Inferno ob-3

by Stan Nicholls

  “Yeah. So, the village?”

  He sighed. “As good a place as any, I s’pose.” To the rest he announced, “We’re moving out! We run into anybody, we cut ’em down!”

  “Don’t we always?” Haskeer wondered.

  “She won’t be alone,” Dallog warned, drawing another contemptuous look from Haskeer.

  “I know,” Stryke said. “We can deal with it.”

  “What about Jennesta herself?” Jup asked. “What happens if-” He saw Stryke’s expression. “- when we find her? How do we handle that?”

  “I’ll think of something,” his captain returned gruffly, and without further word turned and set off at a pace.

  The band fell in behind him.

  Coilla slipped an arm around Pepperdyne’s waist as they walked. It drew looks.

  “How bad was it back there?” he wanted to know.

  “Pretty bad. I’ve never seen Stryke so… out of control.”

  “He seems all right now.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. Take my advice: steer clear of him. He’s just about bottling the fury.”

  “Can’t blame him after what happened to his mate. I know how I’d feel if something like that happened to… somebody I care for.” He smiled at her.

  Coilla returned it, then sobered. “It’s not just Thirzarr. He’s got Corb and Janch to think about too. His hatchlings,” she added by way of explanation. “And who knows what mayhem Jennesta might have wreaked in Ceragan. This is one pissed-off band, Jode.”

  “How can I tell?”

  “What’d you mean?”

  “You’re orcs. Pissed-off seems to be the natural state.”

  She grinned again, despite herself. “Not all the time.”

  “Thankfully, no.”

  “Mind you, it was good that Wheam got pissed-off back there just when we needed it.”

  “Sounds like he did well.”

  “Yeah. Not that Haskeer believes it.”

  They glanced at Wheam. He was jogging along next to Dallog. But Dallog seemed more interested in Pirrak, one of the other tyros from Ceragan, with whom he was engrossed in conversation.

  “Looks like Dallog’s neglecting him,” Pepperdyne observed.

  “He has to mentor all the newbies.”

  “I’ve noticed he’s spent a lot of time with that one recently.”

  “Maybe Pirrak needs some kind of guidance. The fresh intake are new to this, remember.”

  “Been quite a baptism of fire for them, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes. It’s a wonder we haven’t lost more of ’em, thank the Tetrad.”

  “The what?”

  “You’ve not heard any of us say that before? It’s our congress of gods. There are four of them. I’ll explain some time, if you’re interested.”

  “I’d like to hear about it. And you… believe in these gods? You appeal to them?”

  “Usually when somebody’s trying to part me from my head.”

  Pepperdyne smiled. “I know that feeling. It was the same with my people.” He cast an eye over the trudging band. “I guess there’s a certain amount of appealing going on right now.”

  “You bet.”

  “So how do your- Damn. Heads up.” He nodded.

  Coilla followed his gaze and saw Standeven elbowing their way. She rolled her eyes.

  Pepperdyne’s one-time master arrived sweating. “I need to talk to you,” he insisted to Coilla in an undertone.

  “About what?”

  He looked around, anxious not to be overheard. “The instrumentalities,” he mouthed.

  Pepperdyne groaned. “Not this again.”

  Standeven glared at him and turned indignant. “I only want to ask the Corporal here if they’re still safe.”

  “What’s it to you?” Coilla said.

  “A lot. As it should be to everybody here. Our only chance of getting home depends on-”

  “I know. They’re safe. You’d have to kill Stryke to get ’em. Unlikely in your case.”

  He ignored the jibe. “And has he mastered them yet? Has he worked out what’s wrong with them?”

  She jabbed a thumb in Stryke’s direction. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Standeven looked to Stryke, forging ahead at the column’s prow. He saw the broadness of his back, the rippling muscles and, when he turned his head to scold those following, the murderous expression he wore. “I’ll… wait until he’s free.”

  “He does have a couple of other things on his mind,” Pepperdyne informed him dryly.

  “But they’re secure, right? The stars, they’re-”

  “ Enough. You’re getting obsessed with the things. Give it a rest.”

  Standeven flushed redder. “There was a time,” he grated angrily, “when you wouldn’t have dared speak to me like that.”

  “So you keep telling me. And I keep saying that time’s past. Live with it.”

  Shaking with impotent fury, his old master fell back in the column, where he was given a wide berth.

  “I think he’s going crazy,” Pepperdyne said, at least half seriously.

  Coilla shook her head. “Don’t know about that. I do know the effect the stars can have.”

  “Effect?”

  “Spending too long with ’em can make things a bit weird. We’ve seen it in the band.”

  “Weird?”

  “You turned into an echo, or what?”

  “Just explain, Coilla.”

  “Later. It’s a long story. But the stars have the power to get a hold on some, make ’em act… well, a bit like Standeven.”

  “What about Stryke? He’s with the things all the time.”

  “Yeah, and that’s a worry. But like I said, it affects some, not all. He seems to handle it. Most of the time.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “What I’m saying is, keep an eye on Standeven.”

  “I usually do.”

  They marched in silence after that, turning things over in their minds.

