ORCS: Army of Shadows

by Stan Nicholls

  “Not really,” Pepperdyne answered. “We could use good seasoned timber for the repairs, and there’s nothing suitable. Some serious tools would be handy too.”

  “And our food and water are running down quicker than I thought they would,” Stryke admitted. “That settlement we saw seems the best place to restock. Maybe we can pick up news of the Gatherers there, too.”

  The island’s heart was dense with jungle, and hacking their way through was inevitably a slow job. Anxious to speed things, Jup had suggested taking the much less obstructed coastal route. Stryke thought that would leave them too exposed and vetoed the idea.

  But the island was small, certainly compared to the dwarfs’ homeland, and the sun had still to set when they arrived at the beachside settlement. They surveyed it from hiding places at the jungle’s edge.

  There were around half a dozen dwellings of various sizes. An odd feature was a largish pool that had been dug in the clearing in front of the buildings. It was fed with salt water by channels connecting it to the sea, and there was a stout wooden barrier all around it. There were creatures of some kind splashing about in the water. They were of a fair size and dark-skinned, but it was hard to make out what they were.

  Other beings were present, and obviously in charge. These were instantly recognisable to the orcs.

  “Fucking goblins!” Haskeer growled.

  “I gather they’re not one of your favourite races,” Pepperdyne said.

  “We’ve had run-ins,” Stryke told him.

  “Maybe they’re different here,” Coilla ventured.

  “Yeah, right,” Haskeer came back acerbically.

  Pepperdyne was curious. “So what is it about them?”

  “They’re ugly, back-stabbing, two-faced, mean, greedy, underhanded, stuck-up, cowardly, stinking bastards.”

  “Those are their good points,” Coilla added.

  “Given what we’ve known of them in the past,” Stryke said, “we’ll forget the parleying. Now let’s get some scouts out.”

  When the pathfinders had left, stealthily blending into the jungle, the others settled to watch what was happening in the encampment.

  After a while, Coilla said, “Those creatures in the pool —I reckon they’re horses. Or maybe ponies.”

  “Why would goblins keep horses in a saltwater pool?” Jup reasoned.

  “I think Coilla could be onto something,” Stryke said thoughtfully.

  “You reckon they’re horses? What are the goblins trying to do, teach them to swim?”

  “No, not horses. Not exactly. And if I’m right, they wouldn’t need teaching.”

  “So what do you think they are?”

  “I want a closer look to be sure. Let’s think how we can do that.”

  Zoda, one of the scouts he had sent out, returned at that point. “Chief, you better come and see what we’ve found.”

  Stryke beckoned Coilla, Jup and Pepperdyne to accompany him. He left Haskeer in charge.

  They followed Zoda into the jungle. It took just a few minutes to reach a clearing, an area where the vegetation had been trampled flat and several trees bodily uprooted. Gleadeg, one of the other scouts, was waiting for them. He wasn’t alone.

  Stryke took one look and said, “I was right.”

  The creature before them did look like a horse, but not entirely so. It was about the same size as a pony, but much more muscular and powerful-looking. With the exception of its mane, which was dark grey, it was completely black with no markings of any kind save a little patch, again grey, about its eyes. Its skin wasn’t like a horse’s at all; it was smooth and oily in appearance, resembling a seal’s coat. There was a very unusual aspect to its mane, too: it exuded a steady trickle of water, as though it were a gently squeezed sponge. The water ran down the creature’s shiny flanks and fell in drops.

  “You’re a kelpie?” Stryke asked.

  “I am,” the water horse replied, its voice low and throaty. “And you are orcs.”

  “You know us?”

  “I know of your race.” He looked to Jup. “And I have communed with dwarfs.” The kelpie bobbed its great head in Pepperdyne’s direction. “And I am more than familiar with his kind. Unhappily so.”

  “I can vouch for this human. He means you and your kin no harm.”

  “That’s hard to believe of his race. But he hasn’t yet struck me down or tried to enslave me so I must take your word for it.”

