Orcs (71 page)

“So what’s new?” Jup said.

A distant sound cut through their conversation, keening, doleful, uncanny. It prickled the back of their necks and goosebumped their flesh. The horses shied.

“What the hell . . . ?” Coilla whispered.

Alfray had his head cocked, listening intently. To him it was unmistakable. “Banshee. Was a time when you could go your whole life and never hear one.”

“First time I have,” Jup admitted, suppressing a shudder. “I can see why they’re supposed to foretell disaster.”

“I heard it once before, years back. On the eve of one of the big battles with the humans, down Carascrag way. It earned its reputation then. Thousands slaughtered. You don’t forget.”

“They’re not so rare anymore,” Stryke added. “If you believe what’s said, they’re heard all over now.”

After what seemed an impossibly long time the noise trailed off and died. It left them sobered.

Then it started to rain. Large drops the size of pearls came down, rust-coloured and rank-smelling.

“Shit,” Jup complained. He turned up his collar and gathered in his jerkin.

“Something else to thank the fucking humans for,” Haskeer said, following his example.

Several heads turned in the direction of the ice sheet to the north at their rear, out of sight but omnipresent. The band rode on miserably.

A sodden hour passed. When conversation eventually stirred again, somebody mentioned Adpar and the lot of tyrants. That jogged Coilla’s memory. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you, Stryke. I completely forgot until now. When we were in Adpar’s realm, at her deathbed, you told her she was dying because of Jennesta. How did you
know
that?”

“She’s right,” Alfray agreed. “We don’t know what killed her.”

Stryke was taken aback. He hadn’t thought about it. “I . . . I just said it to get a reaction from her, I suppose.”

“But it did the trick, didn’t it? It goaded her back.”

“Doesn’t mean to say I was right. Maybe Jennesta’s name was enough to rouse her.”

“Maybe.”

“Perhaps you’re developing farsight, chief,” Jup suggested, not entirely seriously. “Hope it works better than mine.”

Stryke wasn’t amused. “Orcs don’t —”

An arrow zinged past his ear. His horse tried bolting and he struggled with the reins.

“To the rear!”
Jup bellowed.

The band wheeled about, drawing weapons.

A group twice their size was galloping all out in their direction, mounted on dwarf yaks, shaggy-furred and malevolent-eyed. The riders were about a third shorter than orcs and chunkily built. Their spherical heads were disproportionately large, with jutting ears and attenuated, fleshy-lidded eyes. They were hairless, save for bushy sideburns, and their rugged hides had a green tint.

“Gremlins?” Haskeer exclaimed. “What the fuck we done to upset
them?
”

“Wanna go and ask?” Stryke retorted.

“They’re coming in!”
Alfray yelled.

Some in the gremlin first rank had miniature curved bows. They unleashed bolts as they rode. Several flew over the Wolverines’ heads. One embedded itself in Haskeer’s saddle. Another nicked a grunt’s arm. A couple of Wolverines replied in kind.

“To hell with this,” Stryke growled.
“Engage!”

He spurred hard and took the lead, the band at his heels. Pounded by torrential rain, mud-splattered, they headed for the enemy ranks.

The two sides flowed into each other with cries and colliding steel. A mêlée of swinging swords, lunging spears and clashing shields broke out.

Stryke made short work of the first gremlin he met. Dodging the creature’s misjudged stroke, he ribboned his chest and sent him flying. The next to jostle in laid his blade across Stryke’s with startling fury. They chopped and hacked, steel beating steel in a primitive, shrill melody. Brute force got Stryke through his foe’s guard. A further blow punctured the gremlin’s lung. Without halt, another duel commenced.

Charging between two enemies, Alfray flipped his banner spar to the horizontal. It struck both of them, high enough and hard enough to unhorse the pair. A twist of the spar brought it to a defensive position in time to block a further opponent. Evading the raider’s sword, Alfray rammed home the lance, turfing the eviscerated creature from its saddle.

An overhand lob delivered one of Coilla’s knives to a gremlin’s eye. He disappeared screeching in the rabble. Beading another target, she was about to throw again when a gremlin sideswiped her. His blade was already moving, and near lopped off her nose. She seized his sword wrist, her grip like a bear cub’s jaw, then set about stabbing. A triad of strikes settled it, fast and deep. The corpse toppled.

