Bodyguard of Lightning

by Stan Nicholls

  She showed no surprise at his presence. Indeed her expression was almost passive, or at least as passive as a face so strong and active could be. As she neared him, she smiled, openly and with warmth. He was aware of a faint stirring in his loins.

  'Well met,' she said.

  Reflecting on her comeliness, he did not immediately respond. When he replied, it was hesitantly. 'Well . . . met.'

  'I don't know you.'

  'Nor I you.'

  She asked, 'What is your clan?'

  He told her.

  'It means nothing to me. But there are so many.'

  Stryke glanced at the unfamiliar shields on the long-house. 'Your clan isn't known to me either.' He paused, captivated by her fetching eyes, before adding, 'Aren't you wary of greeting a stranger?'

  She looked puzzled. 'Should I be? Is there a dispute between our clans?'

  'Not that I know of.'

  She flashed her appealing, sharpened yellow teeth again. 'Then there's no need for caution. Unless you come with evil intent.'

  'No, I come in peace. But would you be as welcoming if I were a troll? Or a goblin? Or a dwarf of unknown allegiance?'

  Her mystified look returned. 'Troll? Goblin? Dwarf? What are they?'

  'You do not know of dwarves?'

  She shook her head.

  'Or gremlins, trolls, elves? Any of the elder races?'

  'Elder races? No.'

  'Or . . . humans?'

  'I don't know what they are, but I'm sure there aren't any.'

  'You mean there aren't any in these parts?'

  'I mean that your words are lost on me. You're odd.' It was said without malice.

  'And you speak in riddles,' he told her. 'Where are we in Maras-Dantia that you do not know of the other elder races, or of humans?'

  'You must have journeyed a long way, stranger, if your land has a name I've never heard of.'

  He was taken aback. 'Are you telling me you don't even know what the world is called?'

  'No. I'm telling you it isn't called Maras-Dantia. At least, not here. And I've never known another orc who spoke of us sharing it with these . . . elder races and . . . humans.'

  'Orcs decide their own fate here? They make war as they choose? There are no humans or—'

  She laughed. 'When was it otherwise?'

  Stryke furrowed his craggy brow. 'Since before my father's father was hatched,' he muttered. 'Or so I thought.'

  'Perhaps you've marched too long in the heat,' she offered gently.

  He gazed up at the sun, and a realisation came to him. 'The heat . . . No chill wind blows.'

  'Why should it? This isn't the cold season.'

  'And the ice,' Stryke continued, ignoring her answer. 'I haven't seen the advancing ice.'

  'Where?'

  'From the north, of course.'

  Unexpectedly, she reached out and grasped his hand. 'Come.'

  Even in his confusion he was aware that her touch was agreeably cool and clammy. He allowed her to lead him.

  They followed the downward path of the stream until they left the village behind. Eventually they came to a place where the land fell away, and Stryke and the female stood on the edge of a granite cliff. Here the stream became a pool, slipping from its far lip as a waterfall, a foamy cascade that plunged to rocks far below in a greater valley.

  The silver thread of a river emerged from somewhere at the foot of the cliff, slicing across olive plains that stretched endlessly in all directions. Only the tremendous forest to their right curbed the ocean of grassland. Vast herds of grazing beasts, too numerous to count, ranged further than Stryke could see. An orc might spend a lifetime hunting here and never want for prey.

  The female pointed, dead ahead. 'North,' she said.

  There were no encroaching glaciers, no looming slate sky. All he saw in that direction was more of the same; luxuriant foliage, an infinity of green, a thriving abundance of life.

  Stryke experienced a strange emotion. He could not explain why, but he had a nagging sensation that all this was somehow familiar, as though he had seen these wondrous sights and breathed deep of this unsullied air before.

  'Is this . . . Vartania?' He all but whispered the sacred word.

  'Paradise?' She smiled enigmatically. 'Perhaps. If you choose to make it so.'

  The alchemy of sunlight and airborne spray birthed an arcing rainbow. They silently marvelled at its multicoloured splendour.

  And the soothing rush of water was balm to Stryke's troubled spirit.

  He opened his eyes.

  A Wolverine grunt was pissing into the ashes of the fire.

