Orcs (44 page)

Adpar and Jennesta groaned simultaneously.

“Stay out of this, prodnose!”
Adpar snapped.

“Why can we never have a conversation without you butting in, Sanara?” Jennesta grumbled.

“You know why, sister; the bond is too close.”

“More’s the pity,”
muttered Adpar.

“This is no time for the usual petty squabbling,”
Sanara cautioned.
“The reality is that a group of orcs have at least one of the instrumentalities. How can they possibly understand their awesome power?”

“What do you mean, at least one?” Jennesta said.

“Do you know for certain they haven’t? Events are moving apace. We are entering a period when all things are possible.”

“I’ve got it under control.”

“Really?”
Sanara commented sceptically.

“Don’t mind me,”
Adpar sniffed,
“I’ve only got my own war to fight. I’ve plenty of time to sit here listening to you two swapping riddles.”

“Perhaps you don’t know what I’m talking about, Adpar, but Jennesta does. What she needs to understand is that the power should be harnessed for good, not evil, lest complete destruction be brought down on all of us.”

“Oh,
please
,” Jennesta hissed sarcastically, “not Sanara the martyr again.”

“Think of me what you will, I’m used to it. Just don’t underestimate what’s about to be unleashed now the game’s afoot.”

“To hell with the pair of you!” Jennesta exclaimed, petulantly slashing her hand through the layer of crusty blood. The images disintegrated.

She sat there for some time going over everything in her mind, and it was indicative of her character that she gave no credence to Sanara having a valid point and did not give Adpar the benefit of the doubt. Rather she resolved that the time was near to do something about at least one of her troublesome siblings.

Mostly she burned at the thought of all the trouble the Wolverines had brought down on her. And of the punishment she would exact for it.

Haskeer was still not sure if he was travelling in the right direction. He wasn’t even entirely aware of his surroundings, and he was indifferent to the worsening northern climate.

All that was real to him was the singing in his head. It drove him mercilessly, impelling him further and faster on a bearing which, if he thought about it at all, he trusted would take him to Cairnbarrow.

The trail he followed dipped into a wooded valley. He galloped on without hesitation, gaze fixed straight ahead.

About halfway through, at the valley’s lowest point, water had settled and formed an expanse of mud. The path was narrower too, bringing the growth on either side nearer, which despite the wintry conditions was still quite dense. He had to slow to a canter, much to his irritation.

As he picked his way through the bog, he heard a soughing noise on the right. Then a creaking swish. He turned and caught a glimpse of something speeding towards him. There was no time to react. The object struck him with a tremendous crack and he toppled from the horse.

Lying dazed in the mud, he looked up and saw what had hit him. It was a length of tree trunk, still swinging, suspended by stout ropes to a strong overhead branch. Someone in cover had launched it at him like a ram.

Aching, badly winded, he was only thinking of getting up when rough hands were laid on him. He had an impression of black-garbed humans. They set to punching and kicking him. Unable to fight back, the best he could do was cover his face with his hands.

They hauled him to his feet and took his weapons. The pouch was ripped from his belt. His hands were bound behind his back.

Through the agony, Haskeer focused on a figure that had appeared in front of him.

“Are you sure he’s secure?” Kimball Hobrow asked.

“He’s secure,” a custodian confirmed.

Another henchman passed Haskeer’s pouch to the preacher. He looked inside and his face lit with joy. Or it might have been avarice.

Thrusting in his hand he brought out the stars and gleefully held them aloft. “The relic, and another to match! It is more than I dared hope. The Lord is with us this day.” He threw up his arms. “Thank You, Lord, for returning what is ours! And for delivering this creature to us, the instruments of Your justice!”

Hobrow scowled at the orc. “You will be punished for your wrongs, savage, in the name of the Supreme Being.”

Haskeer’s head was clearing a little. The singing had faded and been replaced by this ranting human lunatic. He couldn’t move or get his hands free. But there was one thing he could do.

He spat in Hobrow’s face.

The preacher leapt back as though scalded, his expression horrified. He began rubbing at his face with the back of his sleeve and muttering, “Unclean, unclean.”

