Orcs (42 page)

“I’ll remember.”

“Got everything you need?”

“I reckon so. We’ll be looking out for you at Calyparr.”

“Six days at most.”

Stryke stretched his arm and they shook warrior-fashion, clasping each other’s wrist. “Fare well, Alfray.”

“And you, Stryke.” He nodded at the dwarf. “Jup.”

“Good luck, Alfray.”

The band’s standard jutted from the ground next to Alfray’s horse. “I’m used to having this in my charge,” he said. “Do you mind, Stryke?”

“Course not. Take it.”

Alfray mounted and pulled free the banner’s spar. He raised it and his troopers took to their horses.

Stryke, Jup and the remaining grunts watched in silence as the small column headed west.

“So where to?” Jup wanted to know.

“We’ll cover the ground eastward of here,” Stryke decided. “Get ’em mounted.”

Jup organised things while Stryke got on to his own horse. He was still disoriented by the lucidity of his dream, and took several deep breaths to centre himself.

He looked to his reduced band and dwelt again on the resolve the dream had given him. Still sure he was taking the right course, he nevertheless couldn’t shake off the feeling that they might never see Alfray and the others again.

Jup brought his horse to Stryke’s side. “All ready.”

“Very good, Sergeant. Let’s see what we can do about finding Haskeer and Coilla, shall we?”

They made Coilla walk, tied to the end of a rope attached to the pommel on Aulay’s saddle. Her own mount was led by Blaan. Lekmann rode in front, setting a brisk pace.

She had learned their names by listening to their conversations. Something else she’d come to understand was that none of them had any regard for her wellbeing, beyond an occasional drink of water, grudgingly offered. Even this was only to protect what they saw as an investment they intended realising in Hecklowe.

The trio occasionally exchanged words, sometimes as whispers so she couldn’t hear. They gave her sidelong glances. Aulay shot her murderous looks.

Coilla was fit and used to marching, but the speed they maintained was a punishment. So when they came across a stream and Lekmann, the pock-faced, greasy-haired leader, ordered camp struck, it was all she could do to contain her relief. She slumped to the ground, breath short, limbs aching.

The weaselly Aulay, whose ear she’d taken a chunk out of, secured her horse. What she didn’t see was him giving Lekmann a conspiratorial wink from his one good eye. Then he tied her, in a sitting position, to a tree trunk. That done, the trio settled down.

“How much longer to Hecklowe?” Aulay asked Lekmann.

“Couple of days, I reckon.”

“Can’t be too soon for me.”

“Yeah, I’m bored, Micah,” piped up the big, stupid one called Blaan.

Aulay, fingering his grubbily bandaged ear, pointed a thumb at Coilla. “Maybe we should have some fun with her.” Drawing a knife, he brought it back in a throwing position. “A little target practice would pass the time.” He got a bead on her.

Blaan laughed inanely.

“Leave it be,” Lekmann growled.

Aulay ignored him. “Catch this, bitch!” he yelled, and threw the knife. Coilla stiffened. The blade buried itself in the earth just beyond her feet.

“Cut it out!”
Lekmann bellowed. “We won’t get a good price for damaged goods.” He tossed his canteen at Aulay. “Fetch us some water.”

Grumbling, Aulay added his own canteen, collected Blaan’s and went to the stream.

Lekmann stretched out, his hat over his eyes. Blaan laid his head on a rolled blanket, facing away from Coilla.

She watched them. Her eyes flicked to the knife, which they seemed to have forgotten. It looked to be just within reach. She carefully eased a foot in its direction.

Aulay returned with the canteens. She froze and lowered her head, pretending slumber.

The one-eyed human stared at her. “Just our luck to be stuck out here with a female and she ain’t human,” he complained.

Lekmann sniggered. “Surprised you don’t try her anyway. Or are you fussy these days?”

Aulay pulled a disgusted face. “I’d rather do it with a pig.”

Coilla opened her eyes. “That makes two of us,” she assured him.

“Well, fuck you,” he retorted.

“I’m not a pig, remember?”

“Valuable or not, I’ve got a mind to come over there and give you a kicking.”

“Untie me first and we’ll make a match of it. I’d enjoy doing some damage to whatever you’ve got between those scrawny legs.”

“Big talk! With
what
, bitch?”

