01 - Honour of the Grave (4 page)

She saw the cart. The new leader had freed the old, dead one from his pallet
and held him by the scruff of the neck. Below him, orcs capered and banged drums
and shook fists and screeched on dissonant bugles. Grabbing the massive corpse
by clapping both hands around its head, the new boss drew it close to him and
kissed its cruel, upcurving lips. Then he turned and hurled the body into the
waiting mob, which seized it and bore it aloft, passing it backwards. The orc
army threw their old leader’s body up into the air, then caught it, then threw
it up, each time letting loose with an animal cheer. Sometimes the body would
sink below the level of the crowd, to resurface moments later with a tusk or
digit missing: they were taking souvenirs of their slain hero. Gradually the
body turned from venerated item to punching sack, resurfacing bloodier each time
before finally disappearing forever near the back of the throng. The new boss
orc threw his heavy arms up into the air and screamed something that could not
have been articulate even in orcish. Angelika could not help shuddering.

She looked at the bag, in which Franziskus squirmed. The big orc was shouting
some more, but an orcish oration could not last long. The next step would be the
boy’s demise.

Angelika leapt from the bushes and ran down towards the cart again, letting
the slope of the incline propel her downwards and forwards. A couple of stray
orcs stepped from behind the front wheels of the cart, to intercept her. They
were squat and shovel-faced, runts by the standards of the others she’d seen
today. Maintaining her momentum, blade in hand, she flew towards them. She felt
her knife find purchase in flesh, ducked low to evade a swiping hand, and felt
wet warm blood spackle her face and arms. The closest orc lurched over,
clutching its windpipe. The other, behind her, was in the midst of a backswing
with a huge, well-notched battleaxe. She jumped into the air, landing on the
back of the hunched-over orc, and used him as the springboard for a second leap, which
took her up onto the edge of the cart. As her arms and chest impacted painfully
with the cart’s planks, she saw the second orc’s axe come down on the other’s
spine, where her legs had been a moment before. The axe head sunk deep into the
first orc and out through the belly side; its owner struggled to free it.

Angelika pulled her dangling legs up onto the cart. She saw Franziskus, freed
of the bag, the boss orc towering over him, dragging him by the hair. The orc
was pulling him towards a set of shackles under the hammer’s shadow. Angelika
saw the boss’ head turn towards her, its red eyes fury-filled. It howled. It
reached down and punched Franziskus savagely in the stomach. Franziskus curled
up, gasping, hugging knees to chin. A sling stone whistled in from the crowd
below; it went far wide of Angelika and plunked against the wooden statue. The
boss orc looked at it and growled something at his men. He’d be telling them not
to fire any missiles his way, and also that he could take care of one scrawny
human woman himself. Then he advanced on her. There were other orcs on the
platform, four of them near the back, all in good armour. They stepped up, but
the boss waved them back, too.

He did not deign to pull a weapon, merely drawing his massive hands into
claws and loudly cracking their joints. He stepped ponderously forward. He
cocked his head to one side and seemed to grin, shaking big wattles of loose
skin that trailed from his bony jaw.

Angelika felt the leaden weight of her feet, planted on the planks of the
cart. She felt the puniness of the tiny knife in her hand. She gulped and
sprinted forwards. The orc swung prematurely, and she slipped under his blow to
jab her knife up at his throat. But she could not reach, and the knife hit his
blackened breastplate, bending like a blade of grass. She rolled, trying to make
it through his trunk-like legs, but he closed them on her, and squeezed. She
felt wrenching pain as he grabbed one of her legs and twisted it. She wriggled
herself forwards and somehow out of his grip. She turned and rolled and hit the
planks. Air bolted from her lungs as her opponent kicked her in the side with
metal-toed boots. She rolled again and up to her feet and staggered forwards. In blurred peripheral vision, she saw that Franziskus had crawled his way back,
most of the way past the wooden figure. The orc lieutenants stood watch over
him; one seemed ready to smash him with a hammer if he got too far away.

Vibrations of the boards she stood on warned her to turn back to see her foe.
He was charging. She stood her ground. At the last moment, she ducked and kept
on going, grabbing onto a hilt poking out from a scabbard at his belt. She
stumbled gracelessly past him, a huge hacking sabre now in her hands. A
throat-scraping cheer went up behind her. The orcs were happy for the added
attraction. She was an addition to the ceremony. They wanted her to put up a
colourful fight before their leader finally dispatched her.

