Orcs (5 page)
“Remove the carcass,” she ordered.
The cat darted for the shadows on their approach. They set to work on the shackles.
“What news of the Wolverines?” Jennesta asked.
“None, my lady,” one of the guards replied, avoiding her gaze.
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. The benefits of the refreshment were already fading. Regal displeasure returned.
She made a silent vow that the warband’s deaths would surpass their worst nightmares.
Two Wolverine footsoldiers lay stretched out with their backs against a tree, enraptured by a swarm of tiny fairies fluttering and gambolling above their heads. Soft multicoloured light shimmered on the fairies’ wings and their gentle singing tinkled melodiously in the late-evening air.
One of the orcs abruptly shot out a hand and snatched a fistful of the creatures. They squeaked pitifully. He stuffed their wriggling bodies into his mouth and crunched noisily.
“Irritating little bastards,” his companion muttered.
The first trooper nodded sagely. “Yeah. But good to eat.”
“And stupid,” the second soldier added as the swarm formed again overhead.
He watched them for a while, then decided to grab a handful for himself.
They sat chewing, staring dumbly at the smoking embers of the farmhouse on the other side of the compound. The fairies finally got the message and flittered away.
A moment passed and the first orc said, “Did that really just happen?”
“What?”
“Those fairies.”
“Fairies? Irritating little bastards.”
“Yeah. But good to —” A light kick from a boot against his shin interrupted the discourse.
They hadn’t noticed the approach of another trooper standing beside them. He stooped, grunted, “Here,” and handed over a clay pipe. Swaying slightly, he stumbled off again.
The first soldier raised the pipe and inhaled deeply.
His comrade smacked his lips and pulled a face. He dug a grubby fingernail between his front teeth and picked out something that looked like a minute shiny wing. Shrugging, he flicked it into the grass. The other orc passed him the cob of pellucid.
Nearer the remains of the house, Stryke, Coilla, Jup and Alfray sat around a small campfire sharing their own pipe. Haskeer was using a stick to stir the contents of a black cooking pot hanging over the crackling flames.
“I’ll say it one last time,” Stryke told them, mildly exasperated. He pointed to the cylinder in his lap. “This thing was taken from a heavily armed caravan by Unis who killed the guards. That’s the story.” His voice was growing slurred. “Jennesta wants it back.”
“But why?” Jug wondered, drawing from the pipe. “After all, it’s only a cessage marrier . . . I mean, it’s only a message carrier.” Blinking, he handed the pipe to Coilla.
“We know
that
,” Stryke replied. He waved a dismissive, lazy hand. “Must be an important message. Not our concern.”
Dishing out steaming milky-white liquid from the pot and into tin cups, Haskeer commented, “I wager this pellucid was part of the caravan’s cargo too.”
Alfray, displaying characteristic correctness even in his present state, again tried reminding Stryke of his responsibilities. “We mustn’t linger here too long, Captain. If the Queen —”
“Can’t you chirrup a different song?” Stryke interrupted testily. “Mark me; our mistress will welcome us with open arms. You worry overmuch, sawbones.”
Alfray lapsed into moody silence. Haskeer offered him a cup of the infused drug. He shook his head. Stryke accepted the brew and downed an ample draft.
Coilla had been vacant-eyed and half drowsing under the pellucid’s influence. Now she spoke. “Alfray has a point. Incurring Jennesta’s wrath is never a good scheme.”
“Must you nag me too?” retorted Stryke, raising the cup once more. “We’ll be on our way soon, never fear. Or would you deny them a little leisure?” He looked in the direction of the orchard, where most of the Wolverines were taking their ease.
The band’s troopers sprawled before a larger fire. There was rude laughter, rough horseplay and raucous singing. A pair engaged in arm-wrestling. Several were slumped in ungainly postures.
Stryke turned back to Coilla. But the scene had changed completely.
She was curled on the ground with her eyes closed. All the others were also prone, one or two of them snoring. The fire was long dead. He returned his gaze to the main band. They too were sleeping, their fire also reduced to ashes.