“With these.” She flashed her teeth at him. “You know how sharp they are.”

Aulay boiled, a hand to the remains of his ear.

Lekmann grinned.

“How do we know she ain’t lying about her band going to Hecklowe?” Aulay said.

“Don’t start that again, Greever,” Lekmann replied wearily. He turned to Coilla. “You aren’t lying, are you, sweetheart? You wouldn’t dare.”

She held her peace, contenting herself with an acid look.

Digging into a jerkin pocket, Lekmann brought out a pair of bone dice. “Let’s all calm down and kill an hour with these, shall we?” He rattled the dice in his fist.

Aulay drifted over. Blaan joined them. Soon they were engrossed in a noisy game and lost interest in Coilla.

She concentrated on the knife. Slowly, with one eye always on the boisterous trio, she stretched her foot towards it. Eventually her toe touched the blade. Further straining and wriggling got her foot around the knife. She pulled back. It fell, fortunately her way. With some ungainly, stealthy acrobatics, she managed to get it near enough to reach.

A rope had been run around her, fastening her arms to her sides, but there was just enough give to allow her fingers to reach the weapon. Very carefully, she got the knife into her palm and, her hand at an awkward, painful angle, finally placed its cutting edge against the rope.

The bounty hunters were still playing, their backs to her.

She moved the knife on the rope, working it up and down as quickly as she dared. Shreds of hemp frayed. Applying pressure by flexing her muscles against the bond helped speed the process.

Then the last threads parted and she was free.

With imperceptible, almost glacial deliberation, she unwound the rope. The humans carried on throwing dice and yelling at each other, completely oblivious of her. She moved, ever so cautiously, towards her horse, which was also on their blind side.

Crouching low and clutching the knife, she reached the mount. Her worry now was that the animal might snort or make some other sound to alert them. She patted it gingerly and whispered softly to keep it docile. Slipping a foot into the stirrup, she reached for the saddle to pull herself up.

The saddle came away, sending her sprawling. Her knife flew out of her hand. Shying, the horse bucked.

Roars of laughter broke out. She looked over and saw the bounty hunters doubled up with barbarous mirth. Lekmann, sword drawn, came to her and kicked the knife out of reach.

It was then that she noticed the saddle straps had been undone.

“You’ve gotta make your own entertainment out here on the plains,” Lekmann hooted.

“Her
face!
” Aulay mocked.

Blaan was holding his massive belly and rocking. Tears ran down his ample cheeks.

Suddenly something caught his attention and he stopped. He stared and said, “Hey, look.”

A rider was approaching on a pure white stallion.

8

As the rider drew nearer they saw he was human.

“Who the hell’s
that?
” Lekmann said. The other two shrugged, blank-faced. Lekmann knelt and bound Coilla’s hands behind her back.

The bounty hunters armed themselves and watched as the horseman approached at a steady pace. Soon he was close enough for them to make out clearly.

Even seated it was obvious he was tall and straight-backed, but wiry rather than muscular. His auburn hair reached his shoulders, and he had a neatly trimmed beard. He wore a chestnut jerkin, lightly embroidered with silver thread. Below that were brown leather breeches tucked into high black boots. A swept-back dark blue cloak completed the outfit. Apparently he wasn’t carrying a weapon.

He pulled on the reins of his white stallion and stopped in front of them. Without asking, he dismounted. His movements were easy and assured, and he was smiling.

“Who are you?” Lekmann demanded. “What do you want?”

The stranger’s eyes flicked to Coilla, then back to Lekmann. The smile didn’t waver. “My name’s Serapheim,” he replied in a sonorous, unhurried tone, “and all I want is water.” He nodded at the spring.

His age was indeterminate. Blue-eyed, with a slightly hawk nose and a well-shaped mouth, his face was handsome in a nondescript sort of way. Yet there was something about him that had presence, and a command transcending looks.

Lekmann glanced at Blaan and Aulay. “Keep your eyes peeled for more.”

“I’m alone,” he told them.

“These are troubled times, Serapheim, or whatever you call yourself,” Lekmann said. “Wandering about with less than a small army’s asking for trouble.”

“You are.”

“There’s three of us, and that’s enough. We know how to look after ourselves.”

“I don’t doubt it. But I offer none a threat and no one threatens me. Anyway, aren’t you four?” He looked to Coilla.

