“You mean the way dwarfs . . . blow with the wind?”
“We both know what we’re talking about, Coilla. My race has a reputation for siding with whoever has the most coin, even if they happen to be Unis. Some see it as treachery. I reckon we’re just . . . practical.”
“So how practical is it being in one of Jennesta’s warbands? You could be doing something less dangerous, and probably better paid.”
“I can’t answer for all my kind, much as Haskeer keeps trying to hold me to account. It might seem strange to you, what with you orcs having been bartered into the Queen’s service and all, but some of us think there’s a cause worth fighting for here. Somebody’s got to stop the humans tearing the guts out of Maras-Dantia. The bad ones, anyway.”
“Indentured or not, most of us think that too. Look, Sergeant, I don’t give a fuck about the politics. All I care about is whether my comrades are good at their job and are gonna cover my back.”
“That’s the way I see it. And that’s the thing about Haskeer. He’s a bastard, but he’s a good fighter, and he’s enough of a team player to be there when you want him. It’s one of the things I like about orcs.” He smiled. “By the way, forget the rank. Call me Jup.”
“Is he the only one giving you a hard time?”
“He is now, more or less. I had to do a lot to prove myself when I first joined this band. It’ll be the same with you for a while.”
“Only dwarf and only female, eh?”
“Right. But at least you have the advantage of being an orc.”
They entered the square. Strands of bunting had been hung and pennants billowed in the wind. Numerous clan shields were racked in columns. Mountainous bone-fires stood ready for kindling by tarred arrows at the height of the celebrations.
Skirting roped-off areas set aside for tourneys later in the day, the band moved into the shadow of the palace. A grand tent had been pitched, cloth flapping, regal ensigns basted on either side of its entrance. Two orc sentinels guarded it, spears crossed. Recognising Stryke, they stepped aside, allowing the band to file into the cavernous interior.
Burning brands and watery sunlight dappled by the marquise’s fabric gave the place an eerie illumination.
As one they stopped, regarding with awe what was housed there.
Alfray laid a hand on Coilla’s arm. “First time you’ve seen him?”
A nod was all she could manage.
Most of the grunts stared with something near reverence, and not a little superstitious dread.
At length, Jup decided, “I think it’s unnatural, and probably unsanitary.”
“Watch what you’re insulting, short-arse,” Haskeer rumbled ominously.
Stryke gave them a stern look and mouthed, “Show respect.”
A throne of some splendour had been placed in the centre of the tent. It was embellished with beaten gold inlays and silver tracings. Its backrest was fashioned into the likeness of a phoenix rising from artfully carved flames. Rubies served as the beast’s eyes, and burned crimson. If not quite managing the grandeur of any of Jennesta’s thrones, it was still fit for a warlord.
Braetagg sat in it.
More accurately, he was propped, one hand resting on the hilt of a jutting broadsword. The empty scabbard lay across his lap, and he wore a simple gold crown. His mail shone, his leather trews were unsullied and his boots had been polished.
His skin was stretched, clearly showing the outlines of bones beneath, and it had the colour of yellowing parchment. Once stitched, his mouth now had a rictus that displayed several teeth of similar hue. The eyes were hollow sockets. There was a faint tint about the corpse’s parched flesh that spoke of the unguents and herbs employed by the embalmers.
“He looks like he could stand up and talk to us,” Haskeer declared wonderingly.
“I fucking hope not,” Jup said.
Horns of ale and canteens of rugged wine were snapped from belt clips. Handing them round, the band took turns toasting their forebear. In solidarity, even Jup had his share. When it came to Coilla, they all watched approvingly as she downed hers without blanching. She noticed Haskeer draining his flask in a single draft.
They lingered for a while, then Stryke ordered them out.
Blinking in the stronger light, they took a second to realise the crowd was facing the palace, heads craning. They followed their gazes to a high balcony and the figure standing there.
Queen Jennesta was dressed in white, her cascade of ebony hair flowing free in the keen breeze. From where they were standing her features couldn’t really be made out. But they were familiar enough with her half-human, half-nyadd ancestry, and the abnormal geometry of her dark beauty.
