Orcs:Bad blood o-1

by Stan Nicholls

"That's no lie."

  Stryke adopted a pensive expression. "There was something about the things he showed us. Did you notice? Not once were those orcs fighting back."

  It hadn't occurred to Haskeer before. "They weren't, were they?"

  "And when did our kind ever turn a cheek?"

  "What's wrong with 'em?"

  All Stryke could do was shrug.

  Haskeer pointed at the corpse. "And who killed him?"

  "I don't know. But I've a mind to find out. You game?"

  Haskeer thought about it. "Yeah. If there's a fight in it."

  3

  The summer afternoon had softened into early evening, the quality of the light mellowing from golden to carroty. A gentle breeze brought the sweet perfume of lushness. Tender birdsong could be heard.

  Eight or nine lodges stood together, along with a corral and a couple of barns.

  The settlement occupied the crest of a low hill. In all directions, the outlook was verdant. There were luxuriant pastures and dense forests, and the silver thread of a distant river marbling the emerald.

  In one particular lodge, a female was diverting her offspring.

  "In those days," she told them, "a blight afflicted the land. It was a walking pestilence. A puny race of disgusting appearance, with yielding, pallid flesh and the nature of a glutton. An insatiable host that gloried in destruction. It tore the guts from the earth, plundered its resources and poisoned its waters. It spread disease and stirred up trouble. It threw away the magic."

  Her offspring were rapt.

  "It felt contempt for other races, and revelled in their slaughter. But its hatred wasn't directed solely at those who were different. It fought its own kind, too. There was warfare between their tribes. They killed when there was no good purpose to it, and all the other races were fearful of them." She eyed the siblings. "Except one. Unlike the pestilence, they didn't murder for pleasure, or wreak havoc for the sake of it. They didn't lack nobility or honour, and weren't hideous to look at. They were handsome and brave. They were — "

  "Orcs!" the hatchlings chorused.

  Thirzarr grinned. "You pair are too smart for me."

  "We're always heroes in the stories," Corb reminded her.

  She tossed them each a chunk of raw meat. They gobbled the treats with relish, red juice trickling down their chins.

  "Are there any of those human monsters around here?" Janch asked as he chewed.

  "No," Thirzarr told him, "not in the whole of Ceragan."

  He looked disappointed. "Pity. I'd like to kill some."

  "No, I would," Corb announced, brandishing the wooden sword his sire had made for him.

  "Of course you would, my little wolf. Now give me that." Thirzarr held out her hand and he reluctantly surrendered the weapon. "It's time you two slept."

  " Ah, no! " they protested.

  "Finish the story!" Corb insisted.

  "Tell us about Jennesta again!" Janch piped up.

  " Yes! " his brother echoed, bouncing. "Tell us about the witch!"

  "It's late."

  " The witch! The witch! "

  "All right, all right. Calm down." She leaned over their couches and tucked them in, then perched herself. "You've got to go to sleep straight after this, all right?"

  They nodded, saucer-eyed, blankets to their chins.

  "Jennesta wasn't a witch, exactly," Thirzarr told them. "She was a sorceress. A magician born of magicians, she commanded great powers. Powers made stronger by her cruelty, which fed her magic. She was part human, part nyadd, which accounted for her strange appearance. And no doubt the human part explained her cruelty. Jennesta called herself a queen, but her title and realm was gained through deceit and brutality. Under her rule, fear held the whip hand. She meddled in the affairs of humans, supporting them one moment, battling them the next, as her self-interest dictated. She waged needless wars and relished sadism. She sowed conflict that steeped the land in blood and fire."

  " I'm back! "

  "Dad!" Corb and Janch cried. They sat bolt upright and tossed aside their blankets.

  Thirzarr turned to the figure who'd silently entered. She sighed. "I'm trying to get them to sleep, Stryke. Oh, Haskeer. Didn't see you there."

  The males sidled in. "Sorry," Stryke mouthed.

  Too late. The brood were up. They rushed to their father and clamped themselves to his legs, clamouring for attention.

  "Steady now. And what about Haskeer? Nothing to say to him?"

