The pair inspected the room, looking behind drapes and opening doors. They said nothing. Seemingly satisfied that no assassins lay in wait, they shambled to Hacher and the priest. One extended a beefy, parchment-coloured hand.
“I hope you’ve no intention of searching me?” Hacher complained indignantly.
“We’ll let it pass this time.”
As they turned to the source of the voice, a female swept into the room. Even Hacher, who had seen her before, was taken aback by her appearance. For Grentor, it was a new and startling experience.
There was something perplexing, not to say downright disturbing, about the way she looked. The structure of her face was strangely off beam. It was just a little too flat and wide, especially across the temples, and her chin narrowed almost to a point. Her skin was curious. There was a light silvery green patina to it, as though stippled with tiny fish scales. Her nose was slightly convex, and her shapely mouth seemed overly broad. She had ink-black hair that fell to her waist.
What held Hacher and Grentor were her eyes. They were dark and undoubtedly mesmeric. But they had a deeper, more unsettling feature. Like portals, they allowed a glimpse into a realm of shadowy matter; infinite, merciless, chaotic.
Ignoring any rational definition of the word, she was beautiful. Beautiful in the way of a carnivorous plant, a wolf spider or ravening shark. Nightmarish yet alluring. Unwholesome.
She snapped her fingers. The sound was loud and brittle. In the silence that had settled on the room, it was almost shocking. The two dead-eyed bodyguards responded to it as surely as a spoken command. Turning as one, they strode out, Hacher and Grentor staring after them.
Hacher collected himself first, and greeted their guest. “My Lady Jennesta.” He bobbed his head respectfully.
“Hacher.”
“May I introduce Brother Grentor, High Cleric of the Order of —”
“Yes, yes.” She waved away the rest of his sentence with a lazy motion of her hand. “I’m aware of who he is.”
Grentor was halfway through a low bow. He straightened, looking uncomfortable.
“Please, ma’am,” Hacher said, gesturing to the best chair in the room, “be seated.”
She regarded it with the disdain of someone expecting to be offered a throne. But she suffered the indignity, the silk of her emerald gown giving a gentle swish as she sat.
“Those bodyguards…” Hacher began, his gaze flashing to the door in anticipation of them returning any second.
“A fitting way to employ miscreants, don’t you think, Governor?” Jennesta smiled.
Her teeth were small and white and quite sharp.
“Miscreants?”
“Enemies of the state. Dissenters. Those who would challenge our authority.”
Hacher felt sure she meant her authority, but kept that to himself. “One of them… I thought I recognised —”
“You probably did. Disloyalty has no respect for position. The blight can even infect those quite high up in the administration.”
Hacher had no doubt that was a not very veiled warning directed at him.
“How better to punish traitors than having them serve the state they sought to undermine?” Jennesta went on. “Dead yet undead; an exquisite fate.” Her relish was palpable. “But I’m not here to discuss my pets. There are concerns, Hacher.”
“Ma’am?”
“You know my meaning well enough. The situation here is displeasing.”
“It’s true we’ve had our problems. But there are stirrings in all the provinces from time to time. We have things under control.”
“Really? And what happened yesterday, was that an instance of how in control you are?”
“Ah, you heard about that.”
“I hear about everything, Governor. Have no doubts on that score.”
“We have a small seditious element. They got lucky.”
“They had a human with them.” She glared balefully. “Is treachery rife here, too?”
“It was some kind of fluke. Such a thing has never been known.”
“Until now. How many more humans can we expect to side with the beasts?”
“The event was serious; I’m not denying that, ma’am. But it would be a mistake to take one incident and —”
“But it isn’t just one. You have the makings of a rebellion here.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. You’re complacent. What measures have you taken against the military who allowed the raid to succeed?”
“Reprimands have been issued and —”
“Have all those responsible executed.”
“Our own people?”
“To think they call you Iron Hand.” She laughed derisively. “You’re soft, Hacher. That’s why the governance of this region is so dismal. Discipline will be imposed, and you’ll start by signing death warrants as I dictate.”
“I protest at this blatant —”
“And if you don’t want to see a warrant bearing your name nailed to the castle gate, they’ll be some changes of attitude in this administration.”
In deference to her superior position, Hacher suffered the threat in silence.
Jennesta turned her attention to Grentor. “There’s no call for you to feel smug about this.”
“I can assure you, ma’ am —”
“The Order has done as badly in Acurial as the military,” she ploughed on. “The martial and magical wings are expected to cooperate and support each other. That obviously isn’t happening.”
“I beg to differ. We’ve never faced this kind of situation before.”
“But it’s just a handful of rebels, according to the Governor.” Her words dripped sarcasm. “Oh, and a lone human who’s made cause with them. But that’s too much for you, even with the sorcery you have.”
“With respect, members of the Order have lost their lives fighting these rebels,” Grentor informed her gravely.
“Then they deserved to, and good riddance. Any who aren’t up to the task have no place in any Order I lead.”
“That’s a little harsh, if I may say so. As you know, ma’am, magic can be an imprecise art.”