One of the fallen’s comrades moved in, shield up, scimitar gashing the air. She flattened back in her saddle and slammed her boot into the shield. Writhing to avoid his sword, grunting with effort, she pushed hard enough to tumble the gremlin from his mount. He fell to the mercies of pawing horses and yaks. No sooner was she up than another gremlin tried to make a name for himself. She ripped her sword free.

Haskeer’s sword was buried in the guts of a previous victim and lost with him, several killings ago. His dagger had been spent in similar fashion. Now he ducked and weaved through the attackers seeking a weapon.

He saw his chance as he rode alongside a gremlin crossing swords with a grunt. The distracted creature was easy pickings for a blood frenzied orc. Haskeer reached out and hoisted him bodily from his mount. He swung the kicking foe over to his horse and brought the gremlin’s back down onto the saddle’s pommel, snapping his spine. Prising the sword from twitching fingers, he dumped the body.

An opponent rushed towards him with a levelled spear. Haskeer swerved and brought his sword down on the passing heft, slicing it in two. Turning quickly, he was in time to send a second blow to the back of his opponent’s sinewy neck, dropping him. Then two more foes closed in. Bellowing a war cry, he powered into them.

In a fleeting lull, Stryke quickly scanned the scene. He reckoned they’d downed about half the enemy. The grunts were giving a good account of themselves and it looked like none of the band had taken serious wounds. One more push and they could end it. He bowled into the reeling scrum and commenced hacking.

Another ten minutes of furious combat decided the matter. The gremlins who were able began withdrawing, leaving the bodies of their comrades, and the odd dead yak, scattered across the muddy swath.

Coilla struck down a fleeing gremlin by pitching a knife between his shoulder-blades. Stryke galloped to her.

“Do we go after them?” she said.

He peered through the rain at the retreating raiders. “No. We haven’t got time for games.” He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled,
“No pursuit! Hold back!”

Several grunts who’d given chase quit and turned, spraying mud. The others took to checking the enemy corpses, wary for shamming.

Jup, Alfray and then Haskeer joined Stryke and Coilla.

“What the hell was that about?” Alfray wondered.

Stryke shook his head. “The gods know. Casualties?”

“Nothing serious, first look. I’ll set to binding what we’ve got.”

“I reckon it was bounty,” Coilla volunteered.

“Or more of Jennesta’s mercenaries,” Jup suggested.

“You wouldn’t hire gremlins for the job,” Stryke said. “The bounty, maybe.”

A grunt called to them.

“What is it, Hystykk?” Stryke bawled back.

“We’ve got a live one here, sir!”

They dismounted and sloshed over to see. Alfray was already there, kneeling in the slime next to a gremlin who could have been young, for all they knew. He had a bad chest wound, crusting his robe with gore. Rivulets of blood mixed with the drumming rain.

He was taking deep breaths. His eyes were open and he constantly licked his lips.

Jup got close and to the point. “What is it, the reward?” The gremlin focused, but didn’t comprehend. “The bounty or what? Why the attack?”

Alfray started fussing at the wound. The gremlin coughed. A little scarlet trickle crept from the corner of his mouth. But he spoke.

“Retribution,” he whispered.

Stryke was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Vendetta . . . revenge.”

“For what? How have we wronged you?”

“Murder. A kinslin.”

“You’re saying we murdered your kin?”

“We killed any other gremlins lately?” Haskeer wondered out loud. Coilla shushed him.

“Who are we supposed to have murdered?” Stryke asked, his words deliberate.

“My clan . . . uncle,” the gremlin stumbled, his breathing more laboured. “Just an . . . old, harmless . . . scholar. Didn’t . . . deserve it.”

An uncomfortable feeling grew from the pit of Stryke’s stomach. “His name?”

The gremlin stared at him for a moment, then managed, “Mobbs.”

Stryke flashed his dream and remembered thinking he’d visited the afterlife. His veins chilled.

“The bookworm?” Haskeer said.

Coilla bent to the gremlin. “You’re wrong. We met Mobbs, that’s all. He was fine when we left him.” She wasn’t sure if she was getting through.

Alfray’s efforts with the wound were brisker. Blood still flowed. He dabbed his patient’s face with a cloth to soak up some of the rain.

Stryke gathered himself. “I’m sorry about Mobbs’ death. We all are. He wasn’t our enemy. In a way, we have reason to be grateful to him.”

