Orcs

by Stan Nicholls

  “To the east side, to look up a name I heard. Now move your arse, we ain’t got time to burn.”

  They went their separate ways.

  “What do you want me to do, Micah?” Blaan asked.

  “Just keep an eye on the orc. If she gets smart, crack her.”

  They made Coilla walk between them, even though that irritated pedestrians in narrower streets. Coilla drew glances from passersby, many of them wary. She was, after all, an orc, and it was well known that orcs were best dealt with respectfully.

  “Question,” she said.

  “Better be worth my breath answering,” Lekmann replied.

  “Who’s this slave buyer we’re going to?”

  “He’s called Razatt-Kheage.”

  “That’s a goblin name.”

  “Yeah, that’s what he is.”

  She sighed. “A damn goblin . . .”

  “Not much love between orcs and goblins, eh?”

  “Not much between orcs and just about anybody, shit face.”

  Blaan sniggered. Lekmann shot him a look that put a stop to it.

  Lekmann transferred his glare to Coilla. “You’ve got any more questions, just fucking forget ’em, all right?”

  They turned a corner. A small crowd had gathered around a pair of fays having a loud argument.

  Fays were said to be the offspring of unions between elves and fairies, and were generally regarded as cousins to those races. They were insubstantially built, with spiky, slightly upturned noses and black button eyes. Their small, delicate mouths had tiny rounded teeth. They weren’t a naturally belligerent race and certainly weren’t designed for combat.

  These two were reeling drunkenly. They shouted at each other and aimed feeble blows. It was unlikely either was going to be hurt unless they fell over.

  The bounty hunters laughed. “Can’t hold their liquor,” Lekmann mocked.

  “It was your kind that brought this sort of behaviour to Maras-Dantia,” Coilla told him with withering scorn. “You’re destroying my world.”

  “Ain’t yours no more, savage. And it’s called Centrasia now.”

  “Like fuck it is.”

  “You should be grateful. We’re bringing you the benefits of civilisation.”

  “Like slavery? That was almost unknown until your race came. Maras-Dantians didn’t own each other.”

  “What about you orcs? You’re born into somebody or other’s service, aren’t you? That’s serfdom, ain’t it? We didn’t start that.”

  “It’s become slavery. You tainted it with your ideas. It used to be a good arrangement; it let orcs do what they were born for. Fighting.”

  “Talking of fighting . . .” He nodded to the other side of the cobbled street. The fays were brawling, sending ineffective punches at each other’s heads.

  Blaan laughed idiotically.

  “See?” Lekmann taunted. “You barbarians don’t need lessons in violence from us. It’s already there, just below the surface.”

  Coilla had never been so in need of a sword.

  One fay produced a hidden knife and began swinging it, though both combatants were obviously far too drunk to offer a really serious threat.

  Then a pair of Watchers suddenly appeared, perhaps the ones they’d seen earlier; it was impossible to tell. Coilla was surprised at how fast they moved. It belied their cumbersome mien. Three or four more homunculi arrived, and all of them converged on the fighting fays. They were so drunk, so busy with each other and so taken by surprise by the Watchers’ speed that they had no time to try running.

  The fragile creatures were overwhelmed and held by powerful arms. They were lifted bodily, their tiny legs kicking in impotent anger. Little effort was required to disarm the one with the knife.

  As the crowd looked on in silence, two Watchers stepped forward and took hold of the squealing fays’ heads in their massive hands. Then, in a matter-of-fact, almost casual manner, the fays’ slender necks were snapped. Even from where they were standing the bounty hunters and Coilla heard the crack of bones.

  The Watchers trudged off, bearing the corpses of their victims like slack rag dolls. Wiser about Hecklowe’s level of tolerance, the crowd began melting away.

  Lekmann gave a low whistle. “They take law ’n’ order serious round here, don’t they?”

  “I don’t like it,” Blaan complained. “I’ve got a hidden weapon too, like that dead fay.”

  “So keep it out of sight, then.”

  Blaan continued grumbling and Lekmann carried on haranguing him. It diverted their attention from Coilla. She seized her chance.

