Orcs

by Stan Nicholls

  “Anywhere buying and selling takes place.”

  “That’s the whole of Hecklowe, isn’t it?”

  “Right.”

  “Should be a piece of piss, then.”

  “Look, you cover the north and west sectors, we’ll do south and east.” He addressed all of them. “We know, or think we know, that Coilla’s with three humans, probably bounty hunters. Don’t undervalue them. Take no chances. And go steady on those concealed weapons. Like I said, we don’t want the Watchers down on our necks. Now get going.”

  Jup gave a thumbs-up and led off his group.

  Watching them go, Haskeer said, “We get smaller and smaller . . .”

  Stryke’s party searched fruitlessly for over two hours.

  As they moved from the south to the east of the city, Stryke said, “The trouble is we don’t know how to look.”

  “What?” Haskeer responded.

  “We don’t know anybody in Hecklowe, we’ve no contacts to help us, and slavers don’t do business on the streets. The gods alone know what could be going on inside any of these buildings.”

  “So what we going to do?”

  “Just keep looking and hope we catch a glimpse of Coilla, I suppose. It’s not as though we can ask the Watchers where the local slavers live.”

  “Well, what’s the point, then? I mean, what the hell are we doing here if we haven’t got a hope of finding her?”

  “Just a minute,” Stryke seethed, barely containing his anger. “We’re here because of you! If you hadn’t gone AWOL with the stars in the first place we wouldn’t be here. And Coilla wouldn’t be in the mess she’s in.”

  “That’s not fair!” Haskeer protested. “I didn’t know what I was doing. You can’t blame me for —”

  “Captain!”

  “What is it, Toche?” Stryke replied irritably.

  The grunt pointed to the intersection they were approaching. “There, sir!”

  They all looked the way he indicated. A mass of beings swarmed where four streets met.

  “What is it?” Stryke demanded. “What are we supposed to be seeing?”

  “That human!” Toche exclaimed. “The one we saw in the snow. There!”

  This time Stryke spotted him. Serapheim, the wordsmith who sent them to Hecklowe, and who disappeared so completely. Taller than most around him, he was an unmistakable figure with his flowing locks and long, blue cloak. He was walking away from them.

  “Reckon he’s one of the bounty hunters?” Haskeer wondered, the argument forgotten.

  “No more than I did when we first saw him,” Stryke said. “And why send us here if he was? Come to that, what’s he doing here?”

  “He’s moving off.”

  “It’s too much of a coincidence that he should be here. Come on, we’re going to follow. But take it easy, we don’t want him seeing us.”

  They pushed through the crowd, careful to keep a safe distance. Serapheim didn’t appear to know he was being trailed and acted naturally, though he walked purposefully. The orcs followed him to the core of the eastern quarter, where the streets became winding alleys and every cloak seemed to hide a dagger.

  In due course he turned a corner, and when they got to it and peered round they found themselves looking into an empty culde-sac. At the far end and to the side was a decaying, once white building. It had a single door. Indeed it was the only door in the street.

  They made the obvious assumption that he must have gone through it and crept that way. The door was slightly ajar. The orcs flattened themselves against the wall on either side.

  “We go in?” Haskeer whispered.

  “What else?” Stryke said.

  “Remember what you told Jup. If in doubt get help.”

  Stryke thought that remarkably sensible coming from Haskeer. “I don’t know if this situation warrants it.” He glanced at the sky. “Then again, the time we set for the rendezvous isn’t that far off. Seafe, get back to that square and bring Jup’s group here. If we’re not waiting at the mouth of the alley we’ll be inside. On the double.”

  The grunt jogged away.

  For the moment that left just Haskeer, Toche, Reafdaw and Stryke himself. But he reckoned that was enough to deal with a crazy human storyteller.

  “We’re going in,” he decided, discreetly slipping the knife from his boot. “Draw weapons.”

  He pushed the door and entered, the others close behind.

  They were in a sizeable room with a long dais at one end supporting a massive chair. Other small items of furniture were scattered about the apartment. The place was deserted.

  “What the hell happened to that Serapheim character?” Haskeer asked.