  "'lo, Uncle Haskeer."

  "I think he's got something for you," Stryke added.

  They instantly transferred their affections and stampeded in Haskeer's direction. He grabbed the hatchlings by their scruffs, one in each massive fist, and hoisted them, giggling.

  " What've you got us? What've you got us? "

  "Let's see, shall we?" He returned them to the compacted earth floor.

  Haskeer reached into his jerkin and hauled out two slim cloth bundles. Before handing them over, he looked to Thirzarr. She nodded.

  The brothers tore at the wrapping, then gasped in delight. They found beautifully crafted hatchets. The weapons were scaled-down for small hands, with polished, razor-keen cutting edges and carved wooden grips.

  "You shouldn't have, Haskeer," Thirzarr said. "Boys, what do you say?"

  "Thank you, Uncle Haskeer!" Beaming, they began to slash the air.

  "Well, it should be their blooding soon," Haskeer reckoned. "They're… how old now?"

  "Corb's four, Janch's three," Stryke supplied.

  "And a half!" Janch corrected indignantly.

  Haskeer nodded. "High time they killed something, then."

  "They will," Thirzarr assured him. "Thanks, Haskeer, we appreciate the gifts; but if you don't mind…"

  "I need to talk to you," Stryke said.

  "Not now," Thirzarr told him.

  "It's important."

  "I'm trying to get these two settled."

  "Would a bit longer hurt? I have to tell you about — "

  " Not now. You went for meat. Where is it?"

  Given the hint of menace in her voice, Stryke knew better than to argue. He and Haskeer allowed themselves to be pushed out of the door.

  When it slammed behind them, Stryke said, "I'll tell her what happened when she's cooled down."

  "You know, Stryke, I could almost believe you're afraid of that mate of yours."

  "Aren't you?"

  Haskeer changed the subject. "So what do we do now?"

  "We find our mistress of strategy."

  4

  A bucketful of water consists of billions of minute droplets. Rivers and oceans have untold trillions.

  No number could be applied to the sea of parallel realities.

  Its constituent parts were infinite. They decorated the void in dense, shimmering clouds, each particle a world. In the impossible event of a spectator being present, these tiny grains would appear identical.

  But a particular globule, looking like all the others, shining no more or less brightly, differed in one very important respect.

  It was dying.

  The imaginary observer, peering closer, would make out a world in flux. A bubble of acrid waters and fouled air.

  Its surface was one of extremes. Much was still blue-green, but tendrils of aridity patterned the globe. White masses were spreading from the poles, like cream trickling down a pudding, and the atmosphere was tinted by an unhealthy miasma.

  There were four continents. The largest, once temperate, now included swathes of semi-tropical terrain. At its core a dustbowl had formed, and previously fertile land was drifting to desert.

  A group of militia, fifty strong, made its way across the wilderness. In their midst, two men struggled to keep up on foot. Each was led by a horse to which they were roped. Their hands were tied.

  The soldiers bore the crest of a tyrant on their russet tunics. The prisoners were civilians, their clothes stained with sweat and dust.

  It was hot. With mid
day approaching it would get much hotter, but neither man had been allowed water. Their lips were cracked, and their mouths were so dry it was hard for them to speak. They laboured on blistered feet.

  There was little between them in age. The slightly older of the two had the look of someone who enjoyed a soft life. His waist was beginning to thicken, and his reddening skin was pasty. He had quick, some would say shifty, blue eyes, and a bloodless slash of a mouth framed by a skinny goatee. His black hair showed a hint of grey and was thinning, revealing the start of a tonsure.

  The younger of the pair was fitter and taller. His build was strapping. He had a full head of blond hair and he was clean-shaven, bar a couple of days' growth. His eyes were brown, and his flesh tone healthy. The filthy clothes he wore had been much cheaper to start with than his companion's.

  The older man shot the younger a sour, anxious look. "When are you going to do something?" he hissed.

  "What do you expect me to do?"

  "Show some respect, for a start."

  "What do you expect me to do, sir?"

