Orcs (16 page)

As Stryke reached for a corpse it proved less dead than he thought, lashing out at him with a wickedly jagged-edged cleaver. He planted his sword on its chest and fell on it with all his weight. The kobold convulsed, gurgled, died. Stryke resumed his ransacking.

He was starting to think it had all been in vain when Alfray cried out.

Everybody stopped and stared. Stryke pushed his way through them. Alfray pointed at a mutilated kobold. The cylinder was looped into the creature’s belt.

Stryke knelt and eagerly disengaged it. He held it up to the light. It looked complete. Unopened.

Haskeer was smirking, gleefully triumphant. “Nobody takes from orcs!”

“Come on!” Stryke hissed.

They poured out of the place and ran to the other hut.

If anything, the gremlin looked in even more of an agitated state. But he couldn’t take his eyes off the cylinder.

“We have to get out of here!” Jup urged.

“What do we do with him?” Haskeer asked, pointing at the quailing gremlin with his sword.

“Yes, Stryke,” Coilla said, “what about him?”

Haskeer had a typically straightforward solution. “I say we kill him and get it over with.”

Alarmed, the gremlin cowered.

For the moment, Stryke was undecided.

“This cylinder is of great significance!” the gremlin suddenly exclaimed. “For orcs! With my knowledge, I can explain it to you.”

“He’s bluffing!” Haskeer reckoned, brandishing his sword menacingly. “Finish it, I say!”

“After all,” the gremlin added tremulously, “that’s why the kobolds kidnapped me.”

“What?” Stryke said.

“To make sense of it for them. That’s why they brought me here.”

Stryke studied the captive’s face, trying to decide whether he was telling the truth. And if it made any difference to them if he was.

“What do we
do
, Stryke?” Coilla demanded impatiently.

He made up his mind. “Bring him. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

13

The Wolverines wasted no time getting away from Black Rock settlement. They dragged the gremlin after them, still bound and at the end of a rope. By the time their rapid route march was over, the aged creature was panting from the effort of keeping pace.

Stryke issued orders to break camp and prepare for a quick exit.

Haskeer was jubilant. “Back to Cairnbarrow, at last. I tell you, Stryke, I didn’t think we were going to do it.”

“Thanks for trusting me,” his commander replied coolly.

The sarcasm was lost on Haskeer. “We’ll be heroes when we turn up with that thing.” He nodded at the cylinder in Stryke’s belt.

“It isn’t over yet,” Alfray warned him. “We have to get there first, and that means crossing a lot of hostile territory.”

“And there’s no telling how Jennesta’s going to react to the delay,” Jup added. “The cylinder and pellucid’s no guarantee we’ll come out of this with our heads.”

“Gloom merchants,” Haskeer sneered.

Stryke thought that was rich coming from him, but decided against pointing it out. After all, this was supposed to be a joyful occasion. He wondered why he didn’t feel that way.

“Shouldn’t we hear what this one has to say?” Coilla said, indicating the gremlin. He sat on a tree stump, exhausted and frightened.

“Yes,” Haskeer agreed, “let’s get it over with or we’ll have another free-loader to drag around with us.”

“Is that what you think of our wounded comrades?” Alfray flared.

Stryke held up his hands to silence them. “That’s enough. I don’t want us standing here bickering when a couple of hundred kobolds come looking for revenge.” He addressed their involuntary guest. “What’s your name?”

“Mmm . . . Mmoo . . .” The elderly gremlin cleared his throat nervously and tried again. “M-M-M . . .
Mobbs
.”

“All right, Mobbs, what was that about the kobolds kidnapping you? And what do you know of this?” He tapped the cylinder.

“You have your life in your hands, gremlin,” Alfray cautioned. “Choose your words with care.”

“I’m just a humble scholar,” Mobbs said, and it sounded like a plea. “I was going about my business north of here, in Hecklowe, when those wretched bandits seized me.” An edge of indignation crept into his voice.

“Why?” Coilla asked. “What did they want from you?”

“I have made languages my life’s work, particularly dead languages. They needed my skills to decipher the contents of the artifact. I believe it to be a message carrier, you see, and —”

“We know that,” Stryke interjected.

“Therefore it is not the cylinder itself that is of interest but rather the knowledge it may contain.”

