Orcs:Bad blood

15

If the structures rulers occupy reflect their regard for the ruled, then the fortress that stood at Taress' heart spoke volumes.

Its entryways were heavily guarded and its gates were locked. Archers walked its ramparts. Lookouts were positioned on its towers, and a garrison was permanently stationed within its grim, impenetrable walls.

It was a measure of the castle's reputation, or more accurately the nature of its inhabitants, that few entered willingly.

An entire level at one of its highest points was the exclusive province of a single individual. Given his status, it would be reasonable to assume that the chambers were well appointed, if not actually luxurious. But they were sparse. Furnishings were minimal, there was little in the way of embellishment and nothing of comfort. In this, the apartment reflected the disposition of someone who had given his life to military service. To the subjugated, Kapple Hacher was commonly known as Iron Hand.

Yet his appearance and manner were at odds with the epithet. He was of advancing years; not yet old, but in the later stages of maturity. His close-cropped hair was silver, and those who didn't know him assumed that was the reason he was beardless. But he displayed no trace of vanity. He had the physique of a much younger man, for all that his face was lined and the backs of his hands were liver-spotted. His bearing was javelin straight, and he wore his immaculate uniform as though born in it. Overall, the impression was of a somewhat meticulous, kindly uncle. At least, that was the impression he gave to other humans.

For someone in such a position of authority he seemed to wear his responsibilities lightly. And the power he exercised was great. Hacher was both governor of what its conquerors regarded as a province, and commander of an occupying army. In the latter capacity he held the rank of general.

He was dining. As was his custom, he ate alone. He fed sparingly, and the fare was plain; fowl, bread and fruit. Wine was something he rarely drank, and when he did, it was watered. Which made him doubly unpopular with his poison tasters.

He was served by a pair of ageing orc females. They placed the food, such as it was, on a well-scrubbed table that constituted the main item of furniture, and performed their duties in silence. For all the attention Hacher paid to them, they could have been invisible.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come!" Hacher responded crisply.

Two humans entered, one in a dark blue military uniform, the other in a brown robe with the cowl down. Both men were half the general's age.

"Begging your pardon, sir," the uniformed aide said, "but we have news of — "

Hacher raised a hand to pause him, then dismissed the servants with a nod. They went out with heads bowed, the visitors looking on disdainfully.

"You were saying, Frynt?" Hacher laid down the knife he was eating with.

"There's been another disturbance. And during curfew."

"Casualties?"

"We're still counting, but significant."

"Including three members of the Order," the robed one added, shooting Frynt a hard look.

"That's unfortunate, Grentor," Hacher commiserated. "The state recognises their noble sacrifice, and they'll be honoured for it."

"Tributes are all very well. We would prefer adequate protection from the military. We have a right to expect that much."

"Given your brothers' magical expertise, I would have thought they were quite capable of defending themselves."

"I do hope you're not implying any criticism of my order's competence, General."

"Far from it. I'm the first to acknowledge that their contribution is invaluable."

Frynt glared at Grentor. "They were afforded protection. The number of casualties we took confirms that."

"Yet my brothers accompanying the patrol were slain."

"You lost three. Our fatalities were much higher."

"What of the losses we inflicted on them, Frynt?" Hacher intervened to ask.

"We killed a few, sir, and took half a dozen prisoners."

"You see, Grentor? The balance wasn't entirely in their favour."

"And that's supposed to be some kind of consolation, is it? What are the lives of those beasts compared to men's?"

"Every rebel we eliminate is one less. A step nearer purging Acurial of this… difficulty."

"But it's a situation that shouldn't have arisen at all!"

"Let's keep things in perspective. The vast majority of orcs are placid, you know that. How much resistance did they put up when we conquered this land? The present trouble is being caused by a small minority. A bunch of throwbacks, no more."

"And if these throwbacks should gain a hold on the rest of the populace? Fevers have a way of growing into a pestilence, General."

"This is one contagion they won't fall prey to. It's not in their nature."

"They have a rallying point; this Sylandya, their so-called Primary. She should never have been allowed to slip through our fingers."

"No one's rallying to her. She could be dead for all we know. You're aggrieved at the loss of your brothers, Grentor. I understand that. But it's vital that our military and magical forces work in harmony."

"So what do you propose doing?"

"More of a presence on the streets, a further drive to recruit informers, stricter punishments for those fraternising with the dissidents. And increased surveillance. The Order can be of great assistance in that respect, Grentor. If this nut requires a sledgehammer to crack, so be it. As for Sylandya, we'll step up efforts to find her or confirm her fate."

"Your words are reassuring, General."

"I'm glad you approve."

"Approval depends on outcomes, not intentions. The Order will judge your measures on their results."

"Naturally." Hacher rose. "Now if you'll excuse me, Brother Grentor, you'll appreciate that I have a great deal to discuss with my aide."

Grentor glanced at Frynt. There was no warmth in either's gaze. "Of course." He gave an almost imperceptible nod, turned and left.

Frynt closed the door behind him and let out a weary sigh.

"I know," Hacher sympathised, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Our sorcerer confederates can be a trial at times."

