Orcs (69 page)

At length he turned from the scene and trudged to the tent that served as temporary field command.

Weighed down by the mission he had taken upon himself and the sour taste of a defeat, he held his back a little less straight and his eyes lacked a mite of their usual steel. For all that, he couldn’t help but be a striking figure. He was arrestingly tall and almost preternaturally thin. Black garb and a stovepipe hat added to his imposing appearance. His face was weathered and leathery, like a farmer’s, though recent exertions had made it sallow. He had a slash of a mouth and a tapering chin adorned with silvering whiskers. It was a mien unwarmed by laughter or any of the gentler emotions.

But looks and dress were superficial in his case. Hobrow was the kind of man who, had he gone naked and wreathed in smiles, would still be marked out by the cold fervour in his heart.

“Father!
Father!
”

Sight of his daughter, standing at the tent’s entrance, softened him to a small degree. He strode over and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“What’s happening, Father?” she said. “Are the savages coming?”

“No,” he assured her, “the heathens aren’t coming. You have nothing to be afraid of, Mercy. I’m here.” He steered her back into the tent and sat her down.

Mercy Hobrow resembled more the mother they didn’t talk about than him. There was nothing of the cadaverous about her. She had yet to fully cross the divide between childhood and adolescence, or shed her puppy fat. With honey blonde hair, a porcelain complexion and unclouded blue eyes, she appeared vaguely doll-like but that was offset by a certain malevolence in her face, and a mean mouth.

Compared with everyone else her father surrounded himself with, her clothing seemed almost flamboyant. Eschewing black, she wore restrained patterned fabrics, and even a hint of plain jewellery. It spoke of his indulgence towards her, in contrast to the way he dealt with the rest of the world.

“Did they beat us, Father?” she asked, wide-eyed. “Did the monsters beat us?”

“No, darling, they didn’t. The Lord has punished us, not the sub-humans. He used them to send us a warning.”

“Why is God warning us? Have we been bad?”

“Not bad, no. But not good enough. He has found us lacking in undertaking His work, I see that now. We must do more.”

“How, Daddy?”

“He would have us grind the orcs and their like into the dust forever, along with the degenerate humans allied with them. I’ve sent for reinforcements from Trinity, and messengers have gone out to Hexton, Endurance, Ripple, Clipstone, Smokehouse and all the other decent, God-fearing settlements in Centrasia. When they heed the Lord’s appeal we’ll be more than an army, we’ll be a crusade.”

Mercy’s face had clouded at the mention of orcs. “I
hate
them Wolverines,” she hissed.

“You are right to, child. Those beasts have particularly incurred God’s anger. They ruined my scheme to cleanse this land in the Lord’s name, and they stole the relic.”

“And that freak, that dwarf, he held a knife to my throat.”

“I know.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. It was an action at once affectionate and distanced. “They have much to answer for.”

“Make them die, Daddy.” There was a pitiless edge to her voice.

“Their souls will burn,” he promised.

“But we don’t know where they are.”

“We know where they were last; somewhere around Drogan, with that other band of ungodly brutes, those half-horse, half-man abominations. We’ll look for their trail there.”

“If God detests the inferior races so much, why did He create them?”

“As a test for us, maybe. Or it could be they aren’t the Lord’s work at all. Could be they’re kith of the Horned One.” He dropped to a whisper. “Satan’s issue, sent to plague the pure.”

Mercy shuddered. “Lord preserve us,” she breathed.

“That He will, and have us flourish too, providing we spread His Word. With blade and spear if need be. That’s His command.” Hobrow’s eyes took on a different light. He fixed them on a point above. “Hear me, Lord? With Your guidance we’ll bear the glorious burden of racial purity You have laid upon us. Arm me with Your sword of vengeance and Your shield of righteousness, and I will bring down the fire of Your wrath upon the savages!”

His daughter stared up at him with something like awe. “Amen,” she whispered.

“Scurvy fat arse!”

“Shit breeches!”

Fists balled, Jup and Haskeer advanced on each other, eager to turn insults into action.

“As you were!”
Stryke barked.

Glowering, the pair of sergeants lingered on the edge of mutiny. Stryke elbowed between them, palmed their chests and shoved them apart. “Are you
officers
in this band or what? Eh? You want to stay sergeants, act like it!”

They backed off, scowling.

