Orcs

by Stan Nicholls

  The others did the same. They quickly got to their feet, weapons ready.

  A party of riders came along the trail from Drogan. They were humans and there were seven of them.

  “Who’d you reckon they are?”

  “They ain’t them custodians, that’s for sure, Greever. Unless their usual clothes are in the wash.”

  The riders were dressed not unlike the bounty hunters themselves. They favoured leather breeches, high boots and thick wool jerkins, uniformly shabby. Most wore skins against the cold. Their heads were topped with skull helmets and chain-mail caps. They were lean, bearded, weather-bruised men toting a variety of arms.

  “Could be reavers,” Lekmann decided as they got nearer. “Hadn’t heard there were any in these parts though.”

  Aulay spat. “All we need, fucking brigands.”

  “What do we do?” Blaan wanted to know.

  “Play it peaceful,” Lekmann replied. “Remember that we can get more by pouring honey than cutting throats. Besides, the odds are in their favour.”

  “You think so?” Aulay said.

  “You stay calm, Greever, and let me do the talking. If it comes to force, follow my lead, and keep those blades out of sight. Got me?”

  They agreed, Aulay reluctantly.

  The riders had seen them by this time, and slowed. They were watchful but approached without guile.

  When they reached the trio, Lekmann beamed and hailed them. “Well met!”

  Two or three of the men nodded. A burly individual with a full beard and lengthy, unkempt hair was the only one to talk. “And you.” He spoke gruffly and a little offhand.

  “What do we owe this pleasure to?”

  “Nothing in particular. Just going about our business.”

  “And what might that be?” Lekmann asked, the smile still plastered to his face.

  “We’re trailing renegades.”

  “Is that so?”

  Aulay glowered but said nothing. Blaan looked on with his normal semivacant expression.

  “Yeah,” the leader said. “You?”

  “Farmers. We’re heading to buy some livestock up beyond Drogan.”

  The reaver looked them up and down, as did several of the others. Lekmann hoped they didn’t know too much about farming.

  “You ain’t into that Mani or Uni crap, are you?” the leader said.

  “Not us, friend. A plague on both. We just want a quiet life. On our farm,” he added helpfully.

  “Good.” He stared Aulay and Blaan’s way. “Your friends don’t say much.”

  “They’re just simple farm boys,” Lekmann explained. He held his hand to one side of his face so Blaan couldn’t see, winked conspiratorially, and added in a whisper, “The big one’s simpleminded, but pay him no heed.”

  “He looks like he could knock down a door with his head.”

  “Nah, he’s harmless.” He cleared his throat. “So, you’re renegade hunters. Don’t suppose there’s much the likes of us can do to help speed you.”

  “Only if you’ve seen any orcs in these parts.”

  Aulay and Blaan stiffened. Lekmann kept down his reaction. “Orcs? No. But if it’s them murdering bastards you’re after, you’re all right by us.” He made an expansive gesture towards the way of the camp fire. “You’re welcome to share our food. We got fresh water and some wine too.”

  The reavers exchanged glances. Their leader made the decision, emboldened perhaps by their greater numbers. “That’s neighbourly. We’ll join you.”

  They dismounted. Lekmann offered canteens and told them to help themselves to food. They took him up on the former, were less eager about the latter once they looked in the pot. Aulay and Blaan stayed where they were. None of the reavers paid them much attention.

  “Tell us more about these orcs you’re tracking,” Lekmann said, trying to sound casual.

  “They’re a desperate, bloodthirsty bunch by all accounts,” the leader told him. He took a gulp from his canteen. “Warband. Call themselves the Wolverines.”

  Lekmann prayed that neither of his partners would blurt out anything. He was in luck. “You’re going after a whole warband?”

  “This is about half our force. The rest are searching over yonder.” He nodded across the inlet. “I reckon we’re more than a match for ’em.”

  “Them orcs got a fearsome reputation when it comes to fighting.”

  “Overrated, if you ask me.”

  “Had any sign of them?”

  “Not yet. Thought we did last night. Turned out to be a pack of gremlins, riding like their arses were on fire.”

