Orcs (27 page)

Neither spoke nor smiled, contenting themselves with small and perfunctory tilts of the head.

Delorran and Mersadion eyed the trio uneasily.

“They have very special talents to employ on my behalf,” Jennesta explained. “But more of that later.” The parchment Delorran had brought back lay in front of her. She tapped it with one of her unfeasibly long fingernails. “Thanks to Captain Delorran, who has just returned from a vitally important mission, we know that my property has been violated. Regrettably, the Captain’s efforts did not extend to returning the object itself, or to bringing the thieves to justice.”

Apprehensively, Delorran made a tiny throat-clearing sound. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but on that score at least the Wolverines received their just deserts. They were all lost, as I reported.”

“You saw them die?”

“Not . . . as such, Your Majesty. But when I last saw them they had no hope of escape. Their deaths were certain.”

“Not as certain as you think, Captain.”

Delorran gaped at her. “Ma’am?”

“Reports of their deaths were somewhat exaggerated, shall we say.”

“They survived the battlefield?”

“They did.”

“But—”

“How do I know? Because they were pursued by a dragon patrol after crossing the battlefield, and lived through their attack, too.”

“Your Majesty, I—”

“You would have been well advised to stay a little longer and confirm the Wolverines’ destruction, rather than assuming it, would you not, Captain?” Her tone was more chiding than angry, as though she addressed an errant child.

“Yes, Majesty,” he replied meekly.

“You’ve heard of General Kysthan’s . . . demise.” Delorran looked uncomfortable. “He has paid the price of your failure.”

The Captain had no time to reply before Jennesta snapped her fingers. Elf servants began moving among them, dispensing goblets of wine from silver trays. One was handed to Jennesta with a bow.

“A toast,” she said, raising her glass. “To the return of that which is mine, and the confounding of my enemies.”

She drank and they all followed suit.

“Which does not mean that there’s no price for you to pay as well, Captain,” she added.

Delorran did not immediately get Jennesta’s meaning and stared at her in puzzlement. Then the import of her words began to soak in. He looked to the goblet he held, the colour draining from his face.

The glass slipped from his fingers and broke. His jaw dropped and he brought a hand to his throat. “You . . .
bitch
,” he croaked. He rose clumsily, knocking over his chair.

Jennesta sat impassively, watching him.

Delorran staggered a step or two in her direction, and his shaking hand went to his sword.

She didn’t move.

He couldn’t co-ordinate himself sufficiently to draw the blade, and was sweating freely now, his face contorted with building agony. A rasping, rattling sound came from his throat and he began choking. Then he buckled and went down. He fell into a jolting, foaming-mouthed fit, spasms running through his body. A trickle of blood seeped from his mouth. His back arched, his legs kicked convulsively. He was still.

Death stamped a dreadful expression on his face.

“Why waste precious magic?” Jennesta asked the silent company. “Anyway, I wanted to test that particular potion.”

Sapphire the cat appeared and slunk over to the pool of spilt wine. She would have lapped at it if Jennesta hadn’t laughingly shooed her away.

The Queen looked up. The three humans were regarding their own half-finished drinks with concern. It rekindled her laughter.

“Don’t worry,” she reassured them. “I’ve no need to bring in people specially in order to poison them. And you can stop looking at me that way, Mersadion. I would hardly have gone to the trouble of promoting you only to consign you to your grave. Not so soon, anyway.”

It could have been a joke.

She stepped over the corpse and went to sit nearer them. “Enough of pleasure, now to business. I said that Lekmann and his company have special skills, General. Their particular ability is finding outlaws.”

“They’re bounty hunters, you mean?”

Lekmann answered. “It’s what some call us. We prefer to think of ourselves as freelance law enforcers.”

Jennesta laughed again. “As good a description as any. But don’t be modest, Lekmann. Tell the General your speciality.”

Lekmann nodded at Greever Aulay. Aulay produced a sack and dumped it on the table.

“Our business is hunting orcs,” Lekmann said.

Aulay upended the sack. Five or six round yellowy-brown objects bounced across the surface. Mersadion stared at them. Then what they were slowly dawned on him. Shrunken orc heads. An appalled expression crossed his face.

Lekmann gave one of his oily grins. “We only deal in renegades, you understand.”

