Warriors of the Tempest

by Stan Nicholls

  The dragon landed with a gentle bump. Stiff-limbed, Stryke clambered down from behind Glozellan. She stayed perched on the rumbling giant.

  He looked up at her. 'Thank you, Glozellan. Whatever you do, good luck with it.'

  'And you, Captain. But I've something else to say that you must heed. Jennesta is heading for Scarrock, and she's leading an army. She's only a couple of days behind us, and could easily pick up your trail. You aren't safe here.'

  Before he could reply she whispered something in the dragon's capacious ear and urged it away. It lifted, sturdy wings working their rhythm, fleshy legs gathering in. The backwash had Stryke retreating a few paces and shading his eyes with a hand.

  He watched the leviathan impossibly rise, and saw its bulk convert to grace. It climbed, swung, described a courtly circuit overhead. Glozellan's arm went up and out. He returned the farewell. Then she took an eastward bearing and soared away.

  Stryke was still staring when the others arrived.

  Alfray, Haskeer, Jup and several grunts had ridden. Coilla had too, on Gelorak's back. There were scores of other centaurs with them, and the first of the running orcs approached at speed. They gathered around him, everyone's relief palpable. A clamour went up.

  He waved them quiet. 'I'm fine! It's all right, I'm fine.'

  Coilla slid from the centaur's back. 'What's been happening, Stryke? Where have you been?'

  'Learning that an enemy turned out to be a friend.'

  'What—'

  'I'll explain. But over food and drink.'

  He was given a horse and they headed for the forest.

  The short journey allowed him a little time to think about Glozellan's news, and the fact that there seemed no rest.

  Not far from the forest stood a crooked line of low hills topped with copses. On one, hidden in the trees, three figures stretched out, watching events below. They had their horses hobbled in the thicket behind, and were vigilant for patrols.

  The watchers were human.

  'Those bastards,' one of them rumbled vehemently.

  He had a look of depravity that matched his companions', but he was shorter and scrawnier, and had a wiry, nervous energy they lacked. His sickly yellow hair was as thin as his near-transparent goatee, and his teeth were ruins. What nature and self-neglect hadn't given him was provided by enemies; a black leather patch covered his right eye, most of his left ear had been torn off, the little finger of his right hand was grubbily bandaged.

  'Makes me want to puke looking at the things,' he went on, staring at the retreating centaurs, and especially at the orcs. 'Damned filthy, lousy—'

  'Will you shut the fuck up, Greever?' hissed the man lying next to him. 'I can't think for your never-ending whine.'

  The first human wouldn't normally take that kind of talk, but the group's self-appointed leader wasn't somebody to gainsay. He was beefy, if starting to run to seed through dissipation. A scar branded his pockmarked face, travelling from the centre of his cheek to the corner of his mouth. He had greasy black hair and an unkempt moustache. His eyes were dark and harsh.

  'You ain't lost what I have, Micah,' the other returned in a grating whisper. He indicated his eye, ear and finger. 'All because of that orc bitch.'

  'Not your eye though, Greever,' the third human reminded him.

  'What?'

  'Not your eye. She didn't do that.'

  'No, Jabeez, she didn't.' The reply was delivered as though to a wilful and brainless child. 'It . . . was . . . another . . . orc. Same difference!'

  Forehead crimped, the third man took a few seconds to absorb that, then said, 'Oh, yeah.'

  In appearance he was the most conspicuous of the trio. Had the other two been combined into one being he would still easily outweigh them. But his huge bulk was due to muscle, not fat. His head and face were completely hairless. His nose had been broken at least once and set badly. He had a banal mouth, like a knife slash in dough, and the eyes of a newborn hog.

  'Mind you,' he added, 'as for the new wound—'

  Big and dim as he was, the first human's expression stopped him.

  Greever Aulay and Micah Lekmann returned their attention to the forest scene. The last of the orcs and centaurs were entering the forest. Jabeez Blaan fidgeted, impersonating a flesh molehill trying to flatten itself.

  'So what do we do, Micah?' Aulay wanted to know. 'Attack?'

  'Attack? You got a death wish? Course we don't attack!'

  'They're only fucking orcs!'

  'Only orcs? You mean only the best fighters in Centrasia, after our kind? Only the ones that done for your good looks?' He sniggered unpleasantly. 'Them the orcs you mean?'

