There were dead on Jennesta’s ship too. Some walked and breathed, after a fashion. Others would never do either again.
Several of the latter were being pitched overboard by a party of the former.
The corpses being disposed of were dwarfs, broken and bloodied following Jennesta’s creative interrogation methods. Apart from mundane necessity, the fate of the discarded cadavers had the additional effect of chastening her followers. But although Jennesta embraced, indeed revelled in the appellation tyrant, she was coming to understand the value of tempering stick with carrot when it came to her subordinates’ loyalty. This took several forms. The promise of power and riches under her dominion was one way. Another was the dispensing of pleasure, her sorcery being capable of conferring sensations of wellbeing, even ecstasy, as readily as terror.
But there was a kind of follower for whom neither punishment nor bliss was the spur. These rare individuals shared her taste for cruelty. And Jennesta had found one. His name was Freiston. He was a young low-ranking officer in the Peczan military, one of those who had thrown in their lot with her in the hope of extravagant rewards. He was a human, so naturally she distrusted him. Not that she didn’t distrust all races, but she was especially suspicious of humans. After all, her father was one.
Freiston had caught her attention because of his skill as a torturer, and his passion for it, which had proved useful. On the strength of that she promoted him to her notional second-in-command.
Following the debacle on the island, they were in Jennesta’s cabin. She was seated, regally; he was required to stand. Also present was Stryke’s mate, Thirzarr, who lay insensible on a cot. She looked as though she was sleeping, but it was a state only Jennesta’s sorcery could rouse her from.
“Did you get what you want, ma’am?” Freiston asked.
She smiled. “My wants exceed anything you could imagine. But if you mean the information I needed to set our course, then yes.”
“If I may say so, my lady, it’s ironic.”
“What is?”
“That those dwarfs should have given their lives for something as mundane as a location.”
She gave him a withering look. “It’s hardly mundane to me. But it was a case of making them understand, rather than them trying to withhold what I wanted. Not that you’re complaining, surely? You obviously enjoyed it.”
“I’m ready to serve you in any way necessary, ma’am.”
“Perhaps you should have been a diplomat rather than a soldier.” He started to respond. She waved him silent. “We’ll be in a combat situation at landfall. I need my force in good order and well briefed on what they’ll be up against. You’ll see to it.”
“Ma’am. We’re going to be a little under strength in a couple of key areas due to a few of our people being left behind on the dwarfs’ island.”
“Do I look like someone who cares about that? If they were too slovenly to obey my evacuation order I don’t need them.”
“Yes, m’lady. Can I ask when we’ll reach our destination?”
“In about two days. What I seek turned out to be nearer than I suspected. So you’re going to be a busy little man, Freiston.” She rose. “Let’s set the wheels turning.” Glancing at Thirzarr’s recumbent form, she led him out of the cabin.
From the deck, the other four vessels in her flotilla could be seen, ploughing in her flagship’s wake. On the deck itself, one of Jennesta’s undead stood motionless over a dwarf’s body. She swept that way, Freiston in tow.
Approaching, she saw that the zombie was General Kapple Hacher. Or had been. He was staring at the cadaver. Freiston showed no emotion at seeing his one-time commanding officer so hideously reduced.
Jennesta was furious. “What are you doing, you dolt?” she raged. “You had your orders. Take that—” She jabbed a finger at the corpse. “—and cast it overboard.”
The drooling hulk that had been a great army’s general and governor of a Peczan province carried on staring.
“Do it!” Jennesta insisted, further incensed. “Obey me!”
Hacher lifted his gaze to her, but otherwise stayed motionless. Her patience exhausted, she continued haranguing, and took to cuffing him with a rings-encrusted fist, raising puffs of dust from the tatters of his decaying uniform. After a moment his eyes, hitherto glassy, flickered and showed something like sentience, and perhaps a hint of defiance.
Freiston’s hand went to his sword hilt.