“I do hope you’re not going to allow any kind of prejudice to colour our dealings with these agents, General,” Jennesta remarked. “I expect you to give them the fullest co-operation in their work.”

Ambition battled with disgust in Mersadion’s features. He began to pull himself together. “What exactly
is
this work, Your Majesty?” he asked.

“The hunting of the Wolverines, of course, and the recovery of my property. Not instead of the efforts you’re making, but in addition to them. I judged the time right to bring in professionals seasoned in this kind of task.”

Mersadion turned to Lekmann. “There are just the three of you? Or do you have . . . helpers?”

“We can call on others if need be, but usually we work alone. We find it best that way.”

“Where does your allegiance lie?”

“With ourselves.” He glanced at Jennesta. “And whoever’s paying us.”

“They follow neither the Mani nor Uni path,” Jennesta said. “They’re irreligious, and simple opportunists. Is that not so, Lekmann?”

The bounty hunter smirked and nodded. Although whether he had any idea what
opportunists
meant, let alone
irreligious,
was a moot point.

“Which makes them ideal for my purposes,” the Queen continued, “unlikely as they are to be swayed by anything other than the reward. Which would be substantial enough to ensure their loyalty.”

Mersadion had put aside any scruples. “How are we to proceed, ma’am?”

“We know that the last sightings of the Wolverines had them moving in the direction of Trinity. You’ll agree that’s an odd destination. Unless, as Delorran believed, they’ve turned traitor and joined the Unis. I find that hard to credit. But if they really are in Trinity, for whatever reason, our friends here are obviously best suited to following them there.”

“What are your orders?” Lekmann enquired.

“The cylinder has absolute priority. If you can slay the band that stole it, their leader in particular, all the better. But not at the expense of gaining that artifact. Employ any methods you see fit.”

“You can rely on us. Er, Your Majesty,” he tacked on, remembering the protocol.

“I hope so. For your sakes.” Her face and voice took on a distinctly chilly aspect. “For should you think of double-dealing, know that my wrath is limitless.” They all glanced at the body on the floor. “You’ll also learn that no other will pay you as handsomely for the return of what I seek.” Her smile returned. It was possible to mistake it for warm. “I would leave no stone unturned in the search for this renegade band, so I intend following tradition.”

She beckoned a pair of her orc bodyguards. They moved forward and dragged Delorran’s body to a small side door.

Jennesta turned to a servant. “Let them in.”

The servant went to the dining room’s large twin doors and opened them. Two elf elders entered and bowed low.

“I have a proclamation for you,” Jennesta told them. “Spread these words throughout the realm, and send runners to all parts where such information will be of value.” She waved a hand at the servant by the door. “Proceed.”

The servant unrolled a parchment and began reading in the characteristically piping elfin lilt. “ ‘Be it known that by order of Her Imperial Highness Queen Jennesta of Cairnbarrow that the orc warband attached to Her Majesty’s horde, and known as the Wolverines, are henceforth to be regarded as renegades and outlaws, and are no longer afforded the protection of this realm. Be it further known that a bounty of such precious coin, pellucid or land as may be appropriate will be paid upon production of the heads of the band’s officers. To wit, Captain Stryke, sergeants Haskeer and the dwarf Jup, corporals Alfray and Coilla. Furthermore, a reward proportionate to their rank shall be paid for the return, dead or alive, of the band’s common troopers, answering to the names Bhose, Breggin, Calthmon, Darig, Eldo, Finje, Gant, Gleadeg, Hystykk, Jad, Kestix, Liffin, Meklun, Nep, Noskaa, Orbon, Prooq, Reafdaw, Seafe, Slettal, Talag, Toche, Vobe, Wrelbyd and Zoda. Be it known that any harbouring said outlaws will be subject to full penalties as laid down by law. By order of Her Majesty Queen Jennesta. All hail the highborn monarch.’ ”

The servant rolled the parchment and handed it to one of the elders.

“Now go and issue it,” Jennesta ordered.

The elders backed out, bowing.

The Queen rose, causing the others to scramble to their feet. She fixed the bounty hunters with a searching gaze. “You’d best be on your way if you want to beat the opposition,” she said. With a smile, she added, “Let’s see the Wolverines find sanctuary now.”

