Orcs

by Stan Nicholls

  Closing his mind to the pain of his wound, which was trouble-some but far from the worst he’d taken, he paused to listen at the next landing. The echoing clash of weapons was fading away. Presumably the Sluagh and Manis had gone down, the way he’d intended travelling. Moving quietly, sword at the ready, he continued climbing upwards, looking for a way to outflank the strangers and get back down to the portal.

  He thought he must be somewhere near the palace’s broad front. By a window, he stopped to knot a tourniquet round his upper arm. Then movement outside caught his eye. He peered through a broken pane, past the fringe of icicles on the casement.

  A seething army sprawled across the wintry plain. Columns of soldiers were heading towards the palace. Others clustered around the entrance below.

  The sound of halting footsteps drew him from the sight. He turned, his blade up and ready.

  Somebody limped out of the gloom.

  Stryke couldn’t believe it. Nor did he exactly need it at a time like this.

  “What does it take to kill you?” he said. Though in truth, the one he addressed looked half dead anyway.

  “It ain’t that easy,” Micah Lekmann replied. Insanity blazed in his eyes. “I don’t know how I got here, or you neither, but I can’t believe I’ve been given another chance to kill you. Maybe there are gods after all.”

  The man was clearly deranged. Stryke thought of him tracking them through snow and ice in his skimpy clothes. His eyes were red-rimmed, the fingers of his left hand blackened with frostbite.

  “This is crazy, Lekmann,” he said. “Give it up.”

  “No way!” His sword lashed out, low and dangerous. Stryke jumped out of its path. The bounty hunter, a crazed grin plastered on his face, kept coming, thrusting again and again with the fury of a madman.

  Stryke parried and fought back. His counterblows seemed feeble for all the effect they had. Lekmann drank them up and kept coming. They battered it out, up and down the corridor, Stryke desperate to find an opening and end another distraction he didn’t need. It wasn’t proving easy. The human seemed to have dispensed with fear and caution. He fought like a ravening beast.

  Suddenly Stryke was blinded by an intense flare of light. Bewildered, he pulled back out of range, straining to recover his vision. When it returned there were motes in his eyes, as though he’d been staring at the sun. But that didn’t obscure what he was looking at.

  Lekmann stood in front of him, quite still, his sword at his feet.

  He had a gaping hole in his chest. Broken ribs showed white in the spilling gore. The edge of the wound was charred and smoking. Through it, Stryke caught a glimpse of the wall beyond.

  Almost casually, Lekmann lowered his head and stared at the damage. He didn’t look as if he was in agony, though he must have been. The expression he wore was one of dazed affrontedness. Then he disgorged a mouthful of blood, swayed like a drunk and went down, face first. Smouldering.

  As Stryke gaped, trying to make sense of what had happened, another figure moved from more distant shadows.

  Jennesta’s mouth twisted in an ugly grimace as she saw him. The scream she let out, equal parts rage and triumph, cut through him like a blade. Her hands came up, presumably to deal him a similar fate.

  He was already moving. Even so, he barely managed to avoid the dazzling gout of lightning she flung at him. It struck a carved pillar a hairsbreadth away, pulverising the marble and sending shards flying.

  Stumbling, in pain, he vaulted down the next staircase. Another bolt hit, over his head, bringing down a plaster shower. He half jumped, half fell, down the broad flight of steps. In a corridor off the landing below, Mani troopers were battling more Sluagh. He dodged past them and pounded down the next flight, letting the song of the stars guide him back to the portal.

  The odds were against him making it.

  25

  “Do you sense something?” Serapheim asked, without looking round.

  His back to the gemmed portal, he stared about the chamber. Nothing moved, though faint vapours were rising from the downed Sluagh at the entrance.

  “Yes,” Sanara answered. “They’re close.”

  “Who are?” Alfray said.

  As if in reply, one of the grunts near the door signalled urgently. Seconds later, the hunting party ran in.

  Alfray scanned their ranks. “Where’s Stryke?”