When he was through, he asked again, “Are you sure he’s well bound?”

His followers assured him. Hobrow came forward, balled his fist and delivered several blows to Haskeer’s stomach, yelling, “You will pay for your disrespect to a servant of the Lord!”

Haskeer had taken worse. A lot worse. The punches were quite feeble, in fact. But the custodians, probably realising how ineffective their leader’s efforts were, also started laying into him.

Over the beating he heard Hobrow shout, “Remember the lost hunting party! There could be more of his kind around! We must leave here!”

Barely conscious, Haskeer was dragged away.

Alfray and his half of the Wolverines journeyed in the direction of Calyparr Inlet for most of the day without incident.

He had used his authority to confer a temporary field promotion on Kestix, one of the band’s more able grunts. In effect, this meant Kestix acted as a kind of honorary second-in-command. It also meant Alfray had somebody to pass the time with on a nearly equal basis.

As they rode westward, through the yellowing grasslands of the plains, he sounded out Kestix about the mood in the ranks.

“Concerned, of course, sir,” the trooper replied. “Or perhaps
worried
would be a better word.”

“You’re not alone in that.”

“Things have changed so much and so fast, Corporal. It’s like we’ve been swept along with no time to think.”

“Everything’s changing,” Alfray agreed. “Maras-Dantia’s changing. Maybe it’s finished. Because of the humans.”

“Since the humans came, yes. They’ve upset it all, the bastards.”

“But take heart. We could make a difference yet, if we carry out our captain’s plan successfully.”

“Begging your pardon, Corporal, but what does that mean?”

“Eh?”

“Well, we all know it’s important for us to find these star things, only . . .
why?
”

Alfray was nonplussed. “What are you getting at, trooper?”

“We still don’t know what they do, what they’re for. Do we, Corporal?”

“That’s true. But apart from any . . . let’s say any magical power they might command, we do know they have another kind of power. Others want them. In the case of our late mistress, Jennesta, powerful others. Maybe that gives us an edge.”

Alfray turned to check the column while Kestix digested that. When he righted himself, there was another question.

“If you don’t mind me asking, how do you see our mission to Drogan, Corporal? Do we go straight in and try to grab the star?”

“No. We get as near to this Keppatawn’s village as possible and observe. If things don’t look too hostile, we might see about parleying. But basically we watch and wait for the rest of the band to turn up.”

Hesitantly, Kestix asked, “You think they will?”

Alfray found that mildly shocking. “Don’t be defeatist, trooper,” he replied, a bit sternly. “We have to believe we’ll rejoin with Stryke’s party.”

“I meant no disrespect to the captain,” the grunt quickly affirmed. “It’s just that things don’t seem in our control any more.”

“I know. But trust Stryke.” He fleetingly wondered if that was good advice. Not that he didn’t think Stryke was to be trusted. It was just that he couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that their commander might have bitten off more than he could chew.

His reverie was cut through by shouts from the column, and Kestix yelling, “Corporal! Look, sir!”

Alfray gazed ahead and saw a convoy of four wagons, drawn by oxen, coming round a bend ahead. The trail the orcs and the wagons were on ran through a low gully with sloping sides. One party or the other would have to give way. It wasn’t yet possible to make out the wagons’ occupants.

Several thoughts ran through Alfray’s mind. The first was that if his band turned around it was bound to attract attention. Not to mention that it wasn’t in the nature of orcs to run. His other thought was that if whatever was in the wagons proved hostile, they were unlikely to number many more than his company. He didn’t see that as insuperable odds.

“Chances are these are just beings going peacefully about their business,” he told Kestix.

“What if they’re Unis?”

“If they’re any kind of humans, we’ll kill ’em,” Alfray informed him matter-of-factly.

As the two groups drew nearer, the orcs identified the race in the wagons.

“Gnomes,” Alfray said.

“Could be worse, sir. They fight like baby rabbits.”

“Yes, and they tend to keep themselves to themselves.”

“They’re only ever a problem if anybody takes an interest in their hoards. And I seem to remember their magic has to do with finding underground gold seams, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“If there’s any talking to be done, leave it to me.” Alfray turned and barked an order to the column. “Maintain order in ranks. No weapons to be drawn unless necessary. Let’s just take this easy, shall we?”

