ORCS: Army of Shadows

by Stan Nicholls

  For the first time since being seized, they were given sustenance. It was hard, stale bread and suspect water. The hold was badly crowded, but Spurral made sure she got floor space next to Dweega. She noted that Kalgeck had bagged the space on the girl’s other side.

  The prisoners were forced to keep silence throughout. But once the few meagre candles had been snuffed, and the hold was locked down, whispers were exchanged. Though quiet weeping was more prevalent.

  Spurral wriggled nearer to the girl and spoke low. “You all right?”

  “Are any of us?”

  “You in particular. What’s wrong with your leg?”

  Dweega didn’t answer. But Kalgeck leaned in close and said, “She’s lame.”

  Spurral sensed the girl stiffening at the words.

  “It happened when they caught us?” Spurral asked.

  “No,” Dweega said. “I’ve always… been like this.”

  “And you don’t want the Gatherers knowing.”

  “They can’t get a good price for damaged goods,” she mouthed bitterly.

  “You’ve been lucky so far. How much longer do you think you can hide it from them?”

  “I was hoping that when we get to wherever we’re going I might slip ashore and —”

  “Can’t see that happening. Not the way they’ve got things set up.”

  “I thought you might be able to help.” There was anger in Dweega’s voice, and obvious despair. “You’re supposed to be some kind of god.”

  “She can’t be,” Kalgeck whispered, “or she wouldn’t be here.”

  “It was your elder who assumed we were gods,” Spurral told them. “I’m flesh and blood, just like you.”

  Dweega sighed. “Then that’s our last hope gone.”

  “You don’t have to be a god to do something about our situation.”

  “Like what?” Kalgeck wanted to know.

  “There are as many of us as there are of them. If we could overpower a few of them and get hold of their weapons —”

  “Mutiny? We wouldn’t stand a chance.”

  “What’s our choice? We can go meekly to our fate or make a stand. I know which I’d prefer.”

  “Then you go ahead,” Dweega said.

  “I can’t do it alone. We need to organise ourselves.”

  “You don’t know the Gatherers like we do,” Kalgeck rasped. “They’d show us no mercy.”

  “They’d certainly show none to Dweega when they find out she’s lame. Isn’t that reason enough to strike at them first?”

  “And assure our deaths. Maybe she can get off this ship; and at least the rest of us will be alive as slaves.”

  “You might call it a life. I don’t.”

  “I don’t relish it either. And if I thought we had a hope of overcoming the Gatherers I’d be with you. But I can’t see the others having much of an appetite for taking them on.”

  “What about you, Dweega?” Spurral asked her. “How do you see it?”

  “I’ll take my chances.” She turned over and showed Spurral her back.

  Nothing more was said and, exhausted, they gave in to fitful sleep.

  It seemed no time at all before the morning came.

  At first light they were roughly roused with kicks and curses, and allowed a little of the brackish water to gulp. Then they were steered to their labours.

  But this time they were given different tasks. Instead of working with the rope, Spurral’s group was set to scrubbing the decks. Again, Kalgeck and some of the others did their best to shield Dweega, but it wasn’t as easy as when they were working in the dimly lit winding room.

  Inevitably, something happened that made it impossible for Dweega to hide her disability.

  One of the crewmen ordered her to move away from the small cluster of companions trying to shelter her, and swab a different part of the deck. Dweega wavered, which only attracted more attention to her. Under an impatient tirade from several of the crew, she finally rose, and clutching her pail made her way to the indicated place. She did her best to walk normally, but was obviously struggling, and the effort could plainly be read on her face.

  It was only a short distance, but it was an ordeal for her. Doubly so as everyone watched her progress in silence. As she knelt, painfully, one of the crew slipped away. A moment later he returned with the captain.

  Salloss Vant went to Dweega and towered over her, sour-faced.

  “Stand up,” he ordered coldly.

  She did it, although awkwardly.

  “Now walk,” he said. “That way.” He pointed to the spot she had just come from, where Spurral and the others were standing.