  Lekmann was blocking her path. She rammed her boot into his groin. He groaned loudly and doubled up. Coilla took the first step of a run.

  An arm like an iron barrel band clamped around her neck. Blaan dragged her struggling into the mouth of an adjacent alley. Watery-eyed and white-faced, Lekmann limped in after them.

  “You bitch,” he whispered.

  He looked back towards the street. Nobody seemed to have noticed what was going on. Turning to Coilla he delivered a swingeing whack across her face. Then another.

  The briny taste of blood filled her mouth.

  “Pull something like that again and to hell with the money,” he snarled, “I’ll kill you.”

  When he was satisfied she’d calmed, he told Blaan to let go of her. Coilla dabbed at trickles of blood from her mouth and nose. She said nothing.

  “Now move,” he ordered.

  They resumed their journey, the bounty hunters keeping close to her.

  Nine or ten twists and turns later and they entered the eastern quarter. If anything the streets there were narrower and even more jammed. It was a maze, and difficult for outsiders to navigate.

  As they stood on a corner waiting for Lekmann to get his bearings, Coilla’s eye was caught by a tall figure moving through the crowd two or three blocks away. As on the day before, when she’d thought she’d seen a couple of orcs, it was a fleeting glimpse. But it looked like Serapheim, the human wordsmith they’d encountered on the plains. He’d told them he had just left Hecklowe, so why return? Coilla decided she was probably mistaken. Which was quite likely as all humans looked the same to her anyway.

  Then they were off again. Lekmann took them to the heart of the quarter and an area of winding high-walled passageways. After a tortuous journey through these shadowy lanes, where crowds were very much thinner, they came to the mouth of an alley. At its end and to the side stood a building that had once been white and handsome. Now it was grimy and dilapidated. The few windows were shuttered, the sole door had been reinforced.

  Lekmann got Blaan to rap on it, then nudged him aside. Having waited a full minute they were about to knock again when a viewing panel was slid aside. A pair of yellowy eyes scrutinised them, but nothing was said.

  “We’re here to see Razatt-Kheage,” Lekmann announced.

  There was no response.

  “The name’s Micah Lekmann,” he added.

  The disembodied eyes continued staring at them.

  “A mutual friend cleared my path,” Lekmann went on, patience thinning. “Said I’d be welcome.”

  The silent inspection lasted another few seconds, then the panel was slammed shut.

  “Don’t seem too friendly,” Blaan commented.

  “They ain’t exactly in a friendly line of business,” Lekmann reminded him.

  There was the scrape of bolts being drawn inside and the door creaked open. Pushing Coilla in first, Lekmann and Blaan entered.

  A goblin faced them. Another closed and re-bolted the door.

  Their frames were skeletal, with knobbly green flesh stretched tight and resembling parchment. They had prominent shoulder-blades that gave the impression they were slightly hunchbacked. But what they lacked in excess fat was made up with sinew; these were strong, agile creatures.

  Their heads were oval-shaped and hairless. Their ears were small and flapped, their mouths rubbery-lipped gashes. They had squas
hed noses with punch-hole nostrils and large tear-drop-shaped eyes with black orbs and jaundice-yellow surrounds. Both were armed with long, thick clubs topped with studded maces.

  In the spacious room that spread out beyond them there were seven or eight more of their granite-faced comrades.

  A wooden platform, level with a human’s chest, ran the length of the room’s far wall. It was scattered with rugs and cushions. At its centre stood an ornately carved, high-backed chair like a throne. A guard was positioned on either side.

  Seated in it was another goblin. But where the rest wore martial leathers and chain mail, he was dressed more grandly in silk, and he was bedecked with jewellery. One of his languid talons held the mouthpiece of a tube that ran to a hookah, from which thin tendrils of white smoke drifted.

  “I am Razatt-Kheage,” the slaver said. His voice was sibilant. “Your name has been made known to me.” He gave Coilla an appraising look. “I understand you have merchandise to offer.”

  “That we do,” Lekmann replied in a tone seeping false bonhomie. “This is it.”

  Razatt-Kheage made an imperious gesture with his hand. “Come.”