The Wolverines had come late to her address, or quite possibly harangue. In any event, distance and the wind made it hard to catch more than odd words. They were trying to interpret what they could hear when she raised her arms and began negotiating a complex series of hand gestures.
There was a blinding flash of orangey-green light. Something like a fireball streaked down from her lofty perch, leaving a vivid red trace-line in its wake. It struck one of the steeped bonfires with a thunderous roar and the pile instantly erupted in flames. The crowd cheered and hooted.
“Bread and circuses,” Alfray sniffed, seemingly unimpressed.
“Come on,” Jup told him, “Braetagg’s Day existed long before she came along.”
“And purloined it.”
They watched the pyre consume itself, their enthusiasm a little dampened.
The Wolverines were lounging on the decking of one of their longhouse billets when Reafdaw came back from his errand.
“Get it?” Stryke said.
“Yes, Chief.” Smiling, the grunt took a small pouch from his belt satchel and handed it over.
The others gathered to watch Stryke open it. Inside was a quantity of tiny crystals, translucent but with a faint purple-pinkish hue.
“Seems choice,” Alfray judged.
Coilla leaned over to look. “Hmmm, pellucid. That should brighten the day.”
“You can’t beat a good charge of crystal lightning,” Jup agreed.
“Don’t think we’re going to make a habit of this,” Stryke warned them. “See it as Braetagg’s treat. Do the honours, will you, Alfray?”
The corporal rummaged in his field medical bag for a mortar and pestle, then set to grinding the crystals into a fine powder. Reafdaw helped him pack it into cobs.
Soon a distinctive aroma perfumed the air as the first pipes were passed round.
Expelling a long plume of chalky smoke, Jup wheezed, “I think I’m warming to this Braetagg.”
“That better dot be nisrespectful,” Haskeer said. “Er . . . Bhat tetter . . . Uhm . . . Just don’t take the piss, right?”
“Yuck fou,” the dwarf returned jovially.
Haskeer’s glazed eyes took on a puzzled cast.
Ribald jokes were told, triggering helpless laughter. Grunts took turns at the peculiarly orcish art of boasting, embellishing their deeds to points beyond absurdity. There was a lot of giggling.
Stryke leaned against the wall, the back of his head cradled in linked hands. “Another hour of this and the festivities proper should be getting under way.”
“If we can still walk to it,” Alfray slurred.
Jup was adrift in a convoluted and largely incoherent anecdote when Coilla interrupted with, “Who’s that?”
Bloodshot eyes lazily turned the way she indicated. Three mounted orcs galloped towards them. One had a fluttering purple cloak.
“Shit,” Stryke cursed, scrambling unsteadily to his feet. “Crelim.”
Coilla squinted at him. “Who?”
“Crelim. The General’s aide-de-camp. Up! All of you, up!”
There was an unsteady rising, aided by the tip of Stryke’s boot. Swaying orcs brushed dirt from their breeches and watched the party arrive.
Perfunctory salutes exchanged, Crelim lost no more time on formalities. “Di
rect orders from General Kysthan. Special assignment. You’re to come with me. Now.”
“Today, Major?” Stryke protested. “Is it really nec —”
“Our enemies are no respecters of days, Captain, and I’m not here for a debate.” He took in their appearance and reckoned their state. “Get your heads into a water butt first if you have to, only move your arses!”
Accompanying themselves with wholesale low-key grumbling, they did as they were told.
The crowds were bigger and growing. Crelim and his outriders, wordless, led them back to the square, and across it to the tent. A mass of orcs were outside, marshalled by a strong contingent of sentries.
“Jennesta’s own Imperial Guard, no less,” Alfray whispered.
Stryke nodded, still trying to clear out the fug.
When they dismounted, Crelim ordered the grunts to stay outside. He went in with Stryke, Haskeer, Alfray, Jup and Coilla.
