“I’m sorry for your trouble,” Coilla told him. “But I for one don’t understand what you want us to do.”
“Restoring the full use of my body means more to me than any amount of gems or coin. Or even crystal. It’s the only thing I would barter for the star.”
“We’re not healers,” Jup reminded him. “How can we achieve that? Our comrade Alfray here has some curative powers, but—”
“Mending such an injury would be beyond my meagre abilities, I’m afraid,” Alfray put in.
“You misread me,” Keppatawn said. “I know how my condition can be righted.”
Stryke swapped puzzled looks with his officers. “Then how can we be of help?”
“My hurt was magically inflicted. The only cure is itself magical.”
“We aren’t wizards either, Keppatawn.”
“No, my friend; had it been that simple I would have engaged the services of a wizard long since. The only thing that will make me whole again is the application of one of Adpar’s tears.”
“What?”
There were general murmurs of disbelief from the orcs.
“You’re taking the piss,” Haskeer reckoned.
Stryke glared at him.
Fortunately, Keppatawn didn’t take umbrage. “I wish I was, Sergeant. But I speak the truth. Adpar herself let it be known that such was the sole remedy.”
The ensuing silence was broken by Coilla. “I suppose you’ve thought of offering her a trade? The star for the return of your health.”
“Of course. Her treachery bars that. She would see it as a way of having both the star back and my life. I was only maimed in the first place because she couldn’t kill me. Nyadds are a malicious and vengeful race. As we know too well from the raiding parties that occasionally swim up the inlet to the forest.”
“Let’s get this straight,” Stryke said. “We get you one of Adpar’s tears and you’ll give us the star?”
“On my word.”
“What would it involve, exactly?”
“A journey to her realm, which lies at the point where Scarrock Marsh blends into Mallowtor Islands. That’s only a day’s ride from here. But there’s trouble there. Adpar makes war on her merz neighbours.”
“They’re peace loving, aren’t they?” Haskeer asked. He used the word peace like a curse.
“With Adpar so close they’ve had to learn not to be. And there are disputes over food. The ocean is not immune from the disruption wrought on the supply of magic by humans. We have problems with nature’s balance ourselves.”
“Where does Adpar’s palace lie, precisely?” Stryke wanted to know. “Can you show us on a map?”
“Yes. Though I fear getting there is by far the easiest part of the task. My father once mounted an expedition with the aim of seizing Adpar. He and all his companions were lost. It was a grievous blow to the clans in its time.”
“No disrespect to your father’s spirit, but we’re used to fighting. We’ve handled determined opposition before.”
“I don’t doubt it. But that wasn’t what I meant about the hardest part. I was wondering how you could induce a stony-hearted bitch like Adpar to produce a tear.”
“The subject’s a bit of a mystery to us,” Coilla confessed.
“How so?”
“Orcs don’t cry.”
Keppatawn was taken aback. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”
“Because our eyes don’t leak?”
“We’ll have to think on that aspect of it,” Stryke interrupted. “But subject to talking this over with my band, we’ll give it a go.”
“You will?”
“I make no promises, Keppatawn. We’ll spy out the land, and if it looks an impossible task we won’t go on. Either way, we’d be back to tell you.”
“Possibly,” the centaur remarked in an undertone. “No slight intended, my friend.”
“None taken. You’ve made the dangers clear.”
“I suggest you rest here tonight and set out on the morrow. And I couldn’t help but notice that your weapons are somewhat less than adequate. We’ll re-equip you with the best we have.”
“That’s music to an orc’s ears,” Stryke replied.
“One more thing.” Keppatawn slipped a hand into a pocket of his leather apron. He brought out a small ceramic phial and handed it to Stryke.
Alfray studied its exquisite decoration. “Do you mind if I ask where you got this?”
An expression came to Keppatawn’s face that could almost be called bashful. “Another youthful prank,” he admitted.
20
Every time he ventured into what he persisted in thinking of as out there, he paid a price. His powers diminished by a small but discernible degree. The ability to properly co-ordinate his thoughts grew poorer.
