For a moment it looked as though the creature might speak.
Instead it suddenly lunged, flailing its sword like a mad thing, and with as little accuracy.
Untroubled, Stryke deflected the blade and finished the matter by slashing the creature’s throat, near severing its head.
The blood-soaked female let out a high-pitched wail, part squeak, part keening moan. Stryke had heard something like it once or twice before. He stared at her and saw a trace of defiance in her eyes. But hatred, fear and agony were strongest in her features. All the colour had drained from her face and her breath was laboured. She hugged the young one close in a last feeble attempt to protect it. Then the life force seeped away. She slowly pitched to one side and sprawled lifeless across the floor. The hatchling spilled from her arms and began to bleat.
Having no further interest in the matter, Stryke stepped over the corpse.
He was facing a Uni altar. In common with others he’d seen it was quite plain: a high table covered by a white cloth, gold-embroidered at the edges, with a lead candleholder at each end. Standing in the centre and to the rear was a piece of ironwork he knew to be the symbol of their cult. It consisted of two rods of black metal mounted on a base, fused together at an angle to form a simple X.
But it was the object at the front of the table that interested him. A cylinder, perhaps as long as his forearm and the size of his fist in circumference, it was copper-coloured and inscribed with fading runic symbols. One end had a lid, neatly sealed with red wax.
Coilla and Jup came to him. She was dabbing at the wound on her arm with a handful of wadding. Jup wiped red stains from his blade with a soiled rag. They stared at the cylinder.
Coilla said, “Is that it, Stryke?”
“Yes. It fits her description.”
“Hardly looks worth the cost of so many lives,” Jup remarked.
Stryke reached for the cylinder and examined it briefly before slipping it into his belt. “I’m just a humble captain. Naturally our mistress didn’t explain the details to one so lowly.” His tone was cynical.
Coilla frowned. “I don’t understand why that last creature should throw its life away protecting a female and her offspring.”
“What sense is there in anything humans do?” Stryke replied. “They lack the balanced approach we orcs enjoy.”
The cries of the baby rose to a more incessant pitch.
Stryke turned to look at it. His green, viperish tongue flicked over mottled lips. “Are the rest of you as hungry as I am?” he wondered.
His jest broke the tension. They laughed.
“It’d be exactly what they’d expect of us,” Coilla said, reaching down and hoisting the infant by the scruff of its neck. Holding it aloft in one hand, level with her face, she stared at its streaming blue eyes and dimpled, plump cheeks. “My gods, but these things are
ugly
.”
“You can say that again,” Stryke agreed.
Stryke led his fellow orcs and Jup from the room. Coilla carried the baby, a look of distaste on her face.
Haskeer was waiting at the foot of the stairs. “Find it?” he said.
Nodding, Stryke slapped the cylinder in his belt. “Torch the place.” He headed for the door.
Haskeer poked a finger at a couple of troopers. “You and you. Get on with it. The rest of you,
out!
”
Coilla blocked the path of a startled-looking grunt and dumped the baby in his arms. “Ride down to the plain and leave this where the humans will find it. And try to be . . .
gentle
with the thing.” She hurried off, relieved. The trooper left, clutching the bundle as though it contained eggs, a bemused expression on his face.
There was a general exodus. The appointed arsonists found lanterns and began sloshing oil around. When they’d done, Haskeer dismissed them, then slipped a hand inside his boot for a flint. He ripped a length of shirt off the corpse of a defender and dipped it in oil. Igniting the sodden cloth with a spark, he threw it and ran.
A
whoomp
of yellow flame erupted. Sheets of fire spread over the floor.
Not bothering to look back, he jogged across the compound to catch up with the others.
They were with Alfray. As usual, the corporal was doubling as the warband’s surgeon, and as Haskeer arrived he was tying the last stay on a trooper’s makeshift splint.
Stryke wanted a casualty report.
Alfray pointed at the bodies of two dead comrades laid out on the ground nearby. “Slettal and Wrelbyd. Apart from them, three wounded. Though none so bad they won’t heal. About a dozen caught the usual minor stuff.”
“So five out of action, leaving us twenty-five strong, counting officers.”
“What’s an acceptable loss on a mission like this?” Coilla asked.
“Twenty-nine.”
