ORCS: Army of Shadows

by Stan Nicholls

  “Have you been drinking seawater? All this is crazy.”

  “Only to someone with the imagination of a worm.”

  “You’re quite something, aren’t you? It never entered your head that these orcs have become friends. Well, comrades at least. And you’d abandon them here.”

  “Maybe they’re… friends to you, but we’ve been in nothing but trouble since you got us tied up with them. And what are they dragging us into now?”

  “We’re trying to help one of our own. It’s called loyalty, if the word means anything to you.”

  “It means getting us killed.”

  “Stryke said he’d take us home. I believe him.”

  “Even if he kept his word, he’d still have the instrumentalities. I… we must have them.”

  “Let it go. It’s wild talk.”

  Standeven didn’t seem to be paying attention. He had a distracted look, and his head was half tilted, as though he was concentrating on something.

  “What is it?” Pepperdyne asked.

  “Can you hear anything?”

  “Hear? Hear what?”

  “I’ve been hearing a… melody. No, not that. It’s faint but… it sounds like… voices, singing. There. Hear it?”

  Pepperdyne listened. There was only the swish of oars cutting through water and the occasional mummer of other conversations. “No, I can’t hear anything.”

  “You must be able to hear it.”

  “There’s nothing. It’s just the sea. It can play tricks.”

  He looked bewildered. “Is it? Perhaps you’re right. I can’t seem to… I don’t hear it now.”

  “You’ve not been getting enough rest. None of us have. That probably accounts for it, and what you’ve been saying.”

  “My judgement’s sound,” Standeven replied indignantly. “I can see the logic of it even if you can’t. I have to have the stars. They want me to.”

  “What? Get a grip, Standeven.”

  “You wouldn’t have dared talk to me like that not long ago.”

  “That was then. Now’s a different game. I don’t know what’s going on in that devious head of yours, but understand this: if you do anything stupid you’re on your own.”

  “Obviously,” he sneered.

  “Look, there’s no way I’m going to —”

  He stopped when he saw Stryke rise and make his way to them.

  “Everything all right?” the orc said.

  It could have been Pepperdyne’s imagination, but he thought there was a hint of suspicion in Stryke’s voice. He considered telling him what Standeven had just said, but decided against it. “We’re fine,” he told him. “Just fine.”

  On the Gatherers’ ship, dawn brought another round of drudgery. The dwarfs were hurried through their usual meal of stale bread and water. Then they were steered, blinking, to the deck, for chores to be handed out.

  The slavers had divided the prisoners into arbitrary work gangs when they were first brought aboard, and seemed content to let them carry on. So Spurral and Kalgeck were again in the same group, making intrigues easier. They were assigned to the galley.

  It was sizeable, longer than it was wide, and oppressively hot, even so early. A row of wood-burning kilns occupied one side of the room. All were in full flame, with a variety of pans, pots and kettles on their tops, seething and steaming. The two biggest stoves were being used to heat cauldrons of water, vessels large enough to accommodate a crouching dwarf.

  The not-too-clean work surfaces were littered with cooking utensils and victuals: principally fish, along with some doubtful-looking meat, wheels of rock-hard cheese and loaves of the musty bread. There were a few bunches of limp, shrunken vegetables.

  It was among these that Spurral noticed the protruding hilt of a knife. There were no other blades to be seen. Presumably they had been hidden from the captives, and this one overlooked. She nudged Kalgeck and indicated it with a subtle glance.

  As the crewman watching them turned his attention to some bawling, Spurral whispered, “Can you sidetrack him?”

  Kalgeck was taken aback, then resolved and nodded.

  While the dwarfs were being gruffly assigned their tasks, he edged his way towards a shelf of stoneware. At its end stood a tall jug. Kalgeck shot an anxious look at the crewman’s back. Then he reached up and swatted the jug off its shelf. It went down with a crash and shattered.

  Silence fell, and the crewman spun round, looking furious. He strode to Kalgeck, red-faced.

  “What the hell you playing at?”

