I like orcs, ok? At least when they are done as a race that actually has some hope of surviving. This one took something like four years from the time the first line was written until it was finished. While I am inclined to occasionally revile my perosnal muse as a drunken layabout, there is no question that on the days she actually shows up, she does good work.
Uncle Hyena
Under the Wolf’s Head
The orcs who had managed to take shelter in the woods had little trouble finding each other once the sun had set and they felt safe enough to move. The highest ranked of them– a platoon sergeant named Tagrath– did a fast head count and interrupted his usual torrent of casual profanity to swear sincerely. It didn’t really matter how many of them were dead, of course; it would be all of them, soon enough. But the dung faces who were responsible deserved all of the curses he could throw at them while he was still alive to do it.
There were twenty-seven of them; twenty-seven out of one hundred and fifty-two– all that had managed to survive the ambush and the rout that followed it. They had gathered in a clearing in the center of the small wood without instructions, without any kind of plan, acting on a desire to be with their own kind on what was certain to be their last night. Tagrath wandered through the gathering, considering who was there and what condition they were in. He circled back to the best of the surviving scouts, who was slumped against a tree finishing off the last of his rations. Tagrath tapped him on the shoulder.
“Whitescar! Pick another worm and run the perimeter of this place– find out what the back stabbers have where, and particularly where their commander is, and if he’s flying the Wolf’s Head. Then get back here.”
Whitescar looked up with disinterest. “Bugger off, Taggy. I’m a civilian.”
Tagrath grabbed the smaller orc by the collar and hauled him to his feet with one hand; he used the other hand to press the point of a dagger against the scout’s throat. “Dead civilian or live soldier, Maggot?”
“Soldier, Sergeant,” Whitescar squeaked, and Tagrath dropped him; the smaller orc scuttled away on his mission before Tagrath could encourage him with a kick.
The other orcs saw the exchange, and realized that Tagrath was trying to restore military discipline. They weren’t sure how to react to that; the Wolf’s Head Company was dead, and no amount of play acting on Taggy’s part was going to bring it back. On the other hand, just about anything was better than sitting and feeling sorry for themselves. Tagrath noticed the eyes on him, smiled, then took out his dagger and began to sharpen it. A few minutes later Whitescar returned and gave him the information he wanted.
“Listen up, Maggots!” he growled. “Anybody have any plans past noon tomorrow?” No one responded. “Just so there’s no confusion– we’re all dead. No one’s going to get through the cordon tonight, and there are going to be archers all around before the sun comes up tomorrow, and they’re going to set fire to this place, and we’re all going to turn into orc cutlets, and there won’t even be any officers around to eat ’em. Got it?”
There were grumbles all around; no one argued, but no one particularly wanted to agree. Tagrath waited until most of the murmurs had stopped. “I figure we have one other choice, one they haven’t figured on. We’re gonna die anyway, so why not go out in style?” Tagrath paused again, sweeping his eyes through the gathering to make sure they were with him.
“We stay here, we die like rats. We try to sneak out, we die like rats. We try to run, we die like rats.” He paused again; he had them now. “But if we take back the Wolf’s Head, and die defending it… We die like soldiers. And I’m willing to bet we can take enough of them with us to make sure they never forget the Wolf’s Head Company. Who’s in?”
There were no dissenters; Tagrath hadn’t expected any. He drew his sword and started to sketch a map into the dirt. “All right… Here’s the valley where they ambushed us yesterday, and here’s this wood. About half of the bastards are out in the plain, east of here, making sure we don’t head for open country. About half of what’s left is here to the west, making sure we don’t go back the way we came; the commander figures that’s the way we’re least likely to go– the safe passage he ignored doesn’t apply at all if we go that way– so that’s where he is, flying our standard as a trophy. The rest of ’em are along the cliffs, here and here, so we can’t sneak out that way. Everybody with me so far?