Even the trooper with the splint joined in the laughter. Although they knew that when it came down to it, their captain wasn’t joking.
Only Coilla remained straight-faced, her nostrils flaring slightly, undecided whether they were making her the butt again because she was the newest recruit.
She has a lot to learn
, Stryke reflected.
She’d best do it soon
.
“Things are quieter below,” Alfray reported, referring to the battle on the plain. “It went our way.”
“As expected,” Stryke replied. He seemed uninterested.
Alfray noticed Coilla’s wound. “Want me to look at that?”
“It’s nothing. Later.” To Stryke, she added stiffly, “Shouldn’t we be moving?”
“Uhm. Alfray, find a wagon for the wounded. Leave the dead to the scavenging parties.” He turned to the nine or ten troopers hanging around listening. “Get ready for a forced march back to Cairnbarrow.”
They pulled long faces.
“It’ll be nightfall soon,” Jup remarked.
“What of it? We can still walk, can’t we? Unless you’re all frightened of the dark!”
“Poor bloody infantry,” a private muttered as he passed.
Stryke delivered a savage kick to his backside.
“And don’t forget it, you miserable little bastard!”
The soldier yelped and limped hurriedly away.
This time, Coilla laughed with the others.
Over at the livestock pen a chorus of sound arose, a combination of roars and twittering screeches. Stryke set off in that direction. Haskeer and Jup trailed him. Coilla stayed with Alfray.
Two soldiers were leaning on the corral’s fence, watching the milling animals.
“What’s going on?” Stryke demanded.
“They’re spooked,” one of the troopers told him. “Shouldn’t be cooped up like this. Ain’t natural.”
Stryke went to the rail to see for himself.
The nearest beast was no more than a sword’s length away. Twice the height of an orc, it stood rampant, weight borne by powerful back legs, taloned feet half buried in the earth. The chest of its feline body swelled, the short, dusty yellow fur bristling. Its eagle-like head moved in a jerky, convulsive fashion and the curved beak clattered nervously. The enormous eyes, jet-black orbs against startlingly white surrounds, were never still. Its ears were pricked and quiveringly alert.
It was obviously agitated, yet its erect pose still maintained a curious nobility.
The herd beyond, numbering upwards of a hundred, was mostly on all fours, backs arched. But here and there pairs stood upright, boxing at each other with spindly arms, wickedly sharp claws extended. Their long curly tails swished rhythmically.
A gust of wind brought with it the fetid odour of the gryphons’ dung.
“Gant’s right,” Haskeer remarked, indicating the trooper who had spoken, “their pen should be all of Maras-Dantia.”
“Very poetic, Sergeant.”
As intended, Stryke’s derision cut Haskeer’s pride. He looked as near embarrassed as an orc was capable of. “I just meant it was typical of humans to pen free-roaming beasts,” he gushed defensively. “And we all know they’d do the same to us if we let ’em.”
“All I know,” Jup interjected, “is that yonder gryphons smell bad and taste good.”
“Who asked
you
, you little tick’s todger?” Haskeer flared.
Jup bridled and was about to retaliate.
“Shut up, both of you!” Stryke snapped. He addressed the troopers. “Slaughter a brace for rations and let the rest go before we leave.”
He moved on. Jup and Haskeer followed, exchanging murderous glances.
Behind them, the fire in the house was taking hold. Flames were visible at the upper windows and smoke billowed from the front door.
They reached the compound’s ruined gates. On seeing their commander, the guards stationed there straightened themselves in a pretence of vigilance. Stryke didn’t bawl them out. He was more interested in the scene on the plain. The fighting had stopped, the defenders either being dead or having run away.
“It’s a bonus to win the battle,” Haskeer observed, “seeing as it was only a diversion.”
“They were outnumbered. We deserved to win. But no loose talk of diversions, not outside the band. Wouldn’t do to let the arrow fodder know the fight was set up to cover our task.” Automatically his hand went to the cylinder.
Down below, the scavengers were moving among the dead, stripping them of weapons, boots and anything else useful. Other parties had been detailed to finish off the enemy wounded, and those of their own side too far gone to help. Funeral pyres were already burning.
