01 - Honour of the Grave Read Online Free Page B

saw someone being carried
off to an awful fate, she would act true to her beliefs, and leave him to his
destiny. She made a point of feeling the hardness of the axle as it dug into her
spine; she would recall this sensation when next she got an imbecilic temptation
to do otherwise.
    She thought about possible escape routes. Both the brushy inclines on either
side of the pass would be good ways to get out, so long as they remained free of
orcs.
    The cart stayed stopped. Perhaps this was its final destination.
    She heard something to the left, and strained to see it, through
wheel-spokes. Four orcish pallbearers carried a wooden pallet past the cart’s
far side. Angelika could not fully see the honoured corpse they bore, but he was
at least as big an orc as the one she’d seen atop the cart, lording it over
Franziskus’ sack.
    The pallbearers halted when they reached the front of the cart, and Angelika
saw the pallet being hauled up onto it. It looked for a moment as if the corpse
would fall off, but then she saw it was bound to the pallet with knotted lengths
of cloth.
    Angelika sifted her memory for what little she knew of orcs and their ways.
The big dead orc must be the previous leader, killed in the battle. The big live
orc must be taking over. The ceremony in which Franziskus was about to be
sacrificed was to celebrate the live one’s ascendance, or to mourn the dead
one’s loss, or both.
    There was a thumping up top, and the planks of the cart rattled and vibrated
just inches from the top of Angelika’s head. She could tell that all of the
hopping up and down was taking place near the cart’s forward edge. She heard the
exultant howling of an army of gore-mad orcs. Horns blew and the throng silenced
itself somewhat. A deep, bellowing voice boomed out over them.
    This would be it. That would be the big orc giving its speech. Things were
reaching a head. It was time to go. She dropped down from the axle and back
under the cart, pointing herself towards the trail she’d come from. Then, up by
the front-most wheel, she saw it: the dangling drawstring. It bob-bled up and
down, so she knew the boy was still inside the bag. He would be right within
reach. She edged forward, towards it. She reached, stretching her fingers out,
nearly brushing the drawstring with their tips. Then she pulled them back. What
was she thinking? You couldn’t stop at a time like this. Pulling on the
drawstring would accomplish nothing anyway. She’d have to reveal herself to the
orcs to get up on top, then get him out of the bag, then… There was no chance.
She bolted from under the cart back towards the trail, her head swivelling to
see if any orcs spotted her.
    She made it to the start of the incline, then scrabbled upwards, grabbing
dirt and rocks as handholds, then got up to the line of bushy trees, and dove
for the ground behind them. She flattened herself to the earth and thanked the
nonexistent gods for her good fortune. She poked her head up watchfully.
    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