Orcs: Bad Blood (39 page)

Peter Coleborn

S
TAN
N
ICHOLLS
is the author of more than two dozen books, most of them in the fantasy and science fiction genres, for both children and
adults. His books have been published in over twenty countries. Before taking up writing full-time in 1981, he co-owned and
managed the West London bookstore Bookends and managed the specialist SF bookshop Dark They Were and Golden Eyed. He was also
Forbidden Planet’s first manager and helped establish and run the New York branch. A journalist for national and specialist
publications and the Internet, he was the science fiction and fantasy book reviewer for the London listings magazine
Time Out
for six years and subsequently reviewed popular science titles for the magazine. He received the Le Fantastique Lifetime
Achievement Award for Contributions to Literature in April 2007.

If you enjoyed
ORCS: BAD BLOOD,
look out for

THE DWARVES

by Markus Heitz

For countless millennia, the dwarves of the Fifthling Kingdom have defended the stone gateway into Girdlegard. No man or beast
has ever succeeded in breaching it. Until now…

Abandoned as a child, Tungdil the blacksmith labors contentedly in the land of Ionandar, the only dwarf in a kingdom of men.
Tungdil has never even set eyes on another dwarf. But all that is about to change.

Sent out into the world to deliver a message and reacquaint himself with his people, the young foundling finds himself thrust
into a battle for which he has not been trained. The life of every man, woman, and child in Girdlegard depends upon his ability
to embrace his heritage. Tungdil is certain of one thing: no matter where he was raised, he is a true dwarf.

And no one has ever questioned the courage of the Dwarves.

Glandallin’s gaze swept the front line of monstrous beasts, shifting back to survey the second, third, fourth, fifth, and
countless other grunting rows, all poised for the attack. He glowered from under his bushy eyebrows, forehead furrowing into
a frown.

Giselbert lost no time in reversing the incantation. At the sound of his voice, the gates submitted to his authority, swinging
back across the pathway but moving too slowly to stop the breach. Giselbert strode behind his troops, laying a hand on each
shoulder. The gesture was a source of solace as well as strength, calming and rallying the last defenders of the gates.

Trumpets blaring, the riders ordered the attack. The orcs and ogres brandished their weapons, shouting to drown out their
fear, and the army advanced with thundering steps.

“The path is narrow. Meet them line by line and give them a taste of our steel!” Glandallin called to his kinsfolk. “Vraccas
is with us! We are the children of the Smith!”

“The children of the Smith!” the fifthlings echoed, feet planted firmly on the rocky ground beneath.

Four dwarves were chosen to form the final line of defense. Throwing down his shield, the king took an ax in each hand and
led the surge toward the enemy. The dwarves, all that remained of Giselbert’s folk, charged out to slay the invaders.

Ten paces beyond the gateway, the armies met. The fifthlings tunneled like moles through the vanguard of orcs.

With only one ax with which to defend himself, Glandallin struck out, slicing through the thicket of legs. He did not stop
to kill his victims, knowing that the fallen bodies would hinder the advancing troops.

“No one gets past Glandallin!” he roared. Stinking blood streamed from his armor and helm, stinging his eyes. When his ax
grew heavy, he clasped the weapon with both hands. “No one, do you hear!” His enemies’ bones splintered, splattering him with
hot blood. Twice he was grazed by a sword or a spear, but he battled on regardless.

The prize was not survival but the closing of the gates. Girdlegard would be safe if they could stave off the invasion until
the passageway was sealed.

Until this hour his ax had defended him faithfully, but now the magic of its runes gave out. Glancing to his right, Glandallin
saw a comrade topple to the ground, skull sliced in half by an orc’s two-handed sword. Seething with hatred, and determined
to fell the aggressor, Glandallin lunged once, twice, driving his ax into the creature’s belly and cleaving it in two. A shadow
loomed above him, but by then it was too late. He made a last-ditch attempt to dodge the ogre’s sweeping cudgel, but its rounded
head swooped down and struck his legs. Bellowing in pain he toppled against an orc, severing its thigh as he fell, before
tumbling onward through the army of legs. He lashed out with his ax until there were no more orcs within his reach.

“Come here and fight, you cowards!” he snarled.

The enemy paid him no attention. Fired by an insatiable hunger, they streamed past him toward the gateway. They had no need
of stringy dwarf flesh when there were tastier morsels in Girdlegard.

Trembling with pain, Glandallin rose up on his elbows. The rest of his kinsfolk were dead, their mutilated bodies strewn on
the ground, surrounded by scores of enemy corpses. The diamonds on Giselbert’s belt sparkled in the sunlight, marking the
place where the fifthling father had fallen, slain by a trio of ogres. At the sight of him, Glandallin’s soul ached with sorrow
and pride.

The sun rose above the mountains, flooding through the gateway and dazzling Glandallin with its light. He raised a hand to
his sensitive eyes, straining to see the gateway.
Praise be to Vraccas! The gates were closed!

A blow from behind sent pain searing through his chest. For the duration of a heartbeat the tip of a spear protruded through
his tunic, then withdrew. He slumped, gasping, to the ground. “What in the name of… ?”

The assassin stepped round his body and knelt beside him. The smooth elven face was framed by fine fair hair that shimmered
in the sunlight like a veil of golden threads. But the vision bore a terrible deformity; two fathomless pits stared from almond-shaped
holes.

The creature wore armor of black metal that reached to its knees. Its legs were clad in leather breeches and dark brown boots.
Burgundy gloves protected its fingers from grime, and its right hand clasped a spear whose steel tip, sharp enough to penetrate
the fine mesh of dwarven chain mail, was moist with blood.

The strange elf spoke to the dwarf.

At first the words meant nothing to Glandallin, but their morbid sound filled him with dread.

“My friend said: ‘Look at me: Sinthoras is your death,’” a second voice translated behind him. “‘I will take your life, and
the land will take your soul.’”

Glandallin coughed, blood rushing from his mouth and coursing down his beard.

“Get out of my sight, you pointy-eared monster! I want to see the gates,” he said gruffly, brandishing his ax to ward away
the beast. The weapon almost flew from his grip; his strength was ebbing fast. “Out of my way or I’ll cut you in two like
a straw, you treacherous elf!” he thundered.

Sinthoras laughed coldly. Raising his spear, he inserted the tip slowly between the tight rings of mail.

“You are mistaken, my friend. We are the älfar, and we have come to slay the elves,” the voice said softly. “The gates may
be closed, but the power of the land will raise you from the dead and from that moment on, you will be one of us. You know
the incantation; you will open the door.”

“Never! My soul belongs to Vraccas!”

“Your soul belongs to the land, and you will belong to the land until the end of time,” the velvety voice cut him short. “Die,
so you can return and deliver Girdlegard to us.”

The spear’s sharp tip pierced the flesh of the helpless, dying dwarf. Pain stopped his tongue.

Sinthoras raised the weapon and pushed down gently on the battered body. The final blow was dealt tenderly, almost reverently.
The creature waited for death to claim its prey, watching over Glandallin’s pain-ravaged features and drinking in the memory.

Finally, when he was certain that the last custodian of the gateway had departed, Sinthoras ended his vigil and rose to his
feet.