“Do… as… you’re… told,” Jennesta commanded, fixing Hacher with a look of smouldering intensity.
The light died in his eyes and they returned to insensible. With a kind of rasping sigh he bent to the corpse. He lifted it with no sign of effort and, straightening, tossed it over the rail. There was a distant splash.
“Now get back to your duties,” Jennesta told him.
Hacher slowly turned and trudged away, heading for the prow and a group of fellow zombies hefting supplies.
Jennesta saw Freiston’s expression and answered his unspoken question. “Sometimes, when their original force of will was strong, subjects can be less compliant.” She indicated the party Hacher was joining. “They’re imperfect beings; far from the ideal I have in mind.”
“Can they be improved, ma’am?”
“Oh, yes. In the same way that a peasant using poor clay makes poor pots, this first batch has flaws that carried over from the material I was forced to use. But with the right subjects, and refinements I’ve made to the process, the next batch is going to be far superior. As you’ll soon see. But you have something on your mind, Freiston. What is it?”
“We have the orc’s female,” he replied hesitantly.
“Stryke’s mate, yes. What of it?”
“If he’s as pig-headed as you say, my lady, won’t his band be after us?”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Ah.” He knew better than to query her reasoning, but ventured another thought. “And the group that attacked us? Who were they?”
“They can only have been the Gateway Corps. I thought they were a myth, but it appears not.”
“Aren’t they another threat?”
“They’re meddlers. Self-appointed so-called guardians of the portals. There’ll be a reckoning for what they did today.”
Freiston had doubts about that, given that Jennesta had just had to retreat from them. But naturally he kept his opinion to himself.
“Neither orcs nor a ragbag of interfering elder races are going to stand in my way,” she went on. “There’s going to be a very different outcome the next time our paths cross.”
3
Stryke’s fury had subsided. Cold purpose took its place.
He set about getting things organised. As it was nearly dusk, the dwarfs’ remaining undamaged longhouses were commandeered and the surrounding area secured. A group was sent to the goblin ship the band had arrived in, to replenish its rations and to guard it. Scouting parties were dispatched to comb the island.
Having done as much as he could for the time being, Stryke sat down on the steps of one of the longhouses and fell to brooding. Everybody in the band knew better than to approach him. With one exception.
Jup came to him with a steaming bowl and a canteen. “Here.” He offered the food. Stryke barely looked at it, and said nothing. “You’ve got to eat,” the dwarf told him. “For Thirzarr. You’ll be no good famished.”
Stryke took the bowl. He stared at its contents. “What is it?”
Jup seated himself. “Lizard. The jungle’s full of ’em. That other stuff’s leaves and roots,” he added helpfully. “There’s fruit too, but I figured you need meat.”
Stryke began eating, without enthusiasm.
After a moment, Jup ventured, “About Thirzarr…” He ignored Stryke’s baleful expression and pushed on. “I’ll tell you what you told me when Spurral got taken. Your mate has a value to Jennesta. And you don’t damage something of value.”
“What value? Why should Jennesta give a damn a
bout Thirzarr’s life?”
“Don’t know. It could be as simple as antagonising you. What’s important is that Jennesta kept Thirzarr alive; she didn’t leave her lying on the beach back there.”
“But the state she was in. Like one of the bitch’s damned undead.”
“Not quite. Jennesta threatened to make Thirzarr that way. But she didn’t do it. That’s more reason for hope, Stryke.”
“We don’t know she hasn’t. And it’s not just Thirzarr. There’s Corb and Janch. What value are they to her?”
“There’s no reason to think—”
“And Ceragan itself; what might she have done there?”
“Stryke.”
“Come to that, what if—”
“Stryke. Could she have made Ceragan more of a shit hole than Maras-Dantia?”
Jup was gratified when that drew a thin smile. “Where do we go from here?” Stryke said.
“Not sure. We just have to believe that a way’s going to open for us. But you know we’re with you, Stryke. The whole band. Whatever it takes.”