  “You seem sure those orcs are around here.”

  “They’ve been spotted, more than once.”

  “Big reward?”

  “Pretty big.” The reaver chief eyed him with what might have been a hint of suspicion. “Why? Thinking of trying for it yourselves?”

  Lekmann managed a laugh. “What, us? You reckon we’re the sort to tangle with orcs?”

  The chief looked them over. “Now you come to mention it, no.” Then he began laughing himself. “Not exactly bounty hunter types, eh, boys?”

  His men found the idea so risible they joined in with the laughter. They pointed at the trio and rocked with crude, good-natured mockery. Lekmann laughed. Even Aulay made an effort, showing his rank teeth in the rictus of a patently false smile. Last in, Blaan started, great shoulders heaving, jowls aquiver, eyes watering.

  Dawn broke on ten human males laughing in each other’s faces.

  Then something shook out of Blaan’s jerkin, bounced and came to rest at the reaver chief’s feet. Still laughing, he looked down at it.

  The dark brown, shrivelled object was a shrunken orc’s head. A sober cloud darkened the leader’s face.

  Lekmann swiftly drew his sword.

  “What?” the leader said.

  The blade slipped smoothly between his ribs. He gasped, the whites of his eyes showing. Then he went down, choking on blood. Some of his men hadn’t finished laughing when realisation dawned.

  Lekmann made straight for another reaver, slashing at him. Blaan lurched into the group, striking out with his fists. Aulay quickly snapped a blade attachment into his arm plug and filled his other hand with a dagger. The reavers struggled to defend themselves, in a confused scrabble for weapons.

  Downing his second man, Lekmann moved in on the third. Now he met resistance. The target had his sword drawn, and intended butchery became a fight. They swapped blows, the reaver defending himself with fury, but it was immediately obvious that Lekmann was the superior fencer.

  Having crushed his first victim’s spine with a bear hug, Blaan discarded the corpse. Another reaver immediately charged and smashed his fist into the side of Blaan’s head. It had as much effect as gentle rain on granite. The attacker staggered back, nursing his knuckles. Blaan moved in, enormous hands clasped together, and slammed them into his chest, audibly cracking bones. Face twisted in agony, the man collapsed like a puppet with slashed strings. Blaan began stomping him.

  Riled by the commotion, the reavers’ horses first milled in panic and then bolted, scattering across the inlet.

  Aulay tugged his blade from his opponent’s stomach and let him drop. The next reaver took his place, snarling with wrath and hefting an axe. It may have been a fearsome weapon but it gave Aulay the reach advantage. Ducking a swing, he lashed out and laid open the man’s forearm. Bellowing, the reaver swung again. Aulay retreated fast, blundering into the cooking pot and sending it flying. Then he went straight in again, evaded the other’s guard and spiked his heart.

  Lekmann blocked the last feeble passes of the foe he’d already bettered. A second later he dashed the sword from the man’s grasp and sliced his throat. The reaver sunk to his knees gushing blood, rocked and fell face downward.

  Aulay and Lekmann coldly surveyed their work, the bodies sprawled in the kind of grotesque postures only death accorded. Then they looked to Blaan. He was on his knees with the head of t
he last living reaver in an armlock. A powerful jerk snapped the man’s neck. Blaan got up and lumbered over to them.

  Aulay eyed him murderously but said nothing.

  “Did you hear that?” Lekmann seethed indignantly. “Did you hear what that son of a bitch said?” He scowled at the dead reaver chief. “What a nerve, going after the Wolverines. They’re our orcs.”

  Aulay was wiping clean his blade. “Told you we should’ve moved sooner.”

  “Don’t you start, Greever. Now let’s get this sorted.”

  They set to plundering the corpses. Coins, baubles and weapons were filched. Blaan found a stale crust of bread in one of the dead men’s pockets. He crammed chunks into his mouth as he ferreted through layers of clothing. Aulay discovered a pair of boots his size, and in better condition than his own, and tugged them roughly from their late owner.

  Lekmann accompanied his scavengery with muttered complaints about the standard of modern morality.