“Fool. It’s only as crude as those practising it.” Jennesta deftly unwound the silken scarf she wore, and bunched it. “Here, catch.” She lobbed it at the priest as though it were a child’s ball.
By reflex, he made to catch it. The ball sailed over his outstretched hand. It unravelled and became a streamer. Then it grew indistinct, and seemed to alter in form as it fluttered against his upper body.
Grentor gave an audible intake of breath. The scarf was wrapped around his neck. Only it was no longer a scarf. What had been embroidered silk was now a three-headed brimstone-coloured viper with a black zigzag stripe running the length of its scaly body. It constricted, choking off the priest’s air. Forked tongues whipped from each of its hissing heads. Wickedly sharp fangs sought his flesh.
Despite knowing it had to be a glamour, Grentor began to panic. He tried to cry out, but only managed a croak. His face turned ashen. The snake squeezed tighter.
Hacher had looked on in horror. Now he moved in the priest’s direction.
Jennesta made a casual hand gesture.
The viper disappeared. Grentor let out a sigh of relief. He staggered a few steps to the room’s large oak table and leaned against it, palms pressed on its surface, head down. He was panting.
The scarf was in Jennesta’s hand. She put it back on, heedless of the little drama playing out in front of her. “There’s no excuse,” she said. “The magic flows strong through this land, pure and powerful. Unlike some places I’ve been.”
If Hacher and Grentor wondered what she meant, they were too awed or too discomfited to comment.
“Heed me, priest,” Jennesta continued. “Things will improve. Because High Clerics can find themselves demoted to humble brothers. And worse.”
Grentor nodded, still dazed. He rubbed at his neck, and the
re was fear in his eyes.
A silence descended. It didn’t seem to bother Jennesta, but Hacher found it awkward. For want of anything better to say, and incongruous as it sounded, he heard himself mouthing, “You must think me a poor host, my Lady. Can I offer you refreshments?”
She fixed him with a stare he had difficulty holding. “The refreshments I take are of a special order, and something I enjoy privately. But that does remind me…” She looked to the doors and, as if bending to her will, they opened.
Her pair of mindless bodyguards hobbled in. One had an ornately carved wooden box under his arm. This was presented to Jennesta. When she opened it, the minders’ usual sluggish manner became something like excited. They licked their cracked lips with black, mottled tongues, and began to drool.
Jennesta fished something out of the box. It was russet in colour, and looked like a chunk of desiccated meat, or perhaps a greatly engorged worm. She dangled it at arm’s length. In what appeared to be a well practised movement, the bodyguards sank to their knees, as though begging. She tossed the morsel.
There was a brief scuffle. Then one of the minders was stuffing the meat into his mouth and crunching it with pleasure. His companion was aggrieved, but brightened when she threw him a titbit of his own. They sprawled on the floor, chewing earnestly, brown juice running down their chins.
Jennesta noticed Hacher staring at the open box. “They require sustenance,” she explained. “I also find it convenient to neuter my subordinates. So in a spirit of waste not, want not…”
Hacher gaped at her. “You mean…”
“Privy parts are very nutritious. I can attest to that myself.” She continued feeding them like dogs.
Grentor’s complexion went grey. He put a hand over his mouth and turned his head.
Hacher steadied himself with a deep breath. “What do you want us to do about the situation here, my lady?” he asked.
“I know orcs of old. However placid this Acurial variety may seem, I know what they’re capable of. Particularly when exposed to a malignant influence from elsewhere, as I’ve reason to believe is happening.” Jennesta flung another piece of meat. “What Taress needs,” she said, as her minions bit noisily into their treat, “is a reign of terror.”
19
The sun rose blood red. A run of fine days looked threatened by drab clouds and chill breezes.
The weather was of no concern to a group concealed among the trees on the peak of a hill overlooking Taress. They were a motley collection of beings that would have dismayed both humans and orcs had they been seen. Which was why they employed means both practical and magical to make sure they weren’t.
One of their number required solitude for the task she had to perform. At a distance from the others, she knelt by the edge of a pool. She had sprinkled certain herbs and compounds over its still waters while reciting the necessary incantation. The pool had bubbled and seethed, and took on the quality of a finely polished mirror.
Now Pelli Madayar of the elfin race looked down at the image of the human Karrell Revers. Through the power of sorcery she and the principal of the Gateway Corps conversed across dimensions.
“I think I made a mistake,�� she confessed. “I should have approached the Wolverines in Maras-Dantia.”
“Why didn’t you?” Revers asked.
“There was little opportunity. The land was in such turmoil. I was afraid that if we revealed ourselves to them it would have been seen as hostile.”
“If that was your best judgement you acted wisely.”
“But because things in Maras-Dantia were so chaotic it might have been a better place to approach the warband, and do battle with them if necessary. Here, the potential for harming innocents is greater.”
“That you want to retrieve the instrumentalities by peaceful means does you credit, Pelli. But bear in mind that retrieve them you must, by whatever means.”
“Let me try it my way.”
“I’m content with that. But should you meet opposition you have what it takes to overcome it.”