  “We were hoping he was here,” Coilla told him. She explained what had happened.

  “For what it’s worth, I have felt no disturbance in the life web indicating he might be dead,” Serapheim declared.

  Haskeer said, “What?”

  “A question of sensitivity. There’s no time to explain now. The stars?”

  “I don’t know,” Coilla admitted. “Maybe Stryke has them. They went missing the same time he did. But listen! There’s a whole army of Manis storming the place. They’re engaging the Sluagh.”

  “You confirm what my daughter and I already suspected,” Serapheim revealed. “Jennesta’s here.”

  “Gods!”

  “We have to find Stryke,” he continued. “And do what we can to sow discord in the ranks of her forces. Jennesta mustn’t get the upper hand.”

  “I’ll take a group to search for him,” Jup offered.

  “Sanara will go with you. From this end I should be able to channel power through to her.” He turned to his daughter. “Are you willing, Sanara?”

  “Of course.”

  “How’s she going to help us find Stryke?”

  “She’s not. But if your troops can get her to a safe place as near the interlopers as possible, we might be able to do something about Jennesta. Trust me.”

  “But what about Stryke?” Coilla demanded.

  “Perhaps you’ll find him while you’re escorting Sanara.”

  “That’s not good enough! We can’t abandon one of our own.”

  “Then I suggest you split into two groups. But you must hurry!”

  “Reafdaw!” she shouted. The grunt came over to her, blood trickling from a cut above his ear. “You stay here with Alfray. Haskeer, we’ll go after Stryke, all right? The rest of you, follow Jup.”

  The Wolverines readied themselves. Some shared their last dregs of water, others patched their wounds.

  Then Haskeer, as officer in charge, barked the order and the two groups set off again.

  Trying to reach the cellars drew on all of Stryke’s reserves of skill and stamina.

  With Manis and Sluagh battling at every turn, there was chaos in the palace. He tried to stay clear of conflict, sidestepping fights and skirting any challenging him.

  His luck ran out when he rounded a corner and found himself confronted by a pair of orcs. For a second he dared hope they might think he was part of Jennesta’s horde. But they obviously knew his face.

  “That’s Stryke!” one of them yelled.

  They advanced, weapons raised.

  He tried diplomacy. “Whoa! Just hold it.” He lifted his hands to mollify them. “There’s no need for this.”

  “There is,” the first grunt told him. “You’re top of our mistress’s wanted list.”

  “She was my mistress too. You must know she’s no friend of orcs.”

  “She fills our bellies, gives us shelter. Some of us have stayed loyal.”

  “And how loyal do you think she’d be to you, when it comes to it?”

  Stryke thought the one who hadn’t named him seemed to waver.

  “She’ll reward us for your head,” the first trooper said. “That’s more than you’d do, if we let you keep it.”

  “We shouldn’t be fighting each other. Not us, not orcs.”

  “The brotherhood of orcs, eh? Sorry, not this time.” He began moving forward, adding, “It’s nothing personal, Captain. Just doing my job.”

  The second trooper called out, “Careful, Freendo, that’s Stryke you’re up against! You know his reputation!”

  “He’s just an orc, ain’t he? Like us.”


  He charged in, slashing with his sword. Stryke tensed, ready to meet him. But even now he wanted to incapacitate, not kill. If that was possible. From the corner of his eye he saw that the other grunt was holding back.

  Their blades clashed, the sound ringing through the dusty corridor. Stryke battered at the other’s sword, trying to dislodge it. His opponent’s intentions were obviously more lethal. He was doing his best to reach flesh.

  They sparred for a moment, Stryke on the defensive, but he was growing restive. He had no time to waste on a couple of boneheads. If he had to put them down, so be it, they’d had their chance. Powering in, he went for a kill. His foe, the lesser swordsman for all that he was an orc, started backing, a look of alarm filling his face.