He hastened his own death.
As he couldn’t spend enough time here regenerating between visits, the problem was likely to escalate. Indeed his actions were endangering even here itself.
He dwelt on the very real likelihood that he made no difference by going out. He might even have made things worse, for all that his interventions were light and as limited as he could manage.
On the last occasion he almost brought disaster down on their heads. In trying to do the right thing he came near doing wrong again.
But there was no choice. Events were too advanced. And now even the vessels of his own blood were turning on each other. Only unpredictable fate prevented catastrophe, and what little he might be able to do. Weary as he felt, he had to prepare to go forth once more, in the guise.
He could have wished for death to remove the burden, but for the guilt engendered by knowing he was responsible for so much suffering. And for worse to come.
The sombreness of the gathering was only outweighed by its rising sense of panic.
Adpar lay in a dimly lit coral chamber. She had been placed on a seaweed bed, whose healing properties were thought beneficial, through which water was allowed to ebb in the hope that it too might prove rejuvenating. For good measure her body was covered in plump leeches that gorged on her blood in the belief it would thereby be purified.
She was in a delirium. Her lips trembled, and the silent words she mouthed could be made sense of by nobody. When semidelirious she raged against the gods and, more vehemently, her sibling.
A select group was present, drawn from higher elders, the military’s upper ranks and her personal healers.
The chief of all the elders took aside the Head Physician for a whispered conversation.
“Are you any nearer finding the cause of this malady?” he asked.
“No,” the elderly physic admitted. “All the tests we have tried give no clue. She responds to none of our remedies.” He moved closer, conspiratorially. “I suspect a magical influence. If it didn’t go against all of Her Majesty’s expressed wishes, when she was able to make them, I would have called in a sorcerer.”
“Dare we disobey and do so anyway? Given that she seems beyond ken of what’s happening?”
The healer drew an appraising breath through his scabrous nyadd teeth. “I know of no manipulator of the magic anywhere near competent enough to deal with this. Not least because she disposed of all the best ones herself. You know how much she dislikes the thought of rivalry.”
“Then can we not summon one from outside the realm?”
“Even if you could find anyone willing to come, there’s the question of time.”
“Are you saying she might not survive?”
“I wouldn’t care to pronounce on that, to be honest. But we have brought back patients with ailments as grave, though granted we knew what they were. I can only—”
“No procrastination, please, healer. The future of the realm is at stake. Will she live?”
He sighed, wetly. “At the moment she is more likely to pass than stay.” Hurriedly he added, “Though we are of course making every possible effort to save her.”
The elder looked at the queen’s dread
fully pale, sweat-drenched face. “Can she hear us?”
“I’m not sure.”
They moved back to the bedside. Lesser minions gave them room.
Stooping, the chief elder whispered gently, “Majesty?” There was no response. He repeated himself in a louder tone. This time she stirred slightly.
The physician delicately applied a damp sponge to her brow. Her colouring took on a paltry improvement.
“Your Majesty,” the elder said again.
Her lips moved and her eyes flickered.
“Majesty,” he repeated insistently. “Majesty, you must try to listen to me.”
She managed a faint groan.
“There is no provision for the succession, Majesty. It is vital the issue be settled.”
Adpar mumbled weakly.
“There are factions who will vie for the throne. That means chaos unless an heir is appointed.” In truth he knew she had made sure there were no obvious contenders by the simple expedients of murder and exile. “You must speak, ma’am, and give a name.”
She was definitely trying to speak now, but it didn’t carry.
“A name, Majesty. Of who is to rule.”
Her lips moved more tenaciously. He bowed and put his ear close to her face. Whatever she was saying was still unclear. He strained to understand.
Then it became clear. She was repeating a single word, over and over again.
“. . . me . . . me . . . me . . . me . . .”
He knew it was hopeless then. Perhaps she wanted to leave chaos. Or perhaps she couldn’t believe in her own mortality. Either way the result would be the same.
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.
<
br /> “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.
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