  Lekmann shoved Coilla and the trio walked to a small staircase at one end of the dais. A pair of henchlins accompanied them. When they approached the throne, Lekmann nodded at Blaan and he put an armlock on Coilla. She was kept a safe distance from the slaver.

  Razatt-Kheage offered Lekmann the hookah pipe.

  “What is it, crystal?”

  “No, my friend. I prefer more intense pleasures. This is pure lassh.”

  Lekmann blanched. “Er, no, I won’t, thanks. I try to keep away from the more violent narcotics. And what with it being, uhm, habit forming and all . . .”

  “Of course. It’s a little indulgence I can afford, however.” He inhaled deeply from the pipe. His eyes took on a more glazed sheen as he expelled the heady cloud. “To business. Let us examine the goods.” He waved lazily at one of his minions.

  This goblin left his place by the throne and scuttled to Coilla. As Blaan held her firm, the goblin proceeded to paw her. He squeezed the muscles on her arms, patted her legs, stared into her eyes.

  “You’ll find she’s fit as a flea,” Lekmann remarked, ladling the geniality some more.

  The goblin roughly forced open Coilla’s mouth and inspected her teeth.

  “I’m not a damn horse!” she spat.

  “She’s a spunky one,” Lekmann said.

  “Then she will be broken,” Razatt-Kheage replied. “It has been done before.”

  His henchlin finished with Coilla and nodded to him.

  “It seems your wares are acceptable, Micah Lekmann,” the slaver hissed. “Let us talk of payment.”

  While they negotiated, Coilla took a good look around the chamber. Its sole door, barred windows and profusion of guards, not to mention Blaan’s hold on her, all quickly confirmed that she had no choice but to bide her time.

  Lekmann and the slaver finally agreed a price. The amount was substantial. Coilla didn’t know whether to be flattered by it.

  “It is agreed, then,” Razatt-Kheage said. “When will it be convenient for you to return for your money?”

  That took Lekmann by surprise. “Return? What do you mean, return?”

  “Do you think I would keep such a sum here?”

  “Well, how quickly can you get it?”

  “Shall we say four hours?”

  “Four hours? That’s a hell of a —”

  “Perhaps you would prefer dealing with another agent?”

  The bounty hunter sighed. “All right, Razatt-Kheage, four hours. Not a minute longer.”

  “You have my word. Do you wish to wait or return?”

  “I have to meet somebody. We’ll come back.”

  “It would make sense if you left the orc here in the meantime. She will be secure and you will not have the inconvenience of guarding her.”

  Lekmann eyed him suspiciously. “How do I know she’s still going to be here when we get back?”

  “Among my kind, Micah Lekmann, when a goblin gives his word it is a grievous insult to doubt it.”

  “Yeah, you slavers are such an honourable bunch,” Coilla remarked sarcastically.

  Blaan applied painful pressure to her arm. She gritted her teeth and didn’t give them the satisfaction of crying out.

  “As you say . . . spunky,” Razatt-Kheage muttered unpleasantly. “What is your decision, human?”

  “All right, she can stay. But my partner Blaan here stays with her. And if it ain’t considered an insult to you and your race, I’m telling him that if there’s any . . . problems, he’s to kill her. Got that, Jabeez?”

  “Got it, Micah.” He tightened his hold on Coilla.

  “I understand,” Razatt-Kheage said. “In four hours, then.”

  “Right.” He headed for the door accompanied by a henchlin.

  “Don’t hurry back,” Coilla called after him.

  14

  “It’s just not natural, Stryke. Giving up their weapons isn’t something orcs should be asked to do.”

  It was the first definite thing Haskeer had said since being reunited with the band. He sounded almost like his old self.

  “We don’t get into Hecklowe otherwise,” Stryke explained again. “Stop making a fuss.”

  “Why don’t we conceal a few blades?” Jup suggested.

  “Bet everybody does that,” Haskeer said.

  Stryke noted how Haskeer even seemed to be making an effort to be reasonable with Jup. Maybe he really had changed. “They probably do. But stopping weapons going in isn’t the point. It’s using them in there that brings the death penalty. The Council knows that, everybody going in knows it. Even Unis and Manis know it, for the gods’ sake. It’s just that they don’t search all visitors thoroughly. Otherwise the place would grind to a halt.”

