Orcs (73 page)

“Do you think we can be seen?” Alfray wondered.

“It’s a long way off, and it’s dark, so we’d be hard to spot. More to the point, is it one of Jennesta’s or Glozellan’s?”

“If it’s hostile I reckon we’ll know soon enough.”

They watched until the dragon was swallowed by distance.

9

Blaan sat cross-legged, tongue curling from the corner of his mouth, as he scraped his shining pate with the edge of a knife.

Nearby, Lekmann used a branch to poke at the contents of a blackened pot hanging over a lively fire. Aulay was stretched out on a blanket, his head resting on his saddle, scowling one-eyed at the brightening sky.

Dew still whitened the grass. The inlet coursed sluggishly beside them, mist rising in the dawn chill. Drogan Forest was in sight, but far enough behind for them not to be spotted by centaur scouting parties.

“When the hell we moving?” Aulay grumbled, his breath visible in the frigid air. He was rubbing the spot where his wrist joined the plug that replaced his hand.

“When I’m good and ready,” Lekmann told him. “We’re close, I reckon, and we can’t just go charging in. We got to be careful going against them orcs.”

“I
know
that, Micah. I just want to know
when
.”

“Soon. Now save your puff to cool your grub.” He prodded at the concoction. It bubbled, releasing a disagreeable aroma.

“We eating now, Micah?” Blaan piped up, eyeing the pot.

“Watch out, pumpkin head’s spotted fodder,” Aulay muttered caustically.

Lekmann ignored him. “Yeah, Jabeez. Bring your bowl.” He commenced dishing.

A platter was handed to Aulay. He sat with it on his knees, picking at the offering with his knife. “Slop,” he complained, routinely.

Blaan noisily wolfed his down using his fingers, which he licked wetly between mouthfuls.

Aulay made a face. “Ugh.”

“You’re glad of him in a scrap,” Lekmann reminded him.

“Don’t mean I have to watch him eat.” He turned his back and faced the forest.

Blaan finally realised they were talking about him. “Hey!” he protested, full-mouthed and greasy-chinned.

“Company!”
Greever barked. He dumped his plate on the ground.

The others did the same. They quickly got to their feet, weapons ready.

A party of riders came along the trail from Drogan. They were humans and there were seven of them.

“Who’d you reckon they are?”

“They ain’t them custodians, that’s for sure, Greever. Unless their usual clothes are in the wash.”

The riders were dressed not unlike the bounty hunters themselves. They favoured leather breeches, high boots and thick wool jerkins, uniformly shabby. Most wore skins against the cold. Their heads were topped with skull helmets and chain-mail caps. They were lean, bearded, weather-bruised men toting a variety of arms.

“Could be reavers,” Lekmann decided as they got nearer. “Hadn’t heard there were any in these parts though.”

Aulay spat. “All we need, fucking brigands.”

“What do we do?” Blaan wanted to know.

“Play it peaceful,” Lekmann replied. “Remember that we can get more by pouring honey than cutting throats. Besides, the odds are in their favour.”

“You think so?” Aulay said.

“You stay calm, Greever, and let me do the talking. If it comes to force, follow my lead, and keep those blades out of sight. Got me?”

They agreed, Aulay reluctantly.

The riders had seen them by this time, and slowed. They were watchful but approached without guile.

When they reached the trio, Lekmann beamed and hailed them. “Well met!”

Two or three of the men nodded. A burly individual with a full beard and lengthy, unkempt hair was the only one to talk. “And you.” He spoke gruffly and a little offhand.

“What do we owe this pleasure to?”

“Nothing in particular. Just going about our business.”

“And what might that be?” Lekmann asked, the smile still plastered to his face.

“We’re trailing renegades.”

“Is that so?”

Aulay glowered but said nothing. Blaan looked on with his normal semivacant expression.

“Yeah,” the leader said. “You?”

“Farmers. We’re heading to buy some livestock up beyond Drogan.”

The reaver looked them up and down, as did several of the others. Lekmann hoped they didn’t know too much about farming.

“You ain’t into that Mani or Uni crap, are you?” the leader said.

“Not us, friend. A plague on both. We just want a quiet life. On our farm,” he added helpfully.

“Good.” He stared Aulay and Blaan’s way. “Your friends don’t say much.”