  Pepperdyne looked embarrassed.

  “Your kind are rare where we come from,” Coilla said. “They say it’s wise to keep away from you, that you lure hatchlings to watery graves so you can eat their hearts. It’s even said that you’re really the spirits of evil creatures who have died badly.”

  “Many untrue things are said about orcs too,” the kelpie replied. “Do you eat your young? Are you the twisted offspring of elves? Do you murder the innocent for the sheer pleasure of it? Like you, we kelpies are subject to hatred and fear simply because we are different and prefer a solitary path.”

  “Well said.”

  “There is one true story told about us, however. Above all else we value our freedom.” The subject was painful enough to mist the kelpie’s startlingly blue eyes. “To us, enslavement is worse than death.”

  “Yet it looks like that’s been your fate,” Stryke commented. “Why are you here?”

  The kelpie looked to Pepperdyne again. “Because his folk brought us here by force, as they have since time out of mind.”

  “Why is no one ever pleased to see me?” Pepperdyne asked.

  “Now you know how we feel,” Coilla told him.

  “The ones who brought you here,” Jup said, “are they called Gatherers?”

  “Yes,” the kelpie confirmed.

  “So how do the goblins fit into this?”

  “The Gatherers are the catchers of slaves. The goblins buy. A few for themselves, but mostly to be sold on in turn. They stand between the slavers and their prey’s ultimate masters. Their role is to match suitable slaves to the tasks they will undertake. So it’s trolls or gnomes for islands where mining takes place, elves and brownies for houses of pleasure, gremlins for the drudgery of scholarly work. Even orcs, to provide bodyguards for petty tyrants. Though they are notoriously hard to break, you’ll be proud to hear.”

  Coilla frowned. “There are islands here where orcs live?”

  “Oh, yes. None near to this one, however, and even the Gatherers hesitate to try plundering them.”

  “And what about kelpies? What sort of so-called owners are found for you?”

  “We are in demand on many islands.”

  “You have special skills?”

  “No. It seems we make good meat.”

  The silence that followed was broken by Jup. “How did you escape the goblins?”

  “Purely by chance. A rare lapse of attention on their part let me seize the opportunity to get away. I believe the only reason they haven’t mounted a search for me is because, as my kind counts time, I am old. Very old. My flesh would be too tough!” He gave a watery, snorting laugh. “There’s no profit to them in wasting energy on me. Particularly as they are presently small in number.”

  “How small?” Stryke wanted to know.

  “Barely two score. Normally there are many more present, but the rest are away delivering the latest batch of… goods. That’s why there are only kelpie prisoners here at the moment.”

  “Why haven’t you tried to overcome them yourselves, while their numbers are low?”

  “We are hampered in two ways. First, we have no leadership. It’s not our way. We are a fiercely independent breed.” He sighed. “And look where it’s got us.”

  “And second?”

  “Can you who dwell solely on the land imagine what it is to be dependent on water? We have to wallow in its life-giving essence several times a day. Our lives depend on it. A kelpie deprived of water dies a horrible and lingering death. We can hardly mount an uprising when weighed down with that
necessity. I myself have to visit the shore daily to bathe. I don’t doubt they will catch me there one day and kill me.”

  “No they won’t. We’re gonna help you.”

  “You are?”

  “You bet,” Coilla said.

  “Definitely,” Pepperdyne and Jup chorused.

  The kelpie was taken aback. “The human too? What have we done to deserve this?”

  “Let’s just say we’re like you: we value freedom,” Stryke said. “Do you have a name?”

  “Of course.”

  “What is it?”

  “It would do you no good knowing, unless you’re able to talk underwater.”

  “Er, no. That’s not one of our skills.”

  “Just call me the kelpie.”

  “You have our protection. Come with us. You could probably use something to eat. What do you eat?”

  “Not the hearts of hatchlings. Our appetites are wide-reaching, but given the choice we favour fish.”

  “We’ll see what we can do.”

