Orcs: Inferno

by Stan Nicholls

  “Then don’t linger,” Pepperdyne told him.

  “If you’re wrong, human…”

  “Do we have a choice?”

  “Let’s go,” Stryke ordered.

  They moved forward and entered the water, many of them holding their weapons above their heads.

  About a third of the way across, one of the grunts cried out and pointed. Everybody looked back. A couple of tentacles were rummaging around the beach they’d just left. As the band watched, several more appeared, twisting high above the trees.

  “They’re not following,” Coilla said. “Maybe they’ve come to their limit.”

  “Maybe,” Stryke replied. “Let’s not hang around to find out.”

  They carried on, casting anxious glances over their shoulders. The Krake’s arms stayed where they were, exploring the terrain like snuffling hounds, and a couple more emerged from the jungle to join them.

  At length the Wolverines reached the desolate island and dragged themselves onto its rocky shore. They climbed to its highest point, actually a very modest elevation, and kept watch.

  “Suppose it doesn’t go away?” Wheam said.

  “If it’s like any other animal,” Stryke replied, “it’ll tire or get hungry and look for easier prey.”

  “How long’s that likely to be?” Jup wondered.

  “We’ll see.”

  They settled down, their damp clothes steaming in the heat of the sun.

  Enough time passed for their clothing to dry, and tempers to start growing thin, before anything happened.

  “Heads up!” Jup shouted.

  As one, all the tentacles were rapidly withdrawing.

  “It’s gone,” Dallog said.

  “Hold your horses,” Stryke cautioned, “it’s not over yet. Now we wait and see if the water really is shallow enough to keep that thing away from this side.”

  “Yeah,” Haskeer said, casting a hostile glance Pepperdyne’s way.

  Again they waited. And Stryke made it a long wait, to be sure. The shadows were lengthening when he judged the time right for a move. Cautiously, the band waded back to the main island. They did it in silence, save for Haskeer’s muttered grumbling about getting soaked again. Once there, Stryke sent Nep, Eldo and Seafe ahead as scouts.

  Before the band got to the beach where their ship was anchored, the scouts were back.

  “It’s left,” Seafe reported.

  “You sure?” Stryke said.

  “We couldn’t see it. And it’s too big to miss.”

  “Good.”

  “We don’t get off that light though, Captain. Our ship’s been damaged.”

  “Shit. Bad?”

  “Well, it’s still floating. But it’s messed up. Reckon the Krake gave it a slap before it went.”

  Stryke sent a party out, including Pepperdyne, to assess the damage.

  “It looks grim, but I think most of it can be repaired,” the human explained a little later. “It’s taking on some water, and the main mast took a whack. They’re the most important things to take care of.”

  “How long?”

  “Couple of days.”

  “Too long.”

  “Might get it down to one if we all sweat.”

  “What do you need?”

  “Timber, mainly. There’s wood in the jungle here that’d do. Not ideal, but—”

  “Let’s get started.”

  “It’s not far off night. You want us to work in the dark?”

  “Needs must.”

  “Stryke, once the ship’s righted, then what?”

  “We’ll get to that.”

  “We don’t know where to go. Not to mention we could be braving the Krake again once we leave here.”

  “I said we’d get to it.” There was enough of an edge in his voice to put Pepperdyne off taking it further.

  Stryke sent most of the grunts into the jungle to look for suitable wood, both for repairs and for fires to work by. The privates had been gone no time when Breggin came running back.

  “What is it?” Stryke demanded.

  “We’re not alone!” The grunt was breathing hard.

  “Who? How many?”

  “Dunno. One. Maybe. Couldn’t make out what. Just saw something moving in the undergrowth, that way.” He pointed. “It gave me the slip.”

  Drawing his sword, Stryke headed for the jungle at a dash. The rest followed; even Standeven, though he kept well to the rear. In the rapidly darkening interior a number of the scouting grunts joined them. Stryke had them spread out and comb the area. He pushed on, the other officers, the dwarfs and Pepperdyne flanking him.