“She’s just with us,” Aulay explained. “She ain’t one
of
us.”

The man made no reply. His expression stayed non-committal.

“Seen any more of her kind in these parts?” Lekmann asked.

“No.”

Coilla studied the newly arrived human and reckoned his eyes spoke of more shrewdness than he was letting on. But she saw no realistic chance of him helping her in any way.

The stranger’s horse walked to the stream, dipped its head and began drinking. They let it be.

“Like I said, in these dark days a lone man takes a risk approaching strangers,” Lekmann repeated pointedly.

“I didn’t see you until the last minute,” Serapheim admitted.

“Going round with your eyes shut ain’t wise either.”

“I’m often in a dream. Living in my head.”

“That’s a good way of losing it,” Aulay commented.

“You with the Unis or the Manis?” Blaan put in bluntly.

“Neither,” Serapheim replied. “You?”

“Same,” Lekmann said.

“That’s a relief. I’m tired of walking on eggs. A stray word in the wrong company can be a problem these days.”

Coilla wondered what he thought he was in now.

“You’re godsless, then?” Aulay asked.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Figured you had to have faith in some higher power not to carry a blade.” It was a comment designed to mock.

“I don’t need one in my trade.”

“Which is what?” Lekmann said.

Serapheim gave a little flourish of his cloak and bowed his head theatrically. “I’m a roving bard. A storyteller. A wordsmith.”

Aulay’s groan summed up the low opinion they all had of that particular occupation.

Coilla was even more convinced this wasn’t someone likely to aid her.

“And how do you gallants make
your
way in the world?”

“We supply freelance martial services,” Lekmann replied grandly.

“With a little vermin control on the side,” Aulay added. He gave Coilla a cold glance.

Serapheim nodded, the smile fixed, but said nothing.

Lekmann grinned. “With wars and strife and all it has to be a bad time in your line.”

“On the contrary, uncertain times suit me.” He noted their doubtful expressions. “When things look black, folk want to forget their everyday worries.”

“If business is good, you must be doing well,” Aulay suggested slyly.

Coilla thought this stranger was either a fool or too trusting for his own good.

“The riches I have can’t be weighed or counted like gold.”

That puzzled Blaan. “How so?”

“Can you put a value on the sun, the moon, the stars? On the wind in your face, the sound of birdsong? This water?”

“The honeyed words of a . . .
poet
,” Lekmann responded disdainfully. “If Maras-Dantia makes up your riches you’re hoarding shoddy goods.”

“There’s some truth in that,” Serapheim allowed. “Things are not as they were, and getting worse.”

Aulay applied some sarcasm. “You saying you eat the sun and stars? Dine on the wind? Sounds a poor return for your wares.”

Blaan smirked inanely.

“In exchange for my yarns folk give me food, drink, shelter. The occasional coin. Maybe even a story of their own. Perhaps you have a story to pass on?”

“Of course not,” Lekmann snorted derisively. “The sort of stories we have would be of little interest to you, word-forger.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. All men’s stories have a value.”

“You ain’t heard ours. Where you heading?”

“Nowhere in particular.”

“And you’ve come from nowhere in particular too, have you?”

“Hecklowe.”

“That’s where we’re going!” Blaan exclaimed.

“Shut your mouth!”
Lekmann snapped. He directed a bogus smile at Serapheim. “How, er, how are things in Hecklowe these days?”

“Like the rest of the land—chaotic, less tolerant than it was. It’s turning into a haven for felons. Place was crawling with footpads, slavers and the like.”

It seemed to Coilla that the stranger placed more than a little emphasis on the word
slavers,
but she couldn’t be sure.

“You don’t say,” Lekmann returned, feigning disinterest.

“The Council and the Watchers try to keep things under control, but the magic’s as unpredictable there as anywhere else. That makes it hard for them.”

“Guess it must.”

Serapheim turned to Coilla. “What does your elder-race friend here think about visiting such a notorious place?”

“Having a choice would be a good start,” she told him.

“She ain’t got nothing to say on the subject!” Lekmann quickly interrupted. “Anyway, she’s an orc and she can take care of herself.”

“Believe it,” Coilla muttered.

The storyteller took in the trio’s harsh expressions. “I’ll just get some of that water and be on my way.”