“No way am I taking brawling from you two,” Stryke told them. “If you’ve got a beef, save it for the opposition. And if you’ve got energy to spare, you can work it off. You’re on fatigues.” He flashed them a look that stifled their groans. “Haskeer, muck the horses.” Jup smirked. Stryke turned to him. “See that tree, Sergeant?” He pointed at one of the tallest in sight. “Climb it. You’re on lookout. Now
move!
”

They loped off, stony-faced.

“Their truce didn’t last too long,” Alfray said.

Coilla nodded. “Just like old times.”

“I think they like being at odds,” Stryke reckoned. “Gives ’em something to kick out at. And there’s not a lot else going on right now.”

“There’s been a bit of unrest among the grunts too,” Alfray reported. “Nothing serious. Squabbles, bitching, minor stuff.”

“We’ve only been here thirty-six hours, for the gods’ sake!” Stryke complained.

“It was a good thing we had work to do on the defences. They would have boiled over earlier without the vent. But now that’s done—”

“I won’t have indiscipline just because they have to cool their heels for a while.”

“They’re not
bored
, Stryke,” Coilla corrected, “they’re frustrated. About what we do next. Aren’t you?”

He sighed. “Yes,” he admitted. “I haven’t a clue what we’re going to do or how we go about finding the last star.”

“Well, we can’t stay here much longer while we figure it out. We’ve got to head somewhere. Unless you want to hang around for a parley with Jennesta.”

“We’re moving out today. Even if we have to toss a coin for where.”

“And end up doing what?” Alfray wondered. “Pointless wandering? Spending the rest of our lives running from her and everybody else who wants what we’ve got?”

“You got a better idea, let’s hear it,” Stryke flared.

“Heads up,” Coilla interrupted.

They looked the way she indicated. Keppatawn was approaching. Already his withered leg had improved noticeably. New, healthy skin was forming, and he walked with less of a limp. His whole demeanour seemed more robust.

When he reached them, Stryke commented on this.

“My affliction improves by the hour,” the centaur replied, “though it’s not entirely healed yet. Hedgestus tells me tonight’s final application will complete the process.”

“That’s good.”

“It’s thanks to you.” He included Alfray and Coilla in his smiling approval. “All of you. I’m in your debt for this miracle.”

“You owe us nothing.”

“How go your preparations?” Keppatawn enquired. “Have you decided on your next move?” He added hastily, “Don’t think we’re being inhospitable.”

“We don’t. And in truth, no, we haven’t settled on a destination. But we’ll be going today, in any event. We know having us here would only make our enemies your enemies.”

“I’m glad you understand. The weapons we’re forging for you are ready, and —”

A shout stopped him. Jup ran to them, arms pumping.

Stryke glared at him. “I thought I told you —”

“Look what’s coming,” the dwarf panted.

Centaurs were escorting a group into the clearing. Four or five of the newcomers had the unmistakable physique and gait of pixies. They led strings of mules and horses, laden with saddlebags, bolts of cloth, sacks and chests.

Grunts abandoned their chores and came to watch, followed by Haskeer. Stryke didn’t reprimand them.

“See?” Jup nodded at a knot of figures, a dozen strong, marching at the caravan’s rear.

They were orcs.

Alarm spread through the band. Weapons were drawn.

“Betrayal!” Haskeer growled.

Keppatawn reached out and grasped Stryke’s sword hand. “No, my friend. You aren’t in danger. These traders are regular visitors.”

“And them?” He indicated the orcs.

“Not all of your kind are in hordes, you know that. Some manage an independent existence. These are freelance bodyguards. What better protection could the merchants buy? Trust me.”

Stryke slowly resheathed his blade, then ordered the rest of the band to do the same. With some reluctance, particularly from Haskeer, they did as they were told.

The bodyguards were looking on, their bearing tense.

“It’s a comedown for orcs,” Alfray remarked, “reduced to hiring themselves out as chaperones for peddlers.”

Pixies and centaurs began unpacking the wares. Silks and rugs were shaken out, boxes levered open, sacks upended. An orc moved away from the crowd and headed for the band.

“Please remember that they are guests too,” Keppatawn said.

“Of course,” Stryke replied. “We don’t pick fights with our own kind.”

“Unless they pick one with us,” Coilla appended.

Keppatawn seemed a little pained at that, but held his tongue.

The orc arrived. He kept his hands well away from his weapons and looked as diffident as his nature allowed.