  They didn’t have to go very far.

  It was dark enough that, at first, Stryke wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Then he realised there really was a figure standing in the shadows. He approached warily, and as he got nearer he saw that it had its back to him. It stood completely still, though by now whoever it was, unless deaf, must have heard him and the others approaching.

  “No sudden moves!” Stryke barked at it. “Turn round. And keep your hands in sight.”

  The figure remained as immobile as a statue.

  Stryke took a couple more steps. “Show yourself!”

  Slowly, the figure turned.

  Nearer now, Stryke was sufficiently close to see its face. What he saw made him doubt his sanity.

  He was looking at himself.

  13

  Stryke was too stunned to speak.

  He stared at the being he faced. It was like gazing into a mirror. The features were his, identical in every detail. Only the slightly ill-fitting, nondescript clothes his double wore were different: a cloth jerkin over a cotton shirt, thick russet-coloured trews tucked into knee-high leather boots. No weapon of any kind; at least, none that could be seen.

  Stryke’s reverie was broken by Haskeer yelling, “Sorcery! Kill it!”

  Blades drawn, he and the others began to advance. Stryke himself stayed rooted.

  The stranger who looked exactly like him held up his hands and, in a calm, melodious voice quite unlike Stryke’s, said, “You can lower your weapons. I’m not a threat.”

  “We’re supposed to take your word for it, are we?” Jup replied, keeping his staff at the ready.

  Stryke gestured for them to stay their hands, and he found his voice. “Who… what are you?”

  “Forgive me,” his likeness told him. “It’s a little artifice on my part. Now hold, and don’t be fearful of what you see.”

  Haskeer’s wasn’t the only chin that jutted in indignation at the remark.

  “Watch out!” Coilla warned. “It’s doing something!”

  The stranger began to change. Its features became oddly indistinct. The flesh seemed to melt, to run and refashion itself. There was the sound of what could have been cracking bones as the body twisted, contracted, expanded. In a moment the figure was transformed.

  What stood before them now was more slender and taller than the imitation Stryke it had just been. Its face was much nearer human than orc, though not entirely so. But there was an androgynous look about the creature that made its gender indistinct. The eyes, green as emeralds, had a distinct slant; the nose was small and a little upturned. Auburn hair had emerged, abundant and collar length. It was a well proportioned face, with finely drawn features, and could be called either handsome or beautiful if its owner’s sex was defined.

  “What in hell are you?” Stryke said.

  “A friend.” The creature’s voice remained the same.

  “So you say,” Jup muttered.

  “My name is Dynahla.”

  “You’re a fetch, aren’t you?” Coilla ventured. “A shape-changer.”

  “I have the ability to assume other appearances, yes.”

  “Why make yourself look like me?” Stryke asked.

  “Self-defence. In my experience most beings are reluctant to attack someone who looks like themselves.”

  “You a he or a she?” Haskeer said. “Or can you cha
nge that too?”

  Dynahla smiled. “I can see you’d be more comfortable dealing with a masculine being.” As it spoke, another change occurred, though it was minor compared to what they had just seen. The flesh ran more subtly, altering features in small ways. The chin, cheekbones and brow all hardened somewhat; the body grew modest muscles and the hips reduced. The result was more obviously male, while retaining a measure of ambiguity.

  “I hope you’re not going to keep on doing that,” Spurral remarked.

  “What’re you doing here?” Stryke demanded.

  “I was sent,” Dynahla replied.

  “By that bunch of sorcerers tailing us?” Haskeer wanted to know.

  “The Gateway Corps? No, I’m not with them.”

  Stryke was puzzled. “The what?”

  “You have a lot to learn, Stryke, and if you bear with me there’ll be explanations.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I know all your names.” Dynahla pointed a trim finger at one after another of the band. “Coilla, Haskeer, Jup. You must be Spurral. Dallog. That is Jode Pepperdyne, and—”

  “How come you know so much about us?”