“They’re just simple farm boys,” Lekmann explained. He held his hand to one side of his face so Blaan couldn’t see, winked conspiratorially, and added in a whisper, “The big one’s simpleminded, but pay him no heed.”

“He looks like he could knock down a door with his head.”

“Nah, he’s harmless.” He cleared his throat. “So, you’re renegade hunters. Don’t suppose there’s much the likes of us can do to help speed you.”

“Only if you’ve seen any orcs in these parts.”

Aulay and Blaan stiffened. Lekmann kept down his reaction. “Orcs? No. But if it’s them murdering bastards you’re after, you’re all right by us.” He made an expansive gesture towards the way of the camp fire. “You’re welcome to share our food. We got fresh water and some wine too.”

The reavers exchanged glances. Their leader made the decision, emboldened perhaps by their greater numbers. “That’s neighbourly. We’ll join you.”

They dismounted. Lekmann offered canteens and told them to help themselves to food. They took him up on the former, were less eager about the latter once they looked in the pot. Aulay and Blaan stayed where they were. None of the reavers paid them much attention.

“Tell us more about these orcs you’re tracking,” Lekmann said, trying to sound casual.

“They’re a desperate, bloodthirsty bunch by all accounts,” the leader told him. He took a gulp from his canteen. “Warband. Call themselves the Wolverines.”

Lekmann prayed that neither of his partners would blurt out anything. He was in luck. “You’re going after a whole warband?”

“This is about half our force. The rest are searching over yonder.” He nodded across the inlet. “I reckon we’re more than a match for ’em.”

“Them orcs got a fearsome reputation when it comes to fighting.”

“Overrated, if you ask me.”

“Had any sign of them?”

“Not yet. Thought we did last night. Turned out to be a pack of gremlins, riding like their arses were on fire.”

“You seem sure those orcs are around here.”

“They’ve been spotted, more than once.”

“Big reward?”

“Pretty big.” The reaver chief eyed him with what might have been a hint of suspicion. “Why? Thinking of trying for it yourselves?”

Lekmann managed a laugh. “What,
us?
You reckon we’re the sort to tangle with orcs?”

The chief looked them over. “Now you come to mention it, no.” Then he began laughing himself. “Not exactly bounty hunter types, eh, boys?”

His men found the idea so risible they joined in with the laughter. They pointed at the trio and rocked with crude, good-natured mockery. Lekmann laughed. Even Aulay made an effort, showing his rank teeth in the rictus of a patently false smile. Last in, Blaan started, great shoulders heaving, jowls aquiver, eyes watering.

Dawn broke on ten human males laughing in each other’s faces.

Then something shook out of Blaan’s jerkin, bounced and came to rest at the reaver chief’s feet. Still laughing, he looked down at it.

The dark brown, shrivelled object was a shrunken orc’s head. A sober cloud darkened the leader’s face.

Lekmann swiftly drew his sword.

“What?” the leader said.

The blade slipped smoothly between his ribs. He gasped, the whites of his eyes showing. Then he went down, choking on blood. Some of his men hadn’t finished laughing when realisation dawned.

Lekmann made straight for another reaver, slashing at him. Blaan lurched into the group, striking out with his fists. Aulay quickly snapped a blade attachment into his arm plug and filled his other hand with a dagger. The reavers struggled to defend themselves, in a confused scrabble for weapons.

Downing his second man, Lekmann moved in on the third. Now he met resistance. The target had his sword drawn, and intended butchery became a fight. They swapped blows, the reaver defending himself with fury, but it was immediately obvious that Lekmann was the superior fencer.

Having crushed his first victim’s spine with a bear hug, Blaan discarded the corpse. Another reaver immediately charged and smashed his fist into the side of Blaan’s head. It had as much effect as gentle rain on granite. The attacker staggered back, nursing his knuckles. Blaan moved in, enormous hands clasped together, and slammed them into his chest, audibly cracking bones. Face twisted in agony, the man collapsed like a puppet with slashed strings. Blaan began stomping him.

Riled by the commotion, the reavers’ horses first milled in panic and then bolted, scattering across the inlet.

Aulay tugged his blade from his opponent’s stomach and let him drop. The next reaver took his place, snarling with wrath and hefting an axe. It may have been a fearsome weapon but it gave Aulay the reach advantage. Ducking a swing, he lashed out and laid open the man’s forearm. Bellowing, the reaver swung again. Aulay retreated fast, blundering into the cooking pot and sending it flying. Then he went straight in again, evaded the other’s guard and spiked his heart.

