Orcs

by Stan Nicholls

  Mersadion knew how true that was. “We have no reason to doubt the loyalty of the other handlers,” he offered.

  “As we had none concerning Glozellan.” She was seething, building up to something.

  He trod gingerly, hoping to placate her. “If you have misgivings, we can replace the handlers. And we still have sufficient dragons, ma’am, despite losing three. As to a new dam, there are several candidates for promotion who—”

  “All the handlers are brownies. How can I trust any of them? There will be a purge in the dragon squadrons.”

  “Majesty.”

  “First the Wolverines, then the bounty hunters I sent after them; now the Mistress of Dragons has abandoned my cause.” She fixed him with her wintry gaze. “And all the while a steady bleeding from my army. How do I come to be surrounded by so many cowards and traitors?

  It was a question he would never dare answer. He thought to avoid it by shifting her view. “You could see it as the ranks purifying themselves, ma’am. Those left are bound to be the most loyal to Your Majesty.”

  She laughed. Head back, raven hair tumbling. A flash of sharp, white teeth. Her eyes glittering with mirth.

  He adopted a nervous closed-mouth grin.

  Jennesta gulped back her composure and, still smiling, said, “Don’t think I see anything funny, Mersadion, this is pure derision.”

  His face resumed its wary slump.

  “You have a politic way of putting things. You’d have me believe the flagon’s half full.” She leaned in to him, her laughter already a fading memory. “But you’re just an orc. When it comes to thinking, you punch above your weight. Let me tell you why treachery decays the ranks. It’s because the officers aren’t harsh enough in their discipline. And the line of command stops at your door.”

  Only when events went badly, Mersadion reflected.

  Jennesta drew back. “I won’t tolerate laxity. This is your last warning.”

  Whatever he expected her to say or do in no way prepared him for what happened next.

  She spat at him.

  The spray soaked his right cheek, below the eye and as far as the line of his ear. It was an action that shocked and bewildered him in equal parts, and he had no idea how to react.

  Then he felt warmth on his flesh. Prickly heat spread all over the side of his face. He winced with discomfort and raised a hand, but touching the affected area made it worse. In seconds it grew hotter, like myriad fiery needles piercing his skin.

  Jennesta stood and watched, rapt and faintly amused.

  The sensation moved to scalding, as though vitriol had been splashed on him. He abandoned composure and cried out. His face blistered. He smelt the tissue burning. Pain became torment, then went beyond that. He screamed.

  “Last warning,” she repeated, weighting the words. “Ponder it.” She discarded him with an indolent gesture.

  Doubled in agony, effluvium rising from his ravaged features, he blundered his way out. Through the whipping flaps Jennesta caught a glimpse of him stumbling to a water butt. She heard him howl.

  Her action was a scintilla of the rage she could have shown at his news. She’d had enough of reversals, and if he brought her more the price would be his life. But for now she was content to brand him a failure. Literally.

  An unmeasured span of time passed as she reflected on events. It came to an end when several of her orc personal guard arrived, making an awkward show of subservience. They brought her a captive, bound with chains; an offering to revitalise her powers, if only temporarily. Despite her mood, the sight of the vessel stirred Jennesta’s curiosity.

  So many races, so large an appetite, so little time.

  She had never had the chance to savour a nappee before. Nymphs of pastures and forests, they were a scarce, coy race, not often seen. This was a particularly fine example. The creature was tall for her kind at about three feet in height. She was slender, with sparkly, near luminous skin, and delicately beautiful.

  Some said nappees had two hearts. Finding out would take Jennesta’s mind off her travails for a while.

  The rain had finally stopped.

  Stryke allowed a short rest break, the band settling at a point where Norantellia’s shore had partially eroded the inlet. Twilight thickened the sky, and the view was of frowning clouds over a black, wind-driven ocean.