  “It was an accident. I —”

  “Accident? You clumsy little swine!” He took a swipe at Kalgeck, landing a meaty smack. “I’ll give you accident!” The blows continued to rain down on the dwarf’s head and shoulders.

  While everyone was distracted, Spurral quickly palmed the knife and slipped it up her sleeve. It had a short blade, but it was razor-sharp, and the coolness of the steel against her skin had a reassuring feel to it.

  Kalgeck was still being clouted by the swearing crewman, and his arms were raised as he tried to protect himself. Spurral had a flash of regret at having involved him, and wondered how far the punishment would go. It crossed her mind to intervene and use the knife now. But no sooner had the thought occurred than the human, fury spent, ceased his pounding. He replaced it with even more colourful invective as he ordered Kalgeck to clear up the mess.

  Down on hands and knees, gathering the pieces, Kalgeck caught Spurral’s eye and gave her a wink.

  Their group was set to washing dishes, carrying and fetching, bringing firewood from the hold to feed the kilns, and a variety of other duties. But nothing that involved anything sharp, such as preparing food. The galley crew took care of those tasks themselves, and Spurral feared they might notice a blade was missing. When there was no outcry she concluded they weren’t methodical enough to realise.

  The morning progressed in a grinding routine. One menial, back-breaking job after another was assigned, with the dwarfs spurred on with curses if they were lucky, kicks and punches if they weren’t. At around noon all the captives were allowed out on deck to be fed. As usual, the fare dished up for them was even worse than the crew’s own lacklustre chow. But the dwarfs, their appetites sharpened by the ceaseless labour, bolted it anyway.

  Slumped on the sweltering deck, waiting for their short break to be rudely ended, some of them catnapped. Others exchanged whispers under disapproving gazes, or simply lounged, exhausted. For Spurral and Kalgeck, sitting with their backs to the rail, it was the first time they had had a chance to confer since Kalgeck’s earlier hiding.

  “You all right?” she asked from the corner of her mouth.

  He nodded. Though his developing bruises seemed to tell a different story.

  “Sorry I got you into trouble,” she added.

  “Don’t be. It was worth it.”

  “Yeah. We got our first real weapon.”

  “And I pilfered these.” He discreetly opened his hand. In his cupped palm were four or five objects that looked like pegs, made of wood with metal tips.

  “What are they?”

  He smiled. “Don’t know much about seafaring, do you? They’re kevels. You use them to secure ship’s ropes. They’ll make good shot for the slings.”

  She was impressed. “Smart thinking.”

  “When do we act, Spurral? Everybody’s ready. Well, ready as they’ll ever be. They’re just waiting on your word.”

  “We have to pick the right —”

  Kalgeck kicked the side of her leg and nodded up the deck.

  Salloss Vant had appeared. It was the first time they’d seen him since the day before. He was accompanied by a couple of particularly rough-looking henchmen, and he didn’t look happy. Moving in the peculiarly slinking, almost feline manner that had struck Spurral when she first saw him, the Gatherer captain positioned himself before them. As he did, other crewmen placed themselves around the captives.

  “On your feet!” he barked.
>
  The dwarfs reluctantly rose.

  “Someone here has betrayed my trust,” Vant said.

  “What trust?” Spurral remarked under her breath.

  “When I took you aboard I asked you to surrender to your fate,” he went on. “It seems not all of you saw the wisdom in my advice.” He regarded them with a baleful glare. “A knife has gone missing.”

  Spurral could have kicked herself for assuming she’d got away with it. “Looks like you’ll get the word sooner than you thought,” she whispered to Kalgeck.

  His eyes widened. He began stealthily slipping a hand into his partly open shirt, seeking a weapon.

  Spurral was aware that some of the dwarfs nearby were surreptitiously glancing her way.

  “Is anyone going to own up to it now and take their punishment?” Vant demanded. Nobody spoke or moved. “So you’re cowards as well as fools. Just what I expected from inbred scum. You’ll all be flogged for your insolence. Those assigned to the galley this morning, stay on your feet! The rest of you, back on your arses!”

  “Here we go,” Spurral muttered.

