Warriors of the Tempest

by Stan Nicholls

  'I had no fever.'

  It took a moment for that to soak in. Finally she said, 'You too?' Her tone was incredulous.

  'Me too.'

  'Gods, you've been bottling a lot up, haven't you?'

  'Still think I'm sane?'

  'If you're mad, Haskeer is too. Mind you . . .' They exchanged dry smiles. 'What do you mean by singing?' she asked. 'Can you put it better than he did?'

  'Not really. It's like the dreams, hard to explain. But singing's as good a word as any.' His hand went to the pouch at his belt. It had become an unconscious action, like the fingering of a fetish object. If asked, he would have said it was because he so feared losing them.

  'I owe Haskeer an apology.' she said. 'I doubted him. We all did.'

  'It's changed the way I look at what he did,' Stryke admitted. 'But don't tell him. Don't tell anybody about any of this.'

  'Why not?'

  'Wouldn't exactly inspire them, would it? Having a leader plagued by odd dreams and singing stars.'

  'But you've told me. Why?'

  'I figured you'd hear me out. And I reckon that if you think I'm some kind of lunatic, you'd say so.'

  'As I said, I don't think you are. Something's happening to you, that's for sure, but it doesn't look like madness from where I'm standing.'

  'I hope you're right,' he sighed. 'So you'll keep this to yourself for the sake of band discipline?'

  'If that's what you want, yes. But I think they'd understand. The officers anyway. Even Haskeer. Hell, especially Haskeer. This isn't the kind of thing you can keep secret forever though.'

  'If it really starts getting in the way of commanding the Wolverines, I'll tell them.'

  'Then what?'

  'We'll see.'

  She didn't press him on the point. 'If you want to talk again,' she offered, 'you know I'm here.'

  'Thanks, Coilla.' He felt better for unburdening himself, but also just a little shamed for confessing something he thought of as a weakness. Though it made some difference that she didn't seem to see it that way.

  The rest of the band were packing away their gear and rolling up blankets. One or two were looking Stryke's way, expecting orders.

  He passed the canteen to Coilla. 'Warm yourself on this. We'll have to move again.'

  She took a swig and handed back the bottle. As they got to their feet, she asked, 'What do you think our chances are at Ruffetts View?'

  'Could be promising. That's what I feel anyway.'

  'Well, most of your hunches have paid off up to now. The longer the odds, you still come up. Maybe there's something in what Jup said about you getting farsight.'

  She meant it light-heartedly. They both knew orcs had never had magical powers. But it hinted at another layer of complexity, and mystery, neither found particularly amusing.

  'Let's get out of here,' Stryke said.

  They rode on through the evening, alert for further trouble.

  Coilla found herself at the back of the band, just forward of the rear lookouts, with Alfray at her side.

  After some trivial exchanges he glanced ahead and behind, then confided, 'I'm worried about Stryke.'

  She was taken aback, given her earlier conversation with Stryke, but didn't show it, and replied with a simple, 'Why?'

  'You must have noticed how he seems so buried in himself.'

  'He has been a bit distant at times,' she conceded.

  He looked at her sceptically. 'More than that, I'd say.'

  'He's under great strain, you know that. Anyway, it's not as if he's leading us badly, is it?'

  'There might be one or two in our ranks who disagree.' He glanced her way. 'You know I'm not one of them. I've seen a lot of leaders in my time,' he added, 'and served under quite a few. He's the best.'

  She nodded agreement, although her own experience was nothing against his. And in that second she realised how old Alfray was. At least, how old compared to the rest of them. It was something she always took for granted, and she was surprised at the impact the awareness had on her, at how unequal it was to the smallness of her observation. The danger they faced was drawing them all closer together, making them truly see each other for the first time.

  'We've got to support him,' Alfray said.

  'Of course we will, we're a warband. The finest damned warband. Even those few dissenters you mentioned, they'll stand fast for Stryke.' She didn't say it just because she thought that was what he wanted to hear.

  He smiled approval, satisfied.

  They rode on, preoccupied with their own thoughts and a mite drowsy from lack of sleep. Finally Coilla came out with, 'That battle you mentioned, at Carascrag . . .'

  'What about it?'

