“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.”
Stryke didn’t seem to hear. He scooped a palmful of the fine crystals and let them trickle slowly through his fingers. “This cache is worth a small fortune in coin and influence. Think how it would swell our mistress’s coffers.”
“Exactly,” Jup eagerly concurred. “Look at it from her point of view. Our mission successfully accomplished, victory in the battle and a queen’s ransom of crystal lightning to boot. She’ll probably promote you!”
“Dwell on this, Captain,” Haskeer said. “Once delivered into the Queen’s hands, how much of it are we ever likely to see? There’s enough human in her to make the answer to that question no mystery to me.”
That did it.
Stryke dusted the last crystals from his hands. “What she doesn’t know about won’t hurt her,” he decided, “and starting out an hour or two later won’t make that much difference. And when she sees what we’ve brought, even Jennesta’s going to be satisfied.”
3
Some endure the frustration of their will with grace and forbearance. Others see obstacles to their gratification as intolerable burdens. The former embody admirable stoicism. The latter are dangerous.
Queen Jennesta belonged firmly in the second category. And she was growing impatient.
The warband she had entrusted with the sacred mission, the Wolverines, had yet to return. She knew the battle was over, and that it went in her favour, but they had not brought their monarch what she craved.
When they came she would have them skinned alive. If they had failed in their task she would inflict a much worse fate.
An entertainment had been arranged for her while she waited. It was necessary and practical as well as promising a certain pleasure. As usual, it would take place here in her sanctum sanctorum, the innermost of her private quarters.
The chamber, deep below her palace at Cairnbarrow, was constructed of stone. A dozen pillars supported the distant vaulted ceiling. Just enough light was provided by a scattering of candelabra and guttering brands, for Jennesta favoured shadows.
Wall hangings depicted complex cabalistic symbols. The floor’s time-worn granite blocks were covered by woven rugs bearing equally arcane designs. A high-backed wooden chair, ornately carved but not quite a throne, stood next to an iron brazier of glowing coals.
Two features dominated the apartment. One was a solid chunk of black marble that served as an altar. The other was set in front of and below it, of the same material but white, and shaped like a long, low table or couch.
A silver chalice stood on the altar. By it lay a curved dagger, its hilt inlaid with gold, runic devices etched into the blade. Alongside was a small hammer with a weighty, rounded head. It was decorated and inscribed in a similar way.
The white slab had a pair of shackles at each end. She ran her fingertips, slowly and lightly, along its surface. The smooth coolness of the marble felt sensuous to her touch.
A rap at the studded oak door broke her reverie.
“Come.”
Two Imperial Guards herded in a human prisoner at spear point. Chained hand and foot, the man wore only a loincloth. Around thirty seasons old, he was typical of his race in standing head and shoulders taller than the orcs prodding him forward. Bruises discoloured his face. Dried blood encrusted his blond hair and beard. He walked stiffly, partly due to the manacles but mostly because of a flogging he had been given after his capture during the battle. Vivid red weals criss-crossed his back.
“Ah, my guest has arrived. Greetings.” The Queen’s syrupy tone held pure mockery.
He said nothing.
As she languorously approached, one of the guards jerked the trailing chain at the captive’s wrists. The man winced. Jennesta studied his robust, muscular frame, and decided he was suitable for her purpose.
In turn, he inspected her, and it was obvious from his expression that what he saw confounded him.
There was something wrong about the shape of her face. It was a little too flat, a mite wider than it should have been across the temples, and it tapered to a chin more pointed than seemed reasonable. Ebony hair tumbled to her waist,
its sheen so pronounced it looked wet. Her dark fathomless eyes had an obliqueness that extraordinarily long lashes only served to stress. The nose was faintly aquiline and the mouth appeared overly broad.
None of this was exactly displeasing. It was rather as if her features had deviated from Nature’s norm and pursued their own unique evolution. The result was startling.
Her skin, too, was not quite right. The impression, in the flickering candleglow, was of an emerald hue one moment and a silvery lustre the next, as though she were covered in minute fish scales. She wore a long crimson gown that left her shoulders exposed and clung tightly to the outlines of her voluptuous body. Her feet were bare.
