Orcs:Bad blood o-1 Page 4

  Hammrik raised a hand, then called for water. A young flunkey brought him a hide pouch. Hammrik rose and stepped down to the kneeling Standeven. But he didn't give him the pouch. Instead, he tilted it, so that a single drop splashed into Standeven's outstretched palm. Frowning, the prisoner licked up the moisture with his parched tongue.

  "One drop," Hammrik said. "How long do you think it'd take to feed you say, forty thousand?"

  Standeven was baffled, and said nothing.

  "Probably no time at all," Hammrik decided, "if you had it all in one go. In a tankard, for instance."

  "Kantor… I mean, sire, I — "

  "But suppose you had it one drop at a time, like just now. How long would that take? Days? Weeks?" Hammrik held the water pouch at arm's length, as though studying it. "This stuff's going to be precious here soon, given the way this land's going. The way the whole world's going. I can see water being as valuable as… blood."

  Standeven shifted uncomfortably. Pepperdyne betrayed no emotion.

  "That's the deal," Hammrik continued. "Repay me in coin or I'll take it in blood. Forty thousand drops, one at a time." He leaned closer to Standeven's face. "I don't mean that as any kind of figure of speech."

  "I can pay!" Standeven protested.

  "Does he have the money?" Hammrik addressed the question to Pepperdyne.

  "No."

  "You're asking a slave about my financial arrangements?" Standeven complained. "What would he know?"

  "He's smarter than you. Or maybe not, seeing as he hasn't yet cut your throat while you were sleeping. But at least he didn't insult me with a lie. That earns him a quicker death than yours."

  "You can have him."

  "What?"

  "To settle the debt. He's strong and hard working, and — "

  Hammrik laughed. "And I thought I was a bastard. He's not worth a fraction of what you owe me. Why would I want another mouth to feed?"

  "I can pay you, Hammrik. I just need a little time to get together the — "

  "I've wasted enough time as it is. I've no alternative but to have you both executed. Guards! "

  Men came forward and took hold of the prisoners.

  "There's no need for this," Standeven pleaded. "We can work it out!"

  Hammrik was walking away.

  "Suppose we could get you something more valuable than money?" Pepperdyne called after him.

  The upstart king halted and turned. "What could you possibly have to interest me?"

  "Something you've long wanted."

  "Go on."

  "Everybody knows about your search for the instrumentalities."

  A passionate glint lit Hammrik's eyes, though his words belied it. "And many have lied about knowing where they're to be found."

  "We're different. We really could help you gain them."

  "How?"

  "As it happens, my master wasn't being entirely untruthful when he said he could pay you. The plan was to locate them, sell them to the highest bidder and settle your debt from the proceeds. In fact, we were following their trail when your men picked us up."

  "Why didn't you mention this before?"

  "Would you in our position, and run the risk of losing such a prize?"

  Standeven had looked bewildered at this turn of events. Now he was nodding furiously. "It's true. Like you, I've heard the stories, though I confess to being unclear about what the instrumentalities are supposed to actually do. But I've always thought that anyone who found them would make a fortune."

  "I've no interest in making money out of them," Hammrik stated.

  "You're not interested in their value?" Standeven was shocked.

  "Not that kind of value. If they function as they're rumoured to, there's a chance me and my people can escape this stinking world."

  Pepperdyne and Standeven were puzzled at the remark, but thought it wise to keep quiet.

  "So what makes you think you've a chance of finding them when everyone else has failed?" Hammrik asked.

  "We've come across evidence," Pepperdyne replied.

  "What evidence?"

  "You'll forgive us for not throwing away our only bargaining chip," Standeven said.

  "You're bluffing, the pair of you."

  "Can you afford to take that chance?"

  "And what do you have to lose if we're lying?" Pepperdyne added.

  Hammrik considered their words. "What does finding the instrumentalities involve? What would I have to do?"

  "With respect, sire," Pepperdyne told him, "not you, us."

  "Explain."

  "The information we have indicates that they're to be found upcountry."

  "How far upcountry?"

  "All the way north, to the new lands."

  "Centrasia? From what I hear it's full of freaks and monsters."

  "They say there's magic there too, of a sort. But that makes it the logical place to find what we're seeking, doesn't it?"

  "What can you do there that I couldn't achieve with an army?"

  "Do you have one to spare? Besides, we have the contacts."

  "Why don't I just have you tortured to find out what you know?"

  "Our contacts will only deal directly with us. If anybody else turns up they'll be long gone."

  A long moment of silence ensued as Hammrik weighed the options. At last he said, "On balance, I don't believe you. But if there's a chance, I'd be a fool not to take it."

  It was all Standeven could do to suppress a loud sigh of relief.

  "There'll be a time limit, naturally," Hammrik explained, "and I'll be hand-picking your escort."

  "Escort?"

  "Of course. You didn't think I'd let you two swan off by yourselves, did you?"

  "No. No, of course not."

  "If you get the instrumentalities, the debt's cancelled. I'll even reward you on top. If this is a ruse you'll just be delaying your deaths with a brief reprieve in a land of horrors. You'll be brought back here and I'll kill you. Understood?"

  They nodded.

  Without further word, he walked away.

  Standeven turned to his bondsman. "What were you thinking of?" he whispered. "We don't know where to find those things, or even if they exist."

  "You'd prefer it if they killed us? I had to come up with a story that bought us time."

  "And what happens when his thugs find out we were talking through our arses?"

  "I don't know. We'll think of something."

  "It'd better be a damn good — "

  " Ssshh."

  An officer approached, the same one who earlier refused them water.

  "As you're in my master's good books," he announced, "at least for now, I thought you could use that drink."

  Standeven looked up expectantly.

  To laughter from most of the other people in the room, the officer poured the contents of a canteen over Standeven's raised face.

  He shook his head, like a dog leaving a river, scattering a million droplets of water.

  5

  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?"