  “It is sorcery,” Haskeer declared. “There’s magic at work here and I don’t like it.” He half raised his blade.

  “No,” Dynahla said. “Or yes, rather. But not in the way you mean. Benign magic. And it isn’t mine. I’m talking about the one who sent me here.”

  “You haven’t said who that was yet,” Stryke reminded him. He had decided that thinking of this being as male was less confusing.

  “Someone you’re familiar with, and who means you no harm. I was sent by Tentarr Arngrim, the one you know as Serapheim.”

  “He sent you?”

  “To aid you.”

  “What are you to him?”

  “Interesting question. An… acolyte.”

  “A claim like yours is all the better for proof,” Jup said.

  “I can prove it. To everyone, Stryke, or do you wish us to be alone?”

  “No. We’re all in this together.” He gave Pepperdyne a fleeting glance, and Standeven, skulking some way back. “Whatever you’ve got to say is for everybody.”

  “Then perhaps you would like to gather them.”

  He nodded. “But not here. Let’s get back to what’s left of the light.” At his order, Dallog gave two blasts on his horn to summon the scouts home. “You’re going under armed guard,” Stryke told Dynahla. “I don’t trust you. Whether I do depends on your so-called proof.”

  “I understand.”

  “If you start to change—”

  “I won’t.”

  They headed back to the beach.

  Sword at the ready, Coilla was one of those flanking Dynahla. Turning to him, she said, “Fetches are very rare, aren’t they? Least they were on Maras-Dantia.”

  “So I’m told.”

  “They say that seeing a fetch in your likeness, the way Stryke just did, foretells your death.”

  “And they say that you orcs can’t tolerate daylight.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Precisely.”

  No more was said until they reached the shore. As the last of the scouts started to return, Stryke asked some more questions.

  “Are you of this world?”

  “No.”

  “How did you get here?”

  “The same way you did.”

  “You have stars?”

  “Serapheim transported me, as he did my predecessor, Parnol.”

  “Who?”

  “Another acolyte. You knew him only in death. He was the messenger Serapheim sent to you in Ceragan.”

  “The human with the knife in his back.”

  “Yes. Jennesta was responsible for that.”

  “No surprise there then,” Haskeer said.

  Stryke’s hand went to his throat. “I’ve got his amulet.”

  “Good,” Dynahla said. “That was enterprising of you.”

  “But it’s no use. The stars don’t work properly.”

  “You still have them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have they had any… effect on you? You can be truthful. I know that they have affected you in the past, and Haskeer.” He looked at the sergeant. He returned a scowl.

  “No,” Stryke replied. “I’ve felt nothing.”

  “That’s good too. Hopefully you’ve become attuned to them.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Each set of instrumentalities has its own signature, what some call its song. A being spending any amount of time in their presence either suffers or harmonises with them, as perhaps you are doing. Do you understand?”

  “I think so.”

  “But it’s not wise to be within their range of influence for too long, even if their effect seems to be benevolent.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the instrumentalities embody an unimaginable power. A power that even the most adept of sorcerers do not fully comprehend.”

  “I’m not surrendering them,” he insisted, sensing the way things were going.

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  “Anyway, as I said, they don’t work. Not the way they should. Do you know why?”

  “Yeah,” Jup added, “and does Jennesta have anything to do with it?”

  “What about this Gateway Corps?” Coilla pitched in. “Who are they? What do they want?”

  “And where’s Thirzarr?” Stryke demanded.

  Dynahla raised a hand to still the clamour. “These matters are best addressed by the proof I have to offer. Is this all your band, Stryke?”

  He looked around. The last couple of stragglers were jogging their way. “Yes.”

  “Then you’re about to have some answers. But don’t expect everything to be resolved immediately.”

  “That doesn’t sound too promising,” Coilla remarked darkly.

  “Trust me,” Dynahla said.