Haskeer gave a small derisive snort.

“What makes you think it was us?” Stryke went on.

The gremlin’s breathing was shallow now. “Our own kind . . . found him. Group of . . . orcs . . . in area. Black Rock.” He achieved a look of contempt through the pain. “You know this.”

“No!” Coilla exclaimed. “We
rescued
him, for the gods’ sake!”

“And you’ve been tracking us all this time?” Stryke marvelled. “Your efforts were in vain, my friend.”

“Delorran,” Coilla said.

“Of course. Had to be.” Stryke sighed. “And I’d wager Jennesta’s not been slow in spreading this story to further blacken our names.” He turned back to the gremlin. “It wasn’t us. Believe that.”

The creature seemed oblivious. “You have many . . . enemies. You’ll . . . only last . . . so long.”

“This has been a senseless waste of life,” Stryke told him. “Isn’t there enough killing without adding to it?”

“Rich talk . . . coming . . . from . . . an orc.”

“We’re not crazed animals. But attack orcs and you have to expect us to fight back. It’s what we do. As for Mobbs, I’m telling you —”

Alfray laid a hand on his arm and slowly shook his head. Then he leaned forward and gently thumbed shut the gremlin’s eyes.

Stryke got up. “Shit. All we do is bring death and suffering.”

“And get blamed for everything,” Jup added.

“Poor Mobbs,” Coilla said.

“We
are
liable for his death,” Stryke told her. “Not directly, but it’s down to us.”

“That’s not so.”

“Tell me how it isn’t.”

She didn’t answer. None of them did.

For a split second, the thought occurred to Stryke that at least Delorran had paid. Then he realised he’d learnt that in a dream. Hadn’t he?

It rained harder.

8

Rain drummed on the canvas tent.

Jennesta paced. Patience wasn’t a virtue with her, and she had never seen the gain in cultivating it. Her creed was that the rabble waited while leaders took. Seizing what you wanted got things done. But what she wanted was just beyond her grasp.

She brooded too, on the depletion of the earth energies that made her sorcery erratic, and the lengths she had to go to in replenishing it.

Frustration and uncertainty made her more than usually dangerous. Which, in Jennesta’s case, was saying a lot.

She was toying with the idea of issuing some capricious order. Something that would achieve nothing beyond the needless wasting of a few lives and her pleasure at the smell of blood. But then the flaps of the tent were parted and Mersadion deferentially entered.

He bowed and was about to speak.

“Are we ready to leave?” she demanded, eschewing formalities.

“Almost, Majesty.”

“I hate this unnecessary waste of time.”

“The army needed resting, ma’am, and the livestock had to be fed.”

Jennesta knew the reasons well enough and waved aside his explanations. “If you didn’t come to tell me you were ready, then what?”

His reply was hesitant. “News, ma’am.”

“And from your face, not good.”

“It concerns your Dragon Dam. Glozellan.”

“I know her name, General. What about her?”

He tried to break it carefully. “She and . . . two other handlers, along with their charges, have . . . They’ve . . . left your service, Majesty.”

As she took it in, tiny supernovas flared in her remarkable eyes. Darkly.
“Left my service.”
She mouthed the sentence slowly and deliberately. “By which you mean they’ve deserted. Correct?”

She seemed to him for all the world like a coiled viper, ready to strike. Not trusting words, he nodded.

“You’re sure of this?” She checked herself. “Of course you are. Else you wouldn’t risk telling me.”

Mersadion knew how true that was. “We have no reason to doubt the loyalty of the other handlers,” he offered.

“As we had none concerning Glozellan.” She was seething, building up to something.

He trod gingerly, hoping to placate her. “If you have misgivings, we can replace the handlers. And we still have sufficient dragons, ma’am, despite losing three. As to a new dam, there are several candidates for promotion who—”

“All the handlers are brownies. How can I trust
any
of them? There will be a purge in the dragon squadrons.”

“Majesty.”

“First the Wolverines, then the bounty hunters I sent after them; now the Mistress of Dragons has abandoned my cause.” She fixed him with her wintry gaze. “And all the while a steady bleeding from my army. How do I come to be surrounded by so many cowards and traitors?

It was a question he would never dare answer. He thought to avoid it by shifting her view. “You could see it as the ranks purifying themselves, ma’am. Those left are bound to be the most loyal to Your Majesty.”