Without doubt she was comely. But her beauty had a distinctly alarming quality. Its effect on her prisoner was to both quicken his blood and excite vague feelings of disgust. In a world teeming with racial diversity, she was totally outside his experience.
“You do not show proper deference,” she said. Her remarkable eyes were mesmeric. They made him feel that nothing could be kept concealed.
The captive dragged himself out of the depths of that devouring gaze. Despite his pain, he smiled, albeit cynically. He glanced down at the chains binding him, and for the first time spoke. “Even if I were so inclined, I could not.”
Jennesta smiled too. It was genuinely disquieting. “My guards will be happy to assist,” she replied brightly.
The soldiers forced him roughly to his knees.
“That’s better.” Her voice dripped synthetic sweetness.
Gasping from the added discomfort, he noticed her hands. The length of the slender fingers, extended by keen nails half as long again, bordered abnormal. She moved to his side, reaching to touch the welts covering his back. It was done softly, but he still flinched. She traced the angry red lines with the tips of her nails, releasing trickles of fresh blood. He groaned. She made no attempt to hide her relish.
“Damn you, you heathen bitch,” he hissed weakly.
She laughed. “A typical Uni. Any rejecting your ways must be a heathen. Yet you’re the upstarts, with your fantasies of a lone deity.”
“While you follow the old, dead gods worshipped by the likes of these,” he countered, glaring at the orc guards.
“How little you know. The Mani faith reveres gods even more ancient. Living gods, unlike the fiction you cleave to.”
He coughed, misery racking his frame. “You call yourself a Mani?”
“What of it?”
“The Manis are wrong, but at least they’re human.”
“Whereas I’m not, and therefore cannot embrace the cause? Your ignorance would fill this place’s moat, farmer. The Manifold path is for all. Even so, I am human in part.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“You’ve never seen a hybrid before?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Obviously not. I’m of mixed nyadd and human parentage, and carry the best of both.”
“The best? Such a union is . . . an abomination!”
The Queen found that even more amusing, throwing back her head to laugh again. “Enough of this. You’re not here to engage in a debate.” She nodded at the soldiers. “Make him ready.”
He was yanked upright, then goaded to the marble slab, where they lifted him bodily by his arms and legs. The agony of being dumped unceremoniously on its surface made him cry out. He lay panting, his eyes watery. They removed the chains and fastened his wrists and ankles with the shackles.
Jennesta curtly dismissed the guards. They bowed and lumbered out.
She went to the brazier and sprinkled powdered incense on the coals. Heady perfume filled the air. Crossing to the altar, she took up the ceremonial dagger and the chalice.
With an effort, the man turned his head her way. “At least allow me the mercy of a quick death,” he pleaded.
Now she loomed over him, the knife in her hand. He drew an audible breath and started to recite some prayer or incantation, his panic making the words an incomprehensible babble.
“You’re spouting gibberish,” she chided. “Still your tongue.” Blade in hand, she stooped.
And cut through the loincloth.
She sliced away the material and tossed it aside. Placing the knife on the edge of the slab, she contemplated his nudity.
Slack-jawed, he stammered, “What —?” His face reddened with embarrassment. He gulped and squirmed.
“You Unis have a very unnatural attitude to your bodies,” she told him, matter-of-factly. “You feel shame where none should exist.”
She lifted his head with one hand and put the chalice to his lips with the other. “Drink,” she commanded, sharply tilting the vessel.
Enough of the potion poured down his throat before he gagged and clamped his teeth on the rim. She removed the cup, leaving him coughing and spluttering. Some of the urinecoloured liquid dribbled from the sides of his mouth.
It was quick-acting but short-lived, so she wasted no time. Untying the straps of her gown, she let it fall to the floor.
He stared at her, wide-eyed with disbelief. His gaze took in her generous, jutting breasts. It moved down past her taut midriff to the pleasing camber of her hips, the long, curvaceous sweep of her legs and the luxuriant downy mound at her crotch.
Jennesta had a physical perfection which combined the sumptuous charms of a human woman with the alien heritage of her crossbred origins. He had never seen the like.
