“Know-all,” Haskeer mumbled.
A fresh image emerged: five perfect spheres of different colours, each the size of a newborn’s fist. They were fashioned from an unknown material. All had projecting spikes of variable lengths, and no two spheres had the same number. “The instrumentalities, or stars, as you choose to call them, have remarkable powers. Greater even than I was aware of when I created them. Though perhaps I should have known, given how bringing them into being drained me of so much. It was the kind of achievement sorcerers have only once in a lifetime. I could never construct another set. But note. Although rare, the instrumentalities are by no means unique.”
“Does he mean there’s more of ’em?” Haskeer whispered.
“Must be. How do you think he got here?” Stryke jabbed a thumb at the corpse.
“Parnol would use the stars you hold to navigate the portals,” Arngrim explained. “For instance, to reach the place you last left, Maras-Dantia, they would have to be manipulated like this.” As he spoke, the spheres came together in a way that seemed implausible, if not actually impossible, and formed a single, interlocked entity. “To travel to the land I showed you requires this configuration.” The stars executed another improbable manoeuvre, ending again in one piece. “And to return to where you now are…” They shifted and locked together in a different but still perfect combination. “Attempting to use the instrumentalities without having first set them causes them to act randomly, and that can be very dangerous. But you’ve no need to worry about how they operate. That’s Parnol’s job.” His voice took on a graver tone. “Your duty is to guard them as you would your own lives. Apart from being your only way home, they must never fall into the wrong hands. I urge you to accept the task I’ve outlined, Wolverines. For the sake of your kind, and for the greater purpose.”
The light went out of the enchantment. Instantly, the column of smoke was sucked back into the gemstone. Evening shadows returned, and the quiet.
“I’ll be fucked,” Haskeer said.
“You put it like a poet.”
“Greetings, orcs.”
They swung back to the gem, blades ready. It was glowing again.
“Don’t be afraid, I realise how foolish…”
The stone began fizzling. It throbbed with a grey luminescence.
“. . . a thing that is to say to a race as courageous…”
A greenish vapour was streaming from the gem. It crackled and spat.
“. . . as yours. But be assured —”
There was a loud report. Fragments of gemstone shot in all directions.
Stryke went over and prodded the smouldering remains with his sword tip. The dying embers gave off a fetid odour.
They stood in silence for a while, then Haskeer said, “What the hell do you make of all that?”
“It could be what we need.”
“What?”
“Do you ever feel… ?”
“Feel what?”
“Don’t get me wrong; finding Thirzarr, coming here, having the hatchlings… they’re the best things that ever happened to me. But…”
“Spit it out, Stryke, for fuck’s sake.”
“This place has everything we hoped for. Good hunting and feasting, comradeship, tourneys, our own lodges. Yet, now and again, don’t you get a little… bored?”
Haskeer stared at him. “I thought I was the only one.”
“You feel that way?”
“Yeah. Don’t know why. Like you say, life’s good here.”
“Maybe that’s it.”
Perplexity creased Haskeer’s brow. “Whadya mean?”
“Where’s the danger? Where’s the enemy? I know we skirmish with other clans sometimes, but that’s not the same. What we’re missing is a… purpose.”
Haskeer glanced at the fragments of the gemstone. “You’re not taking this seriously, Stryke?”
“Wouldn’t it be good to have a mission?”
“Well, yeah. But —”
“What better than to whet our blades again, and to help some fellow orcs? And have the chance to pay back that bitch Jennesta.”
“It’s crazy. Ask yourself: why’s the sorcerer taking our side? Why not his own kind? If we learnt one thing, it’s don’t trust humans.”
“He helped us before.”
“When it suited him. I reckon there’s more to this.”
“Could be.”
“Anyway, this is all so much jaw flapping.” He nodded at Parnol. “He ain’t gonna be doing no guiding.”
“Maybe we don’t need him.”
“Oh, come on, Stryke. You couldn’t follow all that fucking around with the stars Serapheim showed us… could you?”
“The movements that get us back here; I’m trying to keep them in my head.”
Haskeer looked impressed. “What about the others?”
“Er… no.”
“Not much good then, is it? He said it was dangerous if —”
“I know what he said. But something’s been nagging at me.”
He went over to the dead body. Kneeling, he removed the amulet the man was wearing. Haskeer peered over Stryke’s shoulder as he examined it.
The engravings etched into its surface were small, and they strained to make them out. They consisted of rows of symbols in groups of five. The symbols were circles with lines protruding at various angles. Stryke studied them for what seemed like a long time.
“That’s it,” he finally announced.
“What?”
“See that third lot of figures? It’s the same as the way the stars have to be moved to get back here.”
Haskeer did nothing to hide his incomprehension. “Is it?”
“Looks that way. All these markings are different, and there’s a lot more than the three Serapheim showed us.”
“You mean… that tells you how to use the stars?”
“Yes. The messenger must have had it to help him remember. Like a map. I reckon this first line is how to get to Maras-Dantia, and the second gets you to that world with the orcs. The rest… who knows?”