  Jup interjected, “But get caught in a fight with weapons —”

  “And they kill you, yes.”

  “So we don’t hide some weapons?”

  “Are you mad? An orc without a blade? Of course we smuggle some in. What we don’t do, any of us . . .” he gave Haskeer a pointed look “. . . is use them without my direct order. Any orc should be able to improvise. We’ve got fists, feet and heads. Right?”

  The band nodded and began slipping knives into boots, sleeves and helmets. Stryke chose a favourite two-edged blade. Jup did the same. Haskeer went one better. Having concealed a knife, he also wrapped a length of chain around his waist and covered it with his jerkin.

  Hecklowe by day was as impressive and strange a sight as Hecklowe by night. This day, rain had given its incredibly varied architecture an oily sheen. The tops of towers, the roofs of buildings, the sloping sides of mini pyramids glistened wetly and gave off a rainbow sheen.

  The band made its way to the freeport’s main entrance. As usual, a multi-racial crowd was massed at the gates. Dismounting, the orcs got in line, leading their horses.

  They had an interminable wait, during which Haskeer scowled menacingly at kobolds, dwarves, elves and any other species he had real or imagined grudges against. But eventually they reached the checkpoint and found themselves dealing with the silent Watchers.

  Jup was first. An homunculus sentinel stood with arms outstretched waiting for his weapons. The dwarf handed over his sword, an axe, a hatchet, two daggers, a knife, a slingshot and ammo, a spiked knuckle-duster and four sharpened throwing stars.

  “I’m travelling light,” he told the expressionless Watcher.

  By the time the rest of the band had divested themselves of similar quantities of weapons the queue was much longer and shorter on patience.

  Finally the band pocketed their wooden receipt tags and were waved in.

  “The Watchers seem a lot more sluggish since I was last here,” Stryke observed.

  Jup nodded. “The bleeding of the magic is affecting everything. Though it probably isn’t as bad here as further inland. I’ve noticed that the
power’s always stronger near water. But if humans keep carrying on the way they have been, even places like this are going to be in trouble.”

  “You’re right. Even so, I’d rather we didn’t have to tackle the Watchers. They might be less powerful than they were but they’re still designed to be killing machines.”

  “I don’t reckon they’re so tough,” Haskeer boasted.

  “Haskeer, please. Don’t get into any fights unless there’s no other way.”

  “Right. You can rely on me, boss.”

  Stryke wished he could believe that. “Come on,” he said, “let’s get these horses stabled.”

  They managed that without too much bother, and Stryke made sure the caches of pellucid weren’t left in the saddlebags. Each member carried their portion about his person.

  Then they walked the crowded streets, attracting a certain amount of attention and turned heads, which was no mean feat in a place like Hecklowe. Though it was noticeable that nobody lingered in their path. At length they found a small plaza where it was a little easier to talk without being jostled. There were trees in the square, but even here, with strong flows of magic, they looked frail and mean-leafed.

  Stryke’s troops bunched around him. “Ten orcs and a dwarf hanging around together isn’t tactful,” he told them. “We’re best splitting into two groups.”

  “Makes sense,” Jup said.

  “My group will be Haskeer, Toche, Reafdaw and Seafe. Jup, you’ll take Talag, Gant, Calthmon, Breggin and Finje.”

  “Why ain’t I leading a group?” Haskeer complained.

  “There are six in Jup’s group, only five in mine,” Stryke explained. “So of course I want you with me.”

  It worked. Haskeer’s chest swelled. Jup caught Stryke’s eye, grinned and gave him an exaggerated wink. Stryke smiled thinly in return.

  “We’ll meet back here in . . . let’s say three hours,” he decided. “If either group comes across Coilla in a situation it can handle, we’ll go for it. If that means not making the rendezvous here, we’ll meet one mile west of Hecklowe’s gates. If you find Coilla and the odds are too long, leave somebody watching and we’ll go in with both groups.”

  “Any ideas about where we should look in particular?” Jup asked.