Orcs

by Stan Nicholls

  The captives were frog-marched into the clearing, their appearance putting a stop to the dirge. Led through the staring ranks, they were taken to the man standing next to Braetagg’s corpse. From his arrogant bearing, and the deferential way the others addressed him, he was obviously the sect’s leader.

  Eyes as dead as those on the wolf headgear he wore, the human regarded Jup and Haskeer contemptuously. “So. Intruders. And sub-humans at that.”

  “We ain’t sub anything to do with your kind,” the dwarf retorted.

  For his trouble he took a sharp crack across his face with a gauntlet. Trickles of blood snaked from his nose and the side of his mouth.

  “What you doing with Braetagg?” Haskeer demanded. He strained against his bonds, uselessly.

  “Seeking magic,” the Master told him, his voice intense. “Tapping the energy the same way you so-called elder races do.”

  “Mine doesn’t.”

  Haskeer’s reward was a blow to the stomach that doubled him.

  “How can a corpse have anything to do with the magic?” Jup raged. “You crazy bastards!”

  “Crazy?” the Master repeated, looking genuinely affronted.

  He turned to the corpse and seemed to study it for a moment. Then he grasped the smallest finger of Braetagg’s right hand and snapped it off with an audible crack. A tiny puff of grey dust attended the break.

  Haskeer’s hollered protest was stifled by fresh blows. For good measure, the pyros gave Jup’s kidneys a pummelling too. Ignoring their struggles, the leader held the finger up at eye level, examining it. That done, he tossed it into the fire.

  The flames instantly blazed more brightly, liberating a myriad of swirling, multicoloured sparks. By turns, the pyre burned emerald, scarlet, gold and turquoise, each with an intensity so dazzling it was hard to look at. It beggared belief that a scrap of arid flesh could make such tumult. Haskeer and Jup were confounded by the sight of it.

  “A taste of Braetagg’s potency,” the Master declared as the effect abated. “With proper ritual and a thorough grinding of the cadaver, the resultant essence will grant me the power of sorcery.”

  “You’re fucking mad,” Jup growled.

  “So you said.” The leader’s bushy eyebrows arched. “But you won’t be here to see me disprove that. Like most rituals, this one is all the better for a little blood sacrifice.” He signalled to his minions. “Make them ready!”

  “This is getting us nowhere,” Alfray complained.

  “You’ve a better idea?” Stryke said.

  “Maybe we could split into smaller groups and speed the search.”

  “No, we’re split enough as it is.”

  They rode on in silence.

  At length, Coilla exclaimed, “Over there!” They looked the way she pointed. The light of a fire glinted faintly on the opposite bank. “Ours?” she wondered.

  “Even those two wouldn’t be so stupid as to light a fire,” Stryke assured her.

  “So?” Alfray said.

  “So it’s all we’ve got.” He barked an order and the half-band wheeled about.

  They travelled at a clip, ducking branches, following the shore’s camber as tight as they dared.

  An arrow’s flight further and a bunch of grunts waved them down. There were swift explanations of the sergeants’ absence.

  “Perfect,” Stryke fumed, “now we’ve got a corpse and two idiots to rescue.”

  “How do we do it?” Coilla asked.

  “Three groups, and you’re leading one of them. Calthmon, Darig, you’ll stay here with the horses. That leaves . . . twenty-six. My group and Alfray’s will take eight grunts each. You get ten, Coilla.”

  “Thanks for trusting me.”

  “It’s a case of needs must, Corporal. Fuck this up and you’re out.”

  “What’s the plan?” Alfray said.

  “Nothing fancy. We go into that copse from three sides. Priority is getting Haskeer and Jup out in one piece, then Braetagg if we can manage it. Questions?”

  They had none. Quickly mustered into their three groups, they set out, left, right and straight ahead.

  Coilla’s detail took the right-hand course, and was soon creeping through foliage to the clearing. No guards were encountered. They saw the fire and Braetagg’s body stretched out on its rock slab, Jup and Haskeer captive beside it. Two humans had hold of the sergeants; another seemed to be performing a ritual. The rest of the wolf-headed pyros stood further back, droning a rhythmic chant.

  Coilla turned to the nearest grunt. “It’s . . . Slettal, isn’t it?” she whispered.

  “Ma’am.”

  “How many good archers have we got with us?”

  He frowned. “How good?”

  “They’d have one chance to hit those two holding the sergeants.”

  “Sorry, Corporal. We’re all handy with a bow, but a shot like that . . .”

  “I should have guessed,” she sighed. “All right, I’ll try it myself.” He went to hand her a bow. She waved it aside and raked back one of her baggy shirtsleeves, revealing an arm scabbard of throwing knives. “I prefer these,” she explained, plucking out a pair of snub blades.

  Slettal looked from her to her distant targets and back again. “You can do that?”

  “I can try. If I manage it, all of you be ready to go in fast and tackle the main body. If I don’t, we make for the two I missed and that priest type. At least we can avenge the sergeants. Got that? Good. Now stand ready.”

  She knew the other Wolverines were likely to attack at any second, risking Jup and Haskeer’s lives. There was no time to spare. She took a bead on the hardest mark first, the human almost completely shielded by Haskeer. The second, restraining Jup, offered a softer target. Though in truth neither was easy. The third human, the one she took to be the leader, was growing more animated as the ritual climaxed.

  Centring herself, breath held, Coilla pitched a knife. It was still in the air as she lobbed the second.

  The human grasping Haskeer caught his blade in an eye, reeled and dropped. His comrade stopped the next throw with his chest and went down shrieking.

  “Move!” Coilla yelled.

  They burst into the clearing. Simultaneously, Stryke’s and Alfray’s groups attacked. Coilla made for the sergeants. The rest of her crew obeyed orders and piled into the greater knot of humans at her rear. A chaotic mêlée of shouting, screaming, and ringing steel broke out.