  Then Stryke saw his chance. The grunt had tried a low sweep. It left his upper body unprotected. Stryke sent in a sideswipe with the flat of his blade striking the orc across the mouth. He heard the crunch of broken teeth. The orc bounded backwards, almost falling, spitting blood. His sword was lost. Stryke advanced, kicking the fallen sword to one side. The grunt, his face whitening, waited for the killing blow.

  “Now fuck off,” Stryke told him. He sent a menacing sneer the way of the waverer too.

  They stared at him for a second, then turned and fled.

  Stryke sighed and resumed his journey, reflecting on the irony of fighting fellow orcs, and humans he was until so recently allied with.

  Jup’s group, surrounding Sanara to protect her, fought their way to the top of a tower.

  They found an empty stone chamber there with an open balcony. While some guarded the stairs, she stepped out on to it, Jup beside her.

  Jennesta’s army was spread out across the icy wilderness below. There was a scrum at the palace’s gates as details rushed to get in. Then someone cried out and they looked up to see dragons in the sky.

  “Shit, that’s all we need,” the dwarf proclaimed gloomily.

  But then the dragons dived and began spitting gouts of flame at Jennesta’s troops. A ragged cheer broke out in the tower.

  “That’s got to be Glozellan,” Jup guessed. “Good for her!”

  He turned, beaming, to Sanara. Her eyes were closed, and as he watched she slowly began to raise her arms.

  The band stared at her, mystified.

  In the cellars, Alfray and Reafdaw looked on as Serapheim seemed to go into some kind of trance. His eyes were glazed and his arms were raised, and for all the notice he took of the orcs they might have not been there.

  Then a hum, strange and low, issued from the area of the portal. Gingerly, Alfray approached it. He held out a cautious hand and felt a warm, tingling sensation caressing his palm.

  He stepped back and exchanged baffled expressions with the grunt.

  Stryke was passing a stove-in window when something extraordinary caught his eye.

  He looked out and saw Jennesta’s army, their vast number covering the ice to the middle distance. But it wasn’t that which held him.

  There was something in the sky.

  The best he could liken it to was a canvas. But its picture moved, and changed to other views as he watched. He realised it was like the vision Serapheim had conjured at the portal, only writ enormously across the leaden heavens. It showed similar scenes of orc tranquillity and verdant splendour.

  There were roars below. But they were not the battle cries of stoked-up warriors. They were shouts of wonder, followed by discontent.

  He saw the magician’s plan. What better way to sow discord in the ranks than by showing them the lie of their existence? That, plus filling them with dread at this supernatural manifestation. It would likely baffle them as much as turn their loyalties, but that could be enough to buy the time they needed.

  The sound of running feet came to him. He readied for another clash. But it was Coilla and Haskeer’s group that dashed along an adjacent corridor.

  “Thank the gods!” she cried. “We thought we’d lost you!”

  “Jennesta’s here!”

  “We noticed,” she replied dryly.

  “Then let’s get to the cellars!”

  They crashed down to them, broaching all opposition, cutting down any in their way. They sliced through the turmoil like knives through chickens’ necks.

  Eventually, breathing hard and sweating despite the cold, they arrived at the portal chamber and rushed in.

  Serapheim held his trance-like pose, with Alfray and Reafdaw looking on. A small version of the picture glowing in the sky outside hovered in the portal’s circle.

  Almost at once the magician snapped out of his reverie. The picture flickered and died. “We can do no more,” he panted, looking like a man who had engaged in hard physical toil.

  “It was a smart trick,” Stryke complimented him. “Now what?”

  Before Serapheim could answer, Jup’s group returned, still marvelling aloud at the display. They were bloodied, breathless, but whole. Sanara ran to her father’s arms.

  “Give me the instrumentalities,” Serapheim said.

  Stryke handed over the four that were fused and got the single loose artifact back from Sanara. With nimble fingers Serapheim swiftly united them.

  “There is one thing I haven’t mentioned,” he confessed.

  “What’s that?” Coilla asked warily.

  “Activating the portal will liberate a vast amount of energy. It will likely destroy the palace.”

  “Now you tell us.” She glared at him.

