Read Online Orcs by Stan Nicholls - Free Book Online

Haskeer reminded them. “I say we make ’em tell us.” He slipped out a knife and flicked his finger against its edge to underline the point.
    “Can
you
speak their infernal language?” Stryke demanded. “Can
any
of you?” They shook their heads. “No, I thought not. So torture’s hardly the answer, is it?”
    “We should never have entered this valley without scouting it first,” Haskeer grumbled lowly.
    “I’m just in the mood for your griping,” Stryke told him, his expression like flint. “If you’ve got something to say about how I’m leading this band, let’s hear it now.”
    Haskeer held up his hands in a placating gesture. “No, chief.” He turned on an empty grin. “Just . . . thinking aloud.”
    “Thinking’s not your strong point, Sergeant. Leave it to me. And that goes for
all
of you!”
    A tense silence descended. Alfray broke it. “What do you want us to do, Captain?” he asked.
    “Find as many horses as we can, for a start. If Meklun can’t ride, make a litter for him.” He bobbed his head at the carnage. “Don’t leave any kobolds alive. Cut their throats. Get on with it.”
    The Wolverines melted away.
    Coilla remained, looking at him.
    “Don’t say it,” he told her. “I know. If we don’t get that damn thing back for Jennesta, we’re as good as dead.”

6
    Jennesta stood on the highest balcony of her palace’s tallest tower.
    The eastern ocean was to her back. She looked north-west, where curling yellow mist rose over Taklakameer, the inland sea. Beyond that, she could just make out the city spires of Urrarbython, on the margin of the Hojanger wastelands. In turn, Hojanger eventually gave way to the ice field dominating the horizon, bathed by a crimson sun.
    To Jennesta it resembled a frozen tidal wave of blood.
    An icy breeze swept in, acute as a blade, stirring the heavy cerise drapes on the balcony’s entrance. She wrapped the cloak of milky-hued sabrewolf pelts tighter around herself. Autumnal conditions belied the season, and each passing year was worse.
    The advancing glaciers and frigid winds were harbingers of the encroaching humans, ever expanding their hold, tearing the heart from the land, interfering with the balance.
    Eating Maras-Dantia’s magic.
    She heard that in the south, where they were most densely concentrated and sorcery worked poorly if at all, humans had even abandoned the hallowed name and taken to calling the world Centrasia. At least the Unis had, and they were still more numerous than the Manis.
    Not for the first time, she fell to wondering what her mother, Vermegram, would have made of the schism. There was no doubt she would favour the Followers of the Manifold Path. After all, they adhered to pantheistic tenets remarkably similar to those of the elder races. Which was why Jennesta herself supported their cause, and would continue to do so for as long as it suited her. But whether her mother, a nyadd, would have approved of Jennesta actually siding with incomers was a moot point. Notwithstanding Vermegram’s human consort.
    And what of him? Would Jennesta’s father have approved of Unity and its nonsensical monotheistic creed?
    Whenever she dwelt on these matters she always came up against the ambiguity of her hybrid origins. Inevitably, that led to thoughts of Adpar and Sanara, and anger rose.
    She brought her mind back to the artifact. It was the key to her ambitions, to victory, and it was slipping out of her grasp.
    Turning, she entered the chamber.
    An attendant stepped forward and took her cloak. Slimly built, almost petite, the servant was pallid-skinned and dainty of face. The sandy hair, powder-blue eyes with long golden lashes, button nose and sensuous lips were typically androgynous.
    The servant was new, and Jennesta was still uncertain whether the creature was predominantly male or female. But everyone had that problem with elves.
    “General Kysthan is here, Your Majesty,” he or she announced in a piping, sing-song