  “There have to be other rooms, or another way out,” Stryke said. “Let’s —”

  A sudden flurry of sound and movement cut him short. Wall hangings were torn aside. At the back of the dais a concealed door flew open. Ten or more armed goblins emerged and rushed to surround them. They held club maces, swords and short spears, weapons that outreached the Wolverines’ knives. A goblin slammed and bolted the door to the street.

  Spear tips and sword points were held to the orcs’ throats and chests. Goblins snatched away the band’s knives and searched their clothes for more. But they only seemed interested in weapons; the pellucid and stars were ignored. The blades, and Haskeer’s chain, were tossed clanging into a pile on the floor.

  Another goblin appeared on the platform. He was dressed in finery and gems. “I am Razatt-Kheage,” he announced with more than a dash of melodrama.

  “Slaver scum,” Haskeer rumbled.

  One of the goblins delivered a hefty blow to his stomach with the shaft end of his mace. Haskeer doubled over and wheezed.

  “Have a care with the new merchandise,” Razatt-Kheage cautioned.

  “Bastard,” Stryke spat. “Face me without these dolts and we’ll settle this, orc to goblin.”

  Razatt-Kheage gave a snorting laugh. “How charmingly primitive. Put aside thoughts of violence, my friend, I have somebody for you to meet. Come!” he called.

  Coilla appeared at the concealed door, Blaan holding her arms from behind. She reacted with surprise at seeing Stryke, Haskeer and the others.

  “Corporal,” Stryke said.

  “Captain,” she responded with admirable cool. “Sorry you got involved.”

  “We’re a band, we stick together.”

  She looked at Haskeer. “We have a few things to work out, Sergeant.”

  “This is all very touching,” Razatt-Kheage interrupted, “but make the most of it. You’ll be saying your goodbyes soon enough.”

  “This one’s cohorts are due back!” Coilla yelled, indicating Blaan.

  “Is Serapheim one of them?” Stryke said.

  “Serapheim? The storyteller?”

  “Be silent!” the slaver hissed. “Be still,” he said in a calmer voice, “and we will wait for them together.” Then he snapped something to his guards in goblin language.

  The henchlins moved forward to corral Stryke, Haskeer and the grunts in a corner. Almost as soon as it was done, there was a rap on the door. A goblin went to it, checked through the viewing hatch and opened up.

  Lekmann and Aulay swaggered in.

  “The rest of the rats,” Coilla said.

  Blaan jerked her arm, hard. “Stow it!” he growled. She winced.

  Lekmann surveyed the scene. “Now what have we got here? I heard you were a fixer, Razatt-Kheage, but this is something again. The rest of the bitch’s band, yeah? Or some of them anyway.”

  “Yes,” the slaver confirmed, “and worth a tidy amount to me.”

  “To you?” Aulay blurted. “What is this, Micah?”

  “Sharp practice, I reckon.”

  “I hope you humans are not laying claim to my property,” Razatt-Kheage told them. “That could be unfortunate.”

  Lekmann’s face darkened. “Now look, these orcs are the ones my partners and me had a deal to bring in.”

  �
�So what? Any agreement you have doesn’t hold in Hecklowe. You didn’t bring them here.”

  “I brought her, and that brought them. Don’t that stand for something?”

  “Oi!” Haskeer roared. “You’re talking about us like we weren’t here! We’re not pieces of meat to be squabbled over!”

  The goblin who hit him before did it again. Once more, Haskeer doubled up.

  “Meat’s just what you are, orc,” Lekmann sneered.

  When Haskeer straightened he aimed a cold, level stare at the goblin that struck him. “That’s twice, scumpouch. I’ll be paying you back with interest.”

  The impassive-faced creature pulled back his club for another blow. Razatt-Kheage barked a curt order and the minion stayed his hand. In words all understood, he added, “I’m sure we can come to a mutually profitable arrangement, human.”

  “That’s more like it,” Lekmann replied, brightening a little. “Though from what I’ve heard of these renegades, you ain’t gonna have an easy time turning them into something fancy like bodyguards.”

  The slaver looked at the orcs. He studied their muscular, combat-hardened physiques, saw the scars they bore, regarded their murderous, steely-eyed expressions.

  “Perhaps they would be somewhat more of a challenge than the female,” he conceded.

  Stryke glanced at Coilla and thought how little the slaver knew.