“Do you think they’d know about the band having a price on its head?” Kestix wondered.

“Maybe. But as you said, they’re not usually fighters. Unless bad manners and foul breath count as weapons.”

The lead wagon was now a short stone’s lob from the head of Alfray’s column. There were two gnomes on the riding board. A couple more stood behind them, in the wagon proper. Whatever load the wagon carried was covered by a white tarpaulin.

Alfray threw up a hand and halted the column. The wagons stopped. For a moment, the two groups stared at each other.

Some held that gnomes looked like dwarves with deformities. They were small in stature and disproportionately muscular. They had big hands, big feet and big noses. They sported white beards and bushy white eyebrows. Their clothing was nononsense coarse jerkins and trews in uninspiring colours. Some had cowls, others soft caps with hanging bobs.

All gnomes appeared incredibly old, even when new-born. All had made an art of scowling.

After a moment’s silence, the driver of the lead wagon announced testily, “Well,
I
ain’t moving!”

Further back, stony-faced wagoneers stood to watch.

“Why should we clear the road?” Alfray said.

“Hoard?
Hoard?
” the driver fog-horned. “We ain’t got no hoard!”

“Just our luck to get one hard of hearing,” Alfray grumbled. “Not
hoard
,” he enunciated slow, loud and clear, “
road!
”

“What about it?”

“Are you going to shift?” Alfray shouted.

The gnome thought about it. “Nope.”

Alfray decided to take a more conversational, less disputatious tack. “Where you from?” he asked.

“Ain’t saying,” the gnome replied sourly.

“Where you heading?”

“None of your business.”

“Then can you say if the way to Drogan is clear? Of any humans, that is.”

“Might be. Might not. What’s it worth?”

Alfray remembered that gnomes were notorious for knowing the price of everything but the value of nothing. Good road courtesy, for instance.

He gave in. At his order, the column urged their horses up the sides of the gully and let the gnomes through.

As the lead wagon passed, its poker-faced driver mumbled, “This place is getting too damn crowded for my liking.”

Watching them rumble away, Alfray tried jesting about the incident. “Well, we made short shrift of them,” he stated ironically.

“That we did,” Kestix said. “Er . . . Corporal?”

“Yes, Private?”

“Where exactly do shrifts come from?”

Alfray sighed. “Let’s get on, shall we?”

10

Coilla had never spent so much time in the company of humans before. In fact most of her previous experience had to do with killing them.

But being with the bounty hunters for several days made her more aware than ever of their otherworldliness. She had always viewed them as strange, alien creatures, as rapacious interlopers with insatiable appetites for destruction. Now she saw the nuances that underlined the differences between them and the elder races. The way they looked, the way their minds worked, the way they smelt: in so many ways humans were
weird
.

She put the thought aside as they reached the crest of a hill overlooking Hecklowe.

It was dusk, and lights were beginning to dot the freeport. Distance and elevation made it possible to see that the place hadn’t so much been planned as simply had happened. As befitted a town where all races met on an equal footing, Hecklowe consisted of a jumble of structures in every conceivable architectural style. Tall buildings, squat buildings, towers, domes, arches and spires cut the skyline. They were made from wood and stone, brick and wattle, thatch and slate. Beyond the town’s far edge the grey sea could just be made out in the fading light. Masts of taller ships poked up over the rooftops.

Even from so far away a faint din could be heard.

Lekmann stared down at the port. “It’s a while since I been here, but nothing’s changed, I reckon. Hecklowe’s permanent neutral ground. Don’t matter how much you hate a race, in there it’s a truce. No brawling, no fights. No settling of scores in a lethal way.”

“They kill you for that, don’t they?” Blaan said.

“If they catch you.”

“Don’t they search for weapons on the way in?” Aulay asked.

“Nah. They leave it to you to give ’em up. Searching ain’t practical no more since Hecklowe became such a popular place. But if you’re fighting in there, it’s summary execution by the Watchers. Not that they’re as lively as they used to be. They can still do for you, though, so be careful of ’em.”