doesn’t necessarily mean we have to hate.”

  Stryke couldn’t entirely accept that. Though it did set him thinking.

  “But what we must value most of all,” she added, “are those closest to us.”

  “You make things seem so . . . straightforward.”

  “That’s because they are, my friend.”

  “Here, perhaps. Where I come from, all hands are against us and there is much to be overcome.”

  Her expression grew sombre. “Then be a blade, Stryke. Be a blade.”

  He woke with a racing pulse. His breathing was so rapid he almost panted.

  Light, fetid rain was falling from a dismal sky, and most of the snow had been washed away. It was miserable and cold. The couple of hours’ sleep hadn’t refreshed him at all. There was a bad taste in his parched mouth and his head pounded.

  He lay there, letting the rain bathe his face, and dwelt on what, for want of a better word, he termed the dream. Dreams, visions, messages from the gods; whatever they were, they had grown more vivid, more intense. The smell of ozone, the motes in his eyes from the glaring sun, the warm breeze that caressed his skin: all were slow to fade.

  Again the thought that he was being betrayed by his own mind and going insane clutched his heart like an icy claw. Yet another, contrary notion ran almost as strongly: the feeling that he’d come to expect the dreams, even welcome them.

  That was something he didn’t want to pursue, not now.

  He sat up and looked around. All the others were awake and going about their chores. The horses were being tended, bedrolls shaken out, weapons sharpened.

  The events of the night came back to him. Not those of his dream but what had occurred before that. They had kept their eyes peeled for the mysterious human for a long time, and even ventured out into the snow in small parties to search for him. There had been no sign and eventually they gave up. At some point Stryke must have drifted into sleep, although he couldn’t remember doing it.

  Serapheim, if that was the stranger’s real name, was another mystery to add to the list. But it wasn’t one Stryke was going to waste time pondering, mostly because he didn’t want to consider the distinct possibility that the man was crazy. That would throw into doubt the only clue they had to Coilla’s whereabouts. And at a time like this they needed something hopeful. Badly.

  Stryke pushed all that from his mind. He had something more important to occupy his thoughts.

  Jup stood by the horses, talking with a couple of the grunts. He strode over to them.

  Without preamble he told the dwarf, “I’ve decided.”

  “We’re going for Coilla, right?”

  “Right.”

  “It must have occurred to you that this Serapheim character was lying. Or just plain mad.”

  “I’ve given some thought to both. If he was lying, why?”

  “As bait for a trap?”

  “Too fancy a way of doing it.”

  “Not if it works.”

  “Perhaps. I still don’t think it’s likely, though.”

  “What about him being insane?”

  “I grant that’s more possible. Maybe he is. But . . . I don’t know, I just didn’t feel that. Course, human madness isn’t something I’ve had too much experience with.”

  “Really? Take a look around some time.”

  Stryke smiled, thinly. “You know what I mean. But what Serapheim said is the only clue we’ve had about Coilla.” He saw Jup’s face and qualified that. “All right, possible clue. I reckon Hecklowe’s worth a try.”

  “What about that delaying us meeting up with Alfray?”

  “We’ll have to let him know.”

  “And what’s your decision on him?” Jup nodded toward Haskeer, sitting to one side by himself.

  “He’s still part of this band. Only he’s on probation. Object?”

  “No. Just a little wary, that’s all.”

  “Don’t think I’m not. But we’ll keep an eye on him.”

  “We’ve got time for that?”

  “Believe me, Jup, if he causes any more trouble he’s out. Or dead.”

  The dwarf didn’t doubt his captain meant it. “We should tell him what’s happening. He’s an officer, after all. Isn’t he?”

  “For now. I hadn’t planned on breaking him unless he gets out of hand again. Come on.”

  They walked over to Haskeer. He looked up at them and nodded.

  “How’re you feeling?” Stryke asked.

  “Better.” His tone and general demeanour indicated there was some truth in that. “I just want the chance to prove I’m still worthy of being a Wolverine.”

  “That’s what I wanted to hear, Sergeant. But after what you did I’m going to have to put you on probation for a while.”

  “But I don’t know what I did!” Haskeer protested. “That is, I know what you told me but I don’t remember doing any of it.”