  The deficiency in her leg was apparent, and when she got there she all but collapsed into Spurral’s arms.

  “We’ve no room on this ship for any who can’t pull their weight,” Vant boomed, “or who have no value to us! They’re a waste of precious food!”

  “I can work!” Dweega pleaded.

  “But not very well, it seems. We Gatherers aren’t a charitable trust, and we carry no passengers.” He nodded to several crewmen, and started to walk away.

  The men advanced on Dweega. A tussle developed as they tried to prise her away from Spurral. None of the other dwarfs did anything except look horrified.

  “Captain!” Spurral shouted.

  Salloss Vant stopped in his tracks and turned, a look of surprise on his face that one of his chattels should dare address him.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Spurral told him. “We can do her work for her. She doesn’t have to be a burden on you.”

  Vant gave the crewmen another curt nod. One of them landed a heavy blow to the side of Spurral’s head with a lynchpin, breaking her grip on Dweega and knocking her down. Then they began dragging the girl away.

  At that point Kalgeck came alive and tried to intervene. He rushed forward, shouting, “No! No!”

  He, too, was viciously downed.

  “I’ll have no defiance on this ship!” Vant roared, glaring at the captives.

  None of them moved as Dweega, screaming now, was forced to the ship’s rail.

  “Heed this well!” Vant said. “And be certain that the same fate awaits any who challenge my authority!”

  The crewmen lifted the struggling Dweega by her arms and legs. They swung her back and forth a couple of times, building momentum, then tossed her over the rail. There was a shriek as she fell, followed by a distant splash.

  Gasps and screams came from the horrified dwarfs.

  “Bastards!” Spurral yelled. “Stinking, cowardly bastards!”

  Vant turned his attention to her, and to Kalgeck, quaking beside her on the deck.

  “Spirit’s a good thing,” he stated, looming over them. “Slaves with grit usually make good workers, and that increases the price we’ll get for you. Once you’ve been broken, that is.”

  “Go to hell,” Spurral spat.

  “We’re already there. And should you doubt that, I’m happy to underline the point.” He gestured to the crewmen who had thrown Dweega overboard.

  They hoisted Spurral and Kalgeck to their feet and shoved them to the central mast. Chests to the column, arms hugging it, they were tied at the wrists. The backs of their shirts were ripped open.

  All the other captives were gathered and made to watch what happened next.

  Vant barked an order. A muscular crewman stepped forward, unfurling a leather whip.

  “Six for a start, I think,” the captain decided.

  The whip cracked across Spurral’s back. She felt indescribable pain, but was damned if she was going to cry out. The next lash was for Kalgeck. Agony racked his body, but he followed her lead and kept silent.

  They were beaten alternately, with lingering pauses between the blows, until each had received six strokes. Neither made a sound throughout. Trickles of blood ran from their lips from their clenching their teeth so hard.

  Somebody doused their gore-clotted backs with buckets of seawater. The salt stu
ng like fire. Then they were left there, still tied, as examples to the rest as they filed past on the way to their labours.

  At length, Kalgeck whispered, “That… mutiny.”

  “What… about it?” Spurral managed.

  “How do we… start?”

  The Wolverines finished work on the boats during the night. They were up again as soon as the sun rose, lugging the vessels down to the water’s edge and loading provisions. The day was already warm.

  The band was fatigued, and tempers were still taut, particularly in the case of Haskeer and Jup. Given the tensions, Stryke had the additional problem of carefully choosing who went on which boat. He decided that Jup, Dallog and himself would represent the officers on one of them, along with Pepperdyne as a sort of unofficial master. He thought it best to have Standeven along too, so he could keep an eye on him. The second boat had Haskeer and Coilla aboard, with the latter put in charge. Haskeer didn’t like a corporal being given primacy over a sergeant, but Stryke couldn’t risk Haskeer’s being in command when he was in such a volatile mood. Stryke did take a chance by including Wheam on the second boat, however, in the hope that Haskeer wouldn’t find that too provoking. The tyros were just about evenly distributed between the two craft, as were the Wolverine privates. Turns would be taken at the rowing, and at operating the rudders.

