Stan Nicholls - Orcs:Bad blood

They slumped next to a small garden enclosed by a low wall. It dated from earlier, more verdant times, and had long dried out. The soil was like powder, and the pair of trees at its centre were desiccated and skeletal.

Most of the prisoners' escort dispersed. Four remained, eyeing them from a distance while they conferred with an officer.

The elder prisoner turned his face from them and whispered, "Let's make a run for it."

"Bad idea," his companion judged. "We've no allies here. That crowd wouldn't be a haven."

"It's a better chance than waiting on our fate like cattle, isn't it?"

"Not unless you want an arrow in your back." He indicated the battlements. Several archers were looking down at them.

"They aren't going to kill us. Hammrik would be furious if they denied him that pleasure."

"But I doubt they're under orders not to wound. If you fancy a couple of bolts through your legs, go ahead. Master."

The older man glowered at the fresh impertinence, then returned to sulking.

A minute later the guards were rousing them with cusses and kicks. He asked if there was any chance of a drink.

"Favours are my lord's privilege, not mine," the highest-ranking replied, jerking them to their feet.

The brief rest had made their aches more noticeable now they were moving again. They were stiff, and their muscles were knotted. But their captors treated them no more gently for it. Stinging blows from leather riding crops hurried along their progress.

They were driven to a set of double doors opening into the castle proper. The interior was gloomy to their dazzled eyes, and it was cooler, which was a mercy.

Like many fortresses that had been added to and built on over the years, there was a warren of passages, corridors and stairways to be negotiated. They passed through checkpoints and locked doors, but saw few windows, save arrow slits.

Finally they arrived at a sizeable hall. It was wood panelled and high-ceilinged, and its drapes were drawn to keep out the heat. Light came from oil lamps and candles, and the air was stuffy. High up, where the panelling ended and a stone wall began, there had been coats of arms. But they were freshly defaced, their features smashed, revealing whiter granite beneath.

The guards in attendance wore the livery of a personal bodyguard. A handful of civilian officials were also present.

There was no furniture except an oak throne on a dais at one end of the room. It, too, had been vandalised; someone had hacked away the device on its tall backrest. The prisoners were made to stand in front of it.

A minute passed, glacially. They exchanged bleak glances.

Behind the throne was a cleverly concealed door, set flush to the panelling. It opened, and someone entered.

Rulers come in a variety of guises. Those who inherit leadership can be unprepossessing. Those who seize it often have the appearance of brutish warriors. Kantor Hammrik looked like a clerk. Which was appropriate for someone who had effectively bought a kingdom. Bought in the sense of financing the bloody overthrow and regicide of an existing monarch.

Hammrik resembled a quill-pusher because, in a way, that's what he was. Early on in his illicit career he realised the efficacy of the equation between money and power. Learned it, and took it to what passed for his heart. He grew adept at using his ill-gotten riches to manipulate the greed of men without scruples, and rose on a tide of other people's blood, bought and paid for.

His build was more suited to running from a fight than engaging in one; what some called wiry framed. Any muscularity he had was restricted to his brains. He responded to hair loss by having his head completely shaved, which stressed the angularity of his skull. His raw-boned, beardless face was dominated by acute grey eyes. But woe to anybody who took him for a book-keeper.

As Hammrik swept in, the prisoners were forced to their knees. Everyone bowed.

"Ah, Micalor Standeven," the usurper uttered as he perched on his stolen throne. "I was beginning to think I'd never have the pleasure of your company again."

The elder prisoner looked up. "How delightful to see you, Kantor." He went for casual bonhomie.

Hammrik gave him a stony, threatening look.

"That is," Standeven hastily corrected, "greetings, my liege. And may I take this opportunity to congratulate you on your elevation to — "

Hammrik waved him to silence. "Let's take the fawning as read, shall we?" His gaze fell upon Standeven's companion. "I see you've got your lapdog with you, as usual."

"Yes, er, sire. He' s — "

"He can speak for himself. What's your name?"

"Pepperdyne, sir," the younger prisoner replied. "Jode Pepper-dyne."

"You're bonded to him?"

Pepperdyne nodded.

"Then you're equally liable."

"If this is a misunderstanding about money," Standeven said, as though it had just occurred to him, "I'm sure we can settle such a trifling matter cordially."

"Trifling?" Hammrik repeated ominously.

"Well, yes. For a man of your newly acquired status it must be a mere — "

"Shut up." Hammrik beckoned to a studious-looking old functionary standing to one side. "How much?"

The old man was carrying a dog-eared ledger. Wetting a thumb, he began flipping pages.

"A round figure will do," Hammrik told him.

"Certainly, sire." He found the entry and squinted. "Let's see. With interest, call it… forty thousand."

"Is it that much?" Standeven exclaimed in mock surprise. "Well, well. Still, I'm a little puzzled as to why you should call us in over this. I can understand it might have been necessary when you were a money len — when you were providing pecuniary services. But surely, sire, you don't need it now?"

"Look around you. This hardly resembles a thriving kingdom, does it? Overthrowing Wyvell was a costly business, and though his followers were beaten, they're not entirely crushed yet. It all takes money."

"Of course."

"A debt is a debt, and yours is overdue."

"Absolutely. It's a matter of honour."

"So what are you going to do about it?"

Standeven stared at him. "Do you think I might have something to drink? We were out in that sun for an awfully long time, you see, and…"

Hammrik raised a hand, then called for water. A young flunkey brought him a hide pouch. Hammrik rose and stepped down to the kneeling Standeven. But he didn't give him the pouch. Instead, he tilted it, so that a single drop splashed into Standeven's outstretched palm. Frowning, the prisoner licked up the moisture with his parched tongue.

"One drop," Hammrik said. "How long do you think it'd take to feed you say, forty thousand?"

Standeven was baffled, and said nothing.

"Probably no time at all," Hammrik decided, "if you had it all in one go. In a tankard, for instance."

"Kantor… I mean, sire, I — "

"But suppose you had it one drop at a time, like just now. How long would that take? Days? Weeks?" Hammrik held the water pouch at arm's length, as though studying it. "This stuff's going to be precious here soon, given the way this land's going. The way the whole world's going. I can see water being as valuable as… blood."

Standeven shifted uncomfortably. Pepperdyne betrayed no emotion.

"That's the deal," Hammrik continued. "Repay me in coin or I'll take it in blood. Forty thousand drops, one at a time." He leaned closer to Standeven's face. "I don't mean that as any kind of figure of speech."

"I can pay!" Standeven protested.

"Does he have the money?" Hammrik addressed the question to Pepperdyne.

"No."

"You're asking a slave about my financial arrangements?" Standeven complained. "What would he know?"

"He's smarter than you. Or maybe not, seeing as he hasn't yet cut your throat while you were sleeping. But at least he didn't insult me with a lie. That earns him a quicker death than yours."