Orcs (60 page)

The elder looked to the others in the chamber. He knew they could see what was coming too.

This was the time when the inexorable process began. They would abandon confidence in the realm and start to think of themselves. As he had.

Stryke was aware that the centaurs didn’t think the orcs would come back. He couldn’t avoid knowing; they made no secret of it.

They had armed the band with excellent new weapons everybody approved of. Coilla was particularly happy with the set of perfectly balanced throwing knives they’d given her. Among other things, Jup had a handsome battleaxe, Alfray a fine sword. Stryke possessed the keenest blade he’d ever known.

Now the band was on its way and out of the centaurs’ earshot, doubts had begun to surface.

Haskeer, not surprisingly, was the most forthright with criticisms. “What crazy scheme have you got us into now?” he grumbled.

“I’ve told you before, Sergeant, watch your mouth,” Stryke warned. “If you want nothing to do with it, that’s fine. You can head out somewhere else. But I thought you said something about wanting to prove you’re worthy to be a member of this band.”

“I meant it. But what good’s that if the band’s off on a suicide mission?”

“You’re pitching it too high, as usual,” Jup told him. “But what
are
we letting ourselves in for, Stryke?”

“A reconnaissance. And if we see anything we can’t handle, we’ll go back to Drogan and tell Keppatawn it isn’t possible.”

“Then what?” Alfray said.

“We’ll try trading again. Maybe offer to undertake some other task. Like finding him a good healer.”

“You know he ain’t going to buy it, Captain,” Haskeer reckoned, accurately. “If we want that damn star so badly we should go back and take it. We’re going to end up fighting for it anyway, probably, so why not make use of the surprise element?”

“Because that’s not honourable,” Coilla informed him indignantly. “We said we’d try. That doesn’t mean sneaking back and cutting their throats.”

Alfray reinforced the sentiment. “We gave our word. I hope never to see the day when an orc goes back on an oath.”

“All right, all right,” Haskeer sighed.

They rode by a hill, its grass sickly and yellowing. An orc called out and pointed. They all turned and looked to its summit.

They caught a glimpse of a human on a white horse. He had a long blue cloak.

“Serapheim!” Stryke exclaimed.

“That’s him?” Alfray asked.

“Shit, would you believe it?” Jup said.

Coilla was already spurring her horse. “I want a word with that human!”

They followed her headlong gallop up the hill. Meantime the human went down the other side and out of sight.

When the band got to the top there was no sign of him. Yet there was nowhere near by he could have concealed himself. The terrain was more or less even and they had good visibility in every direction.

“What in the name of the Square is going on?” Coilla wondered.

Haskeer twisted his head from side to side, a palm shading his eyes. “But how? Where? It’s impossible.”

“Can’t be impossible, he did it,” Jup told him.

“He’s got to be down there somewhere,” Coilla reasoned.

“Leave it,” Stryke ordered. “I have a feeling we’d just be wasting our time.”

“He’s good at running, I’ll say that for him,” Haskeer remarked, getting in a last shot.

The start of Scarrock Marsh could be seen from their new vantage point. And beyond it, further west, the ocean with its broken necklace of brooding islands.

It had been too long since Jennesta rode at the head of an army and took personal control of a campaign.

Well, mission really, she conceded, and perhaps not even that, as she had no firm aim beyond a little pillaging and harassment of enemies. And maybe she harboured the hope that her travels might glean some clue as to the whereabouts of the hated Wolverines. Having acted at last in the matter of her too-ambitious sister, she had a little more zest for life and the taking of it.

But mostly it was just important to give herself an airing, and it was doing her a power of good.

No more than half a day out from Cairnbarrow, they had good fortune. Forward scouts reported a Uni settlement too new for the maps. It was unknown even to her spies. That was an oversight she would mete out punishments for when she got back. Meanwhile she led her army of orcs and dwarves, ten thousand strong, against the enclave.

If ever the cliché about using a battleaxe to crack a pixie’s skull had any truth it was here. The settlement was a flimsy, poorly defended collection of half-built shacks and barns. Its inhabitants, numbering perhaps fifty, counting the children, hadn’t even finished building the defensive wall.

