Orcs: Bad Blood (23 page)

“It’s so like the way humans do it, and what with those tattoos you all had, I thought you might have been press-ganged by
them.”

“Is that something they do here?” Coilla asked.

“No. They’ve tried, mind you. But they find orcs poor material for fighting. We’ve been such an unwarlike race there isn’t
even a tradition of weapon-making. We have to forge our own, or steal them from the occupiers.”

“Things do seem in a bad way here,” Stryke reflected.

Chillder nodded. “They are. But what your band managed in one day gives us hope. If you’d help us organise and train, we could
do some real damage to the occupiers, not just harass them.”

“
Now
you’re talking,” Haskeer said. He gulped his wine. Some of it dribbled down the front of his jerkin.

“We can help,” Stryke confirmed.

Chillder looked to the dwarfs. “Jup, are your folk as warlike as these orcs of the north?”

“We hold our own.”

“As well as any in the band,” Stryke told her.

“And how do you see us faring against the humans here, Jup?” Brelan asked.

“I’d imagine their greater numbers would be a problem.”

“They aren’t that great. Granted there’s more than the resistance. A lot more. But not as many as you might think to cow a
nation.”

“How so?”

“Isn’t it obvious? With a population this meek, they don’t
need
vast regiments to keep us down. That’s why we were such a tempting prize. It’s not force of arms that holds the balance,
it’s damn magic.”

“And with orcs lacking that ability, it’s not likely to change.”

“Yet it was the lie that we could control magic that led to the invasion.”

“How is it with dwarfs?” Chillder said.

Spurral had been picking at her food. She looked up. “What do you mean?”

“We know some humans can master sorcery. Is it the same with dwarfs?”

“We may look a little like them, but we don’t share that particular gift. Our troubles would have been over long before now
if we did.”

“Pity.” Chillder turned her gaze to Pepperdyne and Stand-even.

“It’s no good looking at us,” Pepperdyne said, raising his hands in denial. “Magic’s practised by an elite we’ve never been
acquainted with.”

“You can’t help us turn sorcery against them then,” Chillder sighed.

“Forget magic; it’s not likely to be part of the orcs’ armoury,” Stryke reckoned. “But cold steel can match it.”

“How?” Brelan wanted to know.

“A dead wizard casts no spells. Humans are flesh, and they bleed. Concentrate on that.”

“It’s easier said,” Chillder reminded him. “What can we do to bring it about?”

“What you’ve
been
doing, only better. We’ve fought humans and we’ve fought magic. Both can be overcome. We’ll share our skills with you, show
you how to make the best of what you’ve got.”

“I had an idea about that,” Coilla ventured.

“Go on,” Brelan said.

“I noticed that you have a number of females in your ranks. But as far as I can see they’re menials. Do any of them fight?”

It wasn’t Brelan who replied, but his sister. “Ah. You’ve touched on a sore point, Coilla. Of the resistance females, it’s
just me who takes on the enemy in battle. And that’s only because my brother wouldn’t dare deny me.”

“That’s not really true,” Brelan protested. He saw how his twin was looking at him. “Well, all right, it is. But as a general
rule we don’t let the females fight.”

“Why?” Coilla demanded.

“I’ll say it again: we are few. We’ve a duty to protect the child-bearers.”

“Have you asked
them
what they think? Look, Brelan, you’re an orc, but the way orcs are in Acurial isn’t… natural. You need to understand that
females of our race are as ferocious as the males. Or could be. They’re an asset you’re wasting.”

“That’s never been our way.”

“Then change it. You’re fighting for freedom for all. All should fight.”

Chillder backed that with, “Hear, hear.”

Brelan was silent for a moment, and seemed to be mulling over Coilla’s words. Then he said, “They couldn’t fight alongside
the males. Their lack of skill would endanger them.”

Coilla nodded. “That’s what I thought. So why not let me put together an all-female band? Not to fetch and carry for you males,
but to fight in their own right.”

Chillder smiled. “It gets my vote.”

“I hope you’d be a part of it; and you, Spurral.”

“Why not?” Brelan conceded. “If it helps the cause —”

“Good. There must be twenty or thirty females here who could form a warband.”