“All right then, boys, here’s what we’re gonna do…”
_____
The humans rose before dawn, intent on being in position as soon as there was enough light to shoot. The units were still forming, getting ready to receive orders, when a group of orcs broke out of the east side of the woods. There was a brief skirmish, and then the orcs began to withdraw. The human assemblies started to break up; the soldiers didn’t need orders to kill orcs who were already in their camp. The orcish sortie looked likely to be cut off short of the woods, but a volley of orcish arrows opened a path, and the surviving sortie members turned and ran. And the humans followed them.
The orcs charged down the path through the center of the woods, leaping cleanly over piles of debris that tripped and confused the humans, causing them to bunch into an ever larger pack. The orcs were nearly to the west side of the wood when a huge deadfall crashed down behind them, killing many of the fastest humans and blocking the trail. Another deadfall smashed into place behind the human hunters– and those who had not been crushed realized that they had been penned in, and the woods were beginning to burn.
Many of the humans billeted on the west side of the camp had rushed east at the sounds of battle, and a single volley of a dozen orcish arrows was enough to clear the way to the Wolf’s Head standard. The human commander (who was above such minor tactical concerns) was still finishing his breakfast; Tagrath cut the man’s throat with an expert flick of his sword: deep enough to sever the relevant blood vessels, not so deep as to risk getting entangled in the man’s spine.
Tagrath hurled his shield into the face of an approaching human, wrapped his left arm around the staff of the standard, and grinned. “Time to die, boys,” he shouted. “Make them pay for it!”
_____
Tagrath pulled his sword out of a fallen enemy and realized there was no one within reach of his blade. Dawn was only moments away, and he was surrounded by archers who were well out of his reach. He grinned again, and did his best to stand up straight. His sword was in his left hand; a wound in his right side had taken most of the strength from his right leg, and he was leaning on the flag staff with his right hand, using it as a crutch. He saw the archers relax, and wondered what that meant– and wondered if he could rush and kill one more of them before he died.
“Sergeant!” a voice bellowed; Tagrath turned to face the speaker, a human captain. “What is your name, Sergeant?”
“Tagrath.”
“I command here, since you settled the colonel. I am prepared to accept your surrender.”
Tagrath laughed and coughed up blood. “I don’t think so.”
“As you wish.” The captain started to turn away, then hesitated. “I want you to know this was not my idea– to violate your safe passage.”
Tagrath grinned. “Doesn’t bring my boys back– or yours.” Tagrath pulled himself closer to the flag staff; it was becoming difficult to stand. “Colonel Wormfood wanted to go on an orc hunt, and figured no one would care?” The captain nodded; Tagrath shrugged as well as he could. “Not the first time.” He grinned again and coughed up more blood. “First time for me, though.”
The captain held out his hand. “Forget surrendering, Sergeant– but if you will give me your standard, I will see that it does not fall.” Tagrath stood his sword in the ground, then used both hands on the flagstaff to push himself upright; the captain gripped the staff firmly. “Do you want a grace stroke, Sergeant?”
Tagrath grinned a last time. “I don’t think so.” He stood to attention and drew his dagger, saluted the captain with dagger in hand, and cut his own throat as cleanly he had cut the colonel’s.
The captain gathered his officers around him. “We’ll dig a pit and bury them all right here– ours and theirs.”
“You’re going to bury the orcs, sir?”
“What did I say?”
“But they’re orcs…”
“They were soldiers, and damn good ones. And another thing– no souvenirs. I want the orcs buried with their gear and their bodies intact.”
“But sir…”
“Intact. No one takes swords or daggers or shields or bows; no one takes fingers or ears or scrotums. Intact.”
“Sir, the men…”
“Any man who loots an orc body will lose a hand, and any man who desecrates an orc body will be killed.”
“Yes, sir.”
_____
When the humans marched off the next morning, there was a burial mound at the spot where Tagrath had died; the standard of the Wolf’s Head company flew at its peak. Impaled at the top of the flag staff was the head of a certain arrogant human colonel; the same man’s breastplate was tied to the base of the staff, and these words were engraved into the metal:
“At this place Sergeant Tagrath and the last remnants of the Wolf’s Head Company killed four times their number and carried their standard into Vahalla. May it never fall.”
Paul Haynie
November 1995