  "Your duties include my protection. So far you've made a complete — "

  " Keep it down! " an officer barked. Several other riders directed hostile glances their way.

  "… a complete cock-up of it," the older man continued in a coarse whisper. "You did precious little to stop us being captured, and now you' re — "

  "You got yourself into this," the younger returned in an undertone, "not me."

  " Us. We're in it together, if you hadn't noticed."

  "So it's you when times are good and us when you're in the shit. As usual."

  "That insubordinate tongue of yours is going to get itself cut out." His face was growing redder. "Just you wait 'til I — "

  "Until you what? Not exactly a free agent at the moment, are you?"

  The older man wiped the back of a manicured hand across his forehead. "You know what's going to happen when they get us to Hammrik, don't you?"

  "I can guess what's going to happen to you."

  "What's good for the master's good for the servant."

  "That's as maybe." He nodded at what was coming into view. "We'll find out soon enough."

  The towers of a fortress could be seen, wavering in the heat haze like a mirage.

  As they drew nearer they saw that it was constructed of a yellowish, sandy stone, not dissimilar to the colour the surrounding landscape was turning to. And it was massive, with walls that looked thick enough to resist an earthquake. Close to, the structure bore signs of conflict. Fresh pockmarks, nicks and cracks told of a recent onslaught.

  A ramshackle township mushroomed at the fortress' base. A muddle of shacks and tents stood in its shadow, and lean-tos hugged the ramparts. People and livestock were everywhere. Water carriers, hawkers, nomads, farmers, mercenaries, prostitutes, robed priests and plenty of soldiers. Mangy dogs ran loose. Hens scratched and piglets ate garbage. There was a sickly odour of sewage and incense.

  The riders barged through the crowd, dragging their captives. They passed heckling street urchins, hard-eyed guardsmen and merchants leading strings of overloaded donkeys. People stared, and a few flung insults.

  They went by vendors' stalls heaped with bread, goat's cheese, spices, meat and limp vegetables. Some offered wine, hogsheads of brandy or pails of beer. The prisoners turned particularly envious eyes on these wares. All they got was a half-hearted pelting with rotten fruit, each piece raising a little puff of dust when it struck their backs.

  The fortress gates were suitably imposing, their surrounds frothing with epic statuary and heraldic symbols. But old and faded. Inside was a large inner courtyard. There was noise and bustle here too, though of an ordered, soldierly kind.

  Greetings were exchanged. The prisoners were glared at or ignored. Everyone dismounted. Grooms came forward and led the horses to troughs, which was more than the captives were allowed. Left with their wrists bound, they sank exhausted to the warm paving slabs. Nobody rebuked them.

  They slumped next to a small garden enclosed by a low wall. It dated from earlier, more verdant times, and had long dried out. The soil was like powder, and the pair of trees at its centre were desiccated and skeletal.

  Most of the prisoners' escort dispersed. Four remained, eyeing them from a distance while they conferred with an officer.

  The elder prisoner turned his face from them and whispered, "Let's make a run for it."

  "Bad idea," his companion judged. "We've no allies here. That crowd wouldn't be a haven."

  "It's a better chance than waiting on our fate like cattle, isn't it?"

  "Not unless you want an arrow in your back." He indicated the battlements. Several archers were looking down at them.

  "They aren't going to kill us. Hammrik would be furious if they denied him that pleasure."

  "But I doubt they're under orders not to wound. If you fancy a couple of bolts through your legs, go ahead. Master."

  The older man glowered at the fresh impertinence, then returned to sulking.

  A minute later the guards were rousing them with cusses and kicks. He asked if there was any chance of a drink.

  "Favours are my lord's privilege, not mine," the highest-ranking replied, jerking them to their feet.

  The brief rest had made their aches more noticeable now they were moving again. They were stiff, and their muscles were knotted. But their captors treated them no more gently for it. Stinging blows from leather riding crops hurried along their progress.

  They were driven to a set of double doors opening into the castle proper. The interior was gloomy to their dazzled eyes, and it was cooler, which was a mercy.