  The trio of dwarf children, Grunnsa, Heeg and Retlarg, were also up with the dawn, if they had slept at all. When the final preparations were being made, they shyly approached Stryke and Coilla.

  It was Grunnsa, the oldest, who came right out with, “Can we go with you?”

  “No,” Stryke told him. “Sorry.”

  The children chorused their disappointment.

  “It’d be too risky,” Coilla explained patiently. “Besides, you’re needed here to lend a hand getting things back in shape after the raid.”

  “Will you see our parents?” Retlarg said.

  “I don’t know,” Stryke admitted. “But if we do, I promise we’ll help them if we can.”

  Heeg put a question they’d rather he hadn’t. “When will you be back?”

  Stryke and Coilla knew that for good reasons or ill, they might never return.

  Coilla softened the blow. “It could be soon. So look out for us, won’t you?” She felt bad giving them what could well be a fruitless task, but didn’t want to dash their hopes completely.

  “Thanks for your help,” Stryke told them. “We couldn’t have done this without you.”

  Grunnsa beamed. “Truly?”

  “’Course.” He brandished the chart. “How else would we know where to go?”

  “Time for us to get on,” Coilla announced. “And you three should be getting back to your duties.”

  The kids puffed their chests at the implication of their importance and ran back up the beach shouting.

  “Talking about the chart,” Coilla said as she watched them go, “how do we know these Gatherers are heading for their base? Maybe they’ve gone straight to whoever they want to sell the islanders to.”

  “It’s all we’ve got to go on. If they’re not there, we’ll be waiting when they get back.”

  “That won’t be much use to Spurral.”

  “I know. But like I said, we’ve no other option.”

  Before they left, Dallog performed a short ceremony invoking the Tetrad, commonly referred to as the Square, the four principal orc deities. He called upon Aik, Zeenoth, Neaphetar and Wystendel to favour their voyage and keep their blades keen. It wasn’t something the band normally did, except before major engagements. But Stryke had given permission for morale’s sake, and because he thought they could use all the help going.

  As Dallog recited the simple ritual, the band veterans remembered Alfray, his fallen predecessor, who had always undertaken the same duty. A very few, Haskeer among them, wore expressions that showed they considered the comparison an unfavourable one.

  When it was done, Stryke ordered everybody to board the boats. It looked as though all the islanders had gathered, the elder at their forefront, to watch the warband depart. They took in the scene in complete silence.

  Stryke stood at the bow of his vessel. Almost without thinking, he patted his pouch containing the instrumentalities.

  Then the oars cut into the foaming water and they set off.

  18

  The young officer who brought Jennesta the news had been part of the retinue that accompanied her from Peczan. So he knew her temper, and dreaded her reaction.

  When he presented himself at her tent in the makeshift camp near the coast in Acurial she was alone. At least as far as other living beings were concerned. As usual, several of her undead bodyguards were present, shuffling vacantly in the background.

  “What do you want?” she asked languidly as he entered. She didn’t bother looking up.

  He bowed. “M’lady, I’ve word of the hunt for the Wolverines you ordered.” She said nothing so he ploughed on. “I regret having to tell you that they… got away.” He braced himself for the storm.

  But she was calm. “How?”

  “That’s what’s extraordinary, my lady. We had them in sight, in the woods. Then they… somehow they… vanished. Or not quite vanished. They… I have no words to describe it, m’lady.”

  She didn’t seem surprised. “Then don’t try. It’s obviously beyond you.”

  “There’s more, ma’am, if it pleases you.”

  “We’ll have to see, won’t we? What is it?”

  “Ours wasn’t the only force out there. There was some other group. Small, but possessing powerful magic. They seemed to be after the orc band, too, ma’am. And once the orcs… went, we were anxious this group might have turned their magic on us.”

