Stan Nicholls - Orcs:Bad blood

" I'm back! "

"Dad!" Corb and Janch cried. They sat bolt upright and tossed aside their blankets.

Thirzarr turned to the figure who'd silently entered. She sighed. "I'm trying to get them to sleep, Stryke. Oh, Haskeer. Didn't see you there."

The males sidled in. "Sorry," Stryke mouthed.

Too late. The brood were up. They rushed to their father and clamped themselves to his legs, clamouring for attention.

"Steady now. And what about Haskeer? Nothing to say to him?"

"'lo, Uncle Haskeer."

"I think he's got something for you," Stryke added.

They instantly transferred their affections and stampeded in Haskeer's direction. He grabbed the hatchlings by their scruffs, one in each massive fist, and hoisted them, giggling.

" What've you got us? What've you got us? "

"Let's see, shall we?" He returned them to the compacted earth floor.

Haskeer reached into his jerkin and hauled out two slim cloth bundles. Before handing them over, he looked to Thirzarr. She nodded.

The brothers tore at the wrapping, then gasped in delight. They found beautifully crafted hatchets. The weapons were scaled-down for small hands, with polished, razor-keen cutting edges and carved wooden grips.

"You shouldn't have, Haskeer," Thirzarr said. "Boys, what do you say?"

"Thank you, Uncle Haskeer!" Beaming, they began to slash the air.

"Well, it should be their blooding soon," Haskeer reckoned. "They're… how old now?"

"Corb's four, Janch's three," Stryke supplied.

"And a half!" Janch corrected indignantly.

Haskeer nodded. "High time they killed something, then."

"They will," Thirzarr assured him. "Thanks, Haskeer, we appreciate the gifts; but if you don't mind…"

"I need to talk to you," Stryke said.

"Not now," Thirzarr told him.

"It's important."

"I'm trying to get these two settled."

"Would a bit longer hurt? I have to tell you about — "

" Not now. You went for meat. Where is it?"

Given the hint of menace in her voice, Stryke knew better than to argue. He and Haskeer allowed themselves to be pushed out of the door.

When it slammed behind them, Stryke said, "I'll tell her what happened when she's cooled down."

"You know, Stryke, I could almost believe you're afraid of that mate of yours."

"Aren't you?"

Haskeer changed the subject. "So what do we do now?"

"We find our mistress of strategy."

A bucketful of water consists of billions of minute droplets. Rivers and oceans have untold trillions.

No number could be applied to the sea of parallel realities.

Its constituent parts were infinite. They decorated the void in dense, shimmering clouds, each particle a world. In the impossible event of a spectator being present, these tiny grains would appear identical.

But a particular globule, looking like all the others, shining no more or less brightly, differed in one very important respect.

It was dying.

The imaginary observer, peering closer, would make out a world in flux. A bubble of acrid waters and fouled air.

Its surface was one of extremes. Much was still blue-green, but tendrils of aridity patterned the globe. White masses were spreading from the poles, like cream trickling down a pudding, and the atmosphere was tinted by an unhealthy miasma.

There were four continents. The largest, once temperate, now included swathes of semi-tropical terrain. At its core a dustbowl had formed, and previously fertile land was drifting to desert.

A group of militia, fifty strong, made its way across the wilderness. In their midst, two men struggled to keep up on foot. Each was led by a horse to which they were roped. Their hands were tied.

The soldiers bore the crest of a tyrant on their russet tunics. The prisoners were civilians, their clothes stained with sweat and dust.

It was hot. With midday approaching it would get much hotter, but neither man had been allowed water. Their lips were cracked, and their mouths were so dry it was hard for them to speak. They laboured on blistered feet.

There was little between them in age. The slightly older of the two had the look of someone who enjoyed a soft life. His waist was beginning to thicken, and his reddening skin was pasty. He had quick, some would say shifty, blue eyes, and a bloodless slash of a mouth framed by a skinny goatee. His black hair showed a hint of grey and was thinning, revealing the start of a tonsure.

The younger of the pair was fitter and taller. His build was strapping. He had a full head of blond hair and he was clean-shaven, bar a couple of days' growth. His eyes were brown, and his flesh tone healthy. The filthy clothes he wore had been much cheaper to start with than his companion's.

The older man shot the younger a sour, anxious look. "When are you going to do something?" he hissed.

"What do you expect me to do?"

"Show some respect, for a start."

"What do you expect me to do, sir?"

"Your duties include my protection. So far you've made a complete — "

" Keep it down! " an officer barked. Several other riders directed hostile glances their way.

"… a complete cock-up of it," the older man continued in a coarse whisper. "You did precious little to stop us being captured, and now you' re — "

"You got yourself into this," the younger returned in an undertone, "not me."

" Us. We're in it together, if you hadn't noticed."

"So it's you when times are good and us when you're in the shit. As usual."

"That insubordinate tongue of yours is going to get itself cut out." His face was growing redder. "Just you wait 'til I — "

"Until you what? Not exactly a free agent at the moment, are you?"

The older man wiped the back of a manicured hand across his forehead. "You know what's going to happen when they get us to Hammrik, don't you?"

"I can guess what's going to happen to you."

"What's good for the master's good for the servant."

"That's as maybe." He nodded at what was coming into view. "We'll find out soon enough."

The towers of a fortress could be seen, wavering in the heat haze like a mirage.

As they drew nearer they saw that it was constructed of a yellowish, sandy stone, not dissimilar to the colour the surrounding landscape was turning to. And it was massive, with walls that looked thick enough to resist an earthquake. Close to, the structure bore signs of conflict. Fresh pockmarks, nicks and cracks told of a recent onslaught.

A ramshackle township mushroomed at the fortress' base. A muddle of shacks and tents stood in its shadow, and lean-tos hugged the ramparts. People and livestock were everywhere. Water carriers, hawkers, nomads, farmers, mercenaries, prostitutes, robed priests and plenty of soldiers. Mangy dogs ran loose. Hens scratched and piglets ate garbage. There was a sickly odour of sewage and incense.

The riders barged through the crowd, dragging their captives. They passed heckling street urchins, hard-eyed guardsmen and merchants leading strings of overloaded donkeys. People stared, and a few flung insults.

They went by vendors' stalls heaped with bread, goat's cheese, spices, meat and limp vegetables. Some offered wine, hogsheads of brandy or pails of beer. The prisoners turned particularly envious eyes on these wares. All they got was a half-hearted pelting with rotten fruit, each piece raising a little puff of dust when it struck their backs.

The fortress gates were suitably imposing, their surrounds frothing with epic statuary and heraldic symbols. But old and faded. Inside was a large inner courtyard. There was noise and bustle here too, though of an ordered, soldierly kind.

Greetings were exchanged. The prisoners were glared at or ignored. Everyone dismounted. Grooms came forward and led the horses to troughs, which was more than the captives were allowed. Left with their wrists bound, they sank exhausted to the warm paving slabs. Nobody rebuked them.