Orcs (62 page)

Mersadion was staring at her, a look of alarm on his face. “Are you . . . all right, Majesty?” he ventured.

She blinked at him, uncomprehending for a moment, then gathered herself. “All right? Yes, I’m all right. In fact I’ve rarely felt better. I’ve had some news.”

He couldn’t see how she could have. She had simply stopped mid flow and looked set to faint. No messenger had arrived, no notes had been passed into the tent. He snapped out of gaping at her and said, “Good news, I trust.”

“Indeed. A cause for rejoicing. In more ways than one.” Her somewhat dreamy, detached manner melted away. In a determined tone nearer the style he was used to, she snapped, “Bring me a map of the western region.”

“Ma’am.” He hurried to comply.

They laid the map on the table and she circled one of her bizarrely long fingernails around an area embracing Drogan and Scarrock Marsh. “There,” she announced.

He was puzzled, again. “There . . .
what
, Majesty?”

“The Wolverines. They’re to be found in this vicinity.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but how do you know that?”

She smiled. It was triumphant and cold. “You’ll just have to take my word for it, General. But that’s where they are. Or at least one of them—their leader, Stryke. We’re moving as soon as you can organise the army. Which is to say in no more than two hours.”

“Two hours is very tight, Majesty, for a force of this size.”

“Don’t
argue
with me, Mersadion,” she seethed. “Timing is vital. This is the first solid lead we’ve had to that damned warband’s whereabouts. I’m not throwing it away because of your sloth. Now get out there and set things in train!”

“Majesty!” He made for the tent flap.

“And send Glozellan in right away,” she added.

The Dragon Dam appeared a few minutes later. Without preamble, Jennesta beckoned her to the map. “I have intelligence that the Wolverines are here somewhere. You’ll take a squadron of dragons and go ahead of the army. Scan the area for them. But
don’t
attack unless you absolutely have to. Corner them if you must, but I want them intact when we get there.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Well, don’t just stand there! Move yourself!”

The haughty brownie gave a tiny bow and slipped from the tent.

Jennesta began gathering what she needed for the journey. For the first time in weeks she felt positive about the turn of events. And she was rid of Adpar, which came like a great weight lifted.

Then it seemed to her that the air in the tent grew somehow more . . . pliable. And the light was dimming, despite the lamps. She thought it must be the return of what she had undergone earlier, and wondered what else the cosmos might have to convey.

But she was wrong. In almost total and unaccountable darkness now, she saw a pinprick of light wink into existence a couple of feet away. It was quickly joined by scores of others. They swirled and took on a more robust form. Jennesta made ready to defend herself against an attack of sorcery.

A blotch of pulsing light hovered in the air. It coalesced and became something she could recognise. A face.

“Sanara!” she exclaimed. “How the hell did you do that?”

“
It seems my abilities have grown stronger
,” her surviving sibling explained.
“But that isn’t the point
.”

“What is?”

“Your wickedness.”

“Oh. You too, eh?”

“How could you do it, Jennesta? How could you subject our sister to such a fate?”

“You always thought her as . . .” she struggled for a word “. . . as
reprehensible
as me! Why change your tune now?”

“I never thought her beyond redemption. I didn’t wish her death.”

“Of course, you’re assuming I had anything to do with it.”

“Oh, come on, Jennesta.”

“Well, what if I did?” she replied defensively. “She deserved it.”

“What you’ve done is not only evil, it adds complexity to a situation already fraught with uncertainty.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“This game you’re playing, with the relics. The bid for even greater destructive power. There are other players now, sister, and their abilities may well outstrip your own.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“Repent. While there is still time.”

“Answer me, Sanara! Don’t palm me off with platitudes! Who have I to fear?”

“In the end, only yourself.”

“Tell me!”

“They say that when the barbarians are at the gate, civilisation is as good as dead. Don’t be a barbarian, Jennesta. Make good your ways, redeem your life.”

“You’re so
bloody
strait-laced!” Jennesta raged. “Not to mention obscure! Explain yourself!”