“You should ask Wheam to join,” Haskeer muttered.

“What did he say?” Brelan asked.

“Ignore him,” Coilla said, aiming a glare at Haskeer.

“All right then, we’ll make a start in the morning,” Chillder promised.

Things wound down after that. One by one, the diners drifted from the table to find somewhere to sleep. Stryke and Coilla
felt need of air, and slipped out of the farmhouse. They propped themselves against a fence rail, well away from the patrolling
guards.

“You look troubled,” she said.

“I don’t like lying to these orcs. About who we are, where we’re from, why we’re here…”

“You think they’d find the truth more to their taste?”

“Hell, no. They’d probably burn us at the stake.”

“So you’re doing the right thing. Just like Spurral did back there, denying dwarfs had any magical powers. They’re not ready
for the truth, however let down Chillder seemed.”

“Maybe.”

“Everything’s on its head here. I mean, now we know why the humans haven’t despoiled this place the way they did Maras-Dantia.
They understand that the magic depends on the land staying hearty.”

“They’ll find another way of fucking things up.”

“That’s for sure.” She turned to look at him. “I thought you might have been ticked off with me.”

“Why should I be?”

“This idea of a female warband. I should have asked you first. But just in the short time we’ve been here I’ve got crabby
about the bullshit. You know, they call themselves civilised, but don’t seem so damned civilised when it comes to females
doing their bit.”

“Don’t be too hard on them. They’ve lost touch with their roots, with what it means to be an orc. And no, I don’t mind. Whatever
gives the humans a kick in the arse is fine by me.”

“
Good
. I even thought of a name for the band. We’re the Wolverines; I thought they could be the Vixens.”

He smiled. “Sounds fitting.”

“But we’re dodging the main issue.”

“Which is?”

“Jennesta. There’s no sign of her. And she’s why we’re here, isn’t she?”

“Part of it.”

“You saying we wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for the chance to settle with her once and for all?”

“No. But we’ve barely seen Taress yet. Jennesta’s not likely to be strolling around unprotected.”

“Getting even with her is why most of the band signed on for this mission. You shouldn’t forget that.”

“I won’t.”

“And it’s all about a grudge for Pepperdyne and Standeven, too. They say.”

“That’s another bucket of worms.”

“We’re getting in deep here, Stryke. In more than one way.”

He raised a finger to his lips and nodded towards the farmhouse.

Brelan was heading their way.

“There you are,” he said.

“I’m glad to have you without the others around,” Stryke told him. “About that punch I threw at you —”

Brelan rubbed his chin, as though still stinging from the blow. “I got the message. But that’s done. I’m not here to go over
it. We’ve had news.”

“What is it?”

“Seems an emissary of some kind’s about to arrive from Peczan.”

“So?”

“The word is this isn’t some lowly bureaucrat. They’re high up. Important. And it’s causing quite a stir among the governor’s
staff and the garrison.”

“How do you know this?”

“Not all orcs want to fight, but some of them are happy to pass on intelligence. This came down the line from servants in
Hacher’s headquarters.”

“So if we could get at whoever it is —”

“Perhaps. Or stage something that makes Hacher look inept in their eyes. Either way, with your help, we might be able to strike
a blow.”

“And you’ve no idea who this envoy is, or how much power they wield?”

“None. Except that as far as Hacher’s concerned, their coming doesn’t bode well.”

“Yes,” Coilla said, “but for who?”

The orcs of Acurial, and especially of Taress, were accustomed to having the military hammer on their doors at dawn. Usually
it was a prelude to being locked up, tortured or summarily executed. Or perhaps to be forced to witness the execution of others.
Sometimes it was part of a collective punishment for a real or imagined defiance of the occupiers’ will; the citizenry made
to watch as their homes burned, their cattle were slaughtered and their fields sown with salt.

It was much rarer for them to be turfed from their beds to line the streets. To be issued with pennants bearing the colours
of their conquerors’ nation and compelled to acclaim a visiting dignitary.

Most singular of all was to have the object of their ersatz approval gallop past at speed in a black carriage with its windows
shuttered against curious eyes.

