Orcs:Bad blood

5

Glass was an uncommon commodity. Orc artisans knew how to make it, but rarely bothered except for specific purposes, such as casements in certain places of worship and one or two of the chieftains' grand lodges. It was occasionally found in taverns.

As Stryke and Haskeer approached the inn they sought, they witnessed why glass was so infrequently used as a building material.

With a resounding crash, an orc was propelled through one of the windows. He bounced a couple of times before coming to rest in the shards.

The tavern's door was stout. But not so strong as to resist another flying body. The battered orc that crashed through it managed to stumble a couple of paces before collapsing.

There was uproar inside. A wild cacophony of shattered earthenware, breaking furniture and yelled curses.

Stryke said, "This must be the place."

They stepped through the splintered doorframe. An orc landed on his back in front of them. He came down heavily, shaking the floorboards.

Stryke nodded to him. "Morning, Breggin."

"Captain," the orc groaned.

The interior of the inn was essentially a single, large room. There was a serving bench at one end and a storm in the middle. The storm's eye stood astride a table.

Coilla wielded an iron cooking pot. Clutching the handle, she swung at the heads of the half-dozen males struggling to reach her.

She was a handsome specimen of orc womanhood, with attractively mottled skin, dark, flashing eyes, barbed teeth and a muscular, warrior's physique. Most alluring of all, she fought like a demon with toothache.

As Stryke and Haskeer entered, she delivered a well-aimed kick to the jaw of an opponent who ducked too late. He met the floor as surely as a dropped sack of offal. The others tried to catch her legs and topple her, but she skipped away with ease. They started rocking the table.

"Should we help?" Haskeer wondered.

"I don't think we could beat her," Stryke replied dryly.

Chiming like a bell, Coilla's cooking pot caught one of her antagonists square to the side of his head. Knocked senseless, he tumbled floorward.

Haskeer spotted a half-full tankard of ale. He lifted it and started drinking. Stryke leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching the brawl.

The four remaining males finally upended the table. Coilla leapt clear, feet-first into someone's chest. He spiralled out of play. Quickly righting herself, she swiped at the next in line, flattening his nose with her pot. Driven backwards, he came to grief in a tangle of chairs.

The two still upright rushed her in unison. One was dispatched by the simple expedient of running into her raised elbow. It connected with the bridge of his nose, sending him downhill and comatose. She dodged the clutches of the last orc standing and pounded his features with the fist of her free hand, rendering him insentient.

Coilla briefly savoured the scene, then, tossing the cooking pot aside, gave Stryke and Haskeer a cheery greeting.

"What was that about?" Haskeer asked. He thumped down the empty tankard and belched.

"It started as a fight over me, then kind of developed into one with me." She shrugged. "The usual."

"Keep up these courting rituals and you'll run out of suitors," Stryke commented.

"Cosy up to that lot? You must be joking. Anybody who can't knock me down doesn't deserve consideration. So, what are you two doing here?"

"We've news," Stryke told her. "Let's go outside."

It was the beginning of a glorious day. The sun was up, bathing the land in balmy warmth. Birds were on the wing and bees droned.

They went and sat on a little hillock. Stryke explained what had happened, with Haskeer adding unhelpful interruptions. They showed her the amulet.

"But Jennesta's dead, surely?" she said. "We saw her pulled apart by that vortex thing."

"Maybe she can't be killed that easily," Haskeer contributed. "The sort of powers that bitch had, I'm thinking she can't be killed at all."

"I'd bet on cold steel through the heart revoking her sorcery," Stryke replied.

"You reckon she's got one?"

"We don't know how she survived, but it seems she did, and she's making orcs suffer. What are we going to do about it?"

"If we leave this land, you know what we're likely going to," Coilla reminded him. "Prejudice about us, and hatred and bigotry. Sure you want to go through all that shit again?"

"We've rode out worse than words."

"It's not words that worry me. And don't count on too many allies wherever we fetch up."

"I'm not saying there isn't going to be hardship, sweat and violence."

"Just like old times, eh?"

"So where do you stand, Coilla? Are you saying no?"

She grinned. "Hell, I'm not. This is a good place, but it can get kind of dull after a while. I've been itching for a real fight. I'm tired of lightweight scuffles."

A wheezing orc staggered out of the tavern, gobbing teeth.

"You're game, then?"

"Sure."

"So what next?" Haskeer asked.

"We round up the rest of the band and put it to 'em," Stryke decided.

Haskeer wrinkled his craggy brow. "Strange to think of the Wolverines re-formed."