  As she dashed forward, Coilla noticed that the fire was behaving strangely. It blazed with an unusual ferocity, the flames permeated with brilliant primary colours. But she had no time to ponder it. The pyro leader, face twisted with fury, had drawn a sword. She accelerated and veered past him, narrowly avoiding the slicing blade. Then she was with the sergeants and slashing their bonds.

  “Incoming!” Jup shouted.

  Several armed pyros were running their way. Coilla passed one of her blades to the dwarf. Haskeer scooped his own from a fallen guard. Bellowing war cries, they rushed to engage them.

  Coilla was left to confront the leader. He came at her in a frenzied state, roaring incoherently, splitting the air with his broadsword. She set to fending his wild blows, answering each with a foray of her own.

  “Meddling ingrates!” he raged. “Savages!”

  “That’s rich from somebody wearing a dead animal,” she retorted coolly, needling him further.

  Another ferocious outburst ensued. Coilla ducked and dodged, blocking his thrusts and repaying them.

  “The ritual!” the leader stormed. “You broke the ritual! Fools!”

  Then his expression froze. He pulled back, forgetting his guard, and stared beyond her, eyes wide. Assuming a feint, but not entirely sure, she rapidly moved to one side and turned her head. What she saw made her jaw drop.

  Braetagg’s corpse was moving.

  It sat up. Stiffly, it seemed to stretch, dry old bones creaking. It slowly swung its legs and placed its feet on the ground. At once it rose, and for a second
swayed. Then it began to walk, ponderous at first, its limbs working sluggishly.

  Coilla tore her gaze away and looked at the human. He stood immobile, face ashen. All the others in the clearing were at a distance, occupied by the mêlée, and seemed unaware of Braetagg’s tramping husk.

  The corpse continued to trudge with grim, deliberate purpose, leaving a faint trail of whitish dust. Coilla tensed as it lurched past, heedless of her, and she fancied there was some kind of subtle light in its hollow eyes.

  Shaking off his inertia, though still in the grip of terror, the sect’s leader took up his sword to shield himself. It was a fainthearted effort. With shocking speed, the cadaver closed in and dashed the blade aside with ease. The living and the dead melded.

  Coilla looked on, her view obscured by the intense glare of the fire and the thick cloud rolling from it. She could make out the pair grappling, but little more. Then a scream came. Hideous, drawn-out, despairing. Human.

  Several figures came at her through the swirl. She dropped her defensive stance when she saw it was Stryke and the others, wiping gore from their swords and hatchets.

  “You did well,” Stryke said.

  The fire was dying. A puff of wind diluted the smoke. It let her see the leader, sprawled on the earth, limbs at crazy angles. Death had stamped a frightful expression on his face. She looked to the stone slab. Braetagg’s body lay on it, his pose unchanged.

  Stryke stared at her. “What’s the matter?”

  She blinked at him, shook her head. Decided. “Nothing. It . . . it’s the crystal. Still muzzing my brain.”

  They rode hell for leather, Braetagg’s remains swathed in blankets and draped over a spare horse.

  Making Cairnbarrow in record time, the band took the streets at a clip, ploughing the crowds of revellers. The main square held three times its earlier mass and slowed progress. Struggling through, they came to restless lines of orcs barred from the tent by Imperial guards.

  Major Crelim appeared. A path was opened. The Wolverines’ five officers were ushered in, along with a brace of grunts hauling their shrouded burden. They placed it on the floor and peeled back the blankets.

  “I didn’t think you’d do it,” Crelim confessed. “Quickly, get him onto the throne. And be careful.”

  Gentle hands hoisted the corpse. Braetagg was positioned, his crown replaced, his parched hand laid upon the sword hilt. Coilla followed the proceedings with especial interest.

  “He’s missing a finger!” the Major exclaimed.

  “Er, yes,” Stryke admitted. “Not bad, considering what he might have lost. You could cover it with . . . his sleeve or something.”

  “I don’t know,” Crelim mused doubtfully.

  Haskeer swaggered to the throne. “The Captain’s right, sir. Nobody’s going to notice that small a bit’s not there. Braetagg’s a tough old charger.” He moved nearer the corpse, ignoring the others’ frantic signals for restraint. “Nothing to worry about there. Tough as dragon hide soaked in piss for a month.” He brought back his balled hand in a gesture of bonhomie.

  “No!” they all cried.

  Too late to stay Haskeer’s fist. The comradely punch impacted Braetagg’s shoulder with a dull thud, raising as much dust as a beaten carpet. Haskeer gagged. Braetagg’s arm came away, hung momentarily by a dried sinew, then fell. It hit the floor with a sound like a dropped roll of ancient parchment.

  “You slugbrain!” Jup yelled.

  “Sergeant Haskeer!” Crelim bellowed, face cerulean with fury.

  All present vied to blacken Haskeer’s parentage, and eyes.

  Stryke edged away from the furore and sidled up to Coilla.

  “Before you ask,” she said, “I don’t darn.”

  He shrugged his shoulders and let out a long, weary breath. “Oh, well. Happy Braetagg’s Day.”

  THE ORCS RETURN IN:

  ORCS: BAD BLOOD

  VOLUME 1

  Stan Nicholls

  When the orcs discovered a world filled with their own kind, they thought they would live there till the end of their days. But the appearance of an unlikely ally will change everything.

  This ally—a human—tells of the atrocities being visited upon orcs back in the other world. He implores Stryke and his companions to come back so that they may save their kind from extinction and wreak vengeance upon the humans who’ve wronged them.

  But can this human be trusted? Is he a rare friend to the orc—or is he there to lure them back for their own personal annihilation?

  Coming in 2009

  Available wherever good books are sold