  Stryke was leading the band along the upper lip of the beach, keeping the jungle to their right. Soon they would reach a line of sand dunes marking the point where they needed to turn inland, onto the path that headed toward the dwarfs’ settlement.

  As dwarfs themselves, Jup and Spurral felt a natural sympathy with the natives, but their empathy was with Stryke. Marching four or five ranks to his rear, they found themselves eyeing him constantly.

  “He looks in a state,” Spurral commented, “near frenzied. Is he going to hold it together?”

  “Course he will. He’s tough. What beggars belief is how history’s repeating itself.”

  “Me and the Gatherers.”

  Jup nodded. “So I know how he feels.”

  “He helped you get through that.”

  “Yeah. I owe him.”

  “Now you can repay. He needs your support. And maybe more down the road, depending on how this plays out.”

  “There’s no going near him at the moment, the mood he’s in.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to-”

  “ Wait! Look.” He pointed at the sand dune they were approaching.

  A number of humans were swarming over it, their Peczan uniforms marking them as Jennesta’s followers. Several of her undead slaves were with them. Their movements were lumbering and jerky, and their deathly pallor was evident even at a distance. The looks of surprise on the troopers’ faces testified to this being an unexpected encounter rather than an ambush.

  “ Damn,” Spurral said. “Just what we needed.”

  “Yes, it is,” Jup told her.

  “More trouble ’s what we need?” She drew her short-bladed sword.

  “Better to be at the enemy’s throats than each other’s. It’ll bleed off the tension. ’Specially Stryke’s.”

  As Jup spoke, Stryke rushed at the troopers, bellowing a war cry. The rest of the band took it up and thundered after him. All but Standeven, who hung back, looking fretful.

  The two lines met in a bellowing r
oar and the clatter of steel.

  Stryke tore into the human ranks like a hot cleaver through pig fat. A pair of troopers went down in a brace of heartbeats, and instantly he was engaging a third. He fought like a berserker, oblivious to whistling blades and lunging spears. His only aim was rending the flesh of anything in his way.

  Coilla and Pepperdyne worked in unison, carving a path deep into the enemy’s ranks, until they ran into one of the undead. The process by which Jennesta magically created her zombie adherents endowed them with a strength and stamina most lacked in life. This one was an exceptional example, and must have been hulking even before he met his fate. Armed with what looked like a tree trunk, he took a hefty swipe that caught Pepperdyne off guard. The blow was glancing, but enough to bring him to his knees. A follow-up would have brained him, had Coilla not rushed in, sword swinging. She struck the zombie at its waist, cutting deep. Back on his feet, Pepperdyne rejoined the fray, adding his weight to the fight. Together they hacked their foe to pieces.

  Jup and Spurral also fought in harmony. Given their height, this was as much necessity as choice. Employing a well-practised technique, Jup used his staff to crack kneecaps, toppling opponents and bringing them in range of Spurral’s blade.

  Haskeer had no truck with anything like finesse. Having felled a trooper with a thrust to the man’s chest, he had his sword dashed from his hand by a stray blow. Menaced by a trio of advancing soldiers he swiftly hoisted the corpse and hurled it at them. They went down like a row of skittles. Snatching up his sword, Haskeer followed through.

  The new recruits instinctively fought as a group, with Dallog marshalling them, and gave a good account of themselves. Even Wheam, his confidence growing, managed to inflict some damage.

  The whole band, steeped in frustration, vented their anger with orcish fury. They stabbed, slashed and pounded at the enemy mercilessly, intent on nothing short of a massacre.

  At length, Stryke wrenched his blade from the innards of the last human and stood panting as he surveyed the slaughter.

  “Feeling better?” Coilla said.

  He wiped blood from his face with the back of a hand. “Some.”

  Jup arrived. “Casualties light,” he reported. “Dallog’s patching up those who need it.”

  Stryke nodded. “Then let’s keep moving.” He set off.

  They took the jungle path leading to the dwarfs’ village, alert to any further danger. The journey was uneventful until they were almost at the settlement, when they spotted columns of black smoke beginning to rise above the trees. Shortly after, they entered the clearing.

  All but two or three of the huts were burning, and a dozen or so dead dwarfs were scattered about. Some of the band caught the briefest glimpse of movement in the jungle. It was judged to be natives fleeing to their hiding places. Coilla called out to them, but got no reply. The remaining huts were searched, along with the surrounding terrain, and proved deserted. Lookouts were posted, and the private with the best head for heights, Nep, was ordered to climb one of the taller trees to spy out the land. Stryke set half a dozen grunts on the more or less endless task of finding suitable wood to replenish their store of arrows. The rest of the band gathered around him.

  “No Jennesta,” Haskeer said tightly, glaring at Pepperdyne. “So much for your brilliant plan.”

  “It was a reasonable assumption,” the human protested.

  “And nobody had a better idea,” Coilla added.

  Haskeer switched his baleful stare to her. “That’s right, take his side. As usual.”

  “It was the best idea,” she repeated deliberately.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “If you’ve got some kind of beef, Haskeer, let’s hear it.”

  “I’m not keen on humans having a hand in how this band’s run.”