Lekmann blocked the last feeble passes of the foe he’d already bettered. A second later he dashed the sword from the man’s grasp and sliced his throat. The reaver sunk to his knees gushing blood, rocked and fell face downward.

Aulay and Lekmann coldly surveyed their work, the bodies sprawled in the kind of grotesque postures only death accorded. Then they looked to Blaan. He was on his knees with the head of the last living reaver in an armlock. A powerful jerk snapped the man’s neck. Blaan got up and lumbered over to them.

Aulay eyed him murderously but said nothing.

“Did you
hear
that?” Lekmann seethed indignantly. “Did you hear what that son of a bitch said?” He scowled at the dead reaver chief. “What a nerve, going after the Wolverines. They’re
our
orcs.”

Aulay was wiping clean his blade. “Told you we should’ve moved sooner.”

“Don’t you start, Greever. Now let’s get this sorted.”

They set to plundering the corpses. Coins, baubles and weapons were filched. Blaan found a stale crust of bread in one of the dead men’s pockets. He crammed chunks into his mouth as he ferreted through layers of clothing. Aulay discovered a pair of boots his size, and in better condition than his own, and tugged them roughly from their late owner.

Lekmann accompanied his scavengery with muttered complaints about the standard of modern morality.

“Look at this,” Blaan exclaimed, spraying crumbs. He held up a rolled parchment.

“What’s it say?” Then Lekmann remembered Blaan couldn’t read. “Give it here,” he said, snapping his fingers. He snatched the scroll and unfurled it. After a few seconds’ lip moving and brow furrowing, he got the gist. “It’s a copy of that proclamation of Jennesta’s, saying how the Wolverines are outlaws and the big reward and all.” He crushed the parchment into a ball and flung it away.

“Word’s spreading, fuck it,” Aulay grumbled.

“Yeah. Come on, they’ve got friends and we’ve got competition. We can’t afford lingering here.”

They began rolling the bodies into the river. The languid flow carried them slowly away in billowing red clouds.

What the trio didn’t notice as they laboured was that they were being watched by a motionless figure, way back on the trail to Drogan. He was tall and straight, with lengthy auburn hair and a fluttering blue cloak. His horse was purest white.

But had they looked, he wouldn’t have been there.

All she had found was chaos.

It was no more than Jennesta expected, having used her sorcery to slay her sister and throw her realm into confusion. But she had allowed herself to hope that the Wolverines might still be here, and it was becoming obvious they weren’t.

She watched from her chariot on the edge of Scarrock Marsh as the last of her infantry trudged back after scouring the nyadd domain. A soupy haze clung to the marsh, and it stank of rotting vegetation. The more distant rugged peaks of the Mallowtor Islands were swathed in a greater fog and barely visible.

Jennesta didn’t anticipate any differing reports from the returning troops to the ones she’d had earlier. All they had to tell was of skirmishes with the remainder of Adpar’s warrior swarm and odd sightings of the elusive merz.

Unless she was brought some positive news soon she would let her anger have its head.

She turned to look at the scene behind her, where the bulk of the army was billeted. Between their massed ranks and her chariot a dragon had landed. Astride his horse, General Mersadion talked with the beast’s handler. Eventually he broke off and galloped back to her.

On arrival he gave a brisk salute and reported. “We may have word on them, ma’am.”

“Indeed?” She stared at him. The right side of his face was covered by a padded field dressing secured with ties. A hole had been cut in the bandages for his eye. Here and there, at the edges of the dressing, the beginnings of raw, scalded flesh could be seen. “Explain.”

“A group fitting the Wolverines’ description was seen past Drogan, going south along the inlet.” There was an understandable frigidity in the tone he used with her, but also a greater deference.

“How reliable is this information?”

“It was a night sighting, Majesty, so there is some room for error. But the odds seem good, and it fits in with other reports from that area.”

She glanced the way of the dragon. It was spreading its wings, ready to take off again. “Can we trust the handler?”

“After the threats I applied, I think so. Anyway, if rebellion was in their minds presumably they simply wouldn’t have returned. You do have loyal followers, ma’am.”