There were more guards inside, living and dead. The detail assigned to protect Braetagg was sprawled on the ground, throats cut or backs knifed. Blood had splashed the tent walls.
More shocking was the absence of Braetagg himself.
Jup regarded the empty throne and said, “Maybe you were right, Haskeer. He got up and walked away.”
“That’s more than you’ll be doing if you don’t shut that mouth.”
Stryke silenced them with a chopping motion and a venomous face.
Crelim pointed to a wide slash in the back of the tent. “That’s how they got him out.”
“Why would anybody want to take him?” Coilla wondered. “I mean, what for?”
The Major shrugged. “All I know is that if the festivities start and there’s no Braetagg there could be disorder.”
“To put it mildly,” Alfray said.
“We can’t afford this getting out,” Crelim went on, “which is why we’ve brought in a special-operations band. You’re to act in secret. Your orders are to retrieve Braetagg’s remains and get them back here pronto.”
“And if we don’t?” Stryke asked.
“The Queen herself wants this resolved.”
“Don’t bother coming back, in other words.”
“You said it, Captain.”
Eyes closed, Stryke massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. He sighed. “Any idea who might have done this?”
“No. But there’s one possibility. Some pyros have been seen in the area over the last couple of days. One of the dragon patrols sighted a party of them just yesterday afternoon, down towards Hecklowe.”
“And that’s all there is to go on?”
Crelim nodded. “We’re relying on you. Don’t tarry.”
He turned and left, retinue in tow.
“On fucking Braetagg’s —”
“Don’t say it, Haskeer,” Stryke cautioned in even, icy tones.
“Pyros?” Coilla said.
“A human cult. Fire worshippers or some such.”
“What, Manis? Unis?”
“Don’t think they’re either.”
“They’re a magical sect,” Alfray explained.
Coilla was disdainful. “What? Since when did humans have magic any more than orcs do? They’re only good at bleeding it.”
“Maybe they’re seekers of magic rather than actually possessing it,” Jup suggested. “They probably want some mastery of the earth energies, like most of the other elder races.”
“Sounds crazy to me,” Haskeer opined.
“And your point is? We’re talking about humans, bonehead.”
“Who you calling a bonehead, you little scumpouch?”
“Enough!” Stryke growled. “Who knows what good Braetagg’s corpse is to these pyros, if they took it. What’s important is getting it back, else the day ends in bloodshed.”
Jup was examining the area around the empty throne. “Perhaps magic’s the key,” he told them. “My mild magic, farsight. Though it’s much depleted, thanks to those fucking interfering humans.” He knelt and plucked something from the seat of the throne. They saw it was a minute scrap of cloth. “This isn’t Braetagg’s. It’s a coarse weave, not like anything he was wearing.”
“Could be anybody’s.”
“True. But it doesn’t match any of the guards’ uniforms either.” He looked up at Stryke. “Most of all, it’s the only clue we have.”
“Is it enough?” Alfray wondered. “For the farsight?”
“I don’t know,” the dwarf replied. “Could be. What do you reckon, Stryke?”
“You’re supposed to be a trailblazer. Blaze.”
They were around ten miles west of Cairnbarrow. The palace’s spires could still be seen, but so too could the bulwark of the glacier, a thin white line dominating the northern horizon. Light rain had begun to fall. It was sallow, with a vaguely unpleasant odour reminding them of sulphur and decaying things.
The mounted band looked on as Jup crouched with his hands immersed in mud, eyes closed, sampling the earth energies. Eventually he stood and started wiping the muck away. “The strength’s irregular. Bastard humans.”
“But?” Stryke said.
“But I think they’re heading for Taklakameer.”
“It’s kind of a big area to cover, isn’t it?” Coilla ventured. “For just thirty of us?”
“Yes,” Stryke agreed. “So the sooner we get on, the better.”
They continued westward. Every so often, Jup used his erratic farsight and insisted their quarry was still moving towards the inland sea.
