Wheam shrieked.
He carried on doing it for a good half minute while they let the brandy burn itself out.
“He’s fainted,” Dallog pronounced.
“Typical,” Haskeer sneered.
“Think it worked?” Stryke wondered.
Dallog surveyed the damage. “Looks like it. But I suppose we’ll know soon enough. I’ll get him bound.”
Stryke and Coilla stood. On every side, corpses smouldered and crackled.
“So much for no fires,” she said.
8
A rough diamond lying among a fall of hailstones. A beetle moving unhurriedly across a table strewn with grapes. A wind-tossed lily petal caught up in a distant flock of doves. None are less real for being hard to see.
So it was in the limitless ocean of existence, where parallel worlds teemed in numbers beyond reckoning. There were anomalies, constructs that differed from the norm though superficially identical. They were rare to the point of improbability, but genuine enough.
One singularity of this kind was a radiant sphere created and maintained by the vigour of unimaginably potent magic. Within was a world whose entire resources and population were devoted to a single cause. This enterprise was carried out in secrecy, and its heart lay in their only city.
The city was as remarkable as the curious world fashioned to house it. Had an outsider been permitted to see it, not that any ever were, they would have been awed by its startling diversity. It embraced myriad architectural styles. Crystal spires and squat enclosures, soaring arches and faceless blocks. Grand amphitheatres standing adjacent to lofty tree houses; groups of round huts overshadowed by multi-turreted citadels. The city was made of stone, glass, timber, quartz, seashells, congealed mud, iron, brick, marble, ebony, canvas, steel and materials that resisted identification.
Many structures appeared incomprehensible, with no obvious practical or aesthetic function. Some melted into one another as though they had grown rather than been erected. A few appeared to disobey gravity, or continuously shifted, flowing into different shapes as they subtly remade themselves.
Highways and watercourses riddled the conglomeration. The twisting roads, elevated at some points, or burrowing into subterranean labyrinths, defied logic, and only a percentage of the canals and conduits contained water. What ran in others was viscous and of varying colours, and in certain stretches could be taken for quicksilver.
The whole bewildering muddle seemed hardly to qualify as a metropolis at all, yet it had an eccentric kind of organic coherence. Given enough time, a visitor, of which there were none, would realise that the city was best understood as the coming together of numerous cultures. A glimpse of its inhabitants would confirm it.
At the centre of the city there was a particularly imposing cluster of buildings. They were topped by a tower made of something that looked like polished ebony. It had no windows, or need of them; those inside saw infinitely more than mere glass could show.
The hub of the tower was a large chamber near its apex. Had a stranger entered they would have seen that the walls seemed to be covered in hundreds of framed works of art, all of the same size and uniformly rectangular. Closer inspection would reveal that they weren’t paintings or sketches, and far from still life. They moved.
The frames were like apertures, through which a perplexing variety of constantly changing landscapes could be glimpsed: deserts, forests, oceans, cities, villages, rivers, fields, hamlets, cliff faces, towns, marshes, jungles, lakes and other, unrecognisable terrains, bizarre and alien.
One wall consisted of a single enormous aperture, its surface faintly rippling as though covered by an oily, transparent film. The scene it displayed was less easy to grasp than the others. It was entirely black, except for five pinpoints of golden light, clustered together and glowing like hot embers.
There were beings of many races present, and they were engrossed by it.
The highest ranking was human. Entering late maturity, Karrell Revers had silvering, close-cropped hair and beard, though he remained vigorous and straight-backed. Astuteness glinted in his jade eyes.
“That’s it,” he declared, pointing at the image. “We’ve found them.”
“You’re sure?” Pelli Madayar asked. She was a young female of the elf folk, dainty of form and with features so delicate she looked almost fragile. An appearance that belied both her stamina and the force of her will.
“You’ve not seen instrumentalities via the tracker before, Pelli,” Revers replied. “Over the years, I have, though seldom. Believe me, we’ve found them.”
“And they’ve been activated.”
He nodded at the screen. “As you can see.”
“Do we know who by?”
“Given where the artefacts are located, we can make an educated guess. I think they’re with the one race not represented in the Gateway Corps.”
“Orcs?”
“I’d bet on it.”
“So you take this to be the set created by the sorcerer Arngrim.”
“Almost certainly. We’re sure they were fashioned there,” he indicated the screen again, “in the region known locally as Maras-Dantia, and that they passed through many hands before being seized by a band of renegade orcs.”
“And then they disappeared.”
“Several years ago, after we picked up their last flaring. Which indicated, of course, that they must have transported whoever possessed them to another habitation. Where that may have been, we have no idea. Tracking is an imprecise art, relying more than a little on luck. Wherever they were, the instrumentalities have lain dormant until now.”
“So we don’t know it’s the set Arngrim made.”
“Their provenance can be established. As you’re aware, every assemblage of instrumentalities has a signature. Its own song. We can verify their origin once we’ve recovered them. That’s not important. What is important is that a set has been activated, and the possible consequences of that are dire at the best of times. But to think they could be in the keeping of a race like the orcs —”
“We don’t know that either. Perhaps they’ve passed to someone else.”
