Orcs:Bad blood

18

The orcs of Acurial, and especially of Taress, were accustomed to having the military hammer on their doors at dawn. Usually it was a prelude to being locked up, tortured or summarily executed. Or perhaps to be forced to witness the execution of others. Sometimes it was part of a collective punishment for a real or imagined defiance of the occupiers' will; the citizenry made to watch as their homes burned, their cattle were slaughtered and their fields sown with salt.

It was much rarer for them to be turfed from their beds to line the streets. To be issued with pennants bearing the colours of their conquerors' nation and compelled to acclaim a visiting dignitary.

Most singular of all was to have the object of their ersatz approval gallop past at speed in a black carriage with its windows shuttered against curious eyes.

The carriage, accompanied by an entourage of similarly impenetrable vehicles and an honour guard of hard-faced elite troopers, made its way to the fortress at the centre of the city. As soon as it entered, the gates were hastily secured.

Near the castle's apex, in Kapple Hacher's eyrie, the governor awaited his guest.

As ever, he was outwardly calm. The sorcerer Grentor, who stood at his side, was less so.

"Tell me, Governor," Grentor said, toying nervously with a string of worry beads, "have you met our guest before?"

"I have. In Peczan."

"And your impression?"

"I think… profound would be an appropriate word. And you, Brother? Have you been in the presence?"

"No. Although our visitor is technically the head of our Order, I've never had that pleasure."

"Pleasure is a word you might wish to reconsider."

"How so?"

There was a knock at the door.

"Come!" Hacher called.

His aide, Frynt, entered. "They're here, sir." He was breathless.

"You seem flustered," Hacher said. "I take it you've had sight of our guest."

"Yes, sir. The party's on its way up."

"All right. Leave us. No, use the other door."

The aide went out, looking relieved to be going.

Grentor wore a perplexed expression.

"A word of advice, High Cleric," Hacher told him. "You'll find that the emissary is… let's say strong willed, and does not easily tolerate dissent. This is a person of enormous power and influence. It's as well to keep that in mind."

Grentor would have replied, had not the double doors leading into Hacher's chambers not flown open with a crash.

Two figures walked in. They were human. At least, nominally so. Both were males, and impressively muscular. They were dressed for combat, in black leather trews, jerkins and steel-tipped boots, and they carried scimitars.

Beyond these superficialities, they were wrong. Their eyes were wrong. They had a fixed, glazed quality that seemed devoid of any spark of humanity. Their faces were wrong. The skin appeared overly taut and expressionless, and it had an unhealthy yellowish tinge. The way they moved was wrong. They progressed inflexibly, as though their spines were too rigid, and there was a slight tendency to shuffle.

The pair inspected the room, looking behind drapes and opening doors. They said nothing. Seemingly satisfied that no assassins lay in wait, they shambled to Hacher and the priest. One extended a beefy, parchment-coloured hand.

"I hope you've no intention of searching me?" Hacher complained indignantly.

"We'll let it pass this time."

As they turned to the source of the voice, a female swept into the room. Even Hacher, who had seen her before, was taken aback by her appearance. For Grentor, it was a new and startling experience.

There was something perplexing, not to say downright disturbing, about the way she looked. The structure of her face was strangely off beam. It was just a little too flat and wide, especially across the temples, and her chin narrowed almost to a point. Her skin was curious. There was a light silvery green patina to it, as though stippled with tiny fish scales. Her nose was slightly convex, and her shapely mouth seemed overly broad. She had ink-black hair that fell to her waist.

What held Hacher and Grentor were her eyes. They were dark and undoubtedly mesmeric. But they had a deeper, more unsettling feature. Like portals, they allowed a glimpse into a realm of shadowy matter; infinite, merciless, chaotic.

Ignoring any rational definition of the word, she was beautiful. Beautiful in the way of a carnivorous plant, a wolf spider or ravening shark. Nightmarish yet alluring. Unwholesome.

She snapped her fingers. The sound was loud and brittle. In the silence that had settled on the room, it was almost shocking. The two dead-eyed bodyguards responded to it as surely as a spoken command. Turning as one, they strode out, Hacher and Grentor staring after them.

Hacher collected himself first, and greeted their guest. "My Lady Jennesta." He bobbed his head respectfully.

"Hacher."

"May I introduce Brother Grentor, High Cleric of the Order of — "

"Yes, yes." She waved away the rest of his sentence with a lazy motion of her hand. "I'm aware of who he is."

Grentor was halfway through a low bow. He straightened, looking uncomfortable.

"Please, ma'am," Hacher said, gesturing to the best chair in the room, "be seated."

She regarded it with the disdain of someone expecting to be offered a throne. But she suffered the indignity, the silk of her emerald gown giving a gentle swish as she sat.

"Those bodyguards…" Hacher began, his gaze flashing to the door in anticipation of them returning any second.

"A fitting way to employ miscreants, don't you think, Governor?" Jennesta smiled.

Her teeth were small and white and quite sharp.

"Miscreants?"

"Enemies of the state. Dissenters. Those who would challenge our authority."

Hacher felt sure she meant her authority, but kept that to himself. "One of them… I thought I recognised — "

"You probably did. Disloyalty has no respect for position. The blight can even infect those quite high up in the administration."

Hacher had no doubt that was a not very veiled warning directed at him.

"How better to punish traitors than having them serve the state they sought to undermine?" Jennesta went on. "Dead yet undead; an exquisite fate." Her relish was palpable. "But I'm not here to discuss my pets. There are concerns, Hacher."

"Ma'am?"