“I think you know what I mean, in your heart. Don’t think what you have done to Adpar will go unrecorded, or unpunished.”

The likeness of her face faded and disappeared, despite Jennesta’s ravings.

In another tent, not too far away in Maras-Dantian terms, a father and daughter conversed.

“You promised me, Daddy,” Mercy Hobrow whined. “You said I’d have the benefit.”

“And you will, poppet, you will. I said I’d get back the heritage for you and I meant it. We’re working on where those savages might be right now.”

She pouted grotesquely. “Will it be long?”

“No, not long now. And soon I’ll make you a queen. You’ll be a handmaiden of our Lord, and together we’ll cleanse this land of the sub-humans.” He stood. “Now dry your tears. I need to attend to this very business.” He planted a kiss on her cheek and went out of the tent.

Kimball Hobrow walked a couple of yards to the fire and the group of custodians. The bodies of three orcs had been laid to one side. The fourth, still alive but only just, had now been finished with.

Hobrow nodded to the Inquisitor. “Well?”

“They’re tough. But this one broke at the last, praise the Lord.”

“And?”

“They’ve gone to Drogan.”

The death rattle sounded in Corporal Trispeer’s throat and he died.

The growing chaos aided the band in getting out of Adpar’s palace. They took some wrong turns in the labyrinth of passages, and had a skirmish or two with warriors encountered, but generally the populace were too busy fighting their own battles.

But the exit they found was nowhere near the way they came in.

“Looks like we’ve come out further north,” Stryke reckoned.

“What do we do, go back in and try again?” Jup said.

“No, it’s too much of a risk.” He pointed. “If we can cross that stretch of water yonder, then veer east, we should reach the marsh near where we left the horses.”

Coilla frowned. “Hell of a diversion, isn’t it?”

“I reckon going back into the palace is more chancy. One of those factions is going to come out on top any time soon. Then they’ll notice interlopers.”

“Let’s get started, shall we?” Alfray suggested. “We’re too exposed here.”

They traversed a spread of jagged rocks at double time, reached a flat and faced the water. It was covered in green scum.

“Smells about as pleasant as everything else here,” Haskeer observed. “How deep do you think it is, Stryke?”

“Only one way to find out.” He eased himself in. It was cold, but his feet touched the bottom at waist-height. “Going’s a bit soft, but it seems all right otherwise. Come on.”

They followed him, weapons held high, and began wading.

“We should get extra pay for this,” Haskeer moaned.

“Extra?”
Jup said. “Hell, Sergeant, we don’t get
any
at the moment.”

“Yeah! I’d forgotten that!”

They carried on for another ten minutes. It looked as if they were going to make it. The marshy shore was in sight.

Then there was turbulence in the water a few yards ahead. Bubbles reached the surface and burst. The band stopped.

More mini whirlpools appeared in other places. More bubbles drifted up.

“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” Jup muttered.

A plume of water erupted. Dead ahead, a nyadd appeared.

In short order more emerged from the fetid liquid clutching their saw-toothed weapons.

“Remember what you said about fighting them in their own element, Stryke?” Coilla reminded him.

“It’s too late to turn back now, Corporal.”

Splashes from behind had them turning. More nyadds were coming up. They began moving in, front and behind.

“Let’s carve some flesh,” Stryke growled.

The back half of the band took up a rearguard action, led by Jup and Haskeer. Stryke, Coilla and Alfray were in the vanguard of the coming fight. As it stood, the band outnumbered the nyadds they faced. But Stryke reckoned fighting in water at least evened the odds.

He augmented his swords with a knife and lashed out at the foremost creature. His sword struck the creature’s crusty shell and did some damage. Blood trickled. But the wound wasn’t sufficient to put the warrior out of the fight. Stryke gritted his teeth and went in again, this time aided by a couple of grunts harrying the nyadd from either side. They succeeded in battering it into a dive.

Coilla proceeded to toss throwing knives at the enemy’s heads. But every shot meant a lost blade and her supply was limited. She spent two knives to no good effect, then her next shot connected with the side of her target’s head. The nyadd bellowed and disappeared beneath the water, leaving a widening cloud of red.