  Aulay took that but looked murderous. 'We've killed enough of 'em in our time.'

  'Yeah, but not by going square against a band that size, and never in anything like a fair fight. You know that.'

  'So what do we do, Micah?' Blaan asked.

  'Use our heads.' He regarded the questioner. 'Or some of them, anyway. Which is what Greever here ain't doing. He's all fired up, and that clouds his sense.' Lekmann nodded at the forest. 'What we gotta do with this bunch is the tried and tested. Bide our time, take 'em down singly or in small groups. Play our cards smart, we could still turn a coin or two on this.'

  'This ain't about coin no more,' Aulay growled. 'It's about getting even.'

  'You bet. And I want those freaks as much as you do. But maybe we can pick up some bounties too. And that relic thing they stole, that's gotta have value. Revenge tastes sweet and all that, but so does food, drink, the finer things. We need wherewithal.'

  'Who's going to give us bounty or buy that relic except Jennesta? And I reckon we ain't her favourites since we double-dealed her.'

  'I prefer "left her service",' Lekmann corrected.

  'Whatever you call it, I don't think it was too wise a move.'

  'Careful, Greever, you're straying into thinking and that's my territory. I can handle Jennesta.'

  His companions looked doubtful. Aulay replied, 'Maybe you can, maybe you can't. I'm beyond that now. I just want that orc bitch, that Coilla.'

  'But if there's spoils too you'll take 'em, right?' His voice hardened. 'Don't go fucking this. We work together or we're lost.'

  'Don't fret about me, Micah.' He brought up his left hand. Or rather what had been. Now a cylindrical metal plug extended from his wrist. Attached to its end was a sharpened curve of steel, part billhook, part blade. Its polished surface caught and amplified the dismal light. 'Just get us near enough to those freaks and I'll earn my keep.'

  5

  As Stryke dug in his belt pouch he was afraid the phial might have broken. But the miniature ceramic bottle was intact and its tiny stopper was still in place.

  He laid it in Keppatawn's outstretched palm. The centaur stared at it for a moment and seemed uncharacteristically lost for words. Then in an undertone he managed, 'Thank you.'

  'We try to keep our word,' Stryke told him.

  'I never doubted that. But I regret you losing one of your band doing it.'

  'Kestix knew the score. All orcs do. And the mission suited our aim as much as yours.'

  Coilla nodded at the phial and asked, 'What do you do with it?'

  'Good question,' Keppatawn replied. 'I'll have to consult our shaman about that. In any event we need him to complete our bargain. Gelorak, fetch Hedgestus.'

  His second-in-command moved across the encampment toward the seer's coop.

  Stryke was relieved that attention had shifted from him to some extent. He had been fed, watered and generally fussed over. Then, with a sizeable audience looking on, he explained what had happened. But he didn't say anything about Serapheim appearing on the mountaintop, or his strange dream. Nor did he mention the stars 'singing', although the memory of it had him eyeing Haskeer with something like sympathy.

  Most of the others had melted away to their chores, leaving just the Wolverine officers, Keppatawn and Gelorak. Stryke preferred a small group. He didn'
t know how the centaurs would take the news about Jennesta.

  Gelorak re-emerged from the shelter with the ancient seer in tow. Hedgestus moved slowly and falteringly on uncertain legs. A small ornamented chest was tucked under one of Gelorak's arms; he used the other to steady his ward.

  Hedgestus greeted the orcs as Keppatawn took the box. He opened it and showed them the star. It was as they remembered; a grey sphere with two spikes of irregular lengths, made from unidentifiable matter.

  'We keep our word too,' Keppatawn said, holding the box out to Stryke.

  'We never doubted it,' Stryke told him dryly.

  'Before you take this,' the centaur added, 'are you sure you want to?'

  'What?' Jup exclaimed. 'Course we do! Why do you think we went through all that mud and shit?'

  'Stryke knows what I mean.'

  'Do I?'

  Keppatawn nodded. 'I think so. This could be a poisoned chalice. More harm than good may come from it. That's the reputation of these things, and our experience.'

  'We already figured that out,' Coilla said, hinting mild sarcasm.

  'We've chosen our path,' Alfray put in, 'we can't stop now.'