  'It made me think how little history we know. It's being lost, like everything else. But you've seen so much . . .' She stopped, afraid he'd see that as a reference to his age, a subject he'd been touchy about lately. But his expression showed no affront.

  'Yes, I have,' he agreed. 'I've seen Maras-Dantia in a better state, when I was a hatchling and a young orc. Not like it was in our forebears' times, but better than now. The humans weren't as numerous, and the magic had only just started to fail.'

  'But the elder races fought against the incomers.'

  'Eventually. The trouble is that what made this land great is also its biggest weakness. We're too diverse. The old suspicions and hostilities delayed the races uniting. Some didn't even see a threat until it was almost too late. Hell, maybe until it was too late.'

  'And things have gone downhill ever since.'

  'Which is why it's so important to keep the ancient customs alive.' He slapped his palm against his heart. 'Here, if nowhere else. The first place we respect the traditions is in each of us.'

  'That's becoming a bygone way of looking at it.'

  'Perhaps. But think of the comrades we've lost. Slettal, Wrelbyd Meklun, Darig, and now Kestix. We couldn't give one of them a decent sending off, and that cheapens their lives.'

  'We weren't able to. You know it's not always possible in combat.'

  'There was a time when it would have been. A time when the traditions were upheld.'

  She was surprised by his passion. 'I didn't know you felt this strongly about it.'

  'Tradition is what's held us together, and we throw that away in our peril. It's one thing that keeps us different, keeps us . . . us. I mean look at how the Square's disregarded these days, even scorned by some of the younger ones.'

  'I have to admit I sometimes wonder if religion's served us that well myself.'

  'Don't take this the wrong way, Coilla, but there was a time when no decent orc would say something like that.'

  'I honour the gods. But what have they done to shield us from our troubles lately? And what about the Unis and their single god? What has that brought but misery?'

  'What do you expect of a false deity? As to our gods, perhaps they ignore us the more we ignore them.'

  She had no answer to that.

  In any event their conversation was interrupted by cries from up and down the line. Grunts pointed to the west.

  It was just possible to make out, far over the ocean, a blacker shape against the sable sky, travelling north. Its bulk obscured the stars as it moved, and its great saw-toothed wings could be seen flapping. A tiny burst of orange flame from the creature's head wiped away any doubts

  'Do you think we can be seen?' Alfray wondered.

  'It's a long way off, and it's dark, so we'd be hard to spot. More to the point, is it one of Jennesta's or Glozellan's?'

  'If it's hostile I reckon we'll know soon enough.'

  They watched until the dragon was swallowed by distance.

  9

  Blaan sat cross-legged, tongue curling from the corner of his mouth, as he scraped his shining pate with the edge of a knife.

  Nearby, Lekmann used a branch to poke at the contents of a blackened pot hanging over a lively fire. Aulay was stretched out on a blanket, his head resting on his saddle, scowling on
e-eyed at the brightening sky.

  Dew still whitened the grass. The inlet coursed sluggishly beside them, mist rising in the dawn chill. Drogan Forest was in sight, but far enough behind for them not to be spotted by centaur scouting parties.

  'When the hell we moving?' Aulay grumbled, his breath visible in the frigid air. He was rubbing the spot where his wrist joined the plug that replaced his hand.

  'When I'm good and ready,' Lekmann told him. 'We're close, I reckon, and we can't just go charging in. We got to be careful going against them orcs.'

  'I know that, Micah. I just want to know when.'

  'Soon. Now save your puff to cool your grub.' He prodded at the concoction. It bubbled, releasing a disagreeable aroma.

  'We eating now, Micah?' Blaan piped up, eyeing the pot.

  'Watch out, pumpkin head's spotted fodder,' Aulay muttered caustically.

  Lekmann ignored him. 'Yeah, Jabeez. Bring your bowl.' He commenced dishing.

  A platter was handed to Aulay. He sat with it on his knees, picking at the offering with his knife. 'Slop,' he complained, routinely.

  Blaan noisily wolfed his down using his fingers, which he licked wetly between mouthfuls.

  Aulay made a face. 'Ugh.'

  'You're glad of him in a scrap,' Lekmann reminded him.