  Stryke snapped fully awake. 'What the fuck do you think you're doing, Private?' he bellowed.

  The grunt scooted off like a scalded whelp, head down, fumbling at his breeches.

  Still muzzy from the dream, or vision, or whatever it was, it took a moment for Stryke to realise that the sun had risen. It was past dawn.

  'Gods!' he cursed, scrambling to his feet.

  He checked his belt for the cylinder, then quickly took in the scene. Two or three of the Wolverines were unsteadily exploring wakefulness, but the rest, including the lookouts he'd posted, lounged all over the compound.

  Sprinting to the nearest huddle of sleeping figures, he laid about them with his boot. 'Up, you bastards!' he roared. 'Up! Move yourselves!'

  Some rolled from the kicks. Several came alive with blades in their hands, ready for a fight, then cowered on recognising their tormentor. Haskeer was among them, but less inclined to quail at his commander's rage. He scowled, returning his knife to its sheath with deliberate, insolent slowness.

  'What ails you, Stryke?' he rumbled sullenly.

  'What ails me? The new day ails me, scumpouch!' He jabbed a thumb skyward. 'The sun climbs and we're still here!'

  'And whose fault is that?'

  Stryke's eyes narrowed dangerously. He moved closer to Haskeer, near enough to feel the sergeant's fetid breath against his face. 'What?' he hissed.

  'You blame us. Yet you're in charge.'

  'You'd like to try changing that?'

  The other Wolverines were gathering around them. At a distance.

  Haskeer held Stryke's gaze. His hand edged to his scabbard.

  'Stryke!'

  Coilla was elbowing the grunts aside, Alfray and Jup in tow.

  'We don't have time for this,' she said sternly.

  Captain and sergeant paid her no heed.

  'The Queen, Stryke,' Alfray put in. 'We have to get back to Cairnbarrow. Jennesta—'

  Mention of her name broke the spell. 'I know, Alfray,' Stryke barked. He gave Haskeer a last, contemptuous look and turned away from him.

  Sullenly, Haskeer backed off, directing a venomous glare at Jup by way of compensation.

  Stryke addressed the warband. 'We'll not march this day, we'll ride. Darig, Liffin, Reafdaw, Kestix; round up horses for all. Seafe, and you, Noskaa; find a couple of mules. Finje, Bhose; gather provisions. Just enough to travel light, mind. Gant, take who you need and release those gryphons. The rest of you, collect up our gear. Now!'

  The grunts dispersed to carry out their orders.

  Scanning his officers, Stryke saw that Alfray, Jup, Haskeer and Coilla looked as bleary-eyed as he probably did himself. 'You'll see they waste no time with those horses and mules, Haskeer,' he said. 'You too, Jup. And I want no trouble from either of you.' He curtly jerked his head to dismiss them.

  They ran off, keeping well apart.

  'What do you want us to do?' Alfray asked.

  'Pick one or two grunts to help divide the pellucid equally among the band. It'll be easier to transport that way. But make it clear they're carrying it, not being given it. And if any of 'em has other ideas, they'll get more than their arses tanned.'

  Alfray nodded and left.

  Coilla lingered. 'You look . . . strange,' she said. 'Is everything all right?'

  'No, Corporal, it isn't.' Stryke's words dripped venom. 'If you hadn't notice
d, we should have reported to Jennesta hours since. And that might mean getting our throats cut. Now do as you're told!'

  She fled.

  Wisps of the vision still clung to his mind as he damned the rising sun.

  They left behind the ruins of the human settlement, and the trampled, deserted battlefield beneath it, and headed northeast.

  An upgrade in their trail took them above the rolling plains. The liberated gryphons were spreading across the grasslands.

  Riding beside Stryke at the head of the column, Coilla indicated the view and said, 'Don't you envy them?'

  'What, beasts?'

  'They're freer than us.'

  The remark surprised him. It was the first time she'd made any comment, even indirectly, that referred to the situation their race had been reduced to. But he resisted the temptation to agree with her. These days an orc did well not to speak too freely. Opinions had a way of reaching unintended ears.

  He kept his response to a noncommittal snort.

  Coilla regarded him with an expression of curiosity, and dropped the subject. They rode on in grim silence, maintaining as rapid a pace as they could over the uneven terrain.

