Orcs (55 page)

They fell silent as she addressed them. “We are close to defeating the merz entirely,” she announced. “Only two or three nests of the vermin remain to be cleared. It is my command . . .” She paused and corrected herself for the sake of tiresome nyadd politics. “It is my wish that this be achieved before summer is out. Or what passes for the season these days. I don’t have to tell you that the
real
cold of winter will mean another year’s delay. That isn’t tolerable. It gives the enemy a chance to regroup, to . . .
breed
.” An expression of disgust passed across her face. “Do any of you see a problem with that?” Her tone didn’t exactly invite dissent.

She scanned their sombre, and in most cases compliant, faces. Then a bolder-than-normal swarm commander raised a webbed hand.

“Yes?” she asked imperiously.

“If it pleases Your Majesty,” the officer replied, his voice edged with timorousness, “there are logistic difficulties. The remaining merz colonies are the hardest to get to, and they’re bound to be better defended now that our intentions are clear.”

“Your point?”

“There are bound to be casualties, Majesty.”

“I repeat: your point?”

“Majesty, we—”

“You think I’m concerned with the fact that a few lives may be lost? Even
many
lives? The realm is more important than any individual, as the swarm is more important than a single member. You, Commander, would do well to —”

Adpar stopped abruptly. A hand went to her head. She swayed.

“Majesty?” a nearby minion inquired.

Pain was coursing through her. It felt as though her heart was pumping fire and searing her veins.

“Majesty, are you all right?” the official asked again.

Agony clasped her chest. She thought she might faint. The thought of such a display of weakness gave her a little strength.

Her eyes had been closed. She hadn’t realised. Several officials and a clutch of commanders were hovering around her.

“Would you like us to summon the healers, Majesty?” one of them asked anxiously.

“Healers? Healers? What need have
I
of their kind? You think me in need of their attentions?”

“Er, no, Majesty,” the awed speaker replied. “Not if you say so, Majesty.”

“I
say
so! Your impertinence in bringing up the subject means this meeting is at an end.” She had to get away from them, and could only hope they didn’t see through her flimsy excuses and haste. “I’m retiring to my private chambers. We’ll discuss military matters again later.”

All bowed as she left. None dared offer to help her. They exchanged alarmed looks as she slithered into the tunnel leading to her quarters.

Once she was out of sight, Adpar began gulping air. She leaned over, cupped her hands in water and splashed her face with it. The pain was worse. It rushed from her stomach to her throat. She retched blood.

For the first time in her life she felt afraid.

17

Alfray and his group were near enough to Drogan that they could see the trees fringing Calyparr Inlet. They were no more than a couple of hours away.

The weather grew ever more unpredictable. As opposed to yesterday, for instance, today had been sunny and noticeably warmer. Many suspected that the varying strength of magic created pockets of good and bad weather. Alfray was sure this was true. But one drawback of more clement weather was that it brought the fairies out. They mostly irritated the band, and led to much slapping of flesh, though some preferred snacking on them.

Alfray and Kestix were discussing the relative merits of other warbands and their place in the league table every orc kept in his head. The conversation was interrupted by the sighting of two riders coming in from the east. They were dots at first, but riding all-out. Soon they were near enough to be seen properly.

“They’re orcs, Corporal,” Kestix said.

Nearer still, they were identified as Jad and Hystykk.

By the time they drew up, Alfray was alarmed. “What’s happened?” he asked. “Where are the others?”

“Take it easy, Corporal, everything’s OK,” Hystykk assured him. “The others are following. We’ve got news.”

As it was an agreeable day, Jennesta decided to intimidate her general in the open air.

They were in a palace courtyard, with one of the citadel’s massive walls towering over them. There was nothing as frivolous as a seat. All that broke the drab aspect was a large open-topped water butt. Its prosaic function was to feed horse troughs.

Mersadion stood in the wall’s shadow. The queen faced him ten paces away. All things considered, he thought it incongruous that she should be the one in sunlight.

Jennesta was in full flow, berating him for his perceived shortcomings.

“. . . and still no word from those wretched bounty hunters or any of the many other agents you’ve sent out at the expense of my coffers.”