  “That’s why we’re going to keep an eye on you until we find out what caused it, or until your behaviour’s good enough for long enough.”

  Jup put it less diplomatically. “We don’t want you going gaga on us again.”

  Haskeer flared, “Why don’t you —,” then checked himself.

  Stryke reflected that this might be a good sign, a flash of the old Haskeer. “The point is that we don’t need passengers and we certainly don’t need a liability,” he said. “Got it?”

  “Got it,” Haskeer confirmed, more subdued again.

  “See that you have. Now listen. That human who came here last night, Serapheim, said that Coilla was being taken to Hecklowe. We’re going there. What I want from you is to obey orders and act like a member of this band again.”

  “Right. Let’s get on with it.”

  Reasonably satisfied, Stryke gathered the others and explained the new plan. He gave them an opportunity to comment or protest. That drew a minor question or two, but nothing significant. He got the impression they were relieved to be doing something positive at last.

  He finished by saying, “I need two volunteers to take the message to Alfray. But be warned; it could be a dangerous mission.”

  Every grunt stepped forward. He picked Jad and Hystykk, mindful that he was about to deplete numbers even more perilously.

  “The message is simple,” he told them. “Let Alfray know where we’ve gone, and that we’ll get to Drogan as soon as we can.” He thought for a moment and added a rider: “If from the time this message is delivered a week passes without sight of us, assume we’re not coming. In which case Alfray and his band are free to act as they think best.”

  He broke the sober mood that brought down by ordering them all to get ready to move.

  As they hastened to obey, he reached into his belt pouch and brought out the three stars. He examined them thoughtfully, then looked up and saw Haskeer staring at him.

  “That means you too, Wolverine,” he said.

  Haskeer waved and jogged toward his horse. Stryke slipped the stars back into the pouch and climbed on to his own mount.

  Then they were on the move again.

  They called Hecklowe the city that never slept.

  Certainly the normal rhythms of day and night meant little there, but it was not quite a city. Not in the way of great northern settlements like Urrarbython or Wreaye. Or even the human centres of the south like Bracebridge or Ripple, wh
ich were still growing at an alarming rate. But it was big enough to accommodate a constantly shifting population made up of all Maras-Dantia’s elder races.

  Some lived there permanently. They were mostly purveyors of vice, excess and usury. Not least among these were slavers and their agents, who found it convenient to be located in a place where a river of life constantly flowed. Although unrest was forbidden, all other kinds of crime had become common in Hecklowe. Many held this was another baleful effect of the incomers’ influence, and there was truth in it.

  These thoughts passed through Coilla’s mind as the trio of bounty hunters hustled her out of the inn at dawn. They found the streets as crowded as they had been when they arrived the evening before.

  After Lekmann warned her, again, about not trying to escape, Aulay had a question for him.

  “You sure we’re going to get more for her from a slaver than Jennesta?”

  “Like I said, they pay good for orcs as bodyguards and such.”

  “Crossing Jennesta’s not a good plan,” Coilla put in.

  “You shut up and leave the thinking to your betters.”

  Coilla glanced at Blaan, vacant-eyed and slack-jawed. She looked at Aulay, with his patched eye, bandaged ear and splinted finger. “Yeah,” she said.

  “Suppose she’s lying about the Wolverines being here,” Aulay said.

  “Will you give that a rest?” Lekmann retorted. “This is the logical place for them to be. If they’re not, we’ll still make a profit selling this bitch, then we can carry on searching somewhere else.”

  “Where, Micah?” Blaan asked.

  “Don’t you start, Jabeez!” Lekmann snapped. “I’ll figure something out if it comes to that.”

  They fell silent as a pair of Watchers lumbered by.

  “Let’s get on with it, Micah,” Aulay pleaded impatiently.

  “Right. Like we agreed, you’re going to search for orcs. They’re trying to sell something, remember. So look in the bazaar, the gem traders’ quarter, the information barterers’ neighbourhood— anywhere they might find a buyer.”

  Aulay nodded.

  “Meanwhile, me and Jabeez are going to look for a new owner for her,” Lekmann went on, jabbing a thumb at Coilla. “We’ll see you back here no later than noon.”

  “Where you going?”