She regarded the humans who chose to settle in that particular spot as fools, ignorant farmers and ranchers so lacking in sense that they knew no better than to encroach on her domain.

They compounded their error by trying to surrender. She wished all Unis were as easily defeated.

What followed made for a welcome addition to her magical resources—the hearts of near two score sacrifices, plucked from those she spared in the slaughter. She had only been able to consume a fraction of them, of course, but the abundance gave her the opportunity to test something she had found referred to in the writings of the ancients.

Before setting out on this adventure she had despatched agents to the north, deep into the Hojanger wastelands, to bring back wagonloads of ice and compacted snow. Suitably insulated in barrels swathed with hessian and furs, the cargo survived without melting. She had the organs packed into the barrels with the intention of thawing them as needed on the journey. Naturally there was no substitute for the fresh variety, but they would serve at a pinch.

If it worked, she was thinking of using it as a way of preserving food for her horde in its campaigns.

Jennesta came out of one of the huts, sated for now with torture and other indulgences, and dabbed her bloodied lips with a delicate lace handkerchief. She had surprised even herself with the energy she put into the scenes just enacted. Perhaps the open air had increased her already healthy appetites.

Mersadion didn’t seem so content with the situation. He awaited her astride his mount, stiff and sour-faced.

“You look less than pleased, General,” she said, wiping gore from her hands. “Is the victory not to your liking?”

“Of course it is, Majesty,” he hurriedly replied, adopting a smile of patent falseness.

“Then what ails you?”

“My officers report more dissatisfaction in the ranks, ma’am. Not much, but enough to be of concern.”

“I thought you were on top of that, Mersadion,” she told him, her displeasure undisguised. “Did you not have troublemakers executed, as I ordered?”

“I did, ma’am, several from each regiment. It seems to have fomented further unrest.”

“Then kill some more. What is the nature of today’s complaints?”

“It seems some are questioning . . . well, questioning your order to raze this settlement, my lady.”

“What?”

He blanched but carried on. “The feeling, among a very small minority, you understand, is that these buildings could be used to house the widows and orphans of orcs who have fallen in your service. Dependents who would otherwise be destitute, ma’am.”

“I
want
them to be destitute! As a warning to the males. A warrior who knows his mate and hatchlings face such a fate should he fail is a better warrior.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mersadion replied in a subdued tone.

“I’m starting to worry about your ability to keep order, General.” He shrank in his saddle. “And I think the first thing we’re going to have to do once back in Cairnbarrow is purge the ranks of these radicals once and for all.”

“Ma’am.”

“Now get me a brand.”

“Ma’am?”

“A
brand
, for the gods’ sake! Do I have to draw you a picture in the dirt?”

“No, Majesty. Right away.” He dropped from his horse and ran towards the jumble of buildings.

As she waited impatiently for his return, she watched a squadron of her battle dragons soaring overhead, far up near the cloud cover.

Mersadion jogged back holding a wooden torch, its head wrapped in cloth and dipped with tar. He offered it to her.

“
Light
it,” she intoned with dangerous deliberateness.

He fumbled with flints while she silently fumed. At last he got the brand alight.

“Give it here!” she barked, snatching it away. She stood near the door of the building she had so recently defiled. “This settlement is a hive of Uni pestilence. To do anything less than destroy it sends a weak message. And I’m not in the habit of displaying weakness, General.” She tossed the brand into the hut. Flames immediately began to spread. Screams sounded inside from the few humans she had left alive.

She went to her horse and mounted. He did the same.

“Get the army moving,” she ordered. “We’ll look for the next nest.”

As they came away she glanced at the settlement. The fire had a hold that wouldn’t be broken.

“If you want something done properly, do it yourself,” she informed the general cheerily. “As my esteemed mother Vermegram used to say.”

21

Scarrock Marsh appeared to have its own weather.

It wasn’t that the conditions were different from those on the plains the band had recently left, there just seemed to be
more
of it. The clouds were more lowering, the rain more incessant, the winds more biting. And it was colder. Perhaps that was because the squalls blowing down from the advancing ice sheet in the north were unimpeded. There were no mountains or forests to temper them, and once they arrived they combined with the frigid air generated by the great Norantellia Ocean.