The carriage, accompanied by an entourage of similarly impenetrable vehicles and an honour guard of hard-faced elite troopers,
made its way to the fortress at the centre of the city. As soon as it entered, the gates were hastily secured.

Near the castle’s apex, in Kapple Hacher’s eyrie, the governor awaited his guest.

As ever, he was outwardly calm. The sorcerer Grentor, who stood at his side, was less so.

“Tell me, Governor,” Grentor said, toying nervously with a string of worry beads, “have you met our guest before?”

“I have. In Peczan.”

“And your impression?”

“I think… profound would be an appropriate word. And you, Brother? Have you been in the presence?”

“No. Although our visitor is technically the head of our Order, I’ve never had that pleasure.”

“Pleasure is a word you might wish to reconsider.”

“How so?”

There was a knock at the door.

“Come!” Hacher called.

His aide, Frynt, entered. “They’re here, sir.” He was breathless.

“You seem flustered,” Hacher said. “I take it you’ve had sight of our guest.”

“Yes, sir. The party’s on its way up.”

“All right. Leave us. No, use the other door.”

The aide went out, looking relieved to be going.

Grentor wore a perplexed expression.

“A word of advice, High Cleric,” Hacher told him. “You’ll find that the emissary is… let’s say strong willed, and does not
easily tolerate dissent. This is a person of enormous power and influence. It’s as well to keep that in mind.”

Grentor would have replied, had not the double doors leading into Hacher’s chambers not flown open with a crash.

Two figures walked in. They were human. At least, nominally so. Both were males, and impressively muscular. They were dressed
for combat, in black leather trews, jerkins and steel-tipped boots, and they carried scimitars.

Beyond these superficialities, they were wrong. Their eyes were wrong. They had a fixed, glazed quality that seemed devoid
of any spark of humanity. Their faces were wrong. The skin appeared overly taut and expressionless, and it had an unhealthy
yellowish tinge. The way they moved was wrong. They progressed inflexibly, as though their spines were too rigid, and there
was a slight tendency to shuffle.

The pair inspected the room, looking behind drapes and opening doors. They said nothing. Seemingly satisfied that no assassins
lay in wait, they shambled to Hacher and the priest. One extended a beefy, parchment-coloured hand.

“I hope you’ve no intention of searching
me
?” Hacher complained indignantly.

“We’ll let it pass this time.”

As they turned to the source of the voice, a female swept into the room. Even Hacher, who had seen her before, was taken aback
by her appearance. For Grentor, it was a new and startling experience.

There was something perplexing, not to say downright disturbing, about the way she looked. The structure of her face was strangely
off beam. It was just a little too flat and wide, especially across the temples, and her chin narrowed almost to a point.
Her skin was curious. There was a light silvery green patina to it, as though stippled with tiny fish scales. Her nose was
slightly convex, and her shapely mouth seemed overly broad. She had ink-black hair that fell to her waist.

What held Hacher and Grentor were her eyes. They were dark and undoubtedly mesmeric. But they had a deeper, more unsettling
feature. Like portals, they allowed a glimpse into a realm of shadowy matter; infinite, merciless, chaotic.

Ignoring any rational definition of the word, she was beautiful. Beautiful in the way of a carnivorous plant, a wolf spider
or ravening shark. Nightmarish yet alluring. Unwholesome.

She snapped her fingers. The sound was loud and brittle. In the silence that had settled on the room, it was almost shocking.
The two dead-eyed bodyguards responded to it as surely as a spoken command. Turning as one, they strode out, Hacher and Grentor
staring after them.

Hacher collected himself first, and greeted their guest. “My Lady Jennesta.” He bobbed his head respectfully.

“Hacher.”

“May I introduce Brother Grentor, High Cleric of the Order of —”

“Yes, yes.” She waved away the rest of his sentence with a lazy motion of her hand. “I’m aware of who he is.”

Grentor was halfway through a low bow. He straightened, looking uncomfortable.

“Please, ma’am,” Hacher said, gesturing to the best chair in the room, “be seated.”

She regarded it with the disdain of someone expecting to be offered a throne. But she suffered the indignity, the silk of
her emerald gown giving a gentle swish as she sat.

“Those bodyguards…” Hacher began, his gaze flashing to the door in anticipation of them returning any second.