She struggled to heft the immense weapon. She grabbed it with both hands,
held it overhead, and charged the orc boss, who now stood with feet spread
complacently apart, awaiting her charge. Angelika rushed towards him, then her
head was ringing and she was flying backwards through the air. She landed on her
behind. What echoed around her was definitely the laughter of orcs. The boss had
reversed her charge merely by clipping her on the forehead with the heel of his
hand, which he still held out to her in mocking display. She struggled to her
feet, picked up the heavy sword again, and once more charged. This wrung another
crash of laughter from the open-throated throng.

As she ran, she looked to Franziskus, still lying sprawled, and saw that she
had caught his eye. She thought she saw him nod. She ran at the orc, whose
grinning mouth widened. She held the sword aloft, as she had before. But at the
point of impact, she swayed low, instead sticking the weapon between the orc’s
legs, and pushing him. Tripping on the sword, he fell backwards, landing flat
and spread-eagled, near the shackles.

Franziskus kicked forward, loosing the chain. It went slack. It rang and
jangled through the pulley. The hammer dropped. The figure rocked. The orc
boss’ eyes widened. He slid himself forward. The hammer landed. It caught only
the boss’ skull, squashing it flat and sending a jet of grey matter squirting
down the length of the cart, to stop short of the feet of his lieutenants.

Angelika staggered back upright and felt terror’s power fill her bones. She
saw one of the lieutenants reach down to seize Franziskus, but then a second
stopped his hand, following up with a sudden butt to the forehead.

Of course. Now they will fight to see who becomes boss, ignoring
distractions. She stumbled towards the lad and grabbed him by the collar of his
tunic. A tumult arose behind her and she spun to see a mass of orcs clambering
up on the cart to get them. She fumbled in her breast pocket, for the envelope
she’d found back on the battlefield. The flash powder. She scooped into the
envelope with her fingers and threw the contents at the swarming orcs. She
closed her eyes in advance of the flash, then opened them to see gobbets of
thick smoke filling the air, and blinded orcs stumbling into one another.

Yanking Franziskus’ collar, she half-dove from the cart. They landed badly,
in a tangle together, but extricated themselves and dashed for the bushes,
ignoring their pain. Angelika, in the lead, seized the lad when they reached the
low trees. She pulled him down and they watched the writhing frenzy as partisans
of the various battling lieutenants cheered on their candidates, or brawled
viciously amongst themselves. They waited for vengeful outriders to come beating
the bushes for them, but none bothered. As one tottering lieutenant seemed to
win out, rivals’ pulped bodies quivering at his feet, they slipped away.

They did not start talking until they were well clear of the orcs, on a
down-sloping road around on the mountain’s other side. The adrenaline had left
them, and now their bones ached and bruises throbbed.

“I knew I could count on you,” Franziskus said to her.

“Nonsense.”

“Despite what you said, basic human goodness won out.”

She snorted derisively.

“Your basic, human goodness.”

“You mean idiotic, suicidal foolishness.”

“You say this, but it is merely to assuage your pride.”

“Shut up.”

“I will prove my gratitude to you. You saved my life and I owe you
everything.”

“You’ll do whatever I ask?”

Franziskus fervently nodded.

“Then sod off,” she said.

He stopped, looking surprised.

“I mean it. Go away. And if you tell anyone of the weakness I showed today,
I’ll creep after you and gut you while you snore. Do you understand?” She
stopped, too, looking up at the sky. Dark clouds were coming in, hiding the
stars. She looked at Franziskus, who turned his gaze from her and kept going.

“I have sworn to repay you, and repay you I shall,” he said, eyes closed,
nose upturned.

“Cretin,” she said.

“Basic human goodness,” he said.

“Everything I said to you was the truth, and everything I did was a lie,” she
said.

The two continued down the stony roadway, disappearing from view.

It seemed wrong, Angelika Fleischer thought, for the sun to shine so brightly
on such carnage. It was not carnage, in and of itself, that troubled her; in
fact, it was from dead men that she made her livelihood. Even so, the sky could
show a little decency, and darken itself with clouds.