  “Had I said so earlier, it might have influenced your decision.”

  “Will it stop us using the thing?” Stryke said.

  “No, if you go through swiftly.”

  Most of the band had doubt in their faces. Serapheim indicated the increasing sound of discord above. “Your choice has narrowed. Use the portal or face anarchy up there.”

  Stryke nodded assent.

  Serapheim went forward and picked out one of the larger bejewelled stones. He laid the five-part star on its surface.

  “Is that it?” Haskeer said.

  “Wait,” the human replied.

  The space above the portal’s dais suddenly transformed into something wondrous. It was like an inverted waterfall of millions of tiny golden stars, whirling, flowing, never still. And there was a throb of energy they could feel through the soles of their boots.

  All present were transfixed by the fantastic sight. The myriad stars threw off a glow that reflected on their faces, their clothes, the walls around them.

  “I need to attune it to your destination,” Serapheim explained, approaching the circle.

  “It’s beautiful,” Coilla whispered.

  “Awesome,” Jup reckoned.

  “And mine!”

  Everyone turned.

  Jennesta stood at the door. General Mersadion, his face ravaged, was beside her.

  Serapheim was the first to recover. “You’re too late,” he told her.

  “It’s nice to see you too, Father dear,” she replied sarcastically. “I have a contingent of my Royal Guard at my heels. Surrender or die, it’s all the same to me.”

  “I think not,” Sanara said. “I can’t see you passing on the opportunity to slay those you think have wronged you.”

  “You know me so well, sister. And how pleasant to see you in the flesh again. I look forward to despoiling it.”

  “If you think we’re giving up without a fight,” Stryke declared, “you’re wrong. We’ve nothing to lose.”

  “Ah, Captain Stryke.” She cast a disdainful eye over the war-band. “And the Wolverines. I’ve relished the thought of meeting you again in particular.” Her voice became granite. “Now throw down your weapons.”

  There was a sudden flurry of movement. Alfray rushed towards her, a sword in his hand.

  Mersadion leapt in to counter it. His blade flashed. Then it was buried in the corporal’s chest. The general tugged it free. Alfray still stood, looking down at the blood on his hands.

  He swayed and fell.

&nbs
p; There was a moment of shock that rooted them all to the spot.

  The spell shattered. Haskeer, Jup, Coilla and Stryke all rushed at Mersadion and unleashed their frenzy. Every grunt in the room would have done the same but for the crush.

  Mersadion didn’t even have time to cry out. He was cut to pieces in seconds.

  The band turned from his mangled corpse and moved Jennesta’s way, ready to further sate their fury. She was weaving a contorted pattern in the air with her hands.

  “No!” Serapheim shouted.

  An orange fireball like a miniature sun ignited between her hands. She flung it. The band scattered. With blurring speed the firebrand sailed over their heads and exploded against a wall with a shattering report. Jennesta began forming another.

  But Serapheim and Sanara had found each other, and together they faced her. Their hands lifted and a sheet of ethereal flame appeared like a shield in front of them, masking the room and its occupants. Jennesta hurled the new fireball at it, but saw its intense energy absorbed by the blazing barrier.

  The portal’s display of splendour continued unabated. But its destructive bent was becoming apparent. A deep rumbling had started to shake the castle’s foundations. Unheeding, the band gathered around Alfray.

  Coilla and Stryke went down on their knees beside him. They saw how severe his wound was. Coilla took his wrist, then looked into her Captain’s eyes. “He’s bad, Stryke.”

  “Alfray,” Stryke said. “Alfray, can you hear me?”

  The old orc managed to open his eyes. He seemed comforted by the sight of his comrades. “So . . . this is how . . . it ends.”

  “No,” Coilla said. “We can tend your wound. We —”

  “You have . . . no need to . . . lie . . . to me. Not now. Let me . . . at least have the . . . dignity of . . . truth.”

  “Hell, Alfray,” Stryke whispered, his voice choking. “I got you into this. I’m so sorry.”