Eventually the band arrived at a bluff overlooking the wind-rippled waters. The vastness of the sea, and the curling mists clinging to its surface, meant the far shores couldn’t be seen. But the water lapping the nearest bank was scummy and defiled.
“Now what?” Alfray wanted to know.
“Can your farsight narrow the search, Jup?” Stryke asked.
“Not much more than this. You know water can smother it.”
“How so?” Coilla said.
“Water holds the magic, in the same way forest glades and remote valleys do. Maybe because those are harder places for humans to plough up, mine and graze.”
“If there’s more magic, doesn’t that increase your farsight?”
“That’s the problem. It heightens the power but also everything I pick up. It’s hard to explain. You could say it’s a bit like being blinded by the light.”
Stryke had a plan. “We’ll split into two groups and scour the shore north and south. I’ll lead one, along with you, Alfray, and you, Coilla. We’ll take half the grunts and head south. Haskeer and Jup, you’ll take the other half. If either group comes across anything they can’t handle, send a runner.”
They set off.
Stryke’s group hugged the shoreline, and they could see Jup and Haskeer’s doing the same. Soon they were out of sight of each other.
After riding in silence for a few minutes, Coilla ventured, “Is it safe leaving those two together, Captain?”
“Who?”
“Jup and Haskeer, of course.”
“It’s true there’s not a lot of love lost between them, but when the cards are down, they’re Wolverines first. Anyway, they’re not hatchlings. If they behave like they are, on a mission, they’re out and they know it.”
“Have you run into these pyros before?”
“Not really. Some of the other bands have.”
“They’re not numerous but they are fanatical,” Alfray added, “and that’s often more dangerous.”
“What’s the plan if we find them?” Coilla said.
Stryke looked as though he found the question odd. “We kill them. What else?”
“Keep your eyes peeled.”
“That’s a fucking stupid thing to say,” Haskeer flared. “What else do you think I’d be doing?”
“I don’t know,” the dwarf said. “Playing with your fertilising sac?”
“Get off that horse and I’ll ram your head up its arse.”
“It’d
be an improvement over looking at your face.”
“You want yours rearranged, just say.”
“Yeah, in the middle of a mission. That’d be really smart.”
“Sergeants!” one of the grunts hissed.
“What?” they chorused irritably.
“Over there.” He pointed.
Off to their right, inland from the shore, stood a brace of low dumpy hills with a copse between. The light of a fire could be seen through the trees.
Haskeer and Jup brought the column to a halt.
“What do you reckon?” Haskeer said.
“Let’s do a recce.”
“All of us?”
“Nah, we can handle this by ourselves.”
The grunts were ordered to stay with the horses. Jup and Haskeer went off.
They approached the copse stealthily, keeping low, cutting a zigzag path. Then they were on their bellies, crawling in the undergrowth, until they stopped at the fringe of a clearing.
A large fire had been built at its centre. Twenty or thirty figures clustered around it, their shadows elongated and grotesque in the gathering dusk. The figures had oddly shaped heads.
Haskeer gawped at them. “What the hell race are they?”
“Humans, dolt,” Jup whispered. “They’re wearing wolves’ heads.” Something else caught his eye. “Look over there.”
At the edge of the firelight, Braetagg’s body lay stretched out on a flat rock. One of the wolf-headed humans stood close by. The arcane movements of his hands, accompanied by a low chant from many of the others present, implied a ritual of some kind.
“We need the full strength for this,” Jup reckoned. “Let’s get out of here.”
Haskeer nodded. “Right.”
“Wrong.”
They didn’t even get a chance to turn and see who’d spoken. Seized by rough hands, they were hauled to their feet. Half a dozen humans, sporting wolves’ heads like macabre cowls, surrounded them. Blades against their throats, the Wolverines were disarmed and their wrists bound.
Haskeer shot Jup a venomous look. “ ‘We can handle this by ourselves,’ ” he mocked.
“Hold your noise!” one of the humans ordered. “Least until the Master gets started on you.” He smirked at his comrades. They broke into unpleasant laughter.
Orcs Page 78