  “Look at this,” Blaan exclaimed, spraying crumbs. He held up a rolled parchment.

  “What’s it say?” Then Lekmann remembered Blaan couldn’t read. “Give it here,” he said, snapping his fingers. He snatched the scroll and unfurled it. After a few seconds’ lip moving and brow furrowing, he got the gist. “It’s a copy of that proclamation of Jennesta’s, saying how the Wolverines are outlaws and the big reward and all.” He crushed the parchment into a ball and flung it away.

  “Word’s spreading, fuck it,” Aulay grumbled.

  “Yeah. Come on, they’ve got friends and we’ve got competition. We can’t afford lingering here.”

  They began rolling the bodies into the river. The languid flow carried them slowly away in billowing red clouds.

  What the trio didn’t notice as they laboured was that they were being watched by a motionless figure, way back on the trail to Drogan. He was tall and straight, with lengthy auburn hair and a fluttering blue cloak. His horse was purest white.

  But had they looked, he wouldn’t have been there.

  All she had found was chaos.

  It was no more than Jennesta expected, having used her sorcery to slay her sister and throw her realm into confusion. But she had allowed herself to hope that the Wolverines might still be here, and it was becoming obvious they weren’t.

  She watched from her chariot on the edge of Scarrock Marsh as the last of her infantry trudged back after scouring the nyadd domain. A soupy haze clung to the marsh, and it stank of rotting vegetation. The more distant rugged peaks of the Mallowtor Islands were swathed in a greater fog and barely visible.

  Jennesta didn’t anticipate any differing reports from the returning troops to the ones she’d had earlier. All they had to tell was of skirmishes with the remainder of Adpar’s warrior swarm and odd sightings of the elusive merz.

  Unless she was brought some positive news soon she would let her anger have its head.

  She turned to look at the scene behind her, where the bulk of the army was billeted. Between their massed ranks and her chariot a dragon had landed. Astride his horse, General Mersadion talked with the beast’s handler. Eventually he broke off and galloped back to her.

  On arrival he gave a brisk salute and reported. “We may have word on them, ma’am.”

  “Indeed?” She stared at him. The right side of his face was covered by a padded field dressing secured with ties. A hole had been cut in the bandages for his eye. Here and there, at the edges of the dressing, the beginnings of raw, scalded flesh could be seen. “Explain.”

  “A group fitting the Wolverines’ description was seen past Drogan, going south along the inlet.” There was an understandable frigidity in the tone he used with her, but also a greater deference.

  “How reliable is this information?”

  “It was a night sighting, Majesty, so there is some room for error. But the odds seem good, and it fits in with other reports from that area.”

  She glanced the way of the dragon. It was spreading its wings, ready to take off again. “Can we trust the handler?”

  “After the threats I applied, I think so. Anyway, if rebellion was in their minds presumably they simply wouldn’t have returned. You do have loyal followers, ma’am.”

  “How touching.” There was unalloyed sarcasm in her reply. “But if it really was them,” she mused, “where would they be going?”

  “There are a few settlements down at the tip of the inlet, ma’am, mostly small. The biggest is Ruffetts View. All Mani, I believe. So your Majesty would be welcomed.”

  “I don’t give a damn if they welcome me or not. They can ally themselves with me if they choose. If it turns out that anybody there harbours the band they’re my enemies. Alliances are made to be broken, if it serves my interests.”

  “There are Manis in our own ranks, ma’am,” he reminded her.

  “Then it will be a testing time for them, won’t it? Organise the rabble, General. We march to Ruffetts View.”

  Well back from the army’s rump stood what was little more than a copse, although it was dignified by being named a wood. A clandestine party inhabited it, watchful for patrols whose sole job was rounding up deserters. They numbered about two dozen and they were all orcs.

  The highest-ranking soldier present, as attested by the tattoos patterning his cheeks, was a corporal, and he had a plan.

  “Even taking a loop round the army we can get to the inlet first, providing we travel light and fast. Then we stick to the coast most of the way to Ruffetts.”

  “Are we sure the Wolverines are there?” a troubled-looking grunt asked.