  Like many fortresses that had been added to and built on over the years, there was a warren of passages, corridors and stairways to be negotiated. They passed through checkpoints and locked doors, but saw few windows, save arrow slits.

  Finally they arrived at a sizeable hall. It was wood panelled and high-ceilinged, and its drapes were drawn to keep out the heat. Light came from oil lamps and candles, and the air was stuffy. High up, where the panelling ended and a stone wall began, there had been coats of arms. But they were freshly defaced, their features smashed, revealing whiter granite beneath.

  The guards in attendance wore the livery of a personal bodyguard. A handful of civilian officials were also present.

  There was no furniture except an oak throne on a dais at one end of the room. It, too, had been vandalised; someone had hacked away the device on its tall backrest. The prisoners were made to stand in front of it.

  A minute passed, glacially. They exchanged bleak glances.

  Behind the throne was a cleverly concealed door, set flush to the panelling. It opened, and someone entered.

  Rulers come in a variety of guises. Those who inherit leadership can be unprepossessing. Those who seize it often have the appearance of brutish warriors. Kantor Hammrik looked like a clerk. Which was appropriate for someone who had effectively bought a kingdom. Bought in the sense of financing the bloody overthrow and regicide of an existing monarch.

  Hammrik resembled a quill-pusher because, in a way, that's what he was. Early on in his illicit career he realised the efficacy of the equation between money and power. Learned it, and took it to what passed for his heart. He grew adept at using his ill-gotten riches to manipulate the greed of men without scruples, and rose on a tide of other people's blood, bought and paid for.

  His build was more suited to running from a fight than engaging in one; what some called wiry framed. Any muscularity he had was restricted to his brains. He responded to hair loss by having his head completely shaved, which stressed the angularity of his skull. His raw-boned, beardless face was dominated by acute grey eyes. But woe to anybody who took him for a book-keeper.

  As Hammrik swept in, the prisoners were forced to their knees. Everyone bowed.

  "Ah, Micalor Standeven," the usurper uttered as he perched on his stolen throne. "I was beginning to think I'd never have the p
leasure of your company again."

  The elder prisoner looked up. "How delightful to see you, Kantor." He went for casual bonhomie.

  Hammrik gave him a stony, threatening look.

  "That is," Standeven hastily corrected, "greetings, my liege. And may I take this opportunity to congratulate you on your elevation to — "

  Hammrik waved him to silence. "Let's take the fawning as read, shall we?" His gaze fell upon Standeven's companion. "I see you've got your lapdog with you, as usual."

  "Yes, er, sire. He' s — "

  "He can speak for himself. What's your name?"

  "Pepperdyne, sir," the younger prisoner replied. "Jode Pepper-dyne."

  "You're bonded to him?"

  Pepperdyne nodded.

  "Then you're equally liable."

  "If this is a misunderstanding about money," Standeven said, as though it had just occurred to him, "I'm sure we can settle such a trifling matter cordially."

  "Trifling?" Hammrik repeated ominously.

  "Well, yes. For a man of your newly acquired status it must be a mere — "

  "Shut up." Hammrik beckoned to a studious-looking old functionary standing to one side. "How much?"

  The old man was carrying a dog-eared ledger. Wetting a thumb, he began flipping pages.

  "A round figure will do," Hammrik told him.

  "Certainly, sire." He found the entry and squinted. "Let's see. With interest, call it… forty thousand."

  "Is it that much?" Standeven exclaimed in mock surprise. "Well, well. Still, I'm a little puzzled as to why you should call us in over this. I can understand it might have been necessary when you were a money len — when you were providing pecuniary services. But surely, sire, you don't need it now?"

  "Look around you. This hardly resembles a thriving kingdom, does it? Overthrowing Wyvell was a costly business, and though his followers were beaten, they're not entirely crushed yet. It all takes money."

  "Of course."

  "A debt is a debt, and yours is overdue."

  "Absolutely. It's a matter of honour."

  "So what are you going to do about it?"

  Standeven stared at him. "Do you think I might have something to drink? We were out in that sun for an awfully long time, you see, and…"