  'Don't mean I have watch him eat.' He turned his back and faced the forest.

  Blaan finally realised they were talking about him. 'Hey!' he protested, full-mouthed and greasy-chinned.

  'Company!' Greever barked. He dumped his plate on the ground.

  The others did the same. They quickly got to their feet, weapons ready.

  A party of riders came along the trail from Drogan. They were humans and there were seven of them.

  'Who'd you reckon they are?'

  'They ain't them custodians, that's for sure, Greever. Unless their usual clothes are in the wash.'

  The riders were dressed not unlike the bounty hunters themselves. They favoured leather breeches, high boots and thick wool jerkins, uniformly shabby. Most wore skins against the cold. Their heads were topped with skull helmets and chain-mail caps. They were lean, bearded, weather-bruised men toting a variety of arms.

  'Could be reavers,' Lekmann decided as they got nearer. 'Hadn't heard there were any in these parts though.'

  Aulay spat. 'All we need, fucking brigands.'

  'What do we do?' Blaan wanted to know.

  'Play it peaceful,' Lekmann replied. 'Remember that we can get more by pouring honey than cutting throats. Besides, the odds are in their favour.'

  'You think so?' Aulay said.

  'You stay calm, Greever, and let me do the talking. If it comes to force, follow my lead, and keep those blades out of sight. Got me?'

  They agreed, Aulay reluctantly.

  The riders had seen them by this time, and slowed. They were watchful but approached without guile.

  When they reached the trio, Lekmann beamed and hailed them 'Well met!'

  Two or three of the men nodded. A burly individual with a full beard and lengthy, unkempt hair was the only one to talk. 'And you.' He spoke gruffly and a little offhand.

  'What do we owe this pleasure to?'

  'Nothing in particular. Just going about our business.'

  'And what might that be?' Lekmann asked, the smile still plastered to his face.

  'We're trailing renegades.'

  'Is that so?'

  Aulay glowered but said nothing. Blaan looked on with his normal semi-vacant expression.

  'Yeah,' the leader said. 'You?'

  'Farmers. We're heading to buy some livestock up beyond Drogan.'

  The reaver looked them up and down, as did several of the others. Lekmann hoped they didn't know too much about farming.

  'You ain't into that Mani or Uni crap, are you?' the leader said.

  'Not us, friend. A plague on both. We just want a quiet life. On our farm,' he added helpfully.

  'Good.' He stared Aulay and Blaan's way. 'Your friends don't say much.'

  'They're just simple farm boys,' Lekmann explained. He held his hand to one side of his face so Blaan couldn't see, winked conspiratorially, and added in a whisper, 'The big one's simpleminded, but pay him no heed.'

  'He looks like he could knock down a door with his head.'

  'Nah, he's harmless.' He cleared his throat. 'So, you're renegade hunters. Don't suppose there's much the likes of us can do to help speed you.'

  'Only if you've seen any orcs in these parts.'

  Aulay and Blaan stiffened. Lekmann kept down his reaction. 'Orcs? No. But if it's them murdering bastards you're after, you're all right by us.' He made an expansive gesture towards the way of the campfire. 'You're welcome to share our food. We got fresh water and some wine too.'

  The reavers exchanged glances. Their leader made the decision, emboldened perhaps by their greater numbers. 'That's neighbourly. We'll join you.'

  They dismounted. Lekmann offered canteens and told them to help themselves to food. They took him up on the former, were less eager about the latter once they looked in the pot. Aulay and Blaan stayed where they were. None of the reavers paid them much attention.

  'Tell us more about these orcs you're tracking,' Lekmann said, trying to sound casual.

  'They're a desperate, bloodthirsty bunch by all accounts,' the leader told him. He took a gulp from his canteen. 'Warband. Call themselves the Wolverines.'

  Lekmann prayed that neither of his partners would blurt out anything. He was in luck. 'You're going after a whole warband?'

  'This is about half our force. The rest are searching over yonder.' He nodded across the inlet 'I reckon we're more than a match for 'em.'

  'Them orcs got a fearsome reputation when it comes to fighting.'

  'Overrated, if you ask me.'

  'Had any sign of them?'