  On their way back to the others, Stryke asked Jup how he felt.

  “I’m fearful of Spurral falling into the hands of scum like these goblins.”

  “So take it out on them until we find the Gatherers.”

  “I intend to.”

  “Good. I knew that’d cheer you up.”

  They waited for dark.

  Under cover of night they positioned themselves around the goblin compound. Stryke had sent for the five guarding the boats, to up the numbers. But he kept Standeven well out of things, and relegated Wheam to a backup.

  There were perhaps a dozen goblins visible. Most of them bore the metal-topped trident spears they favoured, but also carried blades. The rest of the goblins were either in the various buildings or on the beach near the anchored ships.

  “We keep this simple,” Stryke whispered to Coilla. “Get in fast, kill ’em.”

  “So how’s that any different to what we usually do?”

  “Ready?”

  She nodded.

  He signalled, and it was passed on.

  The first move was down to the archers. They shot bolts into the compound that dropped five or six of the goblins before the others caught on. The next volley was of flaming arrows aimed at the buildings’ rush roofs, for chaos’ sake.

  The blazing arrows were the signal to charge. Out of hiding, the Wolverines swept in from all sides. The goblins who had survived the arrow bombardment were recovering their balance, and the ones in the now-burning buildings had spilled out. Those on the beach, alerted by the fires, were hurrying back.

  So the orcs faced the full compliment, and relished it.

  Stryke lashed out at the first goblin he met. His blade severed the sinewy neck, sending its head bouncing across the sand. The next took steel to its guts. He disarmed a third by simply doing just that: he lopped off the creature’s sword arm, then ran it through.

  For Coilla, the lure of her throwing knives had proved too strong. Plucking them from the holsters strapped to her arms, she lobbed in rapid succession. A goblin fell with a blade in its eye; another stopped one with its back. Spotting a goblin rushing at her, its trident levelled, she struck it square to the chest. Yet another caught a knife in what would have been its privy parts, if it had any.

  Pepperdyne had the by-now-familiar experience of confronting foes surprised to be facing a human. For the goblins, he guessed, humans meant Gatherers and grubby mutual interest. They were stunned to be attacked by one. Their initial hesitation was a bonus he seized. His sword hewed wiry flesh.

  Haskeer, battling nearby and trying not to admire the human’s style, spat on subtlety, as usual. He brought down the first goblin he came across with bare fists, then snapped its curved spine over his knee. The one after that he eviscerated.

  All acquitted themselves well, even the seasoning tyros. But Jup outshone. He fought with a ferocity to equal that of the matchless orcs. Spurred by frustration and fury, drunk on bloodlust, he gave no quarter. Armed traditionally with his staff, and having a long-bladed knife to hand, he thundered into the goblins like a pint-sized tsunami. He shattered skulls and ripped through throats. Landing a particularly vicious blow, he propelled a goblin over the fence and into the kelpies’ pool. They put paid to it with thrashing hooves and snapping teeth.

  The moment arrived, as it does in every battle, when it dawned on the victors that there was no one left standing to fight. A quick search of the buildings that escaped the fire, and the surrounding area, confirmed it.

  The kelpie prisoners were liberated. They scrambled from the pool and shook themselves. Some pawed the ground, as though that was a pleasure they had long been deprived of.

  Stryke got his officers together, and the ageing kelpie joined them.

  “We’ve got to make a choice,” Stryke told them. “Either we push on to the Gatherers’ island or we stay here in the hope that Spurral and the slavers turn up. You should have first say on this, Jup.”

  “I… I honestly don’t know, chief. My instinct is to go on. Then again, knowing this is where the slaves are brought…”

  “It’s one place they are brought,” the kelpie corrected. “This isn’t the only island where goblins, and other races, collect slaves.”

  “Shit. So Spurral might not be brought here?”

