Orcs: Bad Blood (6 page)

Glass was an uncommon commodity. Orc artisans knew how to make it, but rarely bothered except for specific purposes, such
as casements in certain places of worship and one or two of the chieftains’ grand lodges. It was occasionally found in taverns.

As Stryke and Haskeer approached the inn they sought, they witnessed why glass was so infrequently used as a building material.

With a resounding crash, an orc was propelled through one of the windows. He bounced a couple of times before coming to rest
in the shards.

The tavern’s door was stout. But not so strong as to resist another flying body. The battered orc that crashed through it
managed to stumble a couple of paces before collapsing.

There was uproar inside. A wild cacophony of shattered earthenware, breaking furniture and yelled curses.

Stryke said, “This must be the place.”

They stepped through the splintered doorframe. An orc landed on his back in front of them. He came down heavily, shaking the
floorboards.

Stryke nodded to him. “Morning, Breggin.”

“Captain,” the orc groaned.

The interior of the inn was essentially a single, large room. There was a serving bench at one end and a storm in the middle.
The storm’s eye stood astride a table.

Coilla wielded an iron cooking pot. Clutching the handle, she swung at the heads of the half-dozen males struggling to reach
her.

She was a handsome specimen of orc womanhood, with attractively mottled skin, dark, flashing eyes, barbed teeth and a muscular,
warrior’s physique. Most alluring of all, she fought like a demon with toothache.

As Stryke and Haskeer entered, she delivered a well-aimed kick to the jaw of an opponent who ducked too late. He met the floor
as surely as a dropped sack of offal. The others tried to catch her legs and topple her, but she skipped away with ease. They
started rocking the table.

“Should we help?” Haskeer wondered.

“I don’t think we could beat her,” Stryke replied dryly.

Chiming like a bell, Coilla’s cooking pot caught one of her antagonists square to the side of his head. Knocked senseless,
he tumbled floorward.

Haskeer spotted a half-full tankard of ale. He lifted it and started drinking. Stryke leaned against the counter, arms folded,
watching the brawl.

The four remaining males finally upended the table. Coilla leapt clear, feet-first into someone’s chest. He spiralled out
of play. Quickly righting herself, she swiped at the next in line, flattening his nose with her pot. Driven backwards, he
came to grief in a tangle of chairs.

The two still upright rushed her in unison. One was dispatched by the simple expedient of running into her raised elbow. It
connected with the bridge of his nose, sending him downhill and comatose. She dodged the clutches of the last orc standing
and pounded his features with the fist of her free hand, rendering him insentient.

Coilla briefly savoured the scene, then, tossing the cooking pot aside, gave Stryke and Haskeer a cheery greeting.

“What was that about?” Haskeer asked. He thumped down the empty tankard and belched.

“It started as a fight
over
me, then kind of developed into one
with
me.” She shrugged. “The usual.”

“Keep up these courting rituals and you’ll run out of suitors,” Stryke commented.

“Cosy up to
that
lot? You must be joking. Anybody who can’t knock me down doesn’t deserve consideration. So, what are you two doing here?”

“We’ve news,” Stryke told her. “Let’s go outside.”

It was the beginning of a glorious day. The sun was up, bathing the land in balmy warmth. Birds were on the wing and bees
droned.

They went and sat on a little hillock. Stryke explained what had happened, with Haskeer adding unhelpful interruptions. They
showed her the amulet.

“But Jennesta’s dead, surely?” she said. “We saw her pulled apart by that vortex thing.”

“Maybe she can’t be killed that easily,” Haskeer contributed. “The sort of powers that bitch had, I’m thinking she can’t be
killed
at all
.”

“I’d bet on cold steel through the heart revoking her sorcery,” Stryke replied.

“You reckon she’s got one?”

“We don’t know how she survived, but it seems she did, and she’s making orcs suffer. What are we going to do about it?”

“If we leave this land, you know what we’re likely going to,” Coilla reminded him. “Prejudice about us, and hatred and bigotry.
Sure you want to go through all that shit again?”

“We’ve rode out worse than words.”

“It’s not words that worry me. And don’t count on too many allies wherever we fetch up.”

“I’m not saying there isn’t going to be hardship, sweat and violence.”