“Someone capable of taking them from orcs? Unlikely. And I can’t see the orcs trading them once they realised what they were capable of.”
“Could they? See their potential, I mean. They don’t have a reputation for being the brightest of races.”
“But we can credit them with a certain base cunning. Which seems to have served them well enough to employ the instrumentalities. Though to fully direct the artefacts requires magical ability, and we should be grateful that’s something orcs don’t have.”
“As do few of your race, Commander,” she gently reminded him.
“You’re not suggesting they’re capable of mastering sorcery?”
“Who’s to say what rogue intellect nature might have thrown up? Or perhaps they have help from someone who already has the necessary skills.”
“So we have two alarming prospects. Instrumentalities in the hands of an ignorant race wedded to bloodletting, or somebody directing the orcs for purposes of their own. The ramifications of either are incalculable.”
“What do we do?”
“We fulfil the remit the Corps was established for; the duty our forebears have carried out over the centuries. We do what we were all born to, Pelli. Whatever it takes.”
“I understand.”
“This needs dealing with at the highest level. As my second-in-command, I’m entrusting you personally with the task of recovering the artefacts.”
She nodded.
Revers turned to face the rest of his team. Dwarfs, gnomes, brownies, centaurs, elves and representatives of half a dozen other races stared back at him. All were dressed in variants of the black garb he and Madayar wore, with a stylised field of stars motif on their chests.
“We have a crisis brewing,” Revers told them. “Instrumentalities falling into unauthorised hands is such an uncommon event that, fo
r some of you, this is the first time you would have experienced it. But you’ve been trained for such an eventuality, and I expect you to act in accordance with the highest standards of the Gateway Corps.” He looked to the screen and its five luminous points of light. Everyone followed his gaze. “We take for granted the multiplicity of worlds. We don’t know who first discovered their existence or the means to move between them. Some conjecture that it was an ancient, long-extinct race. Others among you credit your gods. We can speculate on that endlessly and never find an answer; any more than we will ever know the true origins of magic. But that doesn’t matter. Our purpose is not to plumb the mystery but to bar irresponsible access to the portals.” He scanned their faces and saw resolve there. “The Corps has never failed to recover known instrumentalities, or to punish those responsible for their misuse. This will be no exception. You all have your duties. Attend to them.”
The crowd dispersed.
He returned his attention to Madayar. “We have to move quickly, before the artefacts are used again and we lose sight of them. Pick whoever you want for your squad and take any provisions you need.”
“Do I have discretion in how I deal with this?”
“Act in any way you see fit. And I know it’s asking a lot of you, Pelli, but bear in mind it’s vital that the existence of the Corps remains secret.”
“That won’t be easy, particularly if we have to use force.”
“Try persuasion if you can. Though I’ve little faith in that approach working with orcs. They’re beyond the pale. Remember, you serve a higher moral purpose. If it’s necessary to exterminate any who stand in your way, so be it. You’ll have weaponry superior to anything you’re likely to run into in Maras-Dantia.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that. We elves like to think that few beings are beyond salvation. Surely even orcs are susceptible to reason?”
9
Stryke dragged his blade from the human’s gizzard and let him drop. Spinning, he slashed the throat of another man-thing, unleashing a scarlet gush. Then he bowled into a third, thrashing at his sword with brutal, ringing blows.
To left and right, the Wolverines were joined in fierce hand-to-hand combat. Coilla and Haskeer dispatched two adversaries, she with a pair of daggers worked in harmony, he wielding a lacerating hatchet. Dallog impaled an opponent with the spar the band used to fly its standard. Underfoot, the withered sward was slick with blood.
It was dawn, and they fought in a makeshift campsite set in a hollow, screened from the trail by a thick copse. A covered wagon was parked, with over a score of horses tethered nearby. The same number of humans battled to defend it.
The conflict was intense but short-lived. With more than half of their strength downed, somebody on the human side yelled an order. They pulled back and fled.
“Let ’em go!” Stryke barked. “They’re leaving us what we want.”
Coilla glimpsed one of the retreating humans. It was a woman, and she had long, straw-blonde hair.
“See that?”
“What?” Haskeer said.
“Those humans riding off. One of them was a female. Young, barely adult.”
“So?”
“I think I’ve seen her before. Though I’m damned if I can remember where.”
“Humans all look the same to me.”
“That’s true.” She shrugged. “Don’t suppose it’s important.”
Stryke joined them. He was wiping the gore from his blade with a cloth. “Well, that was a lucky meeting. For us.”
“Who do you think they were?” Coilla asked.
“Does it matter?”
“Notice how many of them were dressed alike? Could have been Unis.”
“So humans are still divided amongst themselves. Surprise. Let’s get on with it, shall we? That wagon should have drinking water and victuals. And now there’s enough horses for everybody. If we move ourselves we can reach Quatt today.”