"If they want re-forming," Coilla said.

Nep and Gleadeg were easily found; they lay insensible in the tavern, alongside Breggin. Zoda and Prooq were fishing with spears a little way upriver. Reafdaw was helping build a longhouse as part of a service to the community edict imposed by local elders, following an affray. Eldo, Bhose, Liffin and Jad were with a recently returned hunting party. Calthmon was discovered drunk on the steps of a hostelry and required dunking in a nearby rain butt. Orbon and Seafe, like Stryke, had mated, and were at their lodges, coddling offspring. Vobe, Gant, Finje and Noskaa were traced to a regional tourney they were competing in. Toche and Hystykk turned up in a felons' compound, the result of a little horseplay involving riot and arson, and had to be bailed.

Stryke explained the mystery of the human who came through the portal, and outlined Serapheim's message. There was some discussion, but a surprising degree of unanimity, despite Coilla's doubts. Much as they relished their hard-won freedom, all felt jaded and welcomed the prospect of a mission.

By late afternoon, Stryke was ready to begin a new search. Recruits were needed to replace those lost in the Wolverines' previous battles and bring the warband up to strength. He set about tracing a half dozen likely prospects he'd had his eye on.

Word got around that something was afoot. That evening, a curious crowd gathered at the clearing where Stryke mustered his troop.

Several of the Wolverines' mates were there, too. Thifzarr came, wearing the flaming crimson headdress Stryke first saw in his visions of this place. They stood away from the others.

"And you're sure you don't mind?" Stryke repeated.

"Would it matter if I did? Don't look doleful, you know you're desperate to go."

"Don't put it that way. I'll be back. It's just — "

She stilled his lips with a coarse finger. "I know. You don't have to explain an orc's instincts to me. I'm only sorry I'm not going with you."

He brightened, relieved at her reaction. "That would have been good. We've never had the joy of fighting side by side. I've always felt it's something missing from our union."

"Me, too. Couples should spill blood together."

"We will," he promised.

"Be careful," she said, suddenly serious. "Stupid thing to say. But I'd like to think the kids' father's going to be around as they grow. Don't take risks, Stryke."

"I won't," he lied. He looked round. Haskeer had got the Wolverines into a semblance of order. To one side, another, smaller group shuffled their feet and looked slightly self-conscious. "I need to get started."

She nodded, and he went to his band.

"Heads up!" Haskeer bellowed.

The company straightened their backs.

"I'm glad you all volunteered," Stryke told them. "We always worked well together, and we can do it again." His tone hardened. "But let's get one thing straight. This is a well-ordered fighting unit. Or it used to be. We've all back-slid a bit while we've been here. Got soft, some of us. Sign on for this mission and you'll be subject to military discipline, just like before. I'm in charge, and there'll be a chain of command." He shot a sideways glance at Haskeer. "Anybody got a problem with that?"

Nobody had.

"At a time like this we remember fallen comrades," he went on. "Kestix, Meklun, Darig, Slettal, Wrelbyd, Talag. They all died serving this band, and we should never forget it." He paused. "That means we don't have our full quota. So I'm bringing in replacements." He waved forward the recruits, and counted them off. "This is Ignar, Keick, Harlgo, Chuss, Yunst and Pirrak. I expect you to make them welcome. Show them our routines and get them used to our ways. They're good fighters, but not combat trained. Though they will be by the time we've finished with them."

There was laughter. In the case of the recruits, somewhat nervous.

"Somebody else we lost can never be replaced," Stryke continued. "We all respected Alfray." Heads were nodding agreement. "He was more than the band's medic and a veteran fighter; he was a link in the chain binding us to our kind's past. We can't replace him, but we need another corporal alongside Coilla here, so we'll fill the void he left as best we can." He beckoned. Someone came out of the crowd.

He was an orc of advanced years, though still in his prime and looking fit. But the light in his astute eyes owed more to autumn than summer, and of all the fighters present he was easily the oldest. He approached with assurance.

"Meet Dallog," Stryke said.

The older orc lightly nodded to them; a small gesture but amiable enough.

"Some of you might know him already, particularly if you've needed a broken bone put right." There was another ripple of laughter. "He has talent as a healer. He's steady and he's smart, and I'm making him a corporal. And he's got an important duty." Stryke raised a hand.

A youngster trotted towards them. He carried a spiked lance with a furled pennant, which he passed to Dallog. At Stryke's signal, Dallog opened it, revealing the band's standard. He held the pole aloft and the ensign fluttered in the evening breeze. The Wolverines cheered. Except for Haskeer, who wore a dour expression.