  After eating, Coilla and Stryke moved away from the others. Sitting on horse blankets, sharing a canteen of wine gifted by the centaurs, for a while they talked about the gremlin attack. But tiredness, the warmth of the alcohol and, above all, the desire to share his burden overtook Stryke. He steered the conversation to his bizarre dreams. Before long, Coilla knew all.

  “Are you sure this place you dream about isn’t somewhere you know?” she asked. “Somewhere in the . . . real world, I mean.”

  “No. The climate alone marks it out. When have we ever seen Maras-Dantia as it truly should be, as it was?”

  “Then perhaps you’ve made it up for yourself,” she ventured. “Your mind’s somehow created what you want to be.”

  “Which sounds like another way of saying I’m mad.”

  “No! That’s not what I meant. You aren’t mad, Stryke. But with the world going to hell in a pisspot, it’s natural to want—”

  “I don’t think it’s that. Like I said, these dreams, or whatever they are, they’re as real as being awake. Well, almost.”

  “And you always see this same female each time?”

  “Yes. It’s more than seeing her, too. I . . . meet her, talk with her, like I would with somebody when I’m awake. Except not everything she says makes sense.”

  Coilla frowned. “That’s unusual for dreams. She’s not somebody you’ve ever known?”

  “I would have remembered, believe me.”

  “You say that like she’s real. These are just dreams, Stryke.”

  “Are they? I only call them dreams because it’s the nearest I can think of.”

  “They happen when you’re asleep, don’t they? What else does that make them except dreams?”

  “It’s the feeling I get, the . . .” He shook his head, frustrated with words. “I can’t put it over. You’d have to go through it yourself.”

  “Let’s get this clear,” she stated matter-of-factly. “What are you saying’s happening to you if they aren’t dreams?”

  “It’s like . . . maybe when I sleep my guard’s down, and that . . . lets something in.”

  “Listen to yourself. You’re not making sense.”

  “I’m not, am I? But I know it’s getting to where I don’t want to sleep.”

  “You have these . . . dreams every time you sleep?”

  “No, not every time. And that sort of makes it worse. It’s like throwing dice whenever I need to sleep.”

  She weighed her next remark carefully. “If they aren’t dreams, there’s one possibility to think about. Could they be some sort of magical attack?”

  “By Jennesta, you mean?”

  Coilla nodded.

  “I’ve thought of that, of course I have. Do you think it’s something she could do?”

  “Who knows?”

  “But why would she want to? I mean, what’s the point?”

  “To make you think you’re insane. To sow the kind of doubts you’re talking about and lay siege to your mind.”

  “That occurred to me, but somehow I don’t believe it. As I said, in many ways the dreams are . . . pleasant. They’ve even strengthened my will once or twice. How would that serve Jennesta’s plan?”

  “I’m not saying it is her, just that it’s a possibility. And who knows how her twisted reasoning works?”

  “I grant you that. I still think she’d go for something more direct though.” He studied Coilla’s face, and what he saw there told him it was safe to lay everything out for her. “That isn’t all.”

  “Uhm?”

  “The dreams aren’t the only strange thing. There’s something else.”

  She looked pu
zzled, and apprehensive. “What do you mean?”

  Stryke took a breath. “That business with Haskeer and the stars. Him saying they . . . sang to him.”

  “That was the fever.”

  “I had no fever.”

  It took a moment for that to soak in. Finally she said, “You too?” Her tone was incredulous.

  “Me too.”

  “Gods, you’ve been bottling a lot up, haven’t you?”

  “Still think I’m sane?”

  “If you’re mad, Haskeer is too. Mind you . . .” They exchanged dry smiles. “What do you mean by singing?” she asked. “Can you put it better than he did?”

  “Not really. It’s like the dreams, hard to explain. But singing’s as good a word as any.” His hand went to the pouch at his belt. It had become an unconscious action, like the fingering of a fetish object. If asked, he would have said it was because he so feared losing them.

  “I owe Haskeer an apology,” she said. “I doubted him. We all did.”