  She, Kalgeck and the five or six others in their group were left standing. They were more or less bunched, like a cluster of corn in a field otherwise flattened by a storm.

  Vant scanned them. His malevolent eye fell upon Spurral and Kalgeck. “You two,” he rumbled ominously. To his crew, he snapped, “Bring them here!”

  The nearest pair of sailors headed for those still standing. They didn’t bother to draw their weapons, taking it for granted there would be no resistance.

  One of them made straight for Spurral, approaching with a merciless smirk on his grizzled face. She had her arms behind her back, out of his sight, and let the stolen knife slide down her sleeve and into her hand.

  “Move, bitch,” he grated.

  Spurral swung round the blade, fast and hard, and buried it in his midriff. For good measure she thrust it into him twice more. The man looked as much bewildered as pained, staring down at the widening crimson patch with a bemused expression. As his legs buckled and he started to fold, she grabbed the hilt of his cutlass and dragged it from its scabbard. He was hitting the deck when she turned on the second man. This one appeared dumbfounded too. She took the benefit of his slow reaction and drove the blade into him, putting all her force behind it. He went down.

  A pall of silent, disbelieving shock descended. Everyone, captives and crew, seemed spellbound. For one stomach-churning moment Spurral thought she was alone, that none of the others would move to support her.

  Then Kalgeck shouted, “Now! Now!”

  There was an explosion of movement and sound.

  Dwarfs and men were shouting. Some screamed. Spurral saw three dwarfs piling into a crewman, pummelling him with their improvised hatchets. Somebody tugged free the man’s sword and turned it on him. Another crewman staggered past with a female dwarf clinging to his back and repeatedly stabbing him with a seized dagger. Yet another was borne aloft by half a dozen captives and hurled yelling over the side. One of the henchmen beside Salloss Vant took a faceful of shot. He sank, writhing, to his knees. Everywhere there was chaos.

  Kalgeck had got hold of the cutlass from the second man Spurral downed. He was no master with a sword, but the energy of his rage made up for the lack. Bellowing inarticulately, he laid into a knot of crewmen already besieged by his fellow islanders. Forced back to the rail, they were desperately trying to fend off their attackers.

  Taken unawares, the Gatherers were faring badly. But Spurral knew the element of surprise wouldn’t last long, and if the dwarfs didn’t capitalise on it straightaway, they never would. Vant was wading into the dwarfs, swinging his sword like a madman. Spurral determined to settle with him.

  She hadn’t gone six paces when one of the crew blocked her way. He was armed with a cutlass and bent on stopping her. Spurral would have been happier meeting him with a staff, but she was as comfortable with a sword as with just about any other weapon. And now the bloodlust was on her. She charged.

  He was strong. When their pealing blades collided it sent a jolt through her. The blows they exchanged were harsh, like rock on rock and just as unyielding. Despite her strapping dwarfish build, Spurral was nimbler, which kept her from reach. But her opponent was the single-minded sort and came on relentlessly. He was good at blocking her thrusts too, frustrating every attempt at breaking his guard.

  They were close to stalemate when chance intervened. Spotting a crewman in the rigging, several dwarfs targeted him with their slingshots. The stinging bombardment made him lose his grip. Screaming, he plummeted to the deck, landing with a bone-shattering crash just behind Spurral’s foe. It was enough of a distraction to make him turn, simultaneously dipping his guard.

  Spurral didn’t hesitate. She ran at him, cutlass at arm’s length. The momentum took the blade deep into his chest. He went down heavily, falling backwards, the force of his collapse whipping the sword out of her hand. Thudding her boot on the corpse, she wrenched it free.

  She straightened, panting, with sweat trickling from her brow. When she looked up, Salloss Vant was standing in front of her, bloody cutlass in hand.

  He wore a demonic expression. His eyes burned like searing coals. When he spoke, he struggled to get the words out through his choking wrath. “You… are going… to… die.”

  “You can try,” she replied, trying to keep the foreboding out of her voice.

  Done with words, he bellowed and came at her.