"The standard's in your charge," Stryke said. "Guard it well."

"With my life," Dallog promised. He went to join the ranks.

"We've plenty to do tonight," Stryke reminded them all, "so go about your tasks. Dismissed! " As they moved off, he called, "Get to know the new ones! They're Wolverines now!"

Haskeer arrived at his side. "It's not true," he complained.

"What isn't?"

"What you just said about the new intake being Wolverines. They have to earn it."

"We all started from scratch."

"We were already battle-hardened when we joined. Not like these… civilians."

"That's the point. We need to get the band in shape fast, which means making them feel a part of it from the outset." He regarded his sergeant. "Is that all you're in a foul mood about?"

Haskeer said nothing. But his gaze flicked to Dallog as he went off with the standard.

"Ah," Stryke said, "that's your beef, is it?"

"He's no Alfray."

"Nobody said he was."

"So why do we need him?"

"Chain of command, remember? We have to have another corporal, and a band healer. I reckon Dallog fits the bill."

"Well, I don't like it."

"Too bad. You just heard me say I'm in charge. If that's not to your liking either — "

"Oh, shit."

Stryke balled his fists. "You want to make an issue of this, Sergeant?"

"No. What I meant was, look who's coming."

The youth walking their way was barely on nodding terms with adulthood. He dressed extravagantly for an orc. His jerkin consisted of strips of different coloured material, and his breeches were lilac. He wore gaudy boots. Looped about his neck was a stringed instrument. It had a long fingerboard and a body the shape of a sliced strawberry. He cradled it as tenderly as a babe.

"Oh, shit," Stryke said. "Be tactful. Remember who he is."

Haskeer gave a weary grunt.

"Stryke! Haskeer!" the youth greeted. "I've been looking for you."

"Wheam," Stryke replied.

"What do you want?" Haskeer demanded, stony-faced.

"You're about to set out on a great adventure," Wheam enthused, "and it should be celebrated."

"Maybe they'll be time for feasting when we get back," Stryke responded. "But at the moment — "

"No, no, I mean celebrated in verse."

"We couldn't put you to the trouble."

"This is history in the making; it must be recorded. Anyway, I've already started an epic ballad about this mission. It's work in progress, of course, but — "

"Well, if it's not finished…"

"How can it be? You haven't started yet, have you?"

"True."

"So I thought I'd let you hear the opening, as a kind of inspiration."

"Must you? I mean, must you now?"

"It won't take long. There's only about forty verses so far."

"We're very busy just now and — "

Wheam began discordant plucking. He cleared his throat loudly and proceeded to sing off key. "On battle's eve the Wolverines Whet their blades and readied their spleens…

"It's hard to get anything to rhyme with Wolverines, but I'm working on it. "Their Captain bold he seized his chance To take up dagger, sword and lance And spitting in the face of fate He marched his band to the magic gate…"

"Gods," Haskeer muttered. "With swelling breasts and hearts so true They smote the foe for me and you…"

Coilla arrived, pulling a face behind the minstrel's back. She saw the expressions of appeal Stryke and Haskeer wore, and took pity. "Upon the field of slaughter red His gallant crew he bravely led And taking up his cleaver keen…"

"Excuse me."

" He hacked his way to — "

Coilla prodded Wheam's shoulder-blade with a bony finger.

" Ouch! "

"Sorry," she smiled, "but I have to talk to my superior officers. You know; operational matters."

"But I've barely got going."

"Yes," Stryke intervened, "and it's a pity. We'll just have to hear the rest some other time."

"When?" Wheam asked.

"Later."

Stryke and Haskeer grasped the protesting balladeer's elbows and impelled him towards the crowd.

Rejoining Coilla, Stryke breathed a sigh. "Thanks. We owe you one."

"At least we won't be seeing him again for a while."

"Never would be too soon," Haskeer suggested.

"Did you want something, Coilla, or was this just a rescue?" Stryke said.

"Actually, I was wondering how things were going with the stars."

"We had them hidden in five locations, as you know. I've got four of them back. The fifth — " There was a commotion at the edge of the crowd. "Matter of fact, this should be it now."

A massively built individual appeared, a retinue in his wake. He was elderly but still fearsome. At his throat he wore an emblem of valour; a necklace of snow leopards' teeth, numbering at least a dozen. He was battle-scarred and proud.

"Hard to think he could have sired such a fop," Coilla remarked.

"Best keep that opinion to yourself," Stryke advised.