Then she turned her back on them and swept from the chamber.

21

Jup gently mopped Haskeer’s brow with a damp cloth.

From outside the field tent, Stryke, Alfray and a handful of grunts watched the scene with something like amazement.

Incredulous, Alfray slowly shook his head. “Now I’ve seen everything.”

“Just goes to show there’s nothing as queer as species,” Stryke said.

They went about their business, shooing the troopers away in the process.

Haskeer started to come round. Blinking as though the light was painful for his eyes, he mumbled something incomprehensible. Whether he realised it was Jup tending him, the dwarf wasn’t sure. He rinsed the cloth and reapplied it.

“What . . . the . . . fu —”
Haskeer slurred.

“That’s right,” Jup told him cheerfully. “You’ll soon be back to your old self.”

“Er?”

The befuddlement on Haskeer’s face could have been due to his groggy state or finding the dwarf looming over him. Either way, Jup took no notice of it.

“A lot’s happened while you’ve been out of your head,” Jup stated, “so I thought I’d fill you in.”

“Wha —?”

“I don’t care whether you understand me or not, you bastard, I’m going to go through it anyway.”

He proceeded to bring the semicomatose orc up to date on developments, heedless of the patient’s apparent lack of comprehension. But about two-thirds of the way through his story Haskeer’s eyes drifted shut again and he immediately began snoring loudly.

Jup got to his feet. “Don’t think you’re getting off that easy,” he promised. “I’ll be back.”

He crept out of the tent.

There was dilute sunshine outside. The tinkling drone of fairy swarms could be heard in the distance. He surveyed the landscape. The tracts of land abutting Calyparr Inlet were marshy and inhospitable. They had set up camp on as dry a patch as they could find, but it was still sodden underfoot and pretty miserable.

The band were spread around gathering firewood, grubbing for food and carrying out other mundane but necessary tasks.

Alfray and Coilla wandered over.

“How is he?” Alfray asked.

“Came round for a minute or two.” Jup smiled. “I think my telling of what’s been going on put him out again. He seemed kind of muddled.”

“That’s not unusual with some of these human maladies. He should be all right in a while. What surprises me is why you’re being so nice to him.”

“Never had anything against him, the way he thinks he does against me. And when all’s said and done, he’s a comrade.”

“Anybody can look pathetic when they’re that ill,” Coilla reminded him. “Don’t go too soft on the awkward bugger.”

“Not much danger of that.”

Alfray took a deep breath. “You know, it’s colder than it should be, and I’ve been in drier places, but it’s not so bad here. This little bit of land in this tiny slice of time is just about the way things must have been in Maras-Dantia before the troubles. If you kind of squint your eyes and use your imagination, that is.”

Coilla was about to have her say on that when they were interrupted by shouts from a nearby glade. They were more raucous than alarming but the officers set off to investigate anyway. As they walked, Stryke joined them.

They were met by a running grunt.

“What’s up, Prooq?” Stryke said.

“Bit of bother, sir.”

“What kind?”

“Well . . . best come and see, sir.”

They went a little further and found the rest of the grunts hanging around near the mouth of the glade. A small group of figures were parading themselves in front of them.

“Oh no,” Alfray sighed. “Bloody pests!”

“What is it?” Jup wanted to know.

“Wood nymphs.”

“And a succubus or two by the looks of it,” Stryke added.

The voluptuous females were dressed in gowns of rustic colours, provocatively low-cut to display maximum cleavage and slashed to the waist, revealing shapely limbs. They cavorted, swung about their autumnal-coloured hair and struck exaggeratedly seductive poses. A keening, wailing, unmelodious screech filled the air.

“What the
hell
is that racket?” Jup said.

“Their siren song,” Alfray explained. “It’s supposed to be alluring and impossible to resist.”

“Not all it’s cracked up to be, is it?”

“They’re said to be mistresses of deception.”

“They’re only deceiving themselves,” Coilla put in grumpily. “They look like well-worn strumpets to me.”

The nymphs continued adopting crude postures, and were now adding even cruder language to their wailing. Some of the grunts were obviously tempted.

“Look at them!” Coilla seethed. “I expected better of this band than it should be controlled by a swelling of their fertilising sacs!”