  At mid-morning they came to a winding track that led through a narrow ravine. It was deep, with tall grassy walls rising at gentle gradients, making the pass wedge-shaped. The constricted path meant the band could ride no more than two abreast. Most took it single-file. Stony and cramped, the trail slowed them to a trot.

  Frustrated at the delay, Stryke cursed. 'We have to move faster than this!'

  'Using the pass gains us half a day,' Coilla reminded him, 'and we'll make up for more on the other side.'

  'Every passing minute is going to sour Jennesta's mood.'

  'We've got what she wanted, and a cargo of pellucid as bonus. Doesn't that stand for something?'

  'With our mistress? I think you know the answer to that, Coilla.'

  'We can say we ran into strong opposition, or had trouble finding the cylinder.'

  'No matter the story we tell; we aren't there. That's enough.' He glanced over his shoulder. The others were far enough behind to be out of earshot. 'I wouldn't admit this to everybody,' he confided in a hushed tone, 'but Haskeer was right, blast his eyes. I let this happen.'

  'Don't be too hard on yourself. We all—'

  'Wait! Ahead!'

  Something was coming towards them from the opposite end of the ravine.

  Stryke held up a hand, halting the column. He squinted, trying to identify the low, broad shape moving their way. It was obviously a beast of burden of some sort, and it had a rider. As he watched, several more came into view beyond it.

  Down the line, Jup passed the reins to a grunt and dismounted. He jogged to Stryke. 'What is it, Captain?' he said.

  'I'm not sure . . .' Then he recognised the animals. 'Damnation! Kirgizil vipers!"

  Though commonly referred to as such, kirgizils weren't vipers at all. They were desert lizards, much shorter than horses but of roughly the same mass, with wide backs and stumpy, muscular legs. Albino-white and pink-eyed, they had forked tongues the length of an orc's arm. Their dagger-sharp fangs held a lethal venom, their barbed tails were powerful enough to shatter a biped's spine. They were stalking creatures, capable of remarkable bursts of speed.

  Only one race used them as war chargers.

  The lizards were near enough now to leave no doubt. Sitting astride each was a kobold. Smaller than orcs, smaller than most dwarves, they were thin to the point of emaciation, totally hairless and grey-skinned. But appearances were deceptive. Despite the gangly arms and legs, and elongated, almost delicate faces, they were obstinate, ravening fighters.

  Pointed ears swept back from heads disproportionately large in relation to their bodies. The mouth was a lipless slash, filled with tiny, sharp teeth. The nose resembled a feral cat's. The eyes were golden-orbed, glinting with spite and avarice.

  Quilled leather collars wrapped their unusually extended necks. Their reed-slim wrists prickled with razor-spike bracelets. They brandished spears and wicked-looking miniature scimitars.

  In the business of thievery and scavenging, kobolds had few equals in all Maras-Dantia. They had even fewer when it came to meanness of temperament.

  'Ambush!' Jup yelled.

  Other voices were raised along the column. Orcs pointed upward. More kirgizil-mounted raiders were sweeping down at them from both sides of the gully. Standing in his saddle, Stryke saw kobolds pouring in to block their exit.

  'Classic trap,' he snarled.

  Coilla tugged free a pair of throwing knives. 'And we walked right into it.'

  Alfray unfurled the war banner. Horses reared, scattering loose shingle. The orcs drew their weapons and turned to face the enemy on every side.

  Half befuddled from the pellucid, looted wine and rougher alcohol of the night before, the Wolverines were outnumbered with barely room to manoeuvre.

  Blades flashing in the sun, the kobolds thundered in for the attack.

  Stryke roared a battle cry and the warband took it up.

  Then the first wave was on them.

  5

  Stryke didn't wait to be attacked.

  Digging his heels into the flanks of his horse, he spurred it toward the leading raider, pulling to the left, as though to pass the kobold's charging lizard. The horse shield. Stryke kept it firmly on course, reins wrapped tightly around one hand. With the other he brought his sword up and back.

  Caught out by the swiftness of the move, the rider tried to duck. Too late.

