Orcs: Bad Blood (10 page)

“That’s not our only problem right now.”

“Wheam?”

“Wheam.”

“What you gonna do about it?”

“Give him some kind of job that keeps him out of our faces, and clear of Haskeer. Come on.”

Looking bemused at the bustle of activity going on around him, Wheam was standing by Dallog further along the wall. An uncomfortable
expression came to his face when he saw Stryke approaching.

Before Stryke could speak, Wheam said, “You’re going to punish me, aren’t you?”

“Because of Liffin?”

“Of course. But I was afraid and —”

“Nobody under my command gets punished for being afraid.”

“Oh.” Wheam was confounded.

“Only fools don’t feel fear,” Stryke went on. “It’s what you do despite the fear that affects our survival. So you’ll be trained
in combat, and you’ll practise what you’re taught. Agreed?”

“Er, yes.”

“But we don’t carry non-combatants; everybody’s expected to fight. That’s your part of the bargain. Understand?”

“Yes, sir, Captain.”

“All right. I’ll work out a training rota for you. If you want to honour Liffin, you’ll stick with it. Meantime you need to
have a proper role. What special skills do you have?”

“I could be our official balladeer,” Wheam replied hopefully, holding up his lute.

“I meant something useful.” Stryke turned to his new corporal. “Dallog, what are you doing?”

“I was about to check the wounded. Change dressings, that sort of thing.” He nodded to a small group of waiting orcs.

“Wheam can help. All right with you?”

“Fine. If today’s anything to go by I could use an aide.”

Wheam looked apprehensive.

“We can’t risk kindling any light for you,” Stryke said. “Got enough to work by?”

“The moon’s good enough.”

“Make a start then.”

Dallog got Wheam to move closer, then beckoned over the first in line. Pirrak, one of the new intake, stepped forward, a grubby
dressing on his forearm.

“How’s it been?” Dallog enquired.

“Bit sore,” Pirrak answered.

Dallog began unwinding the bandage. “Did you know blood flows more copiously when the moon’s full?” he remarked conversationally
and to no one in particular.

“Course I did,” Coilla replied. “I’m a female.”

“Ah. Yes.” There was just a hint of awkwardness in the corporal’s response.

He carried on unravelling. As the layers of binding peeled away they grew more soiled, until finally the wound was exposed.
Dallog absently draped the gory bandage over the graveyard wall.

“Hmm. Lot of congealed blood. Might need to sew this gash. See how the flaps of skin hang loose on either side, Wheam? And
all this pus —”

There was a groan and a weighty thud.

“He’s fainted,” Coilla said.

The queuing orcs burst out laughing. Pirrak laughed, though he winced at the same time.

“What kind of an orc
is
he?” Using her teeth, Coilla pulled the cork from her canteen and poured a stream of water over Wheam’s ashen face.

“Go easy with that,” Stryke warned, “we’ve none to waste.”

Wheam spluttered and wheezed, causing more hilarity among the onlookers.

“I’ll take care of him,” Dallog sighed, kneeling to his new patient.

Stryke and Coilla left them to it.

“Perhaps medicine isn’t Wheam’s calling,” she commented dryly.

“I wonder what is.”

“He should have
some
kind of job.”

“Such as? I wouldn’t trust him on sentry duty, or in a hunting party. He might cope with digging latrines and preparing rations,
though I wouldn’t put it past him to poison us.”

“I don’t think that’s what Quoll had in mind.”

“To hell with him. He should have raised his spawn right in the first place, rather than dumping him on us.”

“Maybe that training you promised will sort Wheam out.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s bound to be a bit of a struggle fitting new members in, Stryke.”

He nodded. “What do you think of Dallog?”

“I like him. He fought well today, and he’s all right with the medic thing. I know he’s not Alfray, but who is?”

“I wish everybody felt that way.”

Reaching the wrecked hay wagon, they perched themselves on the still intact shafts. They watched the band making camp and
attending to chores. The breeze grew colder as evening shaded into full night.

Working his way through the wounded, Dallog continued to absent-mindedly deposit their bloodied bandages on the stone wall
behind him. More than a dozen white strips had accumulated, fluttering in the wind. Unnoticed, a stronger gust whipped most
of them away. They blew into the cemetery. One became entangled in the emaciated branches of a tree, another was caught by
a wooden grave marker. The rest were scattered across the barren ground.