  “I haven’t,” Pepperdyne told him. “I was just trying to help.”

  “And a fat lot of good that turned out. We don’t need your help. So why don’t you-”

  “ Shut it,” Stryke warned, his tone ominous. “We’re all in this together, and I’ll have no bickering.”

  “Now you’re taking his part,” Haskeer grumbled.

  “I said shut… it. There’ll be no indiscipline in this band. And if anybody thinks otherwise they can step up now.”

  Haskeer looked as though he just might, except they were interrupted by a shout from Nep at the tree top.

  “What?” Stryke bellowed back.

  “The ships! They’ve gone!”

  “Which?”

  “All but ours!”

  Stryke signalled for him to come down.

  “So Jennesta has left the island,” Jup said.

  “And that other bunch too, by the sound of it,” Spurral put in.

  “Shit,” Haskeer grated through clenched teeth.

  “ Now what do we do?” Coilla said.

  2

  The Gateway Corps ship had sailed beyond sight of the dwarfs’ island. But the Corps elf commander, Pelli Madayar, who had taken the wheel herself, was uncertain which course to set. For that, she looked to her goblin second-in-command, Weevan-Jirst. He was gazing at a plump, gleaming gem nestling in his palm.

  “Anything?” Pelli asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Take the wheel. I’ll try.”

  They swapped places. She warmed the gem in her hand, then stared hard at it. Its swirling surface was cloudy.

  “Is something wrong with it?” Weevan-Jirst asked in the rasping timbre peculiar to his race.

  “There shouldn’t be, given the quality of its magic. I’ll check.”

  “How?”

  Pelli was aware that although high in the Corps’ magical hierarchy, her deputy still had a lot to learn. “By comparing it with a set of instrumentalities we already know about,” she explained.

  “Those held by the orc warband?”

  She nodded. “You’re aware that each set of artefacts has its own unique signature; what some call its song. We know the tempo of the ones the Wolverines have. I’ll see if I can attune to them. One moment.” Face creased in concentration, she softly recited the necessary spell. At length she said, “There,” and showed him the gem.

  Images had appeared on its facade. They were arcane, and continuously shifting, but to adepts their meaning was plain.

  “The orcs’ instrumentalities,” Weevan-Jirst interpreted, “on the isle of dwarfs.”

  “Yes. Which confirms that the fault doesn’t lie in our method of detection.”

  “I see that. So why can’t we trace the artefacts Jennesta has?”

  “Because I’m now certain that she’s done something unprecedented, or at least extremely rare. The instrumentalities she’s using are copies, presumably taken from the originals the orcs have. Their emanations are unlike those given off by the genuine articles, which is why we’re finding it difficult to track them.”

  “Copies? That would be a remarkable achievement.”

  “Oh, yes. There’s no doubting her extraordinary magical talent. Moreover, I believe she’s also tampered with the originals in some way, giving her a measure of control over them.”

  “Which would explain the erratic way the Wolverines were world-hopping before arriving in this one.”

  “Indeed it would. She’s toying with them.”

  “But I’m puzzled.”

  “How so?”

  “Our mission is to retrieve the orcs’ instrumentalities, and we know where they are. So why have we left them behind on the island?”

  “We now have not one, but two sets of instrumentalities in irresponsible hands. And Jennesta’s ability to duplicate them is potentially catastrophic. Imagine dozens, scores, hundreds of instrumentalities in circulation. The Corps could never control a situation like that.”

  “It doesn’t bear thinking about,” Weevan-Jirst agreed gravely.

  “We’ve two options. We can go back to the island to tackle the orcs again, and run the risk of losing Jennesta for ever. Or we con
centrate on her, knowing we can find the orcs as long as they have the artefacts, which they’re unlikely to part with.”

  “We don’t know where she is.”

  “I think we can find out by recalibrating our detection methods on the basis that her instrumentalities are copies.”

  “Is that possible?”

  “In theory. Only it might take a little while. But there’s something else that could work to our advantage. Jennesta has Stryke’s mate, and we can almost certainly count on him pursuing her too. With luck, we’ll be able to bag both sets at the same time.”

  “How will they know where she’s gone?”

  “Don’t underestimate how tenacious a race the orcs are. I’d put a large wager on them working it out.”

  The goblin looked doubtful. “Isn’t this deviating from our orders?”

  “I have autonomy in the field, to a degree.”

  “Yes,” he hissed, “ to a degree. Are you going to consult higher authority?”

  “Karrell Revers? No. At least, not yet.”

  “Can I ask why not?”

  “I have total respect for his judgement, but he’s not here.”

  “You mean he’d likely order you to stick to our original mission.”

  “Probably. And we’d lose precious time while the situation’s debated on homeworld.” She gave him a concerned look. “Of course, I appreciate that you might be unhappy with my plan. But I’ll take full responsibility for-”

  “I’ll be glad to abide by any decision you make, Pelli. For the time being.”

  She decided not to pursue that comment. “Thank you. Meantime, we have something else to attend to.” She looked along the deck. The bodies of three of their comrades were laid out, wrapped in bloody sheets. “Then we have a score to settle with Jennesta.”

  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.