Stryke nodded and went on eating mechanically.
They sat in silence.
Not far away, just inside the jungle’s lip, Coilla and Pepperdyne were foraging.
He stooped and ripped up a handful of purplish leaves. “Do you think these are all right?”
Coilla looked, then sniffed the bouquet. She made a face. “I wouldn’t risk it unless you want to poison everybody.”
He tossed the clump away. “This is harder than I thought. Things seem more or less the same in this world as ours, but when you take a closer look…”
“Yes, there are differences in the small stuff. But think about how big some of the differences were in those other worlds we went to. We were lucky with this one.”
“Talking of which, you started to tell me how what we call our home world isn’t really your home world, despite you being born there. What the hell was that all about?”
“It’s not the real home of any of the elder races. As we were told it, it rightly belongs to your race.”
“And?”
“You want to hear it now?”
“What else is there to do? Unless you’d prefer to—” He reached for her.
She wriggled free, laughing. “Whoa! Steady. All right. It’s complicated, and I don’t even know if it’s true, but—”
“It’s just a fairy story then.”
“The stories they tell would freeze your blood. No, we reckon what we heard’s probably true, but… who knows?”
“So spill it.” He sat, then patted the sward next to him and she sat too.
“All right.” She gathered her thoughts. “The story goes that the world we both come from was the humans’ world. All we knew was our land; what we called Maras-Dantia and your race called Centrasia. We thought Maras-Dantia belonged to all the elder races living there, and that humans came from outside much later and fucked everything up.” She saw the look he gave her. “No offence.”
He smiled. “None taken. So what was the truth?”
“There were humans in Maras-Dantia before the great influx, or at least a few. One of them was Tentarr Arngrim, who calls himself Serapheim.”
“Before the influx? You said he set you off on this mission. How old is this man?”
“Very, I guess. But he’s a sorcerer, so…” She shrugged. “Anyway, Serapheim’s mate was a sorceress called Vermegram. Whereas he’s human, she was… I don’t know. Something else. They had three offspring, all female. One was Jennesta. Then there was Adpar, who was part nyadd.”
“What’s that?”
“A kind of water sprite. Jennesta killed her.”
“Charming.”
“The third sister’s Sanara, who must take after her father ’cos she looks human. She helped us out of a fix in Maras-Dantia.”
“What’s all this got to do with—”
“I’m getting to it. What we know about those early days—”
“What you think you know.”
“Yeah, right. Now shut up. Serapheim or Vermegram, or maybe both of ’em, found a way to move between worlds. It’s what led to the stars Serapheim made. Or discovered.” She waved a dismissive hand. “It’s all a bit vague. But their messing around opened… sort of cracks between worlds. Holes, if you like. And elder races fell through from their worlds to Maras-Dantia.”
“Including orcs.”
“Yeah. Which set us on the road to servitude, and wound up making us the backbone of Jennesta’s army. But that’s another story. The one I’m telling you ended with Serapheim and Vermegram falling out… somehow. Some say they turned from lovers to enemies, and there was a conflict. I don’t know anything about that. Vermegram’s reckoned to be dead, though nobody’s sure how or when.”
“Hang on. You said she wasn’t human.”
Coilla nodded. “You only had to look at Jennesta and Adpar to see that.”
“How could she be anything but human if she was in Maras-Dantia before the elder races arrived?”
“Fucked if I know, Jode. I’m not an oracle.”
“What you said about your people going into servitude; how did—”
“Enough questions. Some other time, all right?”
He was taken aback by the sharpness of her reply, but shrugged and said, “Sure.”
She changed the subject and softened her tone. “It’s getting cooler.”
He slipped an arm round her. She moved closer and laid her head against his shoulder.
There were shouts from the clearing.
“Damn!” Pepperdyne complained. “Every time we get a quiet moment together…”
“Come on,” Coilla said, scrambling to her feet.