“This is a much more regulated, oppressed world than Maras-Dantia. There are only two races, orcs and humans; and the orcs are cruelly subjugated. Our freedom of movement is greatly restricted. We wouldn’t last a moment here without being spotted.”
“Then use the art to cloak yourselves.”
“We will if necessary. But you know how draining that can be.”
“I trust your discretion. And Pelli… I appreciate that you feel some sympathy for downtrodden orcs, and that’s praiseworthy. But you must put that out of your mind. These creatures have a potential for savagery unmatched by virtually any other race. Be sure your compassion isn’t misplaced.”
“I understand.”
“This is all the more important because of something that’s just come to our attention.”
“Sir?”
“Our seers have picked up an anomaly in your sector.”
“Another set of instrumentalities?”
“We’re not sure. But it’s certainly a source of great magical power, and not far from your present location. It could be an individual, or a group. We can’t tell at this stage.”
“Another player?”
“Perhaps. Whatever it is, you need to be doubly cautious.”
“We will.”
“What are your plans?”
“At the moment the group’s recovering from the transference. We’ll begin our surveillance shortly. As soon as an opportunity arises to confront the warband, we’ll take it.”
“Good. Meantime, let’s hope the Wolverines don’t do anything that might lead to the instrumentalities falling into even more malign hands.”
“So we’re agreed,” Stryke whispered. “If either of us falls, the other takes the stars. If we both go down, it’s Dallog’s job.”
“And if he’s not around?” Coilla wondered.
“One of the grunts.”
“Anybody but Haskeer, eh?”
“I’d trust Haskeer with my life. The stars are something else.”
“If he ever finds out we were plotting behind his back —”
“We’re not plotting, just protecting something precious.”
“All right. But it’s a pity we couldn’t just hide the damn things somewhere.”
“Where?”
“Like I said, it’s a pity we can’t. Now can we concentrate on what we’re supposed to be doing?”
They were in the centre of Taress. Although it was early, the streets bustled. Carts loaded with provisions vied with traders leading strings of mules. Costermongers hawked their trays of wares, and roadside stalls dispensed meat, flour and wine.
The vast majority of those abroad were orcs. But human patrols were much in evidence, and pairs of soldiers could be seen on many street corners, eyeing the crowds. Occasionally, troopers on horseback ploughed the throng.
Despite all the activity there was surprisingly little in the way of idle chatter or raised voices. The citizenry’s mood seemed sombre. Up above, the sky was growing slate coloured, and the day was already uncomfortably muggy.
Stryke and Coilla kept their heads down and tried to look as though they were going about their business like everybody else. They dressed soberly in work clothes supplied by the resistance, and their weapons were well concealed.
Following directions they’d been given, they skirted the central, most populous part of the city. Across squares and through alleys, their pace even and expressions bland, they finally reached their destination. It was a quarter largely given over to storehouses and stockyards. But there was one, down-at-heel, tavern.
Brelan and Chillder were waiting for them, seated at one of the empty wooden tables scattered outside.
“We thought you weren’t coming,” Chillder gently teased.
“Are we running to plan?” Stryke asked as he sidled between table and bench to sit.
“More or less,” Brelan replied. “Though we’ll be tight if there are foul-up
s.”
“We’ll have to be sure there aren’t,” Coilla said. She had perched herself on the end of the table, one booted foot on the seat. “Which there won’t be if everybody follows orders.”
“Our side will.”
“No worries then.”
“Everything all right with Jup and Spurral, and the humans?” Stryke said.
“They’re back at HQ helping with training, as we agreed,” Chillder told him. “You do understand, don’t you, Stryke, that we couldn’t let them take part in this operation? If anybody saw them —”
“I understand.” He did, but also smelt an undercurrent of prejudice. Though it wasn’t hard to see why, at least as far as the humans were concerned.
“Heads up.” Coilla nodded.
Haskeer and a quartet of non-ranking orcs were heading their way; and from another direction, Dallog with three more.
“Good place to meet,” Haskeer announced on arrival. “How about a drink?”
“No,” Stryke said. “We need clear heads for this.”
Brelan got up. “The others will be in position by now. We should be moving.”
“Does everybody understand their part?” Coilla asked.
“Yeah, yeah,” Haskeer came back impatiently. “Let’s get on with it.”
They formed three groups. The first consisted of Stryke, Coilla, Chillder and two privates. Haskeer, Brelan and another pair of grunts made up the second. That left Dallog and the three remaining grunts as the third. The groups were mixed in such a way that each had at least one resistance member who knew the territory.
Without further word, the three groups moved off on their respective missions. Haskeer’s and Dallog’s went toward the city centre; Stryke’s headed deeper into the warehouse district.
The streets were lined with substantial, faceless buildings here, and the roads were wider than in the residential quarters, to allow for heavier wagon traffic. There were few signs of life.
“Your plan’s good, Coilla,” Stryke said.
“But?”
“There are risks.”
“We know that.”
“Not so much to us. There’s going to be a lot of non-combatants in the path of —”
Orcs: Bad Blood Page 19