High above, the stars were sharp and hard, like diamonds.

“Funny to think we were born under these skies,” Coilla reflected. “Do you ever feel homesick?”

“No.”

“Not even a twinge of longing?”

“It was a different land then. Humans ruined it.”

“That’s true. But it still feels strange to be back here. Everything seems so long ago, and yet as near as yesterday. If that
makes any sense.”

He smiled. “I know what you mean.”

They passed time in silence, surveying the scene. The band went about the business of preparing to settle for the night. Weapons
were cleaned and rations passed round. In the distance, sentries patrolled.

The few grunts waiting to be seen by Dallog had seated themselves on the graveyard wall. Wheam, still looking unsteady, had
been sorting lengths of bandages for the corporal.

“I’ve finished,” he announced. “What else can I do?”

“I’m busy here,” Dallog replied, intent on cleaning a lesion Wheam couldn’t look at. “Use your initiative.” He thought better
of that and looked around. “Make yourself useful and pick up those dressings. Can’t have infections spreading.”

“What do I use to —”

“Here.” Dallog thrust a small canvas shoulder bag at him, normally used to carry shot for catapults.

Wheam set about the task with minimal enthusiasm. Making a face, he collected the couple of bandages still clinging to the
wall, lifting them with thumb and forefinger at arm’s length. The watching orcs elbowed each other’s ribs and snickered.

He peered into the graveyard and saw the other scattered strips. Clumsily, he negotiated the wall. Once inside, he bent, picked
up the first bandage and stuffed it into the bag. Spotting the next, hanging on the wooden marker, he went to retrieve that.
Slowly, he worked his way through the cemetery, gathering the grubby windings of cloth.

He stooped to a bandage lying across a grave. There was a sound. He froze, listening. Nothing. He reached for the bandage.
As his fingers almost brushed it, the noise came again. Once more he paused, trying to work out what it might be. The sound
had a kind of scuffling, scrabbling quality, as though something subterranean was burrowing. Wheam stared at the ground. The
earth was bulging and shifting. He leaned closer.

The ground burst open. A bony hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Wheam struggled against its iron grip. He opened his mouth
to shout but nothing came.

The earth was erupting on every side, spewing writhing shapes.

Sitting on the wagon’s shafts, Coilla and Stryke were savouring the night air and the quiet.

“Doesn’t seem so bad now, does it?” Coilla said. “With the moon up and the stillness, we could almost be back in Ceragan.”

“I wouldn’t go
that
far.”

“So what would you be doing if you were there on a night like this?”

“If I was at home I’d —”

A piercing scream rent the air.

Coilla leapt up. “What the fu —”

“Over there! The graveyard.
Come on!
”

They ran towards the cemetery wall. Others were dashing that way too.

There was another loud yell.

They arrived to see Wheam in the middle of the graveyard, bent over and apparently tugging at something like an oversized
tree root. All around him, indistinct figures were hauling themselves out of the earth.

Coilla and Stryke moved closer, most of the band at their heels, and took in the scene. The graves were disgorging strange
fruit. What looked like rotting melons or oversized, cracked eggs were pushing through the soil. It took them a moment to
realise that they were heads.

Creatures rose, heaving from the loam with wriggling, undulating movements. As they emerged, their forms could be seen. They
were human. Or had been. Their bodies were decayed. Some were merely putrid, with discoloured, rotting flesh. Others were
near skeletal, scraps of skin and cloth hanging from their exposed bones.

They progressed fitfully, decomposing limbs jerking and quivering, and their eyes were afire with malicious hunger. The smell
that accompanied them was obnoxious.

One of the creatures scooped up a gory bandage and crammed it into its mouth. Its dislocated jaw clicked loudly as it chewed
on the sodden fabric.

A score of the animated dead had surfaced, with more appearing. The orcs watched, transfixed.

Haskeer arrived, panting. “What the
fuck
?”

“That’s what I said,” Coilla told him.

“Snap out of it, Wolverines!” Stryke yelled. “Let’s deal with this!”

Everyone drew swords and headed for the wall.

“I’m going for Wheam,” Coilla announced.