"You know my meaning well enough. The situation here is displeasing."

"It's true we've had our problems. But there are stirrings in all the provinces from time to time. We have things under control."

"Really? And what happened yesterday, was that an instance of how in control you are?"

"Ah, you heard about that."

"I hear about everything, Governor. Have no doubts on that score."

"We have a small seditious element. They got lucky."

"They had a human with them." She glared balefully. "Is treachery rife here, too?"

"It was some kind of fluke. Such a thing has never been known."

"Until now. How many more humans can we expect to side with the beasts?"

"The event was serious; I'm not denying that, ma'am. But it would be a mistake to take one incident and — "

"But it isn't just one. You have the makings of a rebellion here."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"Of course you wouldn't. You're complacent. What measures have you taken against the military who allowed the raid to succeed?"

"Reprimands have been issued and — "

"Have all those responsible executed."

"Our own people?"

"To think they call you Iron Hand." She laughed derisively. "You're soft, Hacher. That's why the governance of this region is so dismal. Discipline will be imposed, and you'll start by signing death warrants as I dictate."

"I protest at this blatant — "

"And if you don't want to see a warrant bearing your name nailed to the castle gate, they'll be some changes of attitude in this administration."

In deference to her superior position, Hacher suffered the threat in silence.

Jennesta turned her attention to Grentor. "There's no call for you to feel smug about this."

"I can assure you, ma' am — "

"The Order has done as badly in Acurial as the military," she ploughed on. "The martial and magical wings are expected to cooperate and support each other. That obviously isn't happening."

"I beg to differ. We've never faced this kind of situation before."

"But it's just a handful of rebels, according to the Governor." Her words dripped sarcasm. "Oh, and a lone human who's made cause with them. But that's too much for you, even with the sorcery you have."

"With respect, members of the Order have lost their lives fighting these rebels," Grentor informed her gravely.

"Then they deserved to, and good riddance. Any who aren't up to the task have no place in any Order I lead."

"That's a little harsh, if I may say so. As you know, ma'am, magic can be an imprecise art."

"Fool. It's only as crude as those practising it." Jennesta deftly unwound the silken scarf she wore, and bunched it. "Here, catch." She lobbed it at the priest as though it were a child's ball.

By reflex, he made to catch it. The ball sailed over his outstretched hand. It unravelled and became a streamer. Then it grew indistinct, and seemed to alter in form as it fluttered against his upper body.

Grentor gave an audible intake of breath. The scarf was wrapped around his neck. Only it was no longer a scarf. What had been embroidered silk was now a three-headed brimstone-coloured viper with a black zigzag stripe running the length of its scaly body. It constricted, choking off the priest's air. Forked tongues whipped from each of its hissing heads. Wickedly sharp fangs sought his flesh.

Despite knowing it had to be a glamour, Grentor began to panic. He tried to cry out, but only managed a croak. His face turned ashen. The snake squeezed tighter.

Hacher had looked on in horror. Now he moved in the priest's direction.

Jennesta made a casual hand gesture.

The viper disappeared. Grentor let out a sigh of relief. He staggered a few steps to the room's large oak table and leaned against it, palms pressed on its surface, head down. He was panting.

The scarf was in Jennesta's hand. She put it back on, heedless of the little drama playing out in front of her. "There's no excuse," she said. "The magic flows strong through this land, pure and powerful. Unlike some places I've been."

If Hacher and Grentor wondered what she meant, they were too awed or too discomfited to comment.

"Heed me, priest," Jennesta continued. "Things will improve. Because High Clerics can find themselves demoted to humble brothers. And worse."

Grentor nodded, still dazed. He rubbed at his neck, and there was fear in his eyes.

A silence descended. It didn't seem to bother Jennesta, but Hacher found it awkward. For want of anything better to say, and incongruous as it sounded, he heard himself mouthing, "You must think me a poor host, my Lady. Can I offer you refreshments?"

She fixed him with a stare he had difficulty holding. "The refreshments I take are of a special order, and something I enjoy privately. But that does remind me…" She looked to the doors and, as if bending to her will, they opened.

Her pair of mindless bodyguards hobbled in. One had an ornately carved wooden box under his arm. This was presented to Jennesta. When she opened it, the minders' usual sluggish manner became something like excited. They licked their cracked lips with black, mottled tongues, and began to drool.

Jennesta fished something out of the box. It was russet in colour, and looked like a chunk of desiccated meat, or perhaps a greatly engorged worm. She dangled it at arm's length. In what appeared to be a well practised movement, the bodyguards sank to their knees, as though begging. She tossed the morsel.

There was a brief scuffle. Then one of the minders was stuffing the meat into his mouth and crunching it with pleasure. His companion was aggrieved, but brightened when she threw him a titbit of his own. They sprawled on the floor, chewing earnestly, brown juice running down their chins.

Jennesta noticed Hacher staring at the open box. "They require sustenance," she explained. "I also find it convenient to neuter my subordinates. So in a spirit of waste not, want not…"

Hacher gaped at her. "You mean…"

"Privy parts are very nutritious. I can attest to that myself." She continued feeding them like dogs.

Grentor's complexion went grey. He put a hand over his mouth and turned his head.

Hacher steadied himself with a deep breath. "What do you want us to do about the situation here, my lady?" he asked.

"I know orcs of old. However placid this Acurial variety may seem, I know what they're capable of. Particularly when exposed to a malignant influence from elsewhere, as I've reason to believe is happening." Jennesta flung another piece of meat. "What Taress needs," she said, as her minions bit noisily into their treat, "is a reign of terror."