Stan Nicholls - Orcs:Bad blood

Haskeer arrived at his side. "It's not true," he complained.

"What isn't?"

"What you just said about the new intake being Wolverines. They have to earn it."

"We all started from scratch."

"We were already battle-hardened when we joined. Not like these… civilians."

"That's the point. We need to get the band in shape fast, which means making them feel a part of it from the outset." He regarded his sergeant. "Is that all you're in a foul mood about?"

Haskeer said nothing. But his gaze flicked to Dallog as he went off with the standard.

"Ah," Stryke said, "that's your beef, is it?"

"He's no Alfray."

"Nobody said he was."

"So why do we need him?"

"Chain of command, remember? We have to have another corporal, and a band healer. I reckon Dallog fits the bill."

"Well, I don't like it."

"Too bad. You just heard me say I'm in charge. If that's not to your liking either — "

"Oh, shit."

Stryke balled his fists. "You want to make an issue of this, Sergeant?"

"No. What I meant was, look who's coming."

The youth walking their way was barely on nodding terms with adulthood. He dressed extravagantly for an orc. His jerkin consisted of strips of different coloured material, and his breeches were lilac. He wore gaudy boots. Looped about his neck was a stringed instrument. It had a long fingerboard and a body the shape of a sliced strawberry. He cradled it as tenderly as a babe.

"Oh, shit," Stryke said. "Be tactful. Remember who he is."

Haskeer gave a weary grunt.

"Stryke! Haskeer!" the youth greeted. "I've been looking for you."

"Wheam," Stryke replied.

"What do you want?" Haskeer demanded, stony-faced.

"You're about to set out on a great adventure," Wheam enthused, "and it should be celebrated."

"Maybe they'll be time for feasting when we get back," Stryke responded. "But at the moment — "

"No, no, I mean celebrated in verse."

"We couldn't put you to the trouble."

"This is history in the making; it must be recorded. Anyway, I've already started an epic ballad about this mission. It's work in progress, of course, but — "

"Well, if it's not finished…"

"How can it be? You haven't started yet, have you?"

"True."

"So I thought I'd let you hear the opening, as a kind of inspiration."

"Must you? I mean, must you now?"

"It won't take long. There's only about forty verses so far."

"We're very busy just now and — "

Wheam began discordant plucking. He cleared his throat loudly and proceeded to sing off key. "On battle's eve the Wolverines Whet their blades and readied their spleens…

"It's hard to get anything to rhyme with Wolverines, but I'm working on it. "Their Captain bold he seized his chance To take up dagger, sword and lance And spitting in the face of fate He marched his band to the magic gate…"

"Gods," Haskeer muttered. "With swelling breasts and hearts so true They smote the foe for me and you…"

Coilla arrived, pulling a face behind the minstrel's back. She saw the expressions of appeal Stryke and Haskeer wore, and took pity. "Upon the field of slaughter red His gallant crew he bravely led And taking up his cleaver keen…"

"Excuse me."

" He hacked his way to — "

Coilla prodded Wheam's shoulder-blade with a bony finger.

" Ouch! "

"Sorry," she smiled, "but I have to talk to my superior officers. You know; operational matters."

"But I've barely got going."

"Yes," Stryke intervened, "and it's a pity. We'll just have to hear the rest some other time."

"When?" Wheam asked.

"Later."

Stryke and Haskeer grasped the protesting balladeer's elbows and impelled him towards the crowd.

Rejoining Coilla, Stryke breathed a sigh. "Thanks. We owe you one."

"At least we won't be seeing him again for a while."

"Never would be too soon," Haskeer suggested.

"Did you want something, Coilla, or was this just a rescue?" Stryke said.

"Actually, I was wondering how things were going with the stars."

"We had them hidden in five locations, as you know. I've got four of them back. The fifth — " There was a commotion at the edge of the crowd. "Matter of fact, this should be it now."

A massively built individual appeared, a retinue in his wake. He was elderly but still fearsome. At his throat he wore an emblem of valour; a necklace of snow leopards' teeth, numbering at least a dozen. He was battle-scarred and proud.

"Hard to think he could have sired such a fop," Coilla remarked.

"Best keep that opinion to yourself," Stryke advised.

The chieftain and his entourage swept in.

Stryke welcomed him with, "Good of you to come, Quoll."

Quoll snorted. "You left me little choice."

"Sorry for the short notice. We have to move quickly."

"You're leaving soon?"

"First light."

"And you've everything you need?"

"All except the item in your safekeeping. Do you have it?"

"Of course. But I've been thinking."

"With respect, Chief, what's there to think about?"

"My thought is that you could render me a service."

"We're always happy to help," Stryke replied warily, "if it's in our power."

"This is well within your gift, Captain."

"And providing it doesn't put our mission at risk."

"There's no reason it should. You know my son?"

Stryke felt a cold apprehension. "Wheam? He was just here."

"Spouting nonsense, no doubt."

"You said it," Haskeer remarked.

Stryke shot him a poisonous look. "What about Wheam, Chief?"

"I want him to go with you."

" No way! " Haskeer exclaimed.

"Who's in charge here?" Quoll asked. "You or your sergeant?"

"I am," Stryke confirmed. "Shut it, Haskeer. Let's get this straight, Quoll; you want your son on this mission?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"Look at him." He pointed at Wheam, who was strumming his lute for a group of disinterested bystanders. "I spawned a popinjay. A fool."

"What's that to do with us?"

"I want the tomfoolery knocked out of him. He needs toughening."

"We've no room for amateurs. The Wolverines are a disciplined fighting unit."

"That's just what he needs: discipline. You're taking other unproven recruits, why not Wheam?"

"They've shown combat skills. I don't see that in your son."

"Then it's time he learnt some."

"Why us? There must be another way of cutting his teeth."

"None as good as an actual mission where his survival's at stake."

"And ours. We've got six tyros as it is, without carrying somebody untrained and unsuited. It puts the whole band in peril."

"Much as I hate to say this, Stryke, you and your band have had things pretty much your own way since you came here. Isn't it about time you did something to repay our hospitality?"

"Much as I hate to say it, you don't own this land, Quoll. You're a clan chief, and we respect that, but you're not the only one in Ceragan."

"I'm the only one in these parts, and I want Wheam signed on for this mission."

"And if we refuse?"

"If you were to do that, I'm afraid there might be some delay… some lengthy delay in finding the artefact I'm holding for you."

Stryke sighed. "I see."

"That's blackmail!" Coilla erupted.

Quoll glowered. "I'll pretend you didn't say that."

"Pretend what you like, it's still what you're doing!"

"That's enough, Corporal," Stryke told her.

"But he can't — "

" That's enough! " He turned to Quoll. "All right. We'll take him."

The chieftain smiled. "Good." He snapped his fingers.

One of his followers came forward holding a small wooden chest. Quoll opened it and took out the remaining instrumentality. "I confess I'm glad to see the back of this. I've not been happy having such a powerful totem in my lodge."