  20

  Vant’s rage swamped any finesse at swordplay he might have possessed. He hurtled at Spurral like a maddened bull. And now she saw that in addition to his cutlass he brandished a long-bladed knife. He swung the weapons like some kind of demented juggler, smearing the air with a metal haze.

  Spurral hastily withdrew, trying to stay supple and anticipate where and how he might strike. An impossible task when facing someone as crazed as Vant, she soon realised. All she could do was keep moving. It was a strategy with limited value: inevitably he closed in on her and she was forced to engage.

  The impact of the first blow she blocked had her staggering. The second came close to putting her down. She retreated once more, just a few steps this time, then feigned going in again. It was intended to wrong-foot him. Instead, she had to quickly duck as his blade whistled over her head.

  A cacophony of yells, screams and clashing blades served as background.

  All around them, dwarfs and Gatherers battled. The surprise element had more momentum than Spurral guessed, and the islanders were driving home their advantage. Taken unprepared, dead and wounded crewmen littered the deck, or fought desperate rear-guard actions. Some of the crew, those from the night watch, had been sleeping when the rebellion broke out. Their awakening was rude.

  Not that the dwarfs had it all their own way. They were facing hardened brigands and, as proof, the bodies of their dead and wounded were nearly as plentiful.

  Avoiding two blades wielded by someone demented with fury was taxing Spurral. Already she was less light on her feet, and her arms were starting to feel leaden. Taking the offensive, she opted to rush Vant, sweeping her sword like a scythe. It was his turn to swerve. He moved just fast enough to elude her low swipe. His anger further heightened, he was back on the offensive without pause. Another round of battering followed, rattling Spurral’s bones.

  It was shaping up as less than an even match, and Spurral knew she had to find a different strategy or lose. The thought occurred that if she couldn’t change the way he fought, perhaps she could change where. She turned and ran. Bellowing, he dashed after her.

  She headed for one of the few parts of the ship she was familiar with. That meant leaping over corpses and skirting fights. At one point a Gatherer tried to bar her path. She deflected his cutlass on the run, and left him to cope with a trio of dwarfs closing in at his rear.

  Spurral arrived panting at the galley door. It was half open. She kicked it in, Vant close behind. Inside, she wa
s relieved to find the place empty, and raced to the interior. A second later he crashed in behind her.

  “You little freak!” he screamed, lips foaming. “Stand and take what’s coming!”

  “You want me,” she hissed, “you come and get me.” It was a bold challenge; he was between her and the only way out.

  Her hope was that the restricted space would cramp his movements and perhaps give her, with the smaller frame, a slight edge. A bonus was that there were plenty of potential weapons in the galley. Or rather, missiles. She grabbed an iron cooking pot and lobbed it at him. It fell short, clattering at his feet, and Vant furiously kicked it aside. He began to advance. Spurral took to bombarding him with anything that came to hand. She threw kettles, pans, a wooden mallet, skillets, flagons, trenchers and a heavy ladle. Several of the objects struck him, but he seemed oblivious to any hurt they might have caused. The only obvious effect was that his vehemence rose to even greater heights. She started to wonder if anything would stop him.

  There being nothing else within easy reach to throw, she braced herself for his onslaught. Oblivious to the broken crockery and utensils underfoot, Vant stormed her way. She stood her ground. There was little choice: the narrow, windowless galley’s farthest wall was no more than ten paces behind her.

  Spurral had to hold her sword two-handed to hang on to it, such was the energy of the pounding he delivered. She managed, just, to stop any of his passes getting through, but her every attempt at turning her defence into an attack was thwarted. He staved her off with almost contemptuous ease. Despite her resolve to stand firm, the sheer power of his pummelling was forcing her to retreat. And she knew that if her back touched the wall her chances of survival would be vanishingly slim.

  Desperation breeds ingenuity. Or insane recklessness. Something she noticed out of the corner of her eye, and the idea it gave her, could have fallen into either category. They had drawn level with the two largest kilns. Their fires had recently been banked, and the water in the massive cauldrons they supported was boiling vigorously. The clouds of steam they gave off misted the room. Condensation ran down the walls and dripped from the ceiling.