  “Don’t despair. This is the most likely place. But your mate has not arrived yet, which, given when she was taken, makes me think the Gatherers are sticking to their pattern.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The time when they come has never been predictable, but the order of their coming is always the same. The Gatherers’ next port of call after raiding the dwarfs’ island is invariably our own. Take us to our island, Wolverines, and there’s a chance this Spurral of yours can be found. There’s nothing here for us. We want to go home.”

  “What do you think, Jup?” Stryke asked.

  “Gods, this is getting so complicated. But it seems to make sense.”

  “You’re forgetting that we’ve only got two small boats,” Coilla reminded them, “and one of those damaged.”

  “And you’re forgetting those,” the kelpie said. “He tilted his head to indicate the beach and the anchored craft. “Why use a boat when you can have a ship?”

  “I’d feel a damn sight better in one of those,” Haskeer announced.

  Stryke turned to Pepperdyne. “Could we handle one of those goblin ships?”

  He took a look. “I reckon so.”

  “All right then. We leave at first light.”

  The kelpie nodded contentedly. “Good. I can assure you of a warm welcome. Few are as hospitable as the kelpies.”

  23

  The darkness dissolved, to be replaced by a blinding light.

  Spurral was on her back, staring up at the Sun. She turned her head to avoid its punishing glare. There were fiery floats in her eyes and she blinked to rid herself of them. She had no idea where she was. As the floats faded and her faculties returned, so did the memory: of the ship, the Krake and what had happened.

  She became aware of the sound of pounding waves, and when she reached out a hand it came into contact with wet sand. Water was lapping at her feet and thighs. Her sodden clothes were steaming gently in the heat.

  Slowly, painfully, she got up and tried to make sense of her surroundings.

  She was on a long, golden beach. Wreckage and general debris were deposited along the shoreline, including a couple of large sections of ship’s decking. She guessed that she had probably clung to one of them, although she had no recollection of it.

  Behind her, the beach stretched back a long way until it met a jumble of palm trees and other vegetation. Above the trees she could see the peaks of several small mountains of greyish rock, gleaming in the sunlight. There was no sign of habitation.

  She stilled. Mixed in with the crash of waves and shrieking gulls there seemed to be something else. It took her a moment to realise it was someone shouting. As sh
e attuned herself to it she grasped that there was more than one voice.

  Looking along the beach to her left, she saw nothing. It was a different story to her right. In the far distance she could see figures. There appeared to be seven or eight of them. They were humanoid in shape and looked as though they were waving.

  As she watched, trying to make out who or what they might be, it became obvious they were heading her way. Spurral hesitated for a moment. Then, spurred by hope, she began to run towards them.

  It felt as though it took forever to cover the expanse of beach between her and the approaching figures. As she moved, her legs growing leaden with the effort of running through the obstructive sand, she became conscious of how much she ached. The battering she had taken when the ship went down, and presumably afterwards when she was at the mercy of the tides and drifting flotsam, was starting to make itself felt. Her elbows were grazed, there was a dull pain in her back and she noticed large blue-black bruises coming up on her pumping arms. But the prospect of someone else being on an island she had thought deserted kept her going.

  When she finally got close enough, she saw that the figures were dwarfs. Closer still, she recognised Kalgeck among them. Then they met and she was hugging him, relieved and frankly amazed that her friend had also survived the catastrophe. His companions, five males and two females, all young, clustered round joyfully.

  “Are you injured?” Kalgeck asked, surveying her.

  “I was lucky. Just a few knocks. How about all of you?”

  “Fortune smiled on us, too. Our injuries are slight. It was a miracle.”

  “It’s hard to argue with that. But… are you all there is?”

  His expression turned solemn. “As far as we can tell. We’ve not been looking for too long, but apart from each other, and now you, we’ve seen no one else.”

  “You couldn’t have looked everywhere. It could be survivors have washed up elsewhere on this island, or even other islands.”

  “Yes, we’ll have to hope for that. But it does seem a mockery by fate if my kin should beat the Gatherers only to perish because of the Krake.”

  “It would,” she agreed glumly. “How about the Gatherers? You’ve not come across any of them?”