  As they watched intently, hands on weapons, the fetch took a small silken pouch from his pocket and poured the contents into the palm of his hand. As far as they could see it was sand, identical to that on the beach. He threw it into the air. It didn’t fall, but hung there in a cloud. Then it rearranged itself, forming a kind of flat canvas, no thicker than an individual grain, suspended just above their heads.

  Suddenly it was no longer sand, at least in appearance. It became a rectangle of gently pulsing white light, which in turn gave way to a succession of primary colours, flashing through the spectrum. When it calmed, an image came into focus, raising gasps and exclamations from some in the band.

  The human Tentarr Arngrim, Serapheim to the fraternity of wizards and seers, gazed down at them.

  Wheam looked terrified. Dallog, the other tyros, Spurral, and Pepperdyne and Standeven, none of whom had much if any knowledge of the sorcerer, were almost as awed.

  “This image is recorded in the grains of sand,” Dynahla explained. “You cannot converse with him.”

  “Like back on Ceragan the last time,” Haskeer whispered.

  Stryke shushed him.

  Serapheim spoke, his voice loud, almost booming, and all could hear. “Greetings, Stryke; and Wolverines, I salute you. You are to be congratulated on your efforts in Acurial. Your actions there played a not insignificant part in freeing your kind from the shackles of oppression.”

  “Didn’t get us Jennesta though,” Jup muttered under his breath.

  As though responding, Serapheim’s likeness went on, “It’s regrettable that you had less success in your dealings with my daughter. But do not reproach yourselves for it, and take heart from knowing that aspect of your mission is far from over.” The sorcerer paused briefly. When he resumed, his tone was less formal, and betrayed a degree of weariness. “I’ve much to tell you, although I fear not all your curiosity’s going to be satisfied. Not yet.” He grew more matter-of-fact. “First, let me commend Dynahla to you. You’ve a faithful, dependable ally in this adherent, who has my
complete trust, and deserves yours. Dynahla’s powers can be of great help to you. All I ask is that you don’t allow my most steadfast servant to come to harm. I’d be devastated should Dynahla suffer an end as miserable as Parnol’s, whose fate you have doubtless now learnt.” There was something that could have been a sigh before he carried on. “As with so much that is corrupt, Jennesta was behind Parnol’s death. Just one more casual murder to her, but a grievous blow to me, and to our cause.”

  “We have a cause?” Coilla mumbled.

  “I know that, for a time, Jennesta had possession of the instrumentalities you hold,” Serapheim continued, “and since you regained them they’ve failed to work properly. Didn’t you wonder at the ease with which you got them back? I mean no slur on your abilities, but had she been determined to keep them you would have had a much harder fight on your hands. The fact is that Jennesta wanted you to recover the instrumentalities. For two reasons. First, she has mastered an ancient magical process that allowed her to copy them. Second, she placed an enchantment on the original set she allowed you to take back. A spell which accounts for their erratic behaviour, and may even let her track your movements.”

  There were some knowing nods at that. It was more or less what smarter members of the band already suspected.

  “As far as I can tell, the fake instrumentalities Jennesta possesses have as much power as the genuine ones. I don’t have to tell you that this makes her even more dangerous. As far as the influence she exercises over your instrumentalities is concerned, Dynahla has the skill to counter it, though in a limited way. I expect to fare better, but only if you bring the instrumentalities to me.”

  “Why didn’t you come here yourself?” Haskeer said.

  “He can’t hear you,” Dynahla reminded him.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Several of the others glared and waved him quiet.

  “As you know by now,” Serapheim’s image said, “we are not the only ones with an interest in the artefacts. The group hunting you are members of a fraternity called the Gateway Corps. They are an incredibly ancient order, active for perhaps as long as there have been instrumentalities. Their sole purpose is to locate and seize the artefacts. This they do from the best of intentions, and given the power of the instrumentalities their concern is understandable, but they pursue their goal with utter dedication, akin to fanaticism. They, too, are dangerous. Their magic is very potent and they command advanced weaponry.”