  Unusually for him, Haskeer voiced no opinion. Stryke thought he knew why.

  He reached out and took the star. 'As my officers say, we didn't come this far to give up. Besides, we've no option, no other plan.'

  But then Haskeer offered, 'We do. We could toss those things away. Ride out of trouble.'

  'Where would we ride to that isn't trouble for us?' Coilla asked. 'Outside a dream, that is.'

  Stryke stiffened, then decided she meant nothing by it. 'Coilla's right,' he told Haskeer. 'There's nowhere for us to go, not the way Maras-Dantia is now. And we'd never get Jennesta and the rest off our backs. The stars give us an edge.'

  'We hope,' Jup murmured.

  The band agreed,' Stryke continued pointedly, 'all of us. We said we'd go after the stars.'

  'Never liked the idea,' Haskeer grumbled.

  'You've had plenty of chances to get out.'

  'It's not the band. It's those fucking things. There's something wrong about 'em.'

  'Something wrong about you,' Jup mumbled.

  Haskeer caught it. 'What'd you say?'

  'All you've ever done is whine,' Jup said.

  'Not true,' Haskeer fumed.

  'Oh, come on! And then there was all that cracked stuff about the stars singing at you—'

  'Who you calling cracked?'

  Haskeer was showing a flash of his old volatile self. Stryke wasn't displeased with that, but could see the name-calling about to escalate. It was a complication he didn't need. 'That's enough!' he snapped 'We're visitors here.'

  He turned his attention to Keppatawn, Gelorak and Hedgestus, who looked slightly perplexed. 'We're all a bit tense,' he explained.

  'I understand,' Keppatawn assured him.

  Freeing the cover on his belt pouch, Stryke put the star with its fellows. He was aware of the others watching him do it, and especially of Haskeer, who wore an expression resembling distaste.

  As the pouch was secured, Keppatawn sighed, 'Good riddance.'

  That had Jup raising an eyebrow and the orcs exchanging looks, but none commented.

  'Here,' the centaur chieftain said, handing the phial to Hedgestus 'a tear shed by Adpar.'

  The old seer accepted it gingerly. 'I confess I thought it impossible. That she was capable of something as humane as crying, I mean.'

  'Self-pity,' Coilla informed him crisply.

  'Ah.'

  'But what am I supposed to do with it?' Keppatawn asked.

  'There are precedents in lore to guide us. As with the blood of a warlock or the ground bones of a sorceress, we must assume this essence to be very powerful. It should be employed as a dilution, combined with ten thousand parts of purified water.'

  'Which I drink?'

  'Not if you value your life.'

  'Or your bladder,' Jup let slip.

  Stryke fixed him with a stern gaze but Keppatawn took it in good humour and smiled.

  Hedgestus cleared his throat. 'The potion is to be applied to the afflicted limb,' he went on. 'Not all at once but over three days, and for the best effect during the hours of darkness.'

  'That's it?' Keppatawn said.

  'Naturally there are also certain rituals to observe and incantations to be chanted which—'

  'Which serve to do nought but fill the forest with caterwauling.'

  'They have an important function,' Hedgestus objected indignantly, 'and they—'

  Grinning, Keppatawn waved him down. 'Easy, easy. You know how I enjoy pulling your tail, old charger. If there's a chance of your concoction working you can wail for a month for all I care.'

  'Thank you,' the seer responded doubtfully.

  'So when do we start?'

  'Preparing the solution should be a matter of . . . oh, four or five hours. You can have the first application tonight.'

  'Good!' Keppatawn gave the seer's shoulder a genial if weighty slap. Hedgestus tottered slightly and Gelorak lent his arm again. 'Now we celebrate! Feast, drink, swap lies!' He scanned their faces and paused. 'You seem less than keen, Stryke, from your look. I know you lost a trooper, but this isn't disrespect. It's just our way.'

  'No, it's not that.'

  'What's up, Stryke?' Coilla said.

  'The tear isn't all we brought.'

  Haskeer gawped at him. 'You what?'

  Keppatawn was puzzled. 'Really?'

  'I should have told you earlier,' Stryke admitted. 'Jennesta's on her way to these parts, with an army.'

  'Shit,' Jup whispered.

  'How do you know this?' Alfray asked.