  “It’s changed the way I look at what he did,” Stryke admitted. “But don’t tell him. Don’t tell anybody about any of this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Wouldn’t exactly inspire them, would it? Having a leader plagued by odd dreams and singing stars.”

  “But you’ve told me. Why?”

  “I figured you’d hear me out. And I reckon that if you think I’m some kind of lunatic, you’d say so.”

  “As I said, I don’t think you are. Something’s happening to you, that’s for sure, but it doesn’t look like madness from where I’m standing.”

  “I hope you’re right,” he sighed. “So you’ll keep this to yourself? For the sake of band discipline?”

  “If that’s what you want, yes. But I think they’d understand. The officers anyway. Even Haskeer. Hell, especially Haskeer. This isn’t the kind of thing you can keep secret forever though.”

  “If it really starts getting in the way of commanding the Wolverines, I’ll tell them.”

  “Then what?”

  “We’ll see.”

  She didn’t press him on the point. “If you want to talk again,” she offered, “you know I’m here.”

  “Thanks, Coilla.” He felt better for unburdening himself, but also just a little shamed for confessing something he thought of as a weakness. Though it made some difference that she didn’t seem to see it that way.

  The rest of the band were packing away their gear and rolling up blankets. One or two were looking Stryke’s way, expecting orders.

  He passed the canteen to Coilla. “Warm yourself on this. We’ll have to move again.”

  She took a swig and handed back the bottle. As they got to their feet, she asked, “What do you think our chances are at Ruffetts View?”

  “Could be promising. That’s what I feel anyway.”

  “Well, most of your hunches have paid off up to now. The longer the odds, you still come up. Maybe there’s something in what Jup said about you getting farsight.”

  She meant it light-heartedly. They both knew orcs had never had magical powers. But it hinted at another layer of complexity, and mystery, neither found particularly amusing.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Stryke said.

  They rode on through the evening, alert for further trouble.

  Coilla found herself at the back of the band, just forward of the rear lookouts, with Alfray at her side.

  After some trivial exchanges he glanced ahead and behind, then confided, “I’m worried about Stryke.”

  She was taken aback, given her earlier conversation with Stryke, but didn’t show it, and replied with a simple, “Why?”

  “You must have noticed how he seems so buried in himself.”

  “He has been a bit distant at times,” she conceded.

  He looked at her sceptically. “More than that, I’d say.”

  “He’s under great strain, you know that. Anyway, it’s not as if he’s leading us badly, is it?”

  “There might be one or two in our ranks who disagree.” He glanced her way. “You know I’m not one of them. I’ve seen a lot of leaders in my time,” he added, “and served under quite a few. He’s the best.”

  She nodded agreement, although her own experience was nothing against his. And in that second she realised how old Alfray was. At least, how old compared to the rest of them. It was something she always took for granted, and she was surprised at the impact the awareness had on her, at how unequal it was to the smallness of her observation. The danger they faced was drawing them all closer together, making them truly see each other for the first time.

  “We’ve got to support him,” Alfray said.

  “Of course we will, we’re a warband. The finest damned warband. Even those few dissenters you mentioned, they’ll stand fast for Stryke.” She didn’t say it just because she thought that was what he wanted to hear.

  He smiled approval, satisfied.

  They rode on, preoccupied with their own thoughts and a mite drowsy from lack of sleep. Finally Coilla came out with, “That battle you mentioned, at Carascrag . . .”

  “What about it?”

  “It made me think how little history we know. It’s being lost, like everything else. But you’ve seen so much . . .” She stopped, afraid he’d see that as a reference to his age, a subject he’d been touchy about lately. But his expression showed no affront.

  “Yes, I have,” he agreed. “I’ve seen Maras-Dantia in a better state, when I was a hatchling and a young orc. Not like it was in our forebears’ times, but better than now. The humans weren’t as numerous, and the magic had only just started to fail.”

  “But the elder races fought against the incomers.”

