Haskeer gaped. “What the—”
Coilla pointed. “There!”
Farther down the beach a large group of elves had gathered. Mallas Sahro, their elder, was to the fore.
“They’re using their magic,” Stryke said.
“So they do have some backbone,” Haskeer muttered.
The burning goblins’ comrades were vainly trying to beat out the flames when another, stronger heat wave throbbed from the veil.
The band drew back again. They saw that the veil had emitted a sheet of fire that swept towards the milling goblins. When it reached the first of them, those tending the fallen, they too burst into flames. It didn’t stop. Continuously regenerating itself, the burning curtain kept moving at a walking pace. Ignoring the agonised screams of those on fire, the remaining goblins backed away, then quickly retreated as it herded them in the direction of the shoreline.
The band noticed that one goblin risked himself to retrieve a dropped trident. He went for that particular weapon rather than any number of others, even though it put him in danger of contact with the advancing wall of flame. Once he had it, he ran full pelt for the sea, holding the trident high above his head as he splashed in. The others entered the water close behind. To their rear, the fiery veil halted at the shore’s edge.
Stryke and the band watched as the mantle of fire slowly faded, along with its heat. Beyond it, the goblins were waist-deep, making for their ships.
Jup was shielding his eyes with a hand. “Is that their chief?” he wondered.
A figure was standing on the prow of the biggest ship.
“Yeah,” Coilla confirmed.
“Fucking coward,” Haskeer murmured.
“What’s he doing?” Jup said.
Coilla squinted again. “Looks like he’s drawing his bow.”
Haskeer gave a derisive snort. “Bloody fool. What’s he hope to hit from that distance?”
“What’s up with them?” Spurral asked, nodding at the crowd of elves along the beach. They were shouting and gesturing, but they were too far away for their words to be made out.
“Probably celebrating,” Stryke suggested.
From his ship, Gleaton-Rouk loosed an arrow.
“It’s way off target,” Haskeer sneered. “Even if it got this far it’d miss us by a mile.”
Most of the Wolverines agreed, showing disdain with mocking jeers. Their scorn appeared justified as the arrow soared well to their right and far too high to do any damage except to treetops.
But then there was a change. Defying nature, the arrow altered course. It turned sharply and began to descend, heading straight for the band.
“Down!” Stryke bellowed.
Everyone dropped and hugged the ground. Bhose was already sitting, nursing his wound. One of the attending grunts gave him a shove and with a moan of pain he slumped onto his back.
The arrow soared towards them, and for a moment it looked as though it would pass overhead. Instead its trajectory became more acute. Impossibly gathering speed, it descended so fast they couldn’t see it.
The arrow struck Bhose in his chest.
“Back!” Stryke yelled. “Pull back!”
The band hastily retreated, making for the trees, keeping low and dragging Bhose with them.
As soon as they reached shelter, Jup examined their comrade.
He looked up at the circle of Wolverines. “He took it square to the heart. He’s dead.”
Coilla gazed out at the departing goblin ships and said, “How the hell did they do that?”
9
Surrounded by his brothers-in-arms, an orc lies dead on the edge of a beach, his blood seeping into the sand.
The sand consists of an untold number of grains. The number of grains of sand on all the beaches of all the islands is trivial compared to the number of worlds that exist.
The void between them is unimaginably great, and terrible. But tenuous, spider-web bridges connect the worlds, woven by the power of the instrumentalities.
An endless expanse. A blue-black canvas speckled with infinite points of light.
One speck, no brighter and no dimmer than most, was verdant. Ceragan, a blue-green world, was home to orcs. It was largely unspoilt, but a small part of it had been defiled.
At the encampment, they were still clearing up the damage. Their own dead had gone to their pyres; the attackers’ corpses, far greater in number, had been disposed of less ceremoniously. Now the orcs were repairing their dwellings.
Nearly half of the lodges had been wholly or partly destroyed by fire. The corrals were broken and the livestock had scattered. Wagons were upended, and a barn stood in ruins. The carcasses of horses and cows were being hauled away.
The settlement echoed to the sounds of hammering and sawing. Timber was unloaded from overburdened wagons. Smiths pounded anvils next to braziers of glowing coals. Lengths of rope were woven and roofs re-thatched. New fortifications were being erected.
Wandering through all the activity were two young male hatchlings. They were siblings, the eldest over four summers old, his brother three. Each clutched a skilfully crafted hatchet. They were much smaller versions of the weapons carried by the adults, but just as sharp, and woe to anyone who tried parting the pair from them. Not that it would occur to orcs to do so.
The hatchlings roamed with no particular purpose, driven by boredom, curiosity and a certain amount of anxiety. Their parents had been snatched from them, and although they were being cared for, they were adrift and fretful. They were more careless than they would have been if adults they respected were watching over them. It showed in their mud-caked boots and mucky britches.
The younger of the two moved with less certainty than his brother. In common with the very young of many races, he walked like a small drunk, stumbling occasionally. Only when he toppled and couldn’t right himself did his brother stretch out a hand to him.