For all that they were travelling south, and into supposedly milder climes, the terrain grew even more bleak. The trees were bereft of greenery, and a brook they passed ran yellow with filth.
“You sure we’re on the right path?” Coilla asked.
Riding alongside, Stryke cast her a wry look. “For the tenth time, yes.”
“Doesn’t look much like the way I remember it, that’s all.”
“This place’s had four more years of being broken by humans. That takes a toll on the land. And they’ve spoilt the magic. Those bloodsuckers were one upshot of that.”
“At least Wheam seems to be on the mend.” She turned and looked back down the line to where Wheam and Dallog were riding abreast. The youth wore a miserable expression, as usual, and his neck was bound, but some of his natural olive-grey colour was back.
“What’s this?” Stryke said.
Coilla returned her attention to the road. A small group of figures was approaching. Some rode a rickety wagon, most were walking.
Haskeer galloped to the front of the line. “Trouble, Stryke?”
“I don’t know. They don’t seem too threatening.”
“Could be a trap.”
“Stay alert!” Stryke warned the column.
Coilla shaded her eyes and squinted at the newcomers. “They’re elves.”
“And a mangy looking lot,” Haskeer added.
The party consisted of no more than a dozen. Those on foot trudged wearily. The wagon carried three or four old-timers, along with a couple of youngsters. All appeared fatigued and ill-nourished. They didn’t react to the orcs in any noticeable way, or slow their somnolent plodding.
Leading them was a male. He was mature, although it was always hard to determine exactly how old an elf might be. His once fine clothes were shabby and he bore grime from too many days on the road.
When he reached the orcs he raised a painfully thin hand and his entourage ground to a halt.
“We have nothing,” he declared by way of greeting.
“We’ve no need of anything from you,” Stryke replied.
“Does that include our lives? It’s all we have left.” There was only fatalism in his voice.
“We don’t harm those who show us no threat.” Stryke eyed their sorry state. “You’re a long way from home.”
“What’s brought a noble race like the elves down to this state?” Coilla said.
“I could ask the same of orcs.”
“We’re doing all right,” Haskeer informed him gruffly.
“Then you’re rare among your kind,” the elf returned. “No race prospers in this land anymore. Except one.”
“You mean humans,” Stryke said.
“Who else? They are in the ascendancy and the elder races are being pushed back to ever remoter enclaves. Soon, our kind will retreat into myth as far as humans are concerned.”
Stryke could have told him that this was the humans’ world by birthright, let alone conquest. Instead he asked, “Where are you headed?”
“Few havens remain, and all in distant parts. We decided on the far north.”
“That’s a bleak region to choose.”
“It will be no more bitter than life here has become.”
“You can’t be all that’s left of the elf nation, surely?” Coilla remarked.
“No. Our numbers are greatly decreased, but not to this extent. We are merely the remnants of one clan.”
“And the rest of your race?”
“Those who aren’t dead are enslaved or scattered. We seem destined to be a diaspora. If we survive at all.”
“Why run?” Haskeer growled. “Stand up to ’em. Fight the human bastards.”
“We don’t possess the superior combat skills of orcs, or have as strong a taste for bloodshed. Magic was our only real weapon. But that’s so depleted as to be near useless. It’s come to one thing only for us: the hope that we may continue to exist.”
“Is there any way we can aid you?” Stryke asked.
“You’ve spared our lives. That’s a
id enough in these troubled times. Now if you’ll permit us to pass…”
Stryke brought out his water pouch and offered it to him. “You can probably use this. And we can spare a little in the way of food.”
The elf hesitated for a moment, then took the pouch. He nodded his thanks. Then Stryke had a couple of the privates load some provisions on the wagon.
As the elves were about to depart, their leader paused. “Let me repay your benevolence with a word of caution, though you should know what I’m about to say well enough. Maras-Dantia holds nothing but misery and peril, even for orcs. It’s become a wheel that breaks the hardiest spirit. You’d be well advised to find yourselves a fastness and try to weather the storm, as we are.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left.
The Wolverines watched the little troupe make its way along the north-bound trail.
When they were out of earshot, Haskeer said, “What do you think of that?”
“I’ll tell you what I think,” Coilla replied. “Why won’t you males ever ask for directions?”
Riding hard, they arrived at Quatt three hours later.
What was a particularly verdant district now looked as if it had been in the grip of an endless winter. In common with every other part of the land they’d seen, the terrain had an exhausted, washed-out quality.
They looked down on the wooded heart of the dwarfs’ homeland from the crest of a hill.
“I feel a bit uneasy,” Coilla admitted.
“Why?” Stryke said. “Think they won’t welcome us?”
“We’re orcs, Stryke; when is anybody ever pleased to see us? But it’s not that so much. I’m more worried they might have moved on, like those elves. Or that Jup’s dead.”
“Or maybe the unfriendly ones have taken over down there,” Haskeer put in.
Stryke stared at him. “Unfriendly?”
“The ones who sided with the humans for coin.”
Coilla rolled her eyes. “Aah, not that again!”
Orcs: Bad Blood Page 9