"Anyone would think they bore the brunt of these disturbances rather than us."

"Quite. But I meant what I said about better cooperation between the services. We need everybody working together to be rid of incidents like tonight's."

"Yes, sir. Talking of which, do you have any special instructions concerning this new batch of prisoners?"

"You know my philosophy, Frynt. We must leave the world a better place than we found it. Execute them. After extracting whatever intelligence they possess under torture, of course."

"Sir. And you'll be issuing fresh orders pertinent to the tightening up of security?"

"I will." He massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "In the morning."

"I think you might have impressed Grentor with these new measures," the aide ventured. "You don't normally concede so willingly to his demands, if I may say so, sir."

"It wasn't entirely to placate Grentor and the Order."

"Sir?"

"It's a bad time for all of this to flare up again." His tone had grown sober. "Keep it to yourself, but I've been informed to expect a visit from a higher authority."

"Is that a problem, sir?"

"When it comes to this particular superior, that would be putting it lightly." He suddenly appeared weary. "Leave me now, Frynt. I need to rest."

"Certainly, sir."

The aide quietly removed himself.

On the far side of the room there was a pair of doors. The evening being warm, they were wide open. Hacher walked out onto the balcony.

He was renowned for his unruffled nature. But even he felt a pang of dread as he looked down at the darkened city.

The gloomy streets the Wolverines were taken through looped and twisted so much that they soon lost their bearings.

Eventually they were led along a narrow alley to a darkened house that appeared no different to hundreds of others they'd passed. The orc guiding them rapped a signal on the door with the hilt of his sword. Everyone was quickly ushered in. The door guard's eyes widened when he saw the humans and dwarfs, but he said nothing.

The house looked abandoned. There was no furniture and the bare floors were carpeted with dust. The large group was kept moving until its head reached a small back room. A pile of rotting wooden planks lay on the floor. Swept aside, a trapdoor was revealed. Stryke hesitated for a moment, then stepped onto the ladder. The band filed down after him.

They found themselves in an extensive cellar. A large number of orcs were present, and their expressions were uniformly wary.

The orc who brought the Wolverines there was the last one down. In the light thrown by brands and lanterns they got their first clear look at him. He was around four and twenty summers old, and fairly tall, almost rangy, by the standards of his race. His features were strong and his bearing upright. Self-evidently he was robust, and a female might well have seen him as fetching. From the way those present regarded him, it was also plain that he had authority.

"We should take your weapons," he said.

"You'd have to prise them from our corpses," Stryke told him.

"I hoped you'd say that."

"Why?"

"It's further proof you're like us. Special."

"Special?"

"You fight. That's why you're here."

"What's so unusual about — "

"But there's a way you're not like us." He pointed at Standeven, Pepperdyne and the dwarfs, who had been herded together in a corner. "Why are you mixing with humans?" He all but spat the word. "And whatever they are," he added, indicating Jup and Spurral.

Stryke had no choice but to elaborate on the story he told when they first arrived, and hoped these orcs were as parochial as the shepherd. "We're not from these parts."

"What?"

"We're travellers."

"Where have you travelled from?"

Stryke took his gamble. "The world's a big place. You know there's a lot more to it than Taress."

"In what part of the world do orcs consort with humans and…"

"They're called dwarfs," Stryke supplied.

"Where do orcs, humans and these dwarfs live together?"

Stryke had hoped to keep things vague. He was forced to take another stab in the dark. "The north. Far north."

A murmur went up from the onlookers.

"The wilderness?" the leader said. He seemed impressed, possibly awed. Or perhaps disbelieving. It was hard to say.

Stryke nodded.

"We know little of those climes. Things must be very different there."

Stryke barely believed his luck. It took an effort not to let out a sigh of relief. "Very."

"But you fight like a disciplined unit, the way we do. We saw it. If humans and these others are in league with orcs, who do you fight?"

Yet again, Stryke had to think on his feet. "Humans."

"Then how — "

"Some humans, like our comrades here, condemn what their kind have done to our race, and make common cause with us. And the dwarf folk have always sided with us."

"I've never heard of such a thing. Here, humans treat us like cattle."

"As you said, you know little of northern climes. Our ways are unlike Taress'."

"If what you say is true," the leader replied thoughtfully, "I can see benefits in having human allies. Assuming they can be trusted."

"Some can." Stryke knew that could be the biggest lie of all.

"What I don't understand is how you came to be fighters at all."

"Where we come from, all orcs fight."

There was another, even louder murmur from the onlookers.

"All?"

"Why be surprised?" Stryke said. "You fight."

"I said we were special. Different. The norm in Acurial is that most orcs aren't warlike."

"It's the other way round with us." He made an effort not to look Wheam's way. "But how did you come to this?"

"Who knows? Too soft a life for too long, maybe, before the invaders arrived. Some of us, a few, have a taste for blood. The citizens think of us as freaks because of it. We see ourselves as patriots." He gave Stryke a hard look. "So why did your group come south?"

That almost wrong-footed Stryke. He said the first thing that came into his head. "To recruit fighters."