It was the depth of night. A full panoply of stars dusted the sky.
What had seemed to him no more than an instant of time had proved an illusion.
He should rouse everyone, organise them, issue orders for the march to Cairnbarrow. And he would. Certainly he would. But he needed to rest his leaden limbs and clear the muzziness from his brain. Only a minute or two was all it would take. Just a minute.
His nodding head drooped, chin meeting neck.
A warm stupor crept into every fibre of his being. It was so hard to keep his eyes open.
He surrendered to the dark.
He opened his eyes
.
The sun blazed directly overhead. He lifted a hand to shield himself from the light and, blinking, slowly rose to a standing position. The carpet of lush sward felt springy underfoot
.
Before him stood a distant range of softly rolling hills. Above them, pure-white clouds drifted serenely across a sky of flawless blue. The landscape was verdant, uncorrupted
.
Off to his right the view was dominated by the brim of an immense forest. On his left a shallow stream flowed down an incline before curving round a bend and out of sight
.
It occurred to Stryke to wonder, in an abstract sort of way, what had happened to the night. And he had no idea where the other Wolverines might be. But these questions did no more than mildly stroke some small corner of his mind
.
Then it seemed to him that he could hear other sounds beyond the tumbling water. Sounds resembling voices, and laughter, and the faint, rhythmic pounding of a drum. Their source was either in his head or at the brook’s destination
.
He followed the stream, walking in it, his boots crunching on the shingle washed smooth by its endless polishing. His sloshing descent inspired rustling in the undergrowth on either side as tiny furtive creatures darted from his path
.
A pleasantly warm breeze caressed his face. The air was fresh and clean. It made him feel light-headed
.
He reached the point where the rivulet turned. The voices were louder, more distinct, as he rounded the crook
.
Before him was the mouth of a small valley. The stream ran on, snaking through a cluster of circular timber huts, roofed with straw. Set to one side was a longhouse, decorated with embellished shields of a clan Stryke didn’t recognise. War trophies hung there, too; broadswords, spears, the bleached skulls of sabrewolves. The air was perfumed with the fragrance of smoky kindling and roasting game
.
There were tethered horses, roaming livestock, strutting fowl
.
And orcs
.
Males, females, hatchlings. They carried out chores, tended fires, hewed wood, or simply lounged, watching, talking, bragging. In the clearing outside the longhouse a group of young tyros sparred with swords and staffs, the beating of a hide tambour harmonising their mock combat
.
No one paid him any particular attention as he entered the settlement. All the orcs he saw bore weapons, as was only fitting for their kind, but despite this clan being unknown to him, Stryke didn’t feel threatened. Just curious
.
Someone came towards him. She strode with easy confidence, and made no move for the sword hanging in its scabbard at her belt. He judged her a head shorter than himself, though her flaming crimson headdress, shot through with streaks of gold, made up the height. Her back was straight, her build attractively muscular
.
She showed no surprise at his presence. Indeed her expression was almost passive, or at least as passive as a face so strong and active could be. As she neared him, she smiled, openly and with warmth. He was aware of a faint stirring in his loins
.
“Well met,” she said
.
Reflecting on her comeliness, he did not immediately respond. When he replied, it was hesitantly. “Well . . . met.”
“I don’t know you.”
“Nor I you.”
She asked, “What is your clan?”
He told her
.
“It means nothing to me. But there are so many.”
Stryke glanced at the unfamiliar shields on the longhouse. “Your clan isn’t known to me either.” He paused, captivated by her fetching eyes, before adding, “Aren’t you wary of greeting a stranger?”
She looked puzzled. “Should I be? Is there a dispute between our clans?”
“Not that I know of.”
She flashed her appealing, sharpened yellow teeth again. “Then there’s no need for caution. Unless you come with evil intent.”
“No, I come in peace. But would you be as welcoming if I were a troll? Or a goblin? Or a dwarf of unknown allegiance?”