  Stryke's blade cleaved the air. The kobold's head leapt from its shoulders, flew to the side and hit the trail bouncing. Sitting upright, a fountain of blood gushing from its stump, the corpse was carried past by the uncontrolled kirgizil. It ran on into the melee at Stryke's rear.

  He laid into his next opponent.

  Coilla lobbed a knife at the raider nearest to her. It buried itself in the kobold's cheek. The creature plunged screaming from its mount.

  She singled out another target and threw again, underarm this time, as hard as she could. Her mark instinctively pulled back sharply on its reins, bringing up the viper's head. Her missile struck it squarely in the eye. Roaring with pain, the animal's body pitched to one side, crushing its rider. Both writhed in thrashing agony.

  Coilla steadied her horse and reached for more knives.

  On foot when the attackers swept in, Jup had armed himself with an axe and was swinging it two-handed. A kobold, unsaddled by a glancing blow from a Wolverine sword, lurched into range. Jup split its skull. Then a mounted attacker side-swiped the dwarf. He spun and chopped deep into the rider's twig-thin leg, completely severing it.

  All around, orcs were engaged in bloody exchanges. About a third of them had been de-horsed. Several of the archers had managed to notch their bows and wing bolts at the raiders. But the fight was already too close-quartered to make this feasible for much longer.

  Haskeer found himself boxed in. One opponent hacked at him from the trail side. The other delivered slashing downward blows from the gully's slope, its dextrous kirgizil gripping the treacherous incline with ease. Fearful of the lizards, Haskeer's panicking horse bucked and whinnied. He lashed out to the right, to the left and back again.

  An orc arrow smacked into the chest of the kobold on the slope, knocking it clean off the viper's back. Haskeer turned full attention to the opponent on his other side. Their blades clashed, returned, clashed once more.

  A pass sliced across Haskeer's chin. It wasn't a serious wound, though the steel was keen, but it caught him off balance and he fell from the horse. His sword was lost. As he rolled from pounding hooves and swishing reptilian tails, a spear was hurled at him. It narrowly missed. He struggled to his feet and wrenched it from the ground.

  The kobold that had unseated him came in for the kill. Haskeer had no time to straighten the spear. He brought it up to fend off the creature's arcing sword. It sliced the shaft in two, showering slivers of wood. D
iscarding the shorter end, Haskeer swung the remainder like an elongated club, swiping the kobold full in the face. The impact sent it crashing to the ground.

  Haskeer rushed in and began viciously booting the creature's head. For good measure he jumped on its chest, pounding up and down with all his might, knees bent, fists clenched. The kobold's ribcage snapped and crunched. Blood disgorged from its mouth and nose.

  Alfray fought for possession of the Wolverines' banner. A kobold, standing in its stirrups, had hold of the pole. Grimly, Alfray maintained an iron grasp, his knuckles whitening as the rod went back and forth in a bizarre tug-of-war. For such an insubstantial-looking creature, the kobold was tenacious. Avaricious eyes narrowed, spiky teeth bared, it hissed horribly.

  It was close to gaining its prize when Alfray delivered an orc's kiss.

  Throwing himself forward, he head-butted the kobold solidly in its bony forehead. The creature flew backwards, letting go of the pole as though it were a hot poker. Alfray quickly levelled the shaft and rammed the sharpened end into his assailant's abdomen.

  He turned, ready to inflict the same fate on any enemy near enough. What he saw was a Wolverine grunt trading blows with a raider and getting the worst of it. Exploiting an opening, the kobold lunged in, its scimitar swiftly carving a scathing X on the orc's chest. The trooper went down.

  Urging on his horse, Alfray galloped full pelt at the kobold, holding the banner pole like a lance. It penetrated the creature's midriff and exited its back with an explosion of gore.

  Working his way up the trail, Stryke was heading for his fourth or fifth opponent. He wasn't sure which. He rarely kept count. Two or three kills earlier he'd abandoned the reins, preferring his hands free for combat. Now he held on to and guided the horse solely by applying pressure with his thighs. It was an old orc trick he was adept at.

  The kobold he was fast approaching held a large, ornate shield; the first he had seen any of them carrying. That probably made this particular individual a chieftain. Of more concern to Stryke was how the shield might hinder him in killing its owner. He decided to adopt a different strategy.