Orcs:Bad blood

3

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."

" 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."