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“And now, when I tell you I want to take a hand in events myself and ask you to muster a modest army, what do you do? You give me excuses.”

“Not so much excuses, my lady, with all due respect. But ten thousand is hardly
modest
, and —”

“Are you telling me I don’t have even that trifling number of followers and bonded orcs?” She fixed him with a withering stare. “Are you saying that my popularity among the lower orders is insufficient to raise a meagre ten thousand willing to die for my cause?”

“Of
course
not, Majesty! It isn’t a question of loyalty but logistics. We can build the army you need, only not as quickly as you’ve decreed. We are, after all, stretched on several fronts at the moment and . . .”

His defence trailed off when he saw what she was doing.

Jennesta was silently mouthing something, and weaving an intricate conjuration with her hands. Eventually she cupped them, three or four inches apart. As he watched, spellbound, a small swirling cloud formed between her palms. It looked like a miniature cyclone. She stared at it intently. Tiny streaks of yellow and white began rippling through the darkening mist, like diminutive lightning bolts. The little cloud, still twisting and flashing, slowly moulded itself into a perfectly round form, about the size of an apple.

It started to glow. Soon it shined brighter than any lamp, giving off a brilliance it was difficult to look at. Yet it was so beautiful that Mersadion couldn’t tear his eyes away. Then he remembered the spell she had cast on a battlefield not long ago. It began in a similar way to this and ended with countless numbers of the enemy rendered sightless for the slaughter. A cold chill tickled his spine. He sent a silent prayer to the gods, begging their grace.

She removed one hand and laid flat the palm of the other, so that the radiant ball balanced on it just above the skin. Mersadion’s fear didn’t lessen, but he remained transfixed.

Jennesta slowly raised her hand until the radiant sphere was level with her face. Then, looking almost coquettish, she puffed her cheeks and blew at it. Very gently, like a maiden with a dandelion clock.

The little ball, dazzling as a minute sun, sailed from her palm. It drifted in Mersadion’s direction. His muscles tensed. When the sphere had almost reached him, and apparently following the Queen’s hand movements, it veered to one side and headed for the wall. Mersadion’s gaze followed as it floated into the brickwork.

There was a blinding flash of light and a detonation like a thunderclap. The force of displaced air buffeted Mersadion and breezed Jennesta’s gown.

He cried out.

A black scorch mark scarred the wall. A sulphurous odour hung in the air.

Mersadion looked at her, slack-jawed. She held another glowing ball.

“You were saying?” she asked, as though she really expected a recap. “Something about not being willing to carry out a straightforward order, wasn’t it?”

“I am more than
willing
to carry out your orders, ma’am,” he babbled. “This is simply a case of numbers, of —”

This time she seemed to flick the ball, and it moved with greater speed.

It struck the wall a couple of feet above his head with another deafening bang. He flinched. Small bits of stone and flakes of masonry showered his quivering head.

“You’re offering me excuses again, General,” she chided, “when what I want are solutions.”

As though having started the process made it easier for her, yet another ball appeared on her palm, fully formed and pulsing. With a girlish laugh she tossed it like a child’s toy.

It flew his way, looking as though it would hit him this time. But the trajectory was finely judged, and as he pressed his back to the wall the sphere went past.

The ball collided with the water butt. Though it wasn’t really a collision. The orb touched the wood of the barrel and was
absorbed
by it. Instantly, the water bubbled and boiled. Steam rose from the butt’s open top and sprayed from between its higher metal hasps.

Badly shaken, Mersadion looked back at Jennesta. She hadn’t produced another sphere so he started talking, fast. “Of course, Majesty, anything you will is possible and can be undertaken immediately. I’m sure we can overcome any minor obstacles in the path of gathering an army.”

“Good, General. I knew you’d see sense.” Her point made, she dusted her hands by slapping them lightly together, as though giving him a round of slow applause. “One other thing,” she added.

All the tension seeped back into Mersadion’s body. “Ma’am?”

“A question of discipline. You must be aware that this Stryke and his warband are taking on the mantle of heroes for certain sections of the army.”