  'Not yet. Thought we did last night. Turned out to be a pack of gremlins, riding like their arses were on fire.'

  'You seem sure those orcs are around here.'

  'They've been spotted, more than once.'

  'Big reward?'

  'Pretty big.' The reaver chief eyed him with what might have been a hint of suspicion. 'Why? Thinking of trying for it yourselves?'

  Lekmann managed a laugh. 'What, us? You reckon we're the sort to tangle with orcs?'

  The chief looked them over. 'Now you come to mention it, no.' Then he began laughing himself. 'Not exactly bounty hunter types, eh boys?'

  His men found the idea so risible they joined in with the laughter. They pointed at the trio and rocked with crude, good natured mockery. Lekmann laughed. Even Aulay made an effort, showing his rank teeth in the rictus of a patently false smile. Last in, Blaan started, great shoulders heaving, jowls aquiver, eyes watering.

  Dawn broke on ten human males laughing in each other's faces.

  Then something shook out of Blaan's jerkin, bounced and came to rest at the reaver chief's feet. Still laughing, he looked down at it.

  The dark brown, shrivelled object was a shrunken orc's head. A sober cloud darkened the leader's face.

  Lekmann swiftly drew his sword.

  'What?' the leader said.

  The blade slipped smoothly between his ribs. He gasped, the whites of his eyes showing. Then he went down, choking on blood. Some of his men hadn't finished laughing when realisation dawned.

  Lekmann made straight for another reaver, slashing at him. Blaan lurched into the group, striking out with his fists. Aulay quickly snapped a blade attachment into his arm plug and filled his other hand with a dagger. The reavers struggled to defend themselves, in a confused scrabble for weapons.

  Downing his second man, Lekmann moved in on the third. Now he met resistance. The target had his sword drawn, and intended butchery became a fight. They swapped blows, the reaver defending himself with fury, but it was immediately obvious that Lekmann was the superior fencer.

  Having crushed his first victim's spine with a bear hug, Blaan discarded the corpse. Another reav
er immediately charged and smashed his fist into the side of Blaan's head. It had as much effect as gentle rain on granite. The attacker staggered back, nursing his knuckles. Blaan moved in, enormous hands clasped together, and slammed them into his chest, audibly cracking bones. Face twisted in agony, the man collapsed like a puppet with slashed strings. Blaan began stomping him.

  Riled by the commotion, the reavers' horses first milled in panic and then bolted, scattering across the inlet.

  Aulay tugged his blade from his opponent's stomach and let him drop. The next reaver took his place, snarling with wrath and hefting an axe. It may have been a fearsome weapon but it gave Aulay the reach advantage. Ducking a swing, he lashed out and laid open the man's forearm. Bellowing, the reaver swung again. Aulay retreated fast, blundering into the cooking pot and sending it flying. Then he went straight in again, evaded the other's guard and spiked his heart.

  Lekmann blocked the last feeble passes of the foe he'd already bettered. A second later he dashed the sword from the man's grasp and sliced his throat. The reaver sunk to his knees gushing blood, rocked and fell face downward.

  Aulay and Lekmann coldly surveyed their work, the bodies sprawled in the kind of grotesque postures only death accorded. Then they looked to Blaan. He was on his knees with the head of the last living reaver in an armlock. A powerful jerk snapped the man's neck. Blaan got up and lumbered over to them.

  Aulay eyed him murderously but said nothing.

  'Did you hear that?' Lekmann seethed indignantly. 'Did you hear what that son of a bitch said?' He scowled at the dead reaver chief. 'What a nerve, going after the Wolverines. They're our orcs.'

  Aulay was wiping clean his blade. 'Told you we should've moved sooner.'

  'Don't you start, Greever. Now let's get this sorted.'

  They set to plundering the corpses. Coins, baubles and weapons were filched. Blaan found a stale crust of bread in one of the dead men's pockets. He crammed chunks into his mouth as he ferreted through layers of clothing. Aulay discovered a pair of boots his size, and in better condition than his own, and tugged them roughly from their late owner.

  Lekmann accompanied his scavengery with muttered complaints about the standard of modern morality.

  'Look at this,' Blaan exclaimed, spraying crumbs. He held up a rolled parchment.