  “Eventually. The trouble is that what made this land great is also its biggest weakness. We’re too diverse. The old suspicions and hostilities delayed the races uniting. Some didn’t even see a threat until it was almost too late. Hell, maybe until it was too late.”

  “And things have gone downhill ever since.”

  “Which is why it’s so important to keep the ancient customs alive.” He slapped his palm against his heart. “Here, if nowhere else. The first place we respect the traditions is in each of us.”

  “That’s becoming a bygone way of looking at it.”

  “Perhaps. But think of the comrades we’ve lost. Slettal, Wrelbyd, Meklun, Darig, and now Kestix. We couldn’t give one of them a decent sending-off, and that cheapens their lives.”

  “We weren’t able to. You know it’s not always possible in combat.”

  “There was a time when it would have been. A time when the traditions were upheld.”

  She was surprised by his passion. “I didn’t know you felt this strongly about it.”

  “Tradition is what’s held us together, and we throw that away at our peril. It’s one thing that keeps us different, keeps us . . . us. I mean, look at how the Square’s disregarded these days, even scorned by some of the younger ones.”

  “I have to admit I sometimes wonder if religion’s served us that well myself.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Coilla, but there was a time when no decent orc would say something like that.”

  “I honour the gods. But what have they done to shield us from our troubles lately? And what about the Unis and their single god? What has that brought but misery?”

  “What do you expect of a false deity? As to our gods, perhaps they ignore us the more we ignore them.”

  She had no answer to that.

  In any event their conversation was interrupted by cries from up and down the line. Grunts pointed to the west.

  It was just possible to make out, far over the ocean, a blacker shape against the sable sky, travelling north. Its bulk obscured the stars as it moved, and its great saw-toothed wings could be seen flapping. A tiny burst of orange flame from the creature’s head wiped away any doubts.

  “Do you think we can be seen?” Alfray wondered.

  “It’s a long way
off, and it’s dark, so we’d be hard to spot. More to the point, is it one of Jennesta’s or Glozellan’s?”

  “If it’s hostile I reckon we’ll know soon enough.”

  They watched until the dragon was swallowed by distance.

  9

  Blaan sat cross-legged, tongue curling from the corner of his mouth, as he scraped his shining pate with the edge of a knife.

  Nearby, Lekmann used a branch to poke at the contents of a blackened pot hanging over a lively fire. Aulay was stretched out on a blanket, his head resting on his saddle, scowling one-eyed at the brightening sky.

  Dew still whitened the grass. The inlet coursed sluggishly beside them, mist rising in the dawn chill. Drogan Forest was in sight, but far enough behind for them not to be spotted by centaur scouting parties.

  “When the hell we moving?” Aulay grumbled, his breath visible in the frigid air. He was rubbing the spot where his wrist joined the plug that replaced his hand.

  “When I’m good and ready,” Lekmann told him. “We’re close, I reckon, and we can’t just go charging in. We got to be careful going against them orcs.”

  “I know that, Micah. I just want to know when.”

  “Soon. Now save your puff to cool your grub.” He prodded at the concoction. It bubbled, releasing a disagreeable aroma.

  “We eating now, Micah?” Blaan piped up, eyeing the pot.

  “Watch out, pumpkin head’s spotted fodder,” Aulay muttered caustically.

  Lekmann ignored him. “Yeah, Jabeez. Bring your bowl.” He commenced dishing.

  A platter was handed to Aulay. He sat with it on his knees, picking at the offering with his knife. “Slop,” he complained, routinely.

  Blaan noisily wolfed his down using his fingers, which he licked wetly between mouthfuls.

  Aulay made a face. “Ugh.”

  “You’re glad of him in a scrap,” Lekmann reminded him.

  “Don’t mean I have to watch him eat.” He turned his back and faced the forest.

  Blaan finally realised they were talking about him. “Hey!” he protested, full-mouthed and greasy-chinned.

  “Company!” Greever barked. He dumped his plate on the ground.