Stan Nicholls - Orcs:Bad blood

The light went out of the enchantment. Instantly, the column of smoke was sucked back into the gemstone. Evening shadows returned, and the quiet.

"I'll be fucked," Haskeer said.

"You put it like a poet."

" Greetings, orcs."

They swung back to the gem, blades ready. It was glowing again.

" Don't be afraid, I realise how foolish…"

The stone began fizzling. It throbbed with a grey luminescence.

"… a thing that is to say to a race as courageous…"

A greenish vapour was streaming from the gem. It crackled and spat.

"… as yours. But be assured — "

There was a loud report. Fragments of gemstone shot in all directions.

Stryke went over and prodded the smouldering remains with his sword tip. The dying embers gave off a fetid odour.

They stood in silence for a while, then Haskeer said, "What the hell do you make of all that?"

"It could be what we need."

"What?"

"Do you ever feel…?"

"Feel what?"

"Don't get me wrong; finding Thirzarr, coming here, having the hatchlings… they're the best things that ever happened to me. But…"

"Spit it out, Stryke, for fuck's sake."

"This place has everything we hoped for. Good hunting and feasting, comradeship, tourneys, our own lodges. Yet, now and again, don't you get a little… bored?"

Haskeer stared at him. "I thought I was the only one."

"You feel that way?"

"Yeah. Don't know why. Like you say, life's good here."

"Maybe that's it."

Perplexity creased Haskeer's brow. "Whadya mean?"

"Where's the danger? Where's the enemy? I know we skirmish with other clans sometimes, but that's not the same. What we're missing is a… purpose."

Haskeer glanced at the fragments of the gemstone. "You're not taking this seriously, Stryke?"

"Wouldn't it be good to have a mission?"

"Well, yeah. But — "

"What better than to whet our blades again, and to help some fellow orcs? And have the chance to pay back that bitch Jennesta."

"It's crazy. Ask yourself: why's the sorcerer taking our side? Why not his own kind? If we learnt one thing, it's don't trust humans."

"He helped us before."

"When it suited him. I reckon there's more to this."

"Could be."

"Anyway, this is all so much jaw flapping." He nodded at Parnol. "He ain't gonna be doing no guiding."

"Maybe we don't need him."

"Oh, come on, Stryke. You couldn't follow all that fucking around with the stars Serapheim showed us… could you?"

"The movements that get us back here; I'm trying to keep them in my head."

Haskeer looked impressed. "What about the others?"

"Er… no."

"Not much good then, is it? He said it was dangerous if — "

"I know what he said. But something's been nagging at me."

He went over to the dead body. Kneeling, he removed the amulet the man was wearing. Haskeer peered over Stryke's shoulder as he examined it.

The engravings etched into its surface were small, and they strained to make them out. They consisted of rows of symbols in groups of five. The symbols were circles with lines protruding at various angles. Stryke studied them for what seemed like a long time.

"That's it," he finally announced.

"What?"

"See that third lot of figures? It's the same as the way the stars have to be moved to get back here."

Haskeer did nothing to hide his incomprehension. "Is it?"

"Looks that way. All these markings are different, and there's a lot more than the three Serapheim showed us."

"You mean… that tells you how to use the stars?"

"Yes. The messenger must have had it to help him remember. Like a map. I reckon this first line is how to get to Maras-Dantia, and the second gets you to that world with the orcs. The rest… who knows?"

"That's pretty smart, Stryke," Haskeer stated admiringly.

Stryke put the amulet around his neck. "Don't get too excited; I could be wrong. But I've often wondered why Arngrim gave me the stars. Perhaps we know now."

"Think he planned this? From the start?"

"Could be he was mindful of future trouble."

"And counting on us to deal with it."

"Who knows? Humans are two-faced."

"That's no lie."

Stryke adopted a pensive expression. "There was something about the things he showed us. Did you notice? Not once were those orcs fighting back."

It hadn't occurred to Haskeer before. "They weren't, were they?"

"And when did our kind ever turn a cheek?"

"What's wrong with 'em?"

All Stryke could do was shrug.

Haskeer pointed at the corpse. "And who killed him?"

"I don't know. But I've a mind to find out. You game?"

Haskeer thought about it. "Yeah. If there's a fight in it."

The summer afternoon had softened into early evening, the quality of the light mellowing from golden to carroty. A gentle breeze brought the sweet perfume of lushness. Tender birdsong could be heard.

Eight or nine lodges stood together, along with a corral and a couple of barns.

The settlement occupied the crest of a low hill. In all directions, the outlook was verdant. There were luxuriant pastures and dense forests, and the silver thread of a distant river marbling the emerald.

In one particular lodge, a female was diverting her offspring.

"In those days," she told them, "a blight afflicted the land. It was a walking pestilence. A puny race of disgusting appearance, with yielding, pallid flesh and the nature of a glutton. An insatiable host that gloried in destruction. It tore the guts from the earth, plundered its resources and poisoned its waters. It spread disease and stirred up trouble. It threw away the magic."

Her offspring were rapt.

"It felt contempt for other races, and revelled in their slaughter. But its hatred wasn't directed solely at those who were different. It fought its own kind, too. There was warfare between their tribes. They killed when there was no good purpose to it, and all the other races were fearful of them." She eyed the siblings. "Except one. Unlike the pestilence, they didn't murder for pleasure, or wreak havoc for the sake of it. They didn't lack nobility or honour, and weren't hideous to look at. They were handsome and brave. They were — "

"Orcs!" the hatchlings chorused.

Thirzarr grinned. "You pair are too smart for me."

"We're always heroes in the stories," Corb reminded her.

She tossed them each a chunk of raw meat. They gobbled the treats with relish, red juice trickling down their chins.

"Are there any of those human monsters around here?" Janch asked as he chewed.

"No," Thirzarr told him, "not in the whole of Ceragan."

He looked disappointed. "Pity. I'd like to kill some."

"No, I would," Corb announced, brandishing the wooden sword his sire had made for him.

"Of course you would, my little wolf. Now give me that." Thirzarr held out her hand and he reluctantly surrendered the weapon. "It's time you two slept."

" Ah, no! " they protested.

"Finish the story!" Corb insisted.

"Tell us about Jennesta again!" Janch piped up.

" Yes! " his brother echoed, bouncing. "Tell us about the witch!"

"It's late."

" The witch! The witch! "

"All right, all right. Calm down." She leaned over their couches and tucked them in, then perched herself. "You've got to go to sleep straight after this, all right?"

They nodded, saucer-eyed, blankets to their chins.

"Jennesta wasn't a witch, exactly," Thirzarr told them. "She was a sorceress. A magician born of magicians, she commanded great powers. Powers made stronger by her cruelty, which fed her magic. She was part human, part nyadd, which accounted for her strange appearance. And no doubt the human part explained her cruelty. Jennesta called herself a queen, but her title and realm was gained through deceit and brutality. Under her rule, fear held the whip hand. She meddled in the affairs of humans, supporting them one moment, battling them the next, as her self-interest dictated. She waged needless wars and relished sadism. She sowed conflict that steeped the land in blood and fire."