Shading her eyes, she leaned against the trunk of a thin and contorted pine
tree on a jagged, rocky hillside—one of thousands that lined the length of the
Blackfire Pass. She watched as soldiers cleared the dead from the silenced
battlefield below. To get a better look, she swung her long, slim body out from
the tree, clinging to its rough surface with the curled fingers of her right
hand. Her elbows, cheekbones, and knees were sharp. Spiked fronds dangled from
her dark mop of thick hair. Angelika wore a black tunic over black leggings. It
was too big for her, but she had tied it off tight at the waist, so that the
remainder became not so much a skirt as a gesture acknowledging the idea of a
skirt. It concealed a leather purse, and a scabbard with a five-inch knife in
it. Her blade had a twin; it waited for her just below her right knee, tucked
into her boot. Angelika’s boots did not match the rest of her shabby attire: neither scuff marks nor a layer of mud could fully conceal
their expensive leather.

The soldiers below wore uniforms of black and yellow. Silvery helms sat upon
their heads; the officers had tall feathers, dyed bright green, pluming up from
them. Shiny breastplates protected the chests and guts of the richer soldiers.
Low or lofty, all wore tunics that were black on the right side and yellow on
the left; their leggings reversed the pattern: dark left legs and lemony right
ones. This get-up marked the men as soldiers of Averland, the Imperial province
directly to the north. Angelika rolled her eyes every time she saw these
ludicrous uniforms. They made the men look like oversized and ungainly bees.

The largest number of them swarmed near a vast trench, about two hundred feet
long and fifteen feet deep. Some men were still digging, with spades of iron.
Most now dragged enemy bodies to the edge of the hole, where the diggers poked
at them with their shovels and then rolled them in. It was rare to find an
orcish body that did not dwarf those of the victorious humans. The smallest of
them had to be at least six feet tall; some reached seven or even eight feet. No
matter what their size, their heavy bodies rolled into the pit like the
carcasses of slaughtered cattle. They slid down on top of each other, into an
ignominious heap. Thick arms draped over lolling heads. Muscular legs sprawled
across broken-backed torsos. The orcs already in the pit looked white and
ghostly; several soldiers worked to spade powdered lime from barrels onto them,
coating them with chalky dust. The Averlanders’ thoroughness impressed Angelika.
It was well known that the bodies of slain orcs, if left out in the open to rot,
bred a number of deadly diseases, from brown-water to blood catarrh. Yet the
armies of the Empire rarely took the time to properly dispose of such corpses,
especially when they polluted lands outside their own.

Angelika made her living as a looter of battlefields. In her experience, most
such places were vast expanses of mud, churned up by gruelling engagements that
lasted hours, if not days or weeks. Here, on the other hand, the rich grasses of
spring had scarcely been disturbed. The fight must have been quick. Angelika saw
how the steep mountains on either side of the valley converged to a narrow point, just to the north. Dense stands of
pine lined the canyon walls. It would be easy for the Imperial troops to hide
behind them, wait until the advancing orcs began to bottle up, and then pour down
on them, aided both by surprise and by higher ground. Many of the slain orcs
were scorched, others were cooked through so that flesh hung loosely from bone.
This meant that wizards had been among the ambushers, though there was no sign
of them now. Mighty witch-men had better things to do than shovel out graves for
orcs.

The Averlanders had already borne their own dead over to a large wooden cart,
where they were stacked, wrapped in the burlap tarpaulins the men had carried
them in. A sergeant-at-arms stood by the cart, with pen and parchment, counting
the swords and armour pieces of the fallen. These were expensive items of
property, and in most cases would belong to the dead men’s families. The army
would levy only a small charge to ship them back to their inheritors.

“It is better when the orcs win,” Angelika said.

Her companion, Franziskus, turned his face toward her, to show the exact
scandalised expression she had expected to provoke. He was a young man, with
long curly hair and broad, open, and not entirely unhandsome features. His teeth
were perfect pearls, and his eyes were blue like a summer sky. Angelika wanted
him to just go away. His presence was her punishment for a terrible mistake
she’d made. Nearly six weeks back, just to the south of their present position,
she’d rescued him from a tribe of orcs, but how did the boy repay her for her
foolish altruism? Did he go home to his family? Did he return to his unit? No,
he stuck to her side like a burr to a trouser leg! Never sparing her from his
reproving expression or piercing looks. Tramping after her in his fraying
officer’s coat and finely stitched pantaloons, mottled with faded bloodstains
that—like himself—refused to go away. He’d appointed himself her protector,
without admitting the irony inherent in the declaration. He would accompany her,
fight by her side, repay his debt to her. Or so he kept saying. Though he had,
on a couple of occasions, been somewhat useful, in fact all he did, truth be told, was tag along after her, slow her down, and natter his
tiresome, naive, nobleman’s morality into her ear.