“Unfortunately that’s true, Majesty. Though it’s by no means widespread.”

“Be sure it doesn’t become so. If a thing like that takes hold it can fester. What are you doing to counter it?”

“We’re making widely known your version . . . er, the
truth
, that is, of how the Wolverines went renegade. Members of the lower ranks heard defending the actions of the outlaws are subject to a flogging.”

“Make that all ranks, and punish them for
any
mention of Stryke and his band. I want their names stamped out. As to flogging, it’s too lenient. Execution should be the price. Burn a few troublemakers as an example and you’ll soon see an end to sedition.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Whatever doubts he might have had about the effectiveness of a strategy like that he kept to himself.

“Attention to detail, Mersadion. It’s what keeps the realm functioning.”

Eager to ingratiate himself, he replied, “Ah, the secret of your success, my lady.”

“No, General. The secret of my success is brutality.”

For the better part of two days, Stryke, Coilla, Haskeer, Jup and the grunts travelled uneventfully. They stopped as infrequently as possible and made the best time they could.

By the afternoon of the second day they were bone tired. But they could see a line of trees that marked the inlet, and far to the right, the edge of Drogan Forest.

As shadows were lengthening, the rear lookouts saw four horsemen coming at them from the east. There was no cover for miles and it seemed reasonable to assume they weren’t part of a larger group.

“Trouble, you think?” Jup wondered.

“If it is I reckon we can handle four, don’t you?” Stryke told him. He slowed the column to a trot.

A few minutes passed and Haskeer said, “They’re orcs.”

Stryke took a look for himself. “You’re right.”

“Doesn’t mean to say they’re friendly,” Coilla reminded them.

“No. But like I said, they’re only four.”

In due course the quartet of riders arrived. The foremost threw up his arm in greeting. “Well met!”

“Well met,” Stryke replied cautiously. “What’s your business?”

The leading orc stared. “You’re him, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“Stryke. We’ve never met, Captain, but I’ve seen you once or twice.” He scanned the others. “And these are Wolverines?”

“Yes, I’m Stryke. Who are you and what do you want?”

“Corporal Trispeer, sir.” He nodded at his companions. “Troopers Pravod, Kaed and Rellep.”

“You with a warband?”

“No. We were infantry in Queen Jennesta’s horde.”

“Were?” Jup picked up.

“We’ve . . . left.”

“Nobody leaves Jennesta’s service unless it’s feet first,” Coilla said. “Or has she started a retirement scheme?”

“We’ve gone AWOL, Corporal. Same as your band.”

“Why?” Stryke wanted to know.

“I’m surprised at you asking, Captain. We’ve had enough of Jennesta, pure and simple. Her injustice, her cruelty. Orcs’ll fight, you know that, and we’ll do it without grumbling. But she’s pushing us too far.”

The trooper called Kaed added, “Lot of us don’t feel comfortable fighting for humans neither, begging your pardon, sir.”

“And we’re not the only ones to vote with our feet,” Trispeer went on. “Granted it’s just a few so far, but we reckon it’ll grow.”

“You were looking for us?” Jup said.

“No, Sergeant. Well, not exactly. Once we deserted we had hoped to find you but didn’t know where to look. Fact is we’ve just come from Hecklowe. Heard about the uproar there and figured it sounded like your band. Somebody told us you’d been seen riding west, so . . .”

“Why do you say you’d hoped to find us?” Stryke asked.

“Your band’s been officially named renegades. There’s a bounty on your heads. Big one.”

“We know that.”

“You’re being slandered by everybody from Jennesta down. They say you’re common outlaws, that you kill your own kind, and that you’ve stolen some kind of treasure belonging to the queen.”

Stryke’s face clouded. “I’m not surprised. What’s your point?”

“Well, some of us reckon we’re not being told the truth. You’ve always had a good reputation, Captain, and we know the way the queen and her lackeys lie about those who’ve fallen out of favour.”

“For what it’s worth,” Coilla informed him, “they are lying about us.”

“I knew it.” He turned and nodded at his companions. They nodded and smiled back. He went on, “So we reckoned you might be able to use us.”