They watched as roofs were fixed, fences rebuilt and debris heaved from the well. Some greeted them with a nod or a few distracted words. Most ignored them. Their offers to help were dismissed with gruff laughter or sharp words. They were resigned to staring.
“There you are!”
They turned at the sound of the familiar and not altogether welcome voice, and saw the clan’s chief, Quoll, sweeping their way. He was still big and powerfully built, despite his advancing years, and seemed incredibly ancient to them. Festooned with the armlets, bangles and leopard-tooth necklaces signifying his position, he was accompanied by his usual entourage of kin and dogsbodies.
He stood over the hatchlings, his followers looking on. “Where have you been?” he demanded.
“Right here,” Corb told him.
“You’re the oldest. It’s your duty to look after your brother.”
“He does!” Janch protested.
Quoll fixed him with an icy gaze, which to the youngster’s credit he held and tried, less successfully, to return. “Judging by the state you’re both in I’m not sure about that. What have you been doing?”
“Just playing,” Corb replied casually.
“Hmmm. Getting under everybody’s feet more like.”
“No we haven’t,” Janch muttered, his eyes now on his own feet.
“The time is coming to put aside childish things,” the chieftain declared portentously. “What with your parents lost and—”
“They’re not!” Corb protested.
“Not this again. Listen to me, both of you. Part of growing up is learning to accept what the gods have in store for us. You have to resign yourself to them being gone.”
“Don’t say that!”
“It’s the truth, Corb. You must come to terms with it.”
“No. They’re not dead. I know they’re not. Don’t care what you say.”
“How do you know?”
“They’re great warriors. Nobody could kill them. I just… feel it.” Janch nodded vigorously in agreement.
Quoll sighed, and his forceful tone softened a li
ttle. “Yes, Stryke showed his valour many times; and Thirzarr matched him in bravery and skill. Look at the price paid by the force that took her. But look too at the commander of that force, the witch.”
Corb and Janch shuddered inwardly, remembering the stories their mother told about the witch, and the raid that confirmed them.
Quoll himself recalled the ferocity of her attack, but stayed master of his emotions. And he resolved not to criticise Stryke in front of the hatchlings, though he half blamed their father for bringing near ruin on them all. “Going against a power like hers is pissing into a gale,” he continued, “even for an orc. I admire your loyalty to your parents, and your faith in them. But it’s best not to rely too much on hope.”
“What about Wheam?” Janch piped up.
The chieftain held his steadfast expression, no matter what was going on inside. “I have to suppose that my son is lost too. He was a disappointment to me. My wish is that he met his end with some dignity, and courage, as an orc should.” He had spoken in a kind of mild reverie, avoiding their eyes. Now his clarity returned and he looked to them. “Face it. Stryke and Thirzarr are probably dead, thanks to the witch.”
She was no witch. She was a sorceress, and resented being thought of otherwise. And Jennesta’s resentment was not to be stirred up lightly.
She stood on a beach on a world unimaginably distant from Ceragan. Night was falling and the moons were beginning to appear. Not that she was in any way softened by the sight.
A figure approached. She recognised it as her latest aide, a major whose name she had already forgotten. He was another field promotion, his predecessor having been killed earlier in the day. This replacement was a younger man, and moderately bright for a human, but she saw little in the way of a future for him. He came to her with eyes averted and an uncertain step.
She didn’t wait for him to begin his no doubt stumbling report. “How are they?”
“They seem to have settled, my lady.”
“Not too much, I hope. I need their ferocity as well as their obedience.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You look uncertain, Major.”
“Well, my lady, they… they’re a little… troublesome.”
“I’d expect them to be. Though more to my enemies than us. Come.” She turned and strode towards the island’s heart, her aide following at a safe distance.
They came to a makeshift camp. Like youngsters caught in mischief her troops quickly turned solemn when they saw her, and presented themselves stiffly. She ignored them and swept past. Her goal was at the centre of the camp, adjacent to her own tent.
Several large wooden cages stood there. They were well built, and by necessity robust. Guards were posted all around them. Two or three of Jennesta’s zombie servants were present. Trusted with simple tasks, they were pushing hunks of meat and water jugs through the slats. The captives stared at the offerings but showed scant interest in eating or drinking. Most of them were standing motionless. A few crouched in the dirt with vacant gazes, and one or two shuffled aimlessly. They came more to life, of a sort, when they noticed Jennesta approaching.
A kind of roar went up from them, part frustration, part fury, but strangely distorted, as though it should have been less muted. They became agitated, after a fashion, and moved to rattle the bars of their cages, still howling.
Jennesta raised her arms. “Silence!”
They instantly quietened. But they obeyed without exactly being cowed, and close scrutiny might have shown a tiny hint of something like defiance in their eyes.
“Good,” she said, studying them. “They look promising.”
“Promising, ma’am?” the major ventured, shooting a nervous glance at the cage’s occupants.
“I need their fire,” she explained. “But there also has to be submission to my will. It’s a balance.”
“May I ask what use these creatures will be put to, my lady?”