“That’s pretty smart, Stryke,” Haskeer stated admiringly.
Stryke put the amulet around his neck. “Don’t get too excited; I could be wrong. But I’ve often wondered why Arngrim gave me the stars. Perhaps we know now.”
“Think he planned this? From the start?”
“Could be he was mindful of future trouble.”
“And counting on us to deal with it.”
“Who knows? Humans are two-faced.”
“That’s no lie.”
Stryke adopted a pensive expression. “There was something about the things he showed us. Did you notice? Not once were those orcs fighting back.”
It hadn’t occurred to Haskeer before. “They weren’t, were they?”
“And when did our kind ever turn a cheek?”
“What’s wrong with ’em?”
All Stryke could do was shrug.
Haskeer pointed at the corpse. “And who killed him?”
“I don’t know. But I’ve a mind to find out. You game?”
Haskeer thought about it. “Yeah. If there’s a fight in it.”
3
The summer afternoon had softened into early evening, the quality of the light mellowing from golden to carroty. A gentle breeze brought the sweet perfume of lushness. Tender birdsong could be heard.
Eight or nine lodges stood together, along with a corral and a couple of barns.
The settlement occupied the crest of a low hill. In all directions, the outlook was verdant. There were luxuriant pastures and dense forests, and the silver thread of a distant river marbling the emerald.
In one particular lodge, a female was diverting her offspring.
“In those days,” she told them, “a blight afflicted the land. It was a walking pestilence. A puny race of disgusting appearance, with yielding, pallid flesh and the nature of a glutton. An insatiable host that gloried in destruction. It tore the guts from the earth, p
lundered its resources and poisoned its waters. It spread disease and stirred up trouble. It threw away the magic.”
Her offspring were rapt.
“It felt contempt for other races, and revelled in their slaughter. But its hatred wasn’t directed solely at those who were different. It fought its own kind, too. There was warfare between their tribes. They killed when there was no good purpose to it, and all the other races were fearful of them.” She eyed the siblings. “Except one. Unlike the pestilence, they didn’t murder for pleasure, or wreak havoc for the sake of it. They didn’t lack nobility or honour, and weren’t hideous to look at. They were handsome and brave. They were —”
“Orcs!” the hatchlings chorused.
Thirzarr grinned. “You pair are too smart for me.”
“We’re always heroes in the stories,” Corb reminded her.
She tossed them each a chunk of raw meat. They gobbled the treats with relish, red juice trickling down their chins.
“Are there any of those human monsters around here?” Janch asked as he chewed.
“No,” Thirzarr told him, “not in the whole of Ceragan.”
He looked disappointed. “Pity. I’d like to kill some.”
“No, I would,” Corb announced, brandishing the wooden sword his sire had made for him.
“Of course you would, my little wolf. Now give me that.” Thirzarr held out her hand and he reluctantly surrendered the weapon. “It’s time you two slept.”
“Ah, no!” they protested.
“Finish the story!” Corb insisted.
“Tell us about Jennesta again!” Janch piped up.
“Yes!” his brother echoed, bouncing. “Tell us about the witch!”
“It’s late.”
“The witch! The witch!”
“All right, all right. Calm down.” She leaned over their couches and tucked them in, then perched herself. “You’ve got to go to sleep straight after this, all right?”
They nodded, saucer-eyed, blankets to their chins.
“Jennesta wasn’t a witch, exactly,” Thirzarr told them. “She was a sorceress. A magician born of magicians, she commanded great powers. Powers made stronger by her cruelty, which fed her magic. She was part human, part nyadd, which accounted for her strange appearance. And no doubt the human part explained her cruelty. Jennesta called herself a queen, but her title and realm was gained through deceit and brutality. Under her rule, fear held the whip hand. She meddled in the affairs of humans, supporting them one moment, battling them the next, as her self-interest dictated. She waged needless wars and relished sadism. She sowed conflict that steeped the land in blood and fire.”
“I’m back!”
“Dad!” Corb and Janch cried. They sat bolt upright and tossed aside their blankets.
Thirzarr turned to the figure who’d silently entered. She sighed. “I’m trying to get them to sleep, Stryke. Oh, Haskeer. Didn’t see you there.”
The males sidled in. “Sorry,” Stryke mouthed.
Too late. The brood were up. They rushed to their father and clamped themselves to his legs, clamouring for attention.
“Steady now. And what about Haskeer? Nothing to say to him?”
“’lo, Uncle Haskeer.”
“I think he’s got something for you,” Stryke added.
They instantly transferred their affections and stampeded in Haskeer’s direction. He grabbed the hatchlings by their scruffs, one in each massive fist, and hoisted them, giggling.
“What’ve you got us? What’ve you got us?”
“Let’s see, shall we?” He returned them to the compacted earth floor.
Haskeer reached into his jerkin and hauled out two slim cloth bundles. Before handing them over, he looked to Thirzarr. She nodded.
The brothers tore at the wrapping, then gasped in delight. They found beautifully crafted hatchets. The weapons were scaled-down for small hands, with polished, razor-keen cutting edges and carved wooden grips.