“Kobolds are stupid,” Alfray stated bluntly. “What use would they have of knowledge?”

“Perhaps they were acting for others. I know not.”

Haskeer scoffed.

But Stryke was intrigued enough that he wanted to hear more. “I’ve a feeling your story isn’t one to be told in a hurry, Mobbs. We’ll get ourselves into the forest and hear the rest. And it better be good.”

“Oh,
come on
, Stryke!” Haskeer protested. “Why waste time when we could be heading for home?”

“Getting ourselves hidden from another kobold attack isn’t wasting time. Do as you’re told.”

Haskeer went off in a sulk.

The camp was cleared, the wounded were made ready to travel, and Mobbs was placed on the horse pulling Meklun’s litter. All traces of their presence erased, the Wolverines made haste for the shelter of Black Rock Forest.

They reached their goal three hours later.

The forest was fully mature. Its towering trees spread a leafy ceiling far overhead, filtering the already weak sunlight, making ground-level shadowy and moist. Crunching on a brittle carpet of brown mulch, they set up a temporary camp. Grunts were assigned to keep their eyes peeled for signs of trouble.

For security, no fires were lit. So their first meal of the day was another austere ration: wedges of dense black bread, solid plugs of cured meat, and water.

Stryke, Coilla, Jup and Haskeer sat with Mobbs. Everybody else gathered around and looked on. Alfray came back from checking the wounded and pushed through the lounging troopers.

“Darig’s not too bad,” he reported, “but Meklun’s fever’s got worse.”

“Do what you can for him,” Stryke said. Then he, and the whole band, turned their attention to Mobbs.

The gremlin had refused food and taken only a little water. Stryke reckoned fear had dulled his appetite. Now their scrutiny was making him even more uncomfortable.

“You’ve nothing to fear from us,” Stryke assured him, “as long as you’re honest. So no more puzzles.” He held up the cylinder. “I want to hear exactly what you know about this thing, and why it’s worth your life.”

“It could be worth
yours
,” Mobbs replied.

Coilla frowned. “How so?”

“That depends on how much you value your heritage, and the destiny denied you.”

“These are empty words, meant to postpone his death,” Haskeer thundered. “Stick ’im, I say.”

“Give him his due,” Jup said.

Haskeer glared at the dwarf. “Trust
you
to take his side.”

“
I’ll
decide if there’s meaning in his words,” Stryke stated. “Make yourself plain, Mobbs.”

“To do that, you need to know something of our land’s history, and I fear history is something we are all losing.”

“Oh yes, tell us a story,” Haskeer mouthed acerbically. “We’ve all the time in the world, after all.”

“Shut up,”
Stryke intoned menacingly.

“I for one know something of Maras-Dantia’s past,” Alfray put in. “What are you trying to say, gremlin?”

“With respect, most of what you think you know, what many of us believe to be so, is only a mishmash of legends and myths. I have devoted myself to understanding the true course of events that led us to the present sorry situation.”

“Humans have brought us to our present state,” Stryke declared.

“Yes. But that was a fairly recent development in historical terms. Before then, life in Maras-Dantia had remained unchanged since time out of mind. Of course there was always enmity between the native races, and ever-shifting alliances often led to conflict. But the land was big enough for all to live in harmony, more or less.”

“Then the humans came,” Coilla said.

“Aye. But how many of you know that there were
two
influxes of that wretched race? And that at first relations between them and the elder races were not hostile?”

Jup looked sceptical. “You jest.”

“It is a fact. The first immigrants to arrive through the Scilantium Desert were individuals and small groups. They were pioneers looking for a new frontier, or fleeing persecution, or simply wanting to make a fresh beginning.”

“
They
were persecuted?” Haskeer exclaimed. “Your tale beggars belief, wrinkled one.”

“I tell you only the truth as I have found it, unpalatable as it may be.” The gremlin sounded as though his pride had been hurt.

“Go on,” Stryke urged.

“Although their ways seemed mysterious to the native population, and still do to most of us, those early incomers were left in peace. A few gained some respect. Hard to believe now, is it not?”

“You can say that again,” Coilla agreed.

“Tiny numbers of the outsiders even bred with members of elder races, producing strange hybrid offspring. But this you know, as I believe you are followers of the fruit of one such union.”