“Well met,” he offered.

Stryke returned the greeting. The rest of the Wolverines contented themselves with wary nods.

“I’m Melox,” the orc went on, “leader of our group. I was surprised to see you here.”

“The feeling’s mutual. I’m Stryke.”

“Thought so. Wolverines, eh?”

“What of it?”

“We’re out of Jennesta’s horde too. Not in a band. Footsoldiers.”

“How did you come to this?” Alfray wanted to know, a hint of disdain in his voice.

“Desert a horde and what’s an orc to do? Still got to eat. Anyway, I could say the same about you. No disrespect.”

“None taken,” Stryke decided. “Nobody’s judging you. These are hard times.”

“Why did you leave Jennesta?” Coilla asked.

“Same reason you did, I reckon. Couldn’t take no more.”

“Wasn’t quite like that with us. But it came out the same.”

“Well, we think what you’re doing’s right. Should have happened long ago.” He nodded the caravan’s way. “This job, we’d drop it in a minute, all of us, if you’d take us on, Captain.”

“We’re not recruiting,” Stryke told him. His tone was dismissive.

“But that’s why you went AWOL, ain’t it? To go against Jennesta? To get things back the way they were for us?”

“No.”

“It’s what everybody thinks.”

“They think wrong.”

A strained silence descended. Jup broke it. “You’re being called.”

The bodyguard’s comrades were waving him back.

“Maybe we can talk later,” Melox said.

“We’re moving out today,” Stryke replied.

“Oh. Right. Well, if you change your mind about letting us join . . .” He turned and walked away.

Coilla directed, “Good luck!” at his back. Then, “You were a bit hard on him, Stryke.”

“I’m not leading a crusade, I’ve told you that.”

“Looks like not everybody agrees.”

“Another visitor,” Haskeer rumbled.

One of the merchants was coming their way.

Keppatawn smiled. “This is somebody you should meet.”

The individual who joined them was short and fairly robust, yet somehow gave an impression of fragility. His features inclined to the feminine, with lush lips, slightly tapering, dreamy eyes and smooth pale skin. His nose was pert and just a tad upturned. His ears were small and swept back to a point. A green felt cap didn’t entirely confine his mop of black hair. His tunic and leggings were green too, but the effect was offset by a wide brown leather belt with a gleaming buckle, and by a black cape, lined in green. The ankle-length soft hide shoes he wore, whose necks curled outward petal-fashion, were known universally as “pixie boots.”

It was impossible to tell his age because all his race had faces like infants’. The voice was no clue either. It could have been a child’s, albeit a rather knowing one.

“Keppatawn!” the pixie gushed. “
Wonderful
to see you again, you old
knave
you!” His pitch rose to a near shriek. “And your
leg!
Such
an improvement! How
delightful!
” He winked theatrically. “Suits you.”

Laughing, Keppatawn accepted the pixie’s delicate, outstretched hands in greeting. They were tiny compared to his. “Welcome back. It’s good to see you.” He wheeled his guest around. “Meet some friends, the Wolverines.”

“I’ve
heard
of you,” the pixie exclaimed. “Aren’t you
outlaws?
”

“This is Stryke, band captain,” Keppatawn explained. “Stryke, this is Katz, master merchant.”

“Honoured, Captain.” Katz thrust out a limp hand.

Bemused, Stryke took it, but didn’t shake too vigorously for fear of fracture. “Er, me too.”

The other officers were each introduced, and the grunts
en masse
. Katz simply nodded this time and didn’t try offering his hand to any of them. Which in Haskeer’s case was probably wise. He looked as though he might have bitten it off.

“You know, for a race with such a fearsome reputation, you orcs aren’t at all bad,” Katz prattled. “I’ve found that with my own retinue. Splendid fellows, every one of them. Always happy to oblige, nothing’s too much trouble, and the best protection coin can buy, naturally. We pixies aren’t warlike by nature, as I’m sure you know, and we—”

“Don’t you ever shut up?” Haskeer grumbled.

“Of
course
, how thoughtless of me. Here I am engaging you in idle chit-chat when all you want is sight of my goods.”

“Wha —?”

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re asking yourself how you can afford the amazing commodities I’m about to lay before you. Don’t worry about it. My prices are so reasonable you’ll think I’m robbing myself, which in truth I am, and if even the paltry cost is too much I’m open to trade.”