“You shouldn’t have, Haskeer,” Thirzarr said. “Boys, what do you say?”
“Thank you, Uncle Haskeer!” Beaming, they began to slash the air.
“Well, it should be their blooding soon,” Haskeer reckoned. “They’re… how old now?”
“Corb’s four, Janch’s three,” Stryke supplied.
“And a half!” Janch corrected indignantly.
Haskeer nodded. “High time they killed something, then.”
“They will,” Thirzarr assured him. “Thanks, Haskeer, we appreciate the gifts; but if you don’t mind…”
“I need to talk to you,” Stryke said.
“Not now,” Thirzarr told him.
“It’s important.”
“I’m trying to get these two settled.”
“Would a bit longer hurt? I have to tell you about —”
“Not now. You went for meat. Where is it?”
Given the hint of menace in her voice, Stryke knew better than to argue. He and Haskeer allowed themselves to be pushed out of the door.
When it slammed behind them, Stryke said, “I’ll tell her what happened when she’s cooled down.”
“You know, Stryke, I could almost believe you’re afraid of that mate of yours.”
“Aren’t you?”
Haskeer changed the subject. “So what do we do now?”
“We find our mistress of strategy.”
4
A bucketful of water consists of billions of minute droplets. Rivers and oceans have untold trillions.
No number could be applied to the sea of parallel realities.
Its constituent parts were infinite. They decorated the void in dense, shimmering clouds, each particle a world. In the impossible event of a spectator being present, these tiny grains would appear identical.
But a particular globule, looking like all the others, shining no more or less brightly, differed in one very important respect.
It was dying.
The imaginary observer, peering closer, would make out a world in flux. A bubble of acrid waters and fouled air.
Its surface was one of extremes. Much was still blue-green, but tendrils of aridity patterned the globe. White masses were spreading from the poles, like cream trickling down a pudding, and the atmosphere was tinted by an unhealthy miasma.
There were four continents. The largest, once temperate, now included swathes of semi-tropical terrain. At its core a dustbowl had formed, and previously fertile land was drifting to desert.
A group of militia, fifty strong, made its way across the wilderness. In their midst, two men struggled to keep up on foot. Each was led by a horse to which they were roped. Their hands were tied.
The soldiers bore the crest of a tyrant on their russet tunics. The prisoners were civilians, their clothes stained with sweat and dust.
It was hot. With midday approaching it would get much hotter, but neither man had been allowed water. Their lips were cracked, and their mouths were so dry it was hard for them to speak. They laboured on blistered feet.
There was little between them in age. The slightly older of the two had the look of someone who enjoyed a soft life. His waist was beginning to thicken, and his reddening skin was pasty. He had quick, some would say shifty, blue eyes, and a bloodless slash of a mouth framed by a skinny goatee. His black hair showed a hint of grey and was thinning, revealing the start of a tonsure.
The younger of the pair was fitter and taller. His build was strapping. He had a full head of blond hair and he was clean-shaven, bar a couple of days’ growth. His eyes were brown, and his flesh tone healthy. The filthy clothes he wore had been much cheaper to start with than his companion’s.
The older man shot the younger a sour, anxious look. “When are you going to do something?” he hissed.
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Show some respect, for a start.”
“What do you expect me to do, sir?”
“Your duties include my protection. So far you’ve made a complete —”
“Keep it down!” an officer barked. Several other riders directed hostile glances their way.
“. . . a complete cock-up of it,” the older man continued in a coarse whisper. “You did precious little to stop us being captured, and now you’ re —”
“You got yourself into this,” the younger returned in an undertone, “not me.”
“Us. We’re in it together, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“So it’s you when times are good and us when you’re in the shit. As usual.”
“That insubordinate tongue of yours is going to get itself cut out.” His face was growing redder. “Just you wait ’til I —”
“Until you what? Not exactly a free agent at the moment, are you?”
The older man wiped the back of a manicured hand across his forehead. “You know what’s going to happen when they get us to Hammrik, don’t you?”
“I can guess what’s going to happen to you.”
“What’s good for the master’s good for the servant.”
“That’s as maybe.” He nodded at what was coming into view. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
The towers of a fortress could be seen, wavering in the heat haze like a mirage.
As they drew nearer they saw that it was constructed of a yellowish, sandy stone, not dissimilar to the colour the surrounding landscape was turning to. And it was massive, with walls that looked thick enough to resist an earthquake. Close to, the structure bore signs of conflict. Fresh pockmarks, nicks and cracks told of a recent onslaught.
A ramshackle township mushroomed at the fortress’ base. A muddle of shacks and tents stood in its shadow, and lean-tos hugged the ramparts. People and livestock were everywhere. Water carriers, hawkers, nomads, farmers, mercenaries, prostitutes, robed priests and plenty of soldiers. Mangy dogs ran loose. Hens scratched and piglets ate garbage. There was a sickly odour of sewage and incense.
Orcs: Bad Blood Page 3