“Initially, revenge,” she replied, ignoring his impertinence in querying her. “I’ve been exiled from the Peczan empire because of those terrorists in Acurial, and the Wolverines played their part in that. But it was an ill wind that’s brought me nearer to attaining my goal. There’ll be a reckoning the next time I encounter that wretched warband.”
“Begging your pardon, ma’am, but if we’re to engage with them again we might have to consider the level of our forces. Not a few have fallen in your service. Today alone we lost—”
“I’m aware of that,” she informed him icily, and embedded in her tone was the inference that she didn’t particularly care. “But here, in front of you, is a beginning; the reinforcements to swell our ranks, more pliable and much more ferocious than those sorry efforts.” She indicated the trio of once human zombies milling near the cages.
One of them was Kapple Hacher, formerly a man of power and influence who had made the mistake of inviting Jennesta’s anger. Her contempt seemed to faintly register with him. There was the merest flicker of recognition, an echo of the dissent in the captives’ eyes. It went unnoticed.
“We’re leaving here. Now,” she announced abruptly. “Issue the orders.”
“Ma’am. And the Wolverines?” the major asked.
She glanced towards her grand tent. Its flaps were open. Inside, sitting in plain view, was Stryke’s mate, Thirzarr. Her bearing was rigid and her expression was vacant.
“The Wolverines will come to me,” Jennesta said. “And they won’t be alone.”
Pelli Madayar was in a dilemma, and plagued with uncertainty. The dilemma was how best to act in what was an increasingly complex situation. The uncertainty came from questioning her own abilities.
She was at the rail of her ship, the many races of the Gateway Corps unit busy around her. Her second-in-command, Weevan-Jirst, stood by her side.
“You’re making too much of it,” he hissed.
“Am I?”
“Your orders are simple enough: recover the instrumen-talities.”
“You make it sound simple. The reality turns out to be a lot messier.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “Or is that just my elven way of looking at things?”
“Perhaps. Then again, maybe we goblins have a tendency to see events as a little too black and white.”
Pelli smiled. “That’s quite an admission.”
“One thing about being in the Corps and mixing with other races is that it exposes you to different views. But I stand by what I said. Our mission has a plain objective.”
“It did. But now there are two sets of instrumentalities, and at least one other player in this drama. Those factors increase the variables. I’m in a quandary about how to tackle the problem.”
“We have the weaponry. Resolve to use it against the orcs and that sorceress alike. And not just a mild dose, like before.”
“Again, easily said. But it doesn’t take into account the innocent casualties that could cause and—”
“It’s not for me to remind you, but what the Corps believes in and what it expects is getting back instrumentalities, whatever the cost. If that can be done without harming the blameless, well and good. But it’s not the primary consideration.”
“That’s where my doubts set in. It’s been generations since the Corps had to do anything like this, and those rules were formulated long ago.”
“That doesn’t make them wrong.”
“I think they are. Which is why I’m wondering if I’m best suited to lead this unit.” She sighed. “The way things are going, my first assignment looks like being my last.”
“Karrell Revers gave you this job because he knew you could do it. And you can, if you get over your scruples and see our work as being for the greater good.”
“So a few deaths of bystanders along the way is an acceptable price, yes, I know. I can’t accept that.”
Weevan-Jirst studied her face, his own remaining typically expressionless. “Who exactly are these bystanders?” He jabbed a lean hand at the ocean. “How many true innocen
ts are we likely to meet on the islands out there?”
“Enough.”
“Or is it that you have sympathy for one group in particular?” It was hardly a question.
“The orcs? You know I have… not sympathy, but some regard for the fix they’re in.”
“You can’t see them as innocent.”
“I see them as unwitting.”
“Don’t forget they attacked us.”
“I don’t think that was deliberate.”
“Not deliberate? You’re talking about a savage, destructive race. One of a very few never granted membership or knowledge of the Corps.”
“Many races are maligned. There are those who would tar all goblins with the same brush because of the actions of a few.”
He nodded soberly. “I’ll grant you that.”
“So how can we be sure that what’s said about orcs is true? And even if it is, it’s the nature they were born with. Who are we to judge?”
“The Corps judges all the time. It decides who can’t have instrumentalities, and the means necessary to enforce that. Having the instrumentalities fall into the hands of a race beyond the pale like the orcs, and that sorceress, is what the Corps was set up to prevent.”
Staring at the distant horizon, again she sighed, more in resignation this time. “I suppose you’re right. There is a bigger picture. I’ll be mindful of it.”
“You will forgive me for what I am about to say. And I would not like you to think…”
She had never known him to be hesitant before. “Yes?”
“I would not like you to think that my words are inspired by anything other than making our mission a success.”
“All right. Go on.”
“Gratified as I am to hear that you intend acting more decisively, I understand this might prove… difficult for you. In that event, I would be prepared to assume leadership of this unit.”
Pelli needed a moment to take that in. “You’re challenging my command?”
“No. I’m merely stating that if you’re unable to fulfil your function I will step in.”
“That would be your duty in any event, if I were killed or badly wounded or—”
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