“Just like old times, eh?”

“So where do you stand, Coilla? Are you saying no?”

She grinned. “Hell, I’m not. This is a good place, but it can get kind of dull after a while. I’ve been itching for a real
fight. I’m tired of lightweight scuffles.”

A wheezing orc staggered out of the tavern, gobbing teeth.

“You’re game, then?”

“Sure.”

“So what next?” Haskeer asked.

“We round up the rest of the band and put it to ’em,” Stryke decided.

Haskeer wrinkled his craggy brow. “Strange to think of the Wolverines re-formed.”

“If they want re-forming,” Coilla said.

Nep and Gleadeg were easily found; they lay insensible in the tavern, alongside Breggin. Zoda and Prooq were fishing with
spears a little way upriver. Reafdaw was helping build a longhouse as part of a service to the community edict imposed by
local elders, following an affray. Eldo, Bhose, Liffin and Jad were with a recently returned hunting party. Calthmon was discovered
drunk on the steps of a hostelry and required dunking in a nearby rain butt. Orbon and Seafe, like Stryke, had mated, and
were at their lodges, coddling offspring. Vobe, Gant, Finje and Noskaa were traced to a regional tourney they were competing
in. Toche and Hystykk turned up in a felons’ compound, the result of a little horseplay involving riot and arson, and had
to be bailed.

Stryke explained the mystery of the human who came through the portal, and outlined Serapheim’s message. There was some discussion,
but a surprising degree of unanimity, despite Coilla’s doubts. Much as they relished their hard-won freedom, all felt jaded
and welcomed the prospect of a mission.

By late afternoon, Stryke was ready to begin a new search. Recruits were needed to replace those lost in the Wolverines’ previous
battles and bring the warband up to strength. He set about tracing a half dozen likely prospects he’d had his eye on.

Word got around that something was afoot. That evening, a curious crowd gathered at the clearing where Stryke mustered his
troop.

Several of the Wolverines’ mates were there, too. Thifzarr came, wearing the flaming crimson headdress Stryke first saw in
his visions of this place. They stood away from the others.

“And you’re sure you don’t mind?” Stryke repeated.

“Would it matter if I did? Don’t look doleful, you know you’re desperate to go.”

“Don’t put it that way. I’ll be back. It’s just —”

She stilled his lips with a coarse finger. “I know. You don’t have to explain an orc’s instincts to me. I’m only sorry I’m
not going with you.”

He brightened, relieved at her reaction. “That would have been good. We’ve never had the joy of fighting side by side. I’ve
always felt it’s something missing from our union.”

“Me, too. Couples should spill blood together.”

“We will,” he promised.

“Be careful,” she said, suddenly serious. “Stupid thing to say. But I’d like to think the kids’ father’s going to be around
as they grow. Don’t take risks, Stryke.”

“I won’t,” he lied. He looked round. Haskeer had got the Wolverines into a semblance of order. To one side, another, smaller
group shuffled their feet and looked slightly self-conscious. “I need to get started.”

She nodded, and he went to his band.

“Heads up!” Haskeer bellowed.

The company straightened their backs.

“I’m glad you all volunteered,” Stryke told them. “We always worked well together, and we can do it again.” His tone hardened.
“But let’s get one thing straight. This is a well-ordered fighting unit. Or it used to be. We’ve all back-slid a bit while
we’ve been here. Got soft, some of us. Sign on for this mission and you’ll be subject to military discipline, just like before.
I’m in charge, and there’ll be a chain of command.” He shot a sideways glance at Haskeer. “Anybody got a problem with that?”

Nobody had.

“At a time like this we remember fallen comrades,” he went on. “Kestix, Meklun, Darig, Slettal, Wrelbyd, Talag. They all died
serving this band, and we should never forget it.” He paused. “That means we don’t have our full quota. So I’m bringing in
replacements.” He waved forward the recruits, and counted them off. “This is Ignar, Keick, Harlgo, Chuss, Yunst and Pirrak.
I expect you to make them welcome. Show them our routines and get them used to our ways. They’re good fighters, but not combat
trained. Though they will be by the time we’ve finished with them.”

There was laughter. In the case of the recruits, somewhat nervous.