  “We’re promised gold for their heads,” Aulay interjected. “From Queen Jennesta.”

  Razatt-Kheage thought about it. “That may prove a less bother-some option.”

  Jup’s group spent its time in a futile search. When his allotted three hours were almost spent, he took the grunts back to the square.

  They found Seafe waiting for them. He conveyed Stryke’s message.

  “Let’s hope it’s not fool’s gold,” the dwarf said. “Come on.”

  If the passersby thought there was anything odd in a dwarf leading half a dozen orcs at double time through the streets of Hecklowe, they knew better than to show it. Fortunately no Watchers were encountered.

  There was a sticky moment when they reached the eastern quarter and Seafe was unsure of which passage to take. But he chose right and five minutes later they got to the alley with the white house. Nobody was about.

  Jup didn’t like the look of it. “Stryke said they’d be waiting for us here, right?”

  “Yes,” Seafe confirmed. “If there was no trouble.”

  “Then we assume there has been.” To the whole group he added, “We’ll have to expect hostility in there. I reckon this is a time when weapons can be used, and to hell with Hecklowe law.”

  Keeping an eye on the street behind them, they pulled out their knives.

  Jup stretched a hand to the door and pushed. It didn’t shift. He signalled for the others to join him. At his word they shouldered the door en masse three times with all the force they could muster. It cracked, splintered and gave. They tumbled in.

  And froze.

  Ahead of them were two humans armed with knives. To their right, Stryke, Haskeer and the other orcs lined a wall. Seven or eight goblins with maces, swords and short pikes guarded them. On a raised platform at the far end of the room stood a goblin in silken robes. To his left a mountainous human had Coilla in a neck lock.

  A goblin stepped from a corner and stood among the broken shards of the doorway, barring it with a spear, its barbed tip glinting.

  “Ah,” Jup said.

  Lekmann grinned. “This just gets better and better.”

  Leering, Aulay chimed in with, “A regular little reunion.”

  “Drop your weapons,” Razatt-Kheage hissed.

  Nobody moved.

  “Give it up,” Lekmann said. “You’re outnumbered and under-armed.”

  “I don’t take orders from goblins, and certainly not from a stinking human.”

  “Do as you’re told, freak!” Lekmann snarled.

  Jup looked to Stryke. “Well, Captain?”

  “Do what you have to, Sergeant.”

  There was no mistaking Stryke’s meaning.

  Jup swallowed. Sounding as casual as he could manage, he said, “Fuck it, what’s life without a bit of excitement?”

  15

  Jup flung his knife at the nearest guard, striking him hard just above the collarbone. It broke the stand-off, and the goblin’s neck.

  Then all hell was let loose.

  One of the grunts quickly snatched up the fallen guard’s spear and turned it on another goblin. Simultaneously, Stryke and Haskeer leapt forward and grappled with their captors. A desperate struggle for the weapons began.

  Jup’s group rushed towards Lekmann and Aulay. They drew their blades and launched into a knife fight.

  The dwarf himself was blocked from joining it. Waving a sword, a henchlin barred his way. Dropping to avoid the swinging blade, Jup drove himself at the creature’s legs and brought him down. They rolled on the floor, fighting for possession.

  Clutching the wrist of the goblin’s sword arm, Jup repeatedly hammered it against the flagstones. But he wouldn’t let go. Then a screaming guard collapsed beside them, its face ribboned by an orc dagger. Jup reached out and grabbed its sword. Still holding his opponent’s wrist, he plunged the blade into its chest.

  He leapt to his feet, tossed one sword to a comrade and used the other to rejoin the fray.

  On the dais, Coilla was fighting like a wildcat to free herself of Blaan’s hold. Nearby, Razatt-Kheage was yelling orders, interspersed with curses.

  Stryke had managed to get his foe in a bear hug with the goblin’s arms pinned to his sides. Wriggling, unable to lift his sword, he was trying to rake the orc’s legs with it. Stryke cooled him with a couple of head butts to the brow. Eyes rolling, he went down. Prising the sword from his hand, Stryke slashed his throat.

  He turned and saw Haskeer vying for a spear. It belonged to the guard who had hit him. As he passed, Stryke swiped at the goblin, slicing him in the side. The minor wound was distraction enough to throw the henchlin’s poise. Stryke bowled off through the mêlée, making for the bounty hunters.