Grateful for their recently acquired furs, the band stood on the edge of the marsh and took in its foreboding countenance.

What stretched before them was a vast, flat quagmire of black mud and sand. Ditches and even small lakes of dark gelatinous water littered the terrain. Here and there, dead, skeletal trees poked out of the barren landscape, indicating that the blight was spreading. The place stank of rotting fish and other, less wholesome things. There was no sign of life, not even a bird.

From their vantage point, on a slightly higher elevation than the marsh proper, they could see the beginnings of the ocean. It was sluggish and grey. The inky outlines of the Mallowtor Islands lay beyond, mist-shrouded and desolate. Somewhere out there, beneath the waves, the merz clung on to their precarious existence.

It was a forlorn scene, and one Stryke couldn’t help but compare with the glorious seascape of his dreams.

“Right,” Haskeer said, “we’ve seen it, I don’t like it, let’s go back.”

“Hold your horses,” Stryke told him. “We said we’d do a recce.”

“I’ve seen all I need to know. It’s a bloody wasteland.”

“What did you expect?” Jup wondered. “Dancing maidens throwing rose petals?”

Coilla cut off their impending squabble by asking, “How are we going to go about this, Stryke?”

“According to Keppatawn, the nyadd realm lies on the far edge of the marsh, fringing the ocean. So a lot of it’s submerged.”

“Great,” Haskeer muttered. “Now we’re fish.”

Stryke ignored him. “But Adpar’s palace has access from both land and water sides, apparently. The way I see this mission is going in with the full strength, less whoever we leave with the horses.”

“I hope you’re not thinking of assigning me that detail,” Alfray said. His manner was prickly.

It was the age thing again, Stryke guessed. He seemed to be getting more touchy about it. “Of course not. We need you with us. But like I said, we can’t take the horses. Talag, Liffin, that’s your job. Sorry, but it’s important.”

They nodded glumly. No orc liked being left on a routine duty when there was the prospect of combat.

Jup steered the conversation back to the matter at hand. “Straight in, you said. No scouting?”

“No. We’ll cross the marsh and if conditions look right, we’ll go for it. I don’t want to spend any more time here than we have to.”

“Now you’ve said something I agree with,” Haskeer remarked.

“Remember, Keppatawn said there was trouble in Adpar’s realm,” Stryke went on. “That might help us, it might not. But if it looks too hot in there we’re coming out without engaging. I figure the existence of this band is more important than a bit of local strife.”

Jup nodded. “Suits me.”

Stryke looked at the sky. “Let’s go before we get some real rain.” To Talag and Liffin he added, “Like I said, we don’t intend hanging around in there. But to be safe give us until this time tomorrow. If we’re not back by then consider yourself free of any obligation to the band. You can sell the horses. That should keep you for a while.”

On that sobering note, they set off.

“Stick together, keep your eyes peeled,” Stryke instructed. “If anything moves, drop it.”

“Usual procedure, then,” Jup commented.

“Remember, they’ll be in their element,” Stryke added. “They can live in air
and
water. We’re strictly air. Got it, Haskeer?”

“Yeah.” A thought hit him. “Why you telling
me?
”

They moved into the marsh. Like Drogan Forest, it was quiet. But it was a different kind of silence. That had been peaceful. This was uneasy, somehow malevolent. Where Drogan promised, this threatened. Again like Drogan, they felt the need to converse in whispers. Though they all knew it was unnecessary; there was nowhere for an enemy to hide.

The going shifted from spongy to oozing. Stryke looked around and saw that Haskeer was walking a little apart from the others. “Stay together,” he called out. “Don’t get separated. We don’t know what this place holds in the way of surprises.”

“Don’t worry, chief,” Haskeer replied dismissively, “I know what I’m doing.”

There was a loud sucking noise. He instantly sank waist deep in a mire.

They rushed over to him. He was still sinking.

“Don’t struggle, you’ll only make it worse,” Alfray advised.