They headed back to the village.
One of the scouting parties had returned. They had four human prisoners with them, their hands tied behind their backs. Looking terrified, their uniforms dusty and tattered, they were forced to their knees. The band gathered around them, Stryke to the fore.
Orbon, who led the scouts, reported. “Found these stragglers further along the beach, Captain. There was no fight left in ’em.”
Grim-faced, Stryke approached and walked slowly along the line of crouching captives. All of them avoided his gaze and kept their heads down.
“I’ve just one question,” he told them. “Where has your mistress gone?”
A couple of the prisoners glanced nervously at each other, but none of them spoke.
“I’ll make myself plain,” he said, walking back and forth in front of them, his unsheathed sword in his hand. “I get an answer or you get dead.” He went to the first in line. “You! Where’s Jennesta?”
The man looked up. He was trembling. “We… That isn’t… the sort of thing she’d… tell the likes of us.”
“Wrong answer,” Stryke told him. He drove his sword into the prisoner’s chest. The man toppled, and lay twitching before he was still.
Stryke moved on to the next human. “Where’s Jennesta?” he repeated, his gory blade pressed to the captive’s throat.
This one was more resolute, or perhaps it was bravado. “You can go and fuck yourself, freak,” he grated, and made to spit in Stryke’s face.
He didn’t have the chance. Stryke brought back his sword and swung it hard. The blow was savage enough to part the man from his head, which bounced a couple of times before rolling to a halt at Standeven’s feet. His face drained of all colour and he hastily stepped back, looking queasy. The decapitated torso sat for a moment, gushing, before it fell.
The next man in line was older than the others and wore an officer’s uniform. He was splattered with his dead comrade’s blood.
Stryke turned to him. “Has that loosened your tongue? Or do I do the same to you?”
The man said nothing, though it was as likely from fear as courage. Stryke drew back his blade again.
“Wait!” Pepperdyne yelled, pushing his way forward. “What the hell are you doing, Stryke?”
/> “This is band business. Stay out of it.”
“Since when was it your business to slaughter unarmed prisoners?”
“You’ve a lot to learn about orcs, human.”
“I thought I’d already learned that you were honourable.”
That seemed to give Stryke pause for thought, but he didn’t lower his sword. “I need to know where the bitch’s taken Thirzarr.”
“You’ll not get anything out of dead men.”
“Force is all their kind understands.”
“My kind, you mean. And isn’t that what humans say about orcs?”
“We do understand it,” Haskeer protested.
Pepperdyne jabbed a thumb at the dead prisoners. “Not working too well here, is it?” He turned back to Stryke. “Let me try. Come on. I’m one of their kind; maybe they’ll open up to me.”
“Why don’t you keep your snout out of this?” Haskeer said. “You’re not in this band.”
“He’s proved himself,” Coilla told him. “I say we give it a chance.”
“Here we go again.”
“And what’s that mean?”
“You’re backing him. Again. Seems to me you should be siding with your own, not outsiders.”
“We’re outsiders, you idiot! Everybody shits on us, curses us, hates us. You might think of that when you’re busy judging. Jode’s suffered as much as we have, in his way.”
“You’re talking about a human. They’re more shitters than shat upon, I reckon.”
Jup burst out laughing. “Sorry.” He tried to sober himself. “But… shitters? Shat upon? You outdo yourself, Haskeer.” He started laughing again. Several of the privates joined in. He made a better fist of composing himself. “Coilla’s right. Maybe Jode could make ’em talk.”
Haskeer was seething now. “You too, eh?”
“What have we got to lose? If it doesn’t work we can move on to cutting off a few of their fingers or toes or…” He glanced at the pair of alarmed prisoners. “Failing that, Stryke can finish ’em.”
“What is it you want, Stryke?” Pepperdyne asked. “Information or revenge?”
“There’s a lot to be said for revenge.”
Orcs: Inferno Page 5