A triumphant roar from behind marked their first confirmed kill.

“We’re thinning their ranks,” Stryke yelled, “but not fast enough. If more come—!”

He broke off as a nyadd propelled itself towards him waving its jagged spear. The warrior swiped at him. Stryke ducked, and in doing so took himself below the surface. The cold, foul water covered his head. He counted to three, hoping that meant the swing had passed, and resurfaced.

The nyadd was practically on top of him. Stryke rammed his sword into its belly with all his might. The carapace crunched and shattered. Blood flowed. Another great gout issued from the creature’s mouth and it disappeared beneath the water. Stryke coughed up a lungful of the putrid stuff.

Haskeer and Jup were hacking at a foe from both sides. They’d already torn open one of its arms, and it was fighting to keep them off.

Wading in, Haskeer aimed a heavy blow at the creature’s neck. The nyadd moved down, instinctively seeking the protection of water. It would have done better going in any other direction. The blade cleaved its head, spilling brains.

That left just four nyadds, and though they looked no less murderous, Stryke was confident they could be overcome. The whole band went for three of them.

Except Coilla, who splashed forward to engage the remaining one, which lurked apart. She didn’t see another emerge from the water on her blind side, moving with remarkable speed. She spun at the last minute, two nyadds to deal with. One raised its sword.

Kestix had noticed.
“Look out, Corporal!”
he yelled, propelling himself in her direction.

He got between her and the second nyadd’s swinging blade. If he hoped to deflect it with his own sword, he miscalculated.

The nyadd’s wickedly sharp weapon cut into his chest as if into butter. There was an explosion of gore. Kestix cried out in agony.

“No!”
Coilla screamed. Then she had to pay heed to the other raider, bringing up her own sword to block his.

Kestix, still alive but grievously wounded, had been grabbed by his assailant. He struggled feebly. His cries had been heard by the others. Several, including Stryke, answered the call.

They got there just in time to see him dragged under water by the submerging nyadd. Only a bloody stain was left behind.

A couple of grunts splashed around, ducking their heads under trying to save their comrade.

“Leave it!” Stryke ordered. “It’s too late for him.”

They turned their grief-driven fury on the remaining nyadds.

Near defeating them, they noticed fresh turbulence and bubbles breaking out all around.

“Shit, chief,” Jup panted, “we can’t take much more of this!”

The band braced themselves for a last stand.

More heads began appearing.

But they weren’t nyadds. They were merz. Dozens of them, armed with trident spears and daggers.

“Gods!” Alfray exclaimed. “Are they out for us too?”

“I don’t think so,” Stryke replied.

His judgement proved true. The merz set about the few nyadds still present, tearing into them with savagery born of injustice.

One of the merz turned and raised a dripping hand to the orcs. It was a salute.

Stryke wasn’t alone in returning it.

“We owe them one,” he told his comrades. “Now let’s get out of here.”

They left the slaughter and made their way to the bank, mourning Kestix.

23

The journey back to Liffin and Talag was a sombre affair. Things were no less dismal on the return journey to Drogan, despite their victory.

“Is any of this worth one orc’s life?” Alfray wondered. “Let alone one as valiant as Kestix?”

“Risking our lives is what we do,” Stryke reminded him. “And orcs have died for less good causes.”

“You’re really sure this
is
a good cause? Gathering together a bunch of objects we don’t know the purpose of for some end we can’t see?”

“We have to believe that, Alfray. And I’m sure the day will come when we’ll toast Kestix, and the others who have fallen, as heroes of a new order. But don’t ask me what that might be. I just feel it has to be better.” Stryke wished he entirely believed that himself. As it was he was trying not to show the crushing sense of responsibility he felt at their comrade’s death.

For his part, Alfray fell silent and stared up at the band’s war banner he was clutching. He seemed to draw some kind of comfort from it, perhaps musing on the unity it represented. Or that which it once did.

They were almost within sight of Drogan Forest when Jup called out, “Eyes west!”

A large party of riders was heading their way, and they weren’t far off.