“Somebody else we lost can never be replaced,” Stryke continued. “We all respected Alfray.” Heads were nodding agreement.
“He was more than the band’s medic and a veteran fighter; he was a link in the chain binding us to our kind’s past. We can’t
replace him, but we need another corporal alongside Coilla here, so we’ll fill the void he left as best we can.” He beckoned.
Someone came out of the crowd.

He was an orc of advanced years, though still in his prime and looking fit. But the light in his astute eyes owed more to
autumn than summer, and of all the fighters present he was easily the oldest. He approached with assurance.

“Meet Dallog,” Stryke said.

The older orc lightly nodded to them; a small gesture but amiable enough.

“Some of you might know him already, particularly if you’ve needed a broken bone put right.” There was another ripple of laughter.
“He has talent as a healer. He’s steady and he’s smart, and I’m making him a corporal. And he’s got an important duty.” Stryke
raised a hand.

A youngster trotted towards them. He carried a spiked lance with a furled pennant, which he passed to Dallog. At Stryke’s
signal, Dallog opened it, revealing the band’s standard. He held the pole aloft and the ensign fluttered in the evening breeze.
The Wolverines cheered. Except for Haskeer, who wore a dour expression.

“The standard’s in your charge,” Stryke said. “Guard it well.”

“With my life,” Dallog promised. He went to join the ranks.

“We’ve plenty to do tonight,” Stryke reminded them all, “so go about your tasks.
Dismissed!
” As they moved off, he called, “Get to know the new ones! They’re Wolverines now!”

Haskeer arrived at his side. “It’s not true,” he complained.

“What isn’t?”

“What you just said about the new intake being Wolverines. They have to earn it.”

“We all started from scratch.”

“We were already battle-hardened when we joined. Not like these…
civilians
.”

“That’s the point. We need to get the band in shape fast, which means making them feel a part of it from the outset.” He regarded
his sergeant. “Is that all you’re in a foul mood about?”

Haskeer said nothing. But his gaze flicked to Dallog as he went off with the standard.

“Ah,” Stryke said, “that’s your beef, is it?”

“He’s no Alfray.”

“Nobody said he was.”

“So why do we need him?”

“Chain of command, remember? We have to have another corporal, and a band healer. I reckon Dallog fits the bill.”

“Well, I don’t like it.”

“Too bad. You just heard me say I’m in charge. If that’s not to your liking either —”

“Oh, shit.”

Stryke balled his fists. “You want to make an issue of this, Sergeant?”

“No. What I meant was, look who’s coming.”

The youth walking their way was barely on nodding terms with adulthood. He dressed extravagantly for an orc. His jerkin consisted
of strips of different coloured material, and his breeches were lilac. He wore gaudy boots. Looped about his neck was a stringed
instrument. It had a long fingerboard and a body the shape of a sliced strawberry. He cradled it as tenderly as a babe.

“Oh, shit,” Stryke said. “Be tactful. Remember who he is.”

Haskeer gave a weary grunt.

“Stryke! Haskeer!” the youth greeted. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Wheam,” Stryke replied.

“What do you want?” Haskeer demanded, stony-faced.

“You’re about to set out on a great adventure,” Wheam enthused, “and it should be celebrated.”

“Maybe they’ll be time for feasting when we get back,” Stryke responded. “But at the moment —”

“No, no, I mean celebrated in
verse
.”

“We couldn’t put you to the trouble.”

“This is history in the making; it
must
be recorded. Anyway, I’ve already started an epic ballad about this mission. It’s work in progress, of course, but —”

“Well, if it’s not finished…”

“How can it be? You haven’t started yet, have you?”

“True.”

“So I thought I’d let you hear the opening, as a kind of inspiration.”

“Must you? I mean, must you
now
?”

“It won’t take long. There’s only about forty verses so far.”

“We’re very busy just now and —”

Wheam began discordant plucking. He cleared his throat loudly and proceeded to sing off key.

“On battle’s eve the Wolverines

Whet their blades and readied their spleens…

“It’s hard to get anything to rhyme with Wolverines, but I’m working on it.

“Their Captain bold he seized his chance

To take up dagger, sword and lance

And spitting in the face of fate

He marched his band to the magic gate…”