Her mystified look returned. “Troll? Goblin? Dwarf? What are
they?
”
“You do not know of dwarves?”
She shook her head
.
“Or gremlins, trolls, elves? Any of the elder races?”
“Elder races? No.”
“Or . . . humans?”
“I don’t know what they are, but I’m sure there aren’t any.”
“You mean there aren’t any in these parts?”
“I mean that your words are lost on me. You’re odd.” It was said without malice
.
“And you speak in riddles,” he told her. “Where are we in Maras-Dantia that you do not know of the other elder races, or of humans?”
“You must have journeyed a long way, stranger, if your land has a name I’ve never heard of.”
He was taken aback. “Are you telling me you don’t even know what the world is called?”
“No. I’m telling you it isn’t called Maras-Dantia. At least, not here. And I’ve never known another orc who spoke of us sharing it with these
. . . elder races
and
. . . humans.
”
“Orcs decide their own fate here? They make war as they choose? There are no humans or —”
She laughed. “When was it otherwise?”
Stryke furrowed his craggy brow. “Since before my father’s father was hatched,” he muttered. “Or so I thought.”
“Perhaps you’ve marched too long in the heat,” she offered gently
.
He gazed up at the sun, and a realisation came to him. “The heat . . . No chill wind blows.”
“Why should it? This isn’t the cold season.”
“And the ice,” Stryke continued, ignoring her answer. “I haven’t seen the advancing ice.”
“Where?”
“From the north, of course.”
Unexpectedly, she reached out and grasped his hand. “Come.”
Even in his confusion he was aware that her touch was agreeably cool and clammy. He allowed her to lead him
.
They followed the downward path of the stream until they left the village behind. Eventually they came to a place where the land fell away, and Stryke and the female stood on the edge of a granite cliff. Here the stream became a pool, slipping from its far lip as a waterfall, a foamy cascade that plunged to rocks far below in a greater valley
.
The silver thread of a river emerged from somewhere at the foot of the cliff, slicing across olive plains that stretched endlessly in all directions. Only the tremendous forest to their right curbed the ocean of grassland. Vast herds of grazing beasts, too numerous to count, ranged further than Stryke could see. An orc might spend a lifetime hunting here and never want for prey
.
The female pointed, dead ahead. “North,” she said
.
There were no encroaching glaciers, no looming slate sky. All he saw in that direction was more of the same: luxuriant foliage, an infinity of green, a thriving abundance of life
.
Stryke experienced a strange emotion. He could not explain why, but he had a nagging sensation that all this was somehow familiar, as though he had seen these wondrous sights and breathed deep of this unsullied air before
.
“Is this . . . Vartania?” He all but whispered the sacred word
.
“Paradise?” She smiled enigmatically. “Perhaps. If you choose to make it so.”
The alchemy of sunlight and airborne spray birthed an arcing rainbow. They silently marvelled at its multicoloured splendour
.
And the soothing rush of water was balm to Stryke’s troubled spirit
.
He opened his eyes.
A Wolverine grunt was pissing into the ashes of the fire.
Stryke snapped fully awake.
“What the
fuck
do you think you’re doing, Private?”
he bellowed.
The grunt scooted off like a scalded whelp, head down, fumbling at his breeches.
Still muzzy from the dream, or vision, or whatever it was, Stryke took a moment to realise that the sun had risen. It was past dawn.
“Gods!”
he cursed, scrambling to his feet.
He checked his belt for the cylinder, then quickly took in the scene. Two or three of the Wolverines were unsteadily exploring wakefulness, but the rest, including the lookouts he’d posted, lounged all over the compound.
Sprinting to the nearest huddle of sleeping figures, he laid about them with his boot. “Up, you
bastards!
” he roared. “Up!
Move yourselves!
”
Some rolled from the kicks. Several came alive with blades in their hands, ready for a fight, then cowered on recognising their tormentor. Haskeer was among them, but less inclined to quail at his commander’s rage. He scowled, returning his knife to its sheath with deliberate, insolent slowness.