“Can’t we forget the little bastard?” Haskeer pleaded.

Coilla ignored him.

As the band approached, the walking corpses stopped and turned their heads as one. Then they advanced on the orcs.

The creature hanging on to Wheam was out of its grave. It was far gone in corruption, with much of the flesh on its chest
rotted away, revealing the ribcage and foul innards. Wheam struggled to escape its grasp. He pawed at his sword sheath with
his free hand, trying to reach the weapon. The creature dragged him closer.

The Wolverines swept to the wall. Coilla leapt over it and ran into the graveyard. Stryke and Haskeer chose its broken gate.
A pair of the monstrosities were shambling through, and it seemed to Stryke that they were starting to move faster and with
more fluidity. He charged at the nearest. The creature lurched to one side, but not quick enough to avoid the attack. Stryke’s
sword met no resistance as it plunged into the fetid chest. The only effect was to make his target stagger slightly, and as
he swiftly withdrew the blade a puff of rank dust was liberated.

Haskeer struck out with his sword, burying it deep in his foe’s side. It hewed parchment flesh, and splintered bone, but hardly
slowed the creature. Haskeer delivered a weighty slash across its belly. The contents spilled out, releasing an unspeakable
stench. Entrails dangling, the abomination kept coming, arms outstretched, hands like talons.

More of the creatures stumbled out of the gate. Others dragged themselves over the squat wall. The orcs met them with steel
and spear. But Stryke’s sense that the brutes’ speed and mobility was growing proved right. One of them, moving surprisingly
fast, landed a powerful arm swipe to the side of a grunt’s head, knocking him senseless. Ignoring menacing blades, another
crashed into an orc and encircled him in a crushing bear-hug. They pair of them collapsed struggling.

Coilla did as much dodging as fighting to get to Wheam. The creatures were noticeably gaining rapidity, though still reacted
slowly compared to the living. But that wasn’t an issue when a hulking specimen blocked her path with arms spread wide. She
skidded to a halt. The putrefying figure instantly lashed out, cuffing her hard in the face. Coilla went down.

She rolled and quickly regained her feet. Spitting a mouthful of blood, she went on the attack, sword extended. Her opponent
strode forward into her driven blade. It entered a little above his heart, or where his heart should be, and exited through
his back. The blade met no resistance. Nor did it do any harm. Coilla tugged it out and switched from point to edge.

Her hacking caused more damage, cleaving chunks of rotten flesh, but didn’t halt the advance. Then she cursed herself for
not seeing the obvious solution sooner. Leaping to one side, out of the creature’s course, she stooped and swung her sword.
It sliced through the creature’s leg, and the limb was so desiccated that one blow was enough. Amputated just below the knee,
the creature lost balance and crashed to the ground. Coilla left it thrashing about.

When she got to Wheam he was still trying to get away. And Coilla saw that his captor was female. She had straggly, once blonde
hair, and a hint of almost vanished comeliness in her gaunt features. One hand remained clamped to Wheam’s wrist. With the
other she had hold of his jerkin front, and was drawing him to her.

The corpse jerked Wheam close to her blotchy face. Her mouth gaped open, revealing a pair of unusually long, yellow-stained
incisors. Darting like a venomous snake, she buried the fangs in Wheam’s neck.

Coilla rushed in, yelling and brandishing her sword. The female pulled back, blood trickling from the corners of her rancid
lips. Wheam looked to be in a state of shock, his complexion ashen, a seeping wound at his jugular. Keeping hold of his wrist,
the creature turned. There was a large cavity in her chest that exposed the ribcage and viscera. Wheam’s blood dribbled from
it.

Carving a downward arc with her blade, Coilla cut through the creature’s arm. Wheam fell away, the withered hand still attached
to his wrist. Fangs bared, her features hideously distorted, the female let out a guttural hiss.

Coilla swung her sword again and sliced off the creature’s head. It bounced away into the darkness. The decapitated body stood
swaying for a second, then fell, crumbling to a heap of arid skin, dust and bones.

“
Bloodsuckers!
” Coilla yelled.

They heard it at the wall. But Stryke and the others needed no warning. The undead they faced were also trying to target orc
throats.

“What kills ’em?” Haskeer shouted, holding a ravenous corpse at bay with jabs from a spear.