The chieftain and his entourage swept in.

Stryke welcomed him with, "Good of you to come, Quoll."

Quoll snorted. "You left me little choice."

"Sorry for the short notice. We have to move quickly."

"You're leaving soon?"

"First light."

"And you've everything you need?"

"All except the item in your safekeeping. Do you have it?"

"Of course. But I've been thinking."

"With respect, Chief, what's there to think about?"

"My thought is that you could render me a service."

"We're always happy to help," Stryke replied warily, "if it's in our power."

"This is well within your gift, Captain."

"And providing it doesn't put our mission at risk."

"There's no reason it should. You know my son?"

Stryke felt a cold apprehension. "Wheam? He was just here."

"Spouting nonsense, no doubt."

"You said it," Haskeer remarked.

Stryke shot him a poisonous look. "What about Wheam, Chief?"

"I want him to go with you."

" No way! " Haskeer exclaimed.

"Who's in charge here?" Quoll asked. "You or your sergeant?"

"I am," Stryke confirmed. "Shut it, Haskeer. Let's get this straight, Quoll; you want your son on this mission?"

"That's right."

"Why?"

"Look at him." He pointed at Wheam, who was strumming his lute for a group of disinterested bystanders. "I spawned a popinjay. A fool."

"What's that to do with us?"

"I want the tomfoolery knocked out of him. He needs toughening."

"We've no room for amateurs. The Wolverines are a disciplined fighting unit."

"That's just what he needs: discipline. You're taking other unproven recruits, why not Wheam?"

"They've shown combat skills. I don't see that in your son."

"Then it's time he learnt some."

"Why us? There must be another way of cutting his teeth."

"None as good as an actual mission where his survival's at stake."

"And ours. We've got six tyros as it is, without carrying somebody untrained and unsuited. It puts the whole band in peril."

"Much as I hate to say this, Stryke, you and your band have had things pretty much your own way since you came here. Isn't it about time you did something to repay our hospitality?"

"Much as I hate to say it, you don't own this land, Quoll. You're a clan chief, and we respect that, but you're not the only one in Ceragan."

"I'm the only one in these parts, and I want Wheam signed on for this mission."

"And if we refuse?"

"If you were to do that, I'm afraid there might be some delay… some lengthy delay in finding the artefact I'm holding for you."

Stryke sighed. "I see."

"That's blackmail!" Coilla erupted.

Quoll glowered. "I'll pretend you didn't say that."

"Pretend what you like, it's still what you're doing!"

"That's enough, Corporal," Stryke told her.

"But he can't — "

" That's enough! " He turned to Quoll. "All right. We'll take him."

The chieftain smiled. "Good." He snapped his fingers.

One of his followers came forward holding a small wooden chest. Quoll opened it and took out the remaining instrumentality. "I confess I'm glad to see the back of this. I've not been happy having such a powerful totem in my lodge."

As Coilla and Haskeer silently fumed, he handed it to Stryke, who slipped it into his belt pouch.

"I'll have Wheam report to you this evening," Quoll said. He started to leave, then stopped and added, "And Stryke, if anything happens to him, don't bother coming back."

The chieftain strode off, trailed by his helpers.

"Oh, that's just great, isn't it?" Haskeer moaned. "Now we're fucking babysitters."

"Calm down," Stryke advised.

"Haskeer's right," Coilla reckoned. "The last thing we need is a hanger-on."

"What else could I do?"

"Refused, of course!"

"And never see the star again?"

"We could have taken it."

"Not a smart move, Coilla. This is our home now."

"It won't be if that idiot gets himself killed," Haskeer put in.

"There's no point arguing about it. We're stuck with him. Let's just try to make the best of it, shall we? We'll put him on fatigues or something, and have one of the older hands keep an eye on him."

"It doesn't bode well," Haskeer grumbled, "having a clown on the team."

"I'm not going to apologise for it. But there's something I should say sorry to you about, Coilla."

"What's that?"

"By rights I should have promoted you, to fill the vacancy for a sergeant. You could do the job, and you certainly deserve it."

"Thanks, Stryke, but I don't mind. Really. To hell with that much responsibility. I like the level I've reached."

"Well, I said the band needed two corporals, which didn't go down well with everybody." He glanced at Haskeer. "But it needs two sergeants, too."

"Who are you thinking of promoting then?"

"I'm not."

"Come again?"

"My idea's to reform the band as completely as we can."

"Yeah, well, that would mean having Jup, and he's… Oh."

"Right. We're going back to Maras-Dantia."