  “How was this group made up?”

  “That’s another strange thing, ma’am.”

  “It has been an unsettling night for you, hasn’t it, Major?”

  “We didn’t get too close a look at them, my lady, but many of the men swear they weren’t human. Not like orcs or —” He was about to say you, and thanked the gods he checked himself. “Not like orcs. These were many different kinds of creatures, unlike anything we’ve ever seen before.”

  “If you’re to thrive in my service you’ll learn to take strange things in your stride. Is that all?”

  He was surprised, if not shocked, that she took what seemed to him bad news so evenly. “We’ve also had reports that bands of liberated… that’s to say rebellious orcs are roaming this area. We’re not in the most secure of positions, ma’am.”

  “We won’t be here long.”

  “What are your orders, my lady?”

  “My intention is to follow them.”

  “My lady?”

  “The band of orcs. The Wolverines.”

  He was baffled. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but… how? By ship?”

  “No, you fool. There never was a ship expected. And no vessel could follow where they went.”

  “Then, my lady, how…?”

  “I have the means. Though I warn you that you might find the journey a little… exhilarating. What’s the matter, Major? You look uneasy.” She was poking fun, not inquiring after his well-being.

  “Nothing’s wrong, thank you, ma’am.”

  “Good. Because if I thought that you or any other of my followers might baulk at the manner of our going from this place… Well, perhaps an illustration will serve.” She reached for a small silver bell standing on the arm of her couch. It tinkled lightly.

  In response, the tent flaps rustled and were clumsily pulled aside. A figure lumbered in. It was another of her zombie slaves. Superficially, it looked like all the others the major had encountered. Its eyes were glassy, and lacked any hint of compassion. The skin that could be seen, on the face and hands, had the sickly pallor of a long-mummified corpse.

  The being lurched forward a few steps, then halted, adopting a grotesque parody of standing to attention. And the major couldn’t help but notice that
it gave off the vile odour of decomposing flesh.

  “The latest of my attendants,” Jennesta explained. “Study him closely. I think you may have been acquainted, albeit loosely.”

  He stared at the swaying abomination.

  “Come on, Major!” she urged. “There’s enough of the original features left for you to make out who this is, surely? He was a man of some distinction, for a while.”

  Realisation began to dawn. The major’s face took on an appalled expression.

  “Ah, I see you do recognise our visitor. But let me formally introduce you. Say hello to General Kapple Hacher, late governor of this province.”

  The creature that had been Hacher was drooling.

  “Consider him closely,” Jennesta said, icy now. “Because in him you see the destiny of any who would seek to thwart me or disregard my wishes. Make no mistake, Major; I could as easily command an army of his kind as a rabble of free-thinkers. Make sure you and your comrades give me no reason to do so.”

  He nodded, words being hard for him to summon.

  “Prepare for our departure,” she ordered. “Oh, and do spread the word about the general’s new status, won’t you? Now leave me.”

  He bowed and turned to go.

  “And Major.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “See to it that I’m not disturbed.”

  The officer gave another quick bow and departed, ashen-faced.

  Ignoring the undead Hacher and her other flesh puppets, she stooped and pulled a small chest from under the couch. It was steel-banded and had an elaborate lock, but its real protection lay in the enchantment Jennesta had cast upon it: a spell only she could negate without fatal consequences. Inside the chest was another, slightly smaller, fashioned from pure silver. This, too, was bound with a charm. Once it was opened, she gazed at her greatest treasure.

  The instrumentalities were identical to the ones she had purloined from the Wolverines: sandy-coloured, green, dark blue, grey, red; each with varying numbers of projecting spikes. Knowing that even her magic wasn’t powerful or subtle enough to create a set from scratch, she had studied and laboured for years to perfect a way of duplicating them. The faultless copies she now ran loving fingers over vindicated her efforts. She knew they would do everything the set the doltish orcs possessed could do. They could do more, given she was so much better versed in their potential.