"You thought it'd be the same here as in your land? That all orcs fought?"

"We hoped."

"You must have felt let down."

"We just arrived. We're still finding out how things are."

"There's no cheer in what you're saying. If you come from a land where all orcs fight, yet you still can't overcome the oppressors… You haven't beaten them, have you?"

"No."

"Then what chance have we, with hardly any willing to take up arms?"

"There are far fewer orcs in the north lands."

The leader sighed. "That's our problem, too. Not enough of us."

"Who are you?" Stryke asked.

"I'm Brelan." He beckoned to someone standing in a shadowy part of the cellar. "And this is Chillder."

A female orc strode into the light. Her resemblance to Brelan was remarkable. Except for obvious gender differences, they were identical.

"Never seen twins before?" she asked of Stryke, who was staring intently.

"Rarely."

"And how are they thought of in your land?"

"As lucky," he answered truthfully.

"Then that's another difference. Here we're seen as bringers of ill fortune."

"Let's hope it's to your enemies."

Chillder allowed herself a fleeting smile. "We know you're Stryke. But who…?" She waved a hand at the rest of the Wolverines.

"This is Haskeer, Coilla and Dallog," he replied, "my seconds-in-command." He didn't think they were ready to accept the idea of Jup being an officer. Jabbing a thumb at the grunts, he added pointedly, "The rest you'll get to know later, given a chance."

"Perhaps," she returned, her expression inscrutable.

Stryke scanned the watchful faces surrounding them. "So this is the resistance?"

"Some of it."

"And you lead them?"

"Along with my brother."

"We're outsiders," Coilla said. "Tell us what happened here."

"It must have been the same as happened to you," Chillder replied. "We had a good life for a long time. Maybe too good, like Brelan said. Then Peczan invaded."

"Peczan?"

She eyed Coilla suspiciously. "The human's empire."

"Oh, right. We tend to think of them as just… filthy, brutal humans." It sounded lame, even to her.

Chillder let it pass. "When the invaders came, opposition was weak. They overran us between new moon and full."

"Didn't anybody organise a proper defence?"

"Sylandya tried. Our Primary." She saw Coilla's quizzical look. "Acurial's leader. She was the only one in power who really strived to mount a defence."

"What happened to her?"

Chillder paused before answering, "No one really knows. But the upshot is that Taress is under the heel of foreign occupiers. We're a province of Peczan now. They reckon." There was real venom in her voice. "And life gets harsher by the day under Iron Hand."

"Who?"

"His name's Kapple Hacher. Calls himself our governor."

"And the humans use magic?"

"Too right! Don't say that's different in the north too?"

"Er… no, course not. Just wondered."

"It works the same as in your parts, I guess. Magic's in the hands of an elite among the humans, the Order of the Helix. Most just call them the Order."

Coilla nodded knowingly.

"Don't know how it was with you," Chillder went on, "but magic was the ploy they used to invade here in the south. Peczan said we had weapons of magical destruction and posed a threat to them. What a joke."

"Did you?"

"I wish. If we did, and had the ability to use 'em, things might have been different."

"We want to help fight the humans," Stryke said.

"We always need recruits," Brelan told him. "But… We need to confer." As he was turning away he noticed the tattoos on Jup's cheeks. "What's that on his face?"

"I can speak for myself," Jup informed him.

"So what are those markings?"

"A sign of enslavement."

Chillder scrutinised the faces of several Wolverines and saw their fading scars. "You all had them," she said.

Stryke nodded. He assumed the twins took it for granted that humans were responsible.

Chillder and Brelan exchanged glances, then walked away. When they reached the farthest end of the cellar they were joined by several others. A hushed conversation ensued.

The Wolverines waited, several score pairs of distrustful eyes on them.

"That was some fine bullshit you fed them, Stryke," Coilla whispered.

"I don't know. I'm not sure I'd have believed it."

"The bit about coming from the north seemed to go down well."

"Pure luck."

"What do you think they'll do?" Haskeer asked.

Stryke shrugged. "Could go either way."

Wheam sidled up. "Are we gonna fight 'em?"

"That's rich coming from you," Haskeer sneered. "I'd have thought you'd be right at home here with so many cowards around."

Wheam was about to mouth a retort when Dallog motioned him to silence.

The twins were coming back, at the head of a small delegation.

"Well?" Stryke demanded.

"We said we could use recruits," Brelan told him. "But if you really want to be part of this, you'll have to prove yourselves."

"You want to set a task, that's all right by us."

"Let's call it a test. We lost some good orcs tonight helping you out. Nothing can be done about them. But seven of our group were captured, and they face certain death because of you."

"I could argue with that."

"Don't bother." He looked to the humans, and pointed at Pepperdyne. "The younger one looks the fittest."

"For what?" Stryke said.

"He could be useful on your mission, being one of them. Like a key, you know?"

"What is this mission?"

"You're to free our captured comrades. You and your three officers, this human and ten of your band. You can pick which ones."

"I'd need the full strength to pull off something like that."

"No. The other human, the dwarfs and the rest of your unit stay here. And if you fail, they die."