  Haskeer wasn’t slow exploiting the upset. He managed to seize the spear’s shaft. They tussled for it. Using all his strength, he twisted the spear and got its lethally barbed point under the goblin’s chin. Then he pushed upward with all his might. The howling creature was skewered. Haskeer ripped loose the spear in a burst of gore and looked for a fresh victim.

  Still struggling in Blaan’s arms, Coilla shouted something. The words were lost, but she seemed to be indicating a large chest on the dais.

  Lekmann and Aulay slashed wildly with their knives, trying to keep the orcs clear. The arrival of Jup and Breggin with swords had them backing off.

  Coilla’s attempts to break loose of Blaan went on. She called out again. He began applying pressure to her neck and looked set to snap it.

  Haskeer rushed at the platform. A henchlin stepped out to stop him. The orc levelled his spear and impaled the goblin, the shaft piercing his stomach, and tossed him back into the scrum. Abandoning the spear, Haskeer hurtled on and leapt up to the dais. He landed a couple of feet away from Coilla and Blaan. Razatt-Kheage was near the other end of the platform, shrieking at his bodyguards. Haskeer ignored him.

  At a run, he landed a massive roundhouse blow to the side of Blaan’s meaty head. The hulking human cried out in rage. Haskeer hit him again on the same spot, just as heavily. Bellowing, Blaan let go of Coilla and turned on the orc. They commenced swinging at each other in earnest.

  Coilla dived across the platform and collided with the wooden chest. She wrenched open its lid. It was filled with cutlasses, rapiers and scimitars. She seized a broadsword, then overturned the chest, toppling it from the dais. It crashed to the floor, its weaponry spilling out.

  She hadn’t noticed in her haste that it would land at Aulay’s and Lekmann’s backs. They spun and fell upon the weapons, scrabbling for swords. They weren’t alone. Four or five orcs piled in too,
anxious to swap daggers for lengthier blades. Twenty seconds of kicking and punching saw all of them re-armed.

  What had been a series of hand-to-hand brawls transformed into swordplay.

  “Bounty hunter!” Stryke yelled, skidding to a halt in front of Lekmann. “Defend yourself!”

  “Come and get it, freak!”

  Jup and the grunts disengaged and quickly found other foes. Stryke and Lekmann squared off.

  The human went for a quick kill. He powered in, his sword a blur as he carved air with shocking rapidity. Stryke stood his ground and parried everything coming at him. Deflecting a half-dozen passes cleared the way for advancing a step or two. He went into offensive mode. Lekmann countered with equal fluidity, reclaiming the gained space.

  They fenced with total focus, oblivious to everything else, beating a steel rhythm with their blades.

  Jup had Aulay to himself. The human was a lesser swordsman than his partner, which was to say he was merely good. But he was fuelled with anger and desperation. That fed him fury while clouding his skill.

  The dwarf got off a weighty swing aimed at decapitation. Aulay ducked and returned a scything horizontal sweep meant for disembowelment. Jup sprang back and avoided it. Then he was in again and battering.

  All across the room orcs and goblins went at the business of murder with a will. Blades hacked spears, knives slashed at mail, swords met in a ringing din. A grunt hefted a table and smashed it across the back of a henchlin, allowing another trooper to dart in and deliver a stabbing. An orc slammed against a wall, impelled by a flesh wound to the arm from a goblin mace. He dodged the follow-up and brought his sword into play.

  On the platform, Haskeer and Blaan slugged it out in a furious bare-knuckle contest. Each sponged up the other’s blows and dealt their own. Neither would give.

  Blaan landed a piledriver punch to Haskeer’s chin. “Go down!” he hollered.

  The impact rocked Haskeer but didn’t fell him. He responded with a crazed howl and a counterblow that sank his fist in the human’s belly. Blaan staggered back a bit but otherwise seemed unaffected. Both of them were unused to anybody staying upright once they hit them. It stoked their wrath.

  Arms outstretched, moving surprisingly fast for his bulk, Blaan shot forward and encircled Haskeer with his powerful arms. They set to wrestling, faces strained, muscles bulging.