Coilla nodded. “Jennesta.
Followers
isn’t quite the right word.”

Stryke noted the spleen in her voice.

“That comes later in the story,” Mobbs told them, “if you will allow me to return to it.” A vague expression clouded his features. “Now, where was I . . . ?”

“The early incomers,” Alfray prompted.

“Oh yes. As I said, the first wave actually got on with the elder races quite well. At least, they gave more cause for curiosity than concern. The second wave was different. They were more a flood, you might say.” He gave a snorting little laugh at his own witticism. The orcs remained granite-faced. “Er, yes. This second and larger inflow of humans was different. They were land grabbers and despoilers, and at best they saw us as a nuisance. It wasn’t long before they began to fear and hate us.”

“They showed contempt,” Coilla murmured.

“Yes, and no more so than in renaming our land.”

“Centrasia,”
Haskeer spat. He voiced it like an obscenity.

“They treated us like beasts of burden, and set to exploiting Maras-Dantia’s resources. You know about that; it continues to this day, and grows more fevered. The rounding-up of free-roaming animals for their meat and hides, the overgrazing . . .”

“The fouling of rivers,” Coilla added, “the levelling of forests.”

“Putting villages to the torch,” Jup contributed.

“Spreading their foul diseases,” Alfray said.

Haskeer looked particularly aggrieved at the last point.

“Worse,” Mobbs went on, “they ate the magic.”

A stir went through the band, a murmur of agreement at the outrage.

“To we elder races, our powers diminishing, that was a final insult. It sowed the seeds of the wars we have endured ever since.”

“I’ve always been puzzled why the humans don’t use the magic they’ve taken against us,” Jup commented. “Are they too stupid to employ it?”

“I think it possible that they are simply ignorant. Perhaps they are not taking our magic for themselves but wasting it.”

“That’s my feeling.”

“The bleeding of the earth’s magic is bad,” Stryke said, “but their overturning of the natural order of the seasons is much worse.”

“Without doubt,” Mobbs agreed. “In tearing the heart out of the land, the humans interfered with the flow of energies sustaining nature’s balance. Now the ice advances from the north as surely as humans pour in from the south. And all this has happened since your father’s father’s time, Stryke.”

“I never knew my father.”

“No, I know you orcs are raised communally. That isn’t my point. I’m saying all of this has happened to Maras-Dantia in fairly recent times. The coming of the ice has only really begun in my lifetime, for example, and despite what you may think, I am not
that
old.”

Stryke couldn’t help noticing Alfray giving Mobbs a fleeting, sympathetic glance.

“In my time I have seen the purity of the land ravished,” the gremlin recalled. “I have seen the treaties races built smashed and realigned by the Manis and Unis.”

“And the likes of us forced to fight for one of those factions,” Coilla remarked, her depth of resentment apparent.

Mobbs sighed ruefully. “Yes, many noble races, the orcs included, have been reduced to little more than serfdom by the outsiders.”

Coilla’s eyes were blazing. “And suffered their intolerance.”

“The two factions are indeed intolerant of us. But perhaps no more so than they are of each other. I am told that the more zealous of them, particularly among the Unis, regularly burn their own kind at the stake for something they call
heresy
.” He saw their curious expressions. “It is to do with breaking the rules about how their god or gods are to be served, I believe,” he explained. “Elder races have been known to behave in similar ways, mind. The history of the pixie clans, to take one example, is not without persecution and bloodshed.”

“And there’s a race that can’t afford to lose anybody,” Haskeer pronounced, “seeing as how they’re such notorious butt bandits.”

“What with that and their fire-starting abilities,” Jup pitched in, “I don’t know how they’ve survived this long. All that friction . . .”

The band roared with bawdy laughter. Even Haskeer cracked a grin.

Mobbs’s green hide took on a pink hue of embarrassment. He cleared his throat in an attempt at delicacy. “Er, quite.”

Coilla seemed less amused than the rest, and impatient. “All right, we’ve had a history lesson. What about the cylinder?”

“Yes, get to the point, Mobbs,” Stryke said.

“The point, Commander, is that I believe this artifact has its origins long, long before the events we have just discussed. Back to the earliest days of Maras-Dantia, in fact.”