  'Glozellan told me. She'd no reason to lie.'

  'How long before she arrives?' Keppatawn wanted to know.

  'Two, three days. I'm sorry, Keppatawn. She's after us—' he patted his belt bag '—and these.'

  'She has no fight with us, nor we with her.'

  'That wouldn't stop her.'

  'We're used to defending ourselves, should it come to that. But if it's you she's after, why squander her followers' lives? Why divert herself?'

  'In search of us. I reckon she's somehow found out we were in Scarrock. When she sees we're not there, she could end up at your door.'

  'Then we'll make it clear you aren't here either. And if Jennesta wants to argue the point she'll find it costly.'

  'We'll stand with you,' Haskeer promised.

  'Yes,' Stryke agreed, 'we should stay and fight. There are Hobrow's custodians too. They could return.'

  Keppatawn considered that for a moment. 'It's good of you to offer, but . . . no. The stars are important, I see that. We can fight our own battles. You have to get away from here.'

  There was a brief silence, then Jup said, 'Where to?'

  Stryke sighed. 'That's our next problem.'

  'But not one you need worry about now,' Keppatawn told him. 'Join us in food and ale, shrug off your cares for a few hours. Call it celebration or wake, it's your choice.'

  'With the enemy bearing down?'

  'Is whether we feast or not going to stop Jennesta's coming? I don't think so. No more than supping on gruel would.'

  'It's a good way of looking at it, Stryke,' Alfray opined. 'And the band could do with unwinding.'

  Stryke addressed Keppatawn. 'Celebrating a warrior's life or a victory isn't unknown to us orcs. Though it's possible to celebrate too well.' He was thinking of Homefield and how that particular occasion had led to all their later troubles. Before the centaur chief could question his remark, Stryke added, 'We'd be honoured to join you.'

  The passing hours brought mellower moods.

  Fowl, game and fish bones littered the banqueting boards, along with nut husks, discarded fruit and scraps of bread. Honeyed ale had been downed and spilt in quantity.

  Now servers moved among the tables with tankards of mulled wine, and fires were banked against the creeping cold. At Alfray's sugg
estion Stryke had some of the band's cache of pellucid broken out. Smouldering cobs were handed round.

  Off to one side a troupe of centaurs made low music with pipes and hand-harp. Others used muffled beaters to pound drums fashioned from hollowed tree trunks.

  As repleteness, liquor and crystal subdued the revelry, Keppatawn hammered his table with a flagon. The babble and music died.

  'Long-winded speeches don't suit us,' he boomed. 'So let's just toast our allies, the Wolverines.' Tankards were raised, ragged cheers went up. He directed his gaze at Stryke. 'And a salute to your fallen.'

  Stryke got unsteadily to his feet. 'To lost comrades. Slettal, Wrelbyd, Meklun, Darig and Kestix.'

  'May they feast in the halls of the gods,' Alfray responded.

  A more sombre toast was drunk.

  Another tankard was placed in front of Stryke. The server dropped in spice, then plunged a red-hot iron brand into the wine to mull it, releasing its aromatic tang in a little cloud of steam.

  Stryke held up the brew. 'To you, Keppatawn, and your clan. And to the memory of your revered father . . .'

  'Mylcaster,' Keppatawn whispered.

  '. . . Mylcaster.'

  The name was echoed reverently by a number of the centaurs before they drank.

  'To our enemies!' Keppatawn declared, drawing perplexed glances from the orcs. 'May the gods confound their senses, dull their blades and bung up their arseholes!' That brought ribald laughter, particularly from the grunts. 'Now take your ease, and let tomorrow look after itself.'

  The music struck up again. Chatter resumed.

  But a cloud darkened Keppatawn's face as he turned to Stryke. 'My father,' he sighed. 'The gods alone know what he would have made of the changes we've seen. His father would barely recognise the land. The seasons ailing, war and strife, the dying of the magic—'

  'The coming of the humans.'

  'Aye, all our ills stem from that infernal race.'

  'But you don't seem to be doing too badly here in the forest,' Alfray observed.

  'Better than many. The weald nourishes us, protects us; it's our cradle and our grave. But we don't live in isolation. We still have to deal with the outside world, and it's going to hell. The chaos can't be held at bay forever.'