In the gathering twilight it was growing much colder. A stinging breeze whipped at Stryke’s face. He looked out beyond the battlefield to the farther plains, and the more remote, undulating tree-topped hills. Softened by the lengthening shadows, it was a scene that would have been familiar to his forebears. Save for the distant horizon, where the faint outline of advancing glaciers showed as a thin strip of luminous white.
As he had a thousand times before, Stryke silently cursed the humans for eating Maras-Dantia’s magic.
Then he cast off the thought and returned to practicalities. There was something he’d been meaning to ask Jup. “How did you feel about killing that fellow dwarf back in the house?”
“Feel?” The stocky sergeant looked puzzled. “No different to killing anyone else. Nor was he the first. Anyway, he wasn’t a ‘fellow dwarf.’ He wasn’t even from a tribe I knew.”
Haskeer, who hadn’t seen the incident, was intrigued. “You killed one of your own kind? The need to prove yourself must be strong indeed.”
“He took the humans’ part and that made him an enemy. I’ve no need to prove anything!”
“Really? With so many of your clans siding with the humans, and you the only dwarf in the Wolverines? I think you’ve much to prove.”
The veins in Jup’s neck were standing out like taut cords. “What’s your meaning?”
“I just wonder why we need
your
sort in our ranks.”
I should stop this
, Stryke thought,
but it’s been building too long. Maybe it’s time they beat it out of each other
.
“I earned my sergeant’s stripes in this band!” Jup pointed at the crescent-shaped tattoos on his rage-red cheeks. “I was good enough for that!”
“
Were
you?” Haskeer taunted.
Coilla, Alfray and several troopers arrived, drawn by the fuss. More than one of the soldiers wore a gleeful expression at the prospect of a fight between officers. Or in anticipation of Jup losing it.
Insults were now being openly traded, most of them concerning the sergeants’ parentage. To rebut a particular point, Haskeer grasped a handful of Jup’s beard and gave it a forceful tug.
“Say that again, you snivelling little fluffball!”
Jup pulled free. “At least I
can
raise hair! You orcs have heads like a human’s arse!”
Words were about to give way to action. They squared up, fists bunched.
A trooper elbowed through the scrum. “Captain!
Captain!
”
The interruption wasn’t appreciated by the onlookers. There were disappointed groans.
Stryke sighed. “What
is
it?”
“We’ve found something you should see, sir.”
“Can’t it wait?”
“Don’t think so, Captain. Looks important.”
“All right. Leave it, you two.” Haskeer and Jup didn’t move. “That’s
enough
,” he growled menacingly. They lowered their fists and backed off, reluctant and still radiating hatred.
Stryke ordered the guards to admit no one and told the others to get back to work. “This better be good, Trooper.”
He guided Stryke back into the compound. Coilla, Jup, Alfray and Haskeer, their curiosity whetted, tagged along behind.
The house was blazing furiously, with flames playing on the roof. They could feel the heat being thrown out as far away as the orchard, where the trooper took a sharp left. The higher branches of the trees were burning, each gust of wind liberating showers of drifting sparks.
Once through the orchard they came to a modest wooden barn, its double doors wide open. Inside were two more grunts, holding burning brands. One was inspecting the contents of a hessian sack. The second was on his knees and staring down through a lifted trapdoor.
Stryke crouched to look at the bag, the others gathering around him. It was filled with tiny translucent crystals. They had a faintly purple, pinkish hue.
“Pellucid,” Coilla said in a hushed tone.
Alfray licked his finger and dabbed the crystals. He took a taste. “Prime quality.”
“And look here, sir.” The trooper pointed at the trapdoor.
Stryke snatched the torch from the kneeling soldier. Its flickering glow showed a small cellar, just deep enough for an orc to stand without bending. Two more sacks lay on its earthen floor.
Jup gave a low, appreciative whistle. “That’s more than I’ve seen in all my days.”
Haskeer, his dispute with the dwarf forgotten for the moment, nodded in agreement. “Think of its value!”
“What say we sample it?” Jup suggested hopefully.
Haskeer added his own petition. “It wouldn’t hurt, Captain. Don’t we deserve that much after pulling off this mission?”
“I don’t know . . .”
Coilla looked pensive but held her tongue.
Alfray eyed the cylinder in Stryke’s belt and injected a note of caution. “It wouldn’t be wise to keep the Queen waiting
too
long.”