  “So they reckon. One of the dragon handlers reported as much, a couple of hours ago. I was there, I heard it myself.”

  “Desertion, it’s a big move,” another waverer said. “Leaving Jennesta’s downright dangerous.”

  “More dangerous than staying with her?” the corporal came back.

  That got a broad murmur of agreement.

  “Right!” somebody called out. “Look what she did to the General!”

  Others took up the list of grievances.

  “The executions!”

  “Dumb orders and crazy suicide missions!”

  “And the floggings!”

  “All right, all right!” The corporal waved them silent. “We all know her crimes. Question is, what we going to do about it? Stay here and waste our lives for her cause or join Stryke?”

  “What do we really know about this Stryke?” the first grunt shouted. “How do we know he’ll be any better a leader?”

  “Talk sense. Because he’s one of our own, and he’s been running circles round her lackeys. If you don’t want to come, that’s fine. The way I look at it, the life we got now ain’t no life at all for an orc. Die here, die there, it’s all the same.” Most of them were nodding. “This way at least we get a chance to hit back!”

  “At Jennesta and the humans!” an orc cried.

  “That’s right!” the corporal agreed. “And we won’t be the last to rally to his banner. You know how many others are whispering about going over to him. Well, the time for talking’s done!”

  “Do you think it’s true that the gods sent him to liberate us?” a voice piped up.

  The corporal scanned their faces. “I don’t know about that. But I reckon he’s heaven-sent however he came to us. Let’s stand with him!”

  It was enough to tip the balance. They were decided.

  “Follow Stryke!” the corporal yelled at them, and they yelled back.

  “Follow Stryke!”

  10

  Total darkness. Nothing to hear, to touch, to smell. An utter void.

  A pinprick of light. It grew rapidly. So rapidly it was like flying out of a well, and the rush gave him vertigo.

  Sensation flooded in.

  Brightness, a soft breeze against his skin, the scent of grass after rain, the sound of lapping water.

  He realised he was clutching something. Looking down, he found he had a staff in his hands. And he saw t
hat his feet were planted on robust timber planks. Uncomprehending, he lifted his head.

  He was near the far end of a wooden jetty extending out into a vast tract of lucent water. Sunlight dappled its rippling surface, glinting intensely. The lake’s farther shore was lined with trees in full leaf. Behind them rose gentle hills, then far-off blue mountains with their crests in downy clouds. Fragile birdsong attended the perfect day.

  “Come back, dreamer.”

  He turned quickly.

  She was there. Straight, proud, magnificent. Wearing a shimmering black feather headdress and clasping her own staff. Directing a steel smile at him.

  He started to say something.

  Instantly she snapped into a combat stance. She had the staff pointing at him, holding it shoulder-height like a spear, hands well apart. Her body was primed, ready.

  The blow came so fast he hardly saw it.

  Pure instinct brought up his stave, thrust out to take the tremendous crack she delivered.

  He was shocked.

  She drew back, flipped her staff so she held it level and attacked again. Once more he blocked her hit with the shank, feeling its impact soak into his taut arm muscles. Ducking, she tried a low stroke, aimed at his waist, but he was quick enough to deflect it.

  “Wake up!” she scolded, dancing out of reach. She was grinning and her eyes shined.

  Then it dawned on him that this was no unprovoked attack. The female was paying him the compliment, high in orc terms, of a mock duel. Although to any other race the idea that there might be anything complimentary or sham about it would ring hollow. It wasn’t unusual for orc sparring to result in broken bones and even the occasional fatality.

  “Stop resisting and start fighting!” she cried, confirming it. “It’s no fun, you just parrying!”

  In responding defensively he’d risked insulting her. Now he entered into the spirit.

  He leapt forward and swept at her legs. Had he connected she would have toppled. But she jumped nimbly, clearing the shaft, and immediately returned a shot of her own. It missed more by luck than any design of his.

  They circled each other, knees bent, stooping to offer less of a target.

  She lashed out with a high swipe to his head. He countered it with one end of his staff, chancing it snapping, and her pole bounced off at the impact. His follow-up targeted her midriff, and would have knocked the air out of her if she hadn’t batted it away.