For her part, she recognised in him a struggle between the prudery of his Uni upbringing and the innate hunger of male lust. The aphrodisiac would help tilt the balance in the right direction, and deaden the pain of his ill-treatment. If need be she could add the persuasive powers of her sorcery. But she knew the best inducement required no magic.
She slid on to the side of the slab and brought her face close to his. The strange, sweet muskiness of her breath made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. She blew gently in his ear, whispered shockingly explicit endearments. He blushed again, though this time perhaps not entirely because of abashment.
At last he found his voice. “Why do you torment me this way?”
“You torment yourself,” she responded huskily, “by denying the joys of the flesh.”
“Whore!”
Giggling, she leaned nearer, the tips of her swaying breasts tickling his chest. She made as if to kiss him, but drew back at the last. Wetting her fingers, she slowly trailed them around his nipples until they became erect. His breathing grew heavier. The potion was beginning to work.
Swallowing loudly, he summoned enough resolution to utter, “The thought of congress with you is repulsive to me.”
“Really?” She eased on to him, straddling his body, her pubic hair pressed against his abdomen. He strained at the shackles, but feebly.
Jennesta was enjoying his humiliation, the destruction of his resolve. It heightened her own excitement. She parted her lips and disgorged a tongue that seemed overlong for the cavity of her mouth. It proved coarse-textured when she started licking his throat and shoulders.
Despite himself, he was becoming aroused. She squeezed her legs more firmly against the sides of his sweat-filmed body and caressed him with renewed ardour. A succession of emotions passed rapidly across his face: expectancy, repellence, fascination, eagerness. Fear.
He half cried, half sobbed, “No!”
“But you want this,” she soothed. “Why else make yourself ready for me?” She lifted herself slightly. Reaching down, she took hold of his manhood and guided it.
Gradually she moved against him, her lithe form rising and falling in a deliberate, unhurried rhythm. His head rolled from side to side, eyes glazed, mouth gaping. Her tempo increased. He writhed and began moaning. The motion grew faster. He started to respond, tentatively at first, then thrusting deeper and harder. Jennesta tossed back her hair. The cloud of raven locks caught pinpoints of light that wreathed her in a nimbus of fire.
Aware he was on the verge of gushing his seed, she rode him mercilessly, building to a
frenzy of wanton rapture. He twisted, flailed, shuddered his way to culmination.
Suddenly she had the dagger in both hands, lifting it high.
Orgasm and terror came simultaneously.
The blade plunged into his chest, again, again and again. He shrieked hideously, tearing the skin from his wrists as he fought the shackles. Unheeding, she stabbed and hacked, cleaving at flesh.
His screams gave way to a moist gurgle. Then his head fell back with a meaty thump and he was still.
She cast away the knife and scrabbled with her hands, delving into the gory hollow. Once the ribs were exposed she took up the hammer and pounded at them. They cracked, white shards flying. This obstruction removed, she dropped the hammer and clawed through viscera, arms blood-drenched, to grasp his still faintly beating heart. With an effort she ripped it free.
She lifted the dripping organ to her widening mouth and sank her teeth into its warm tenderness.
Great as her sexual gratification had been, it was as nothing compared to the fulfilment she now experienced. With each bite her victim’s life force reinvigorated her own. She felt the flow replenishing her physically and feeding the spring from which she drew her vital magical energies.
Sitting cross-legged on the steaming corpse’s chest, her face, breasts and hands smeared with blood, she happily feasted.
At length she was replete. For the time being.
As she sucked the last of the juices from her fingers, a young black and white cat slunk from a dark corner of the chamber. It mewed.
“Here, Sapphire,” Jennesta crooned, patting her thigh.
The she-cat leapt effortlessly and joined her mistress to be petted. Then she sniffed at the mutilated body and began lapping at its open wound.
Smiling indulgently, the Queen got down from the slab and padded to a velvet bellcord.
The orc guards wasted no time in obeying her summons. If they had any feelings about the scene that greeted them, or her appearance, they gave no hint.
“Remove the carcass,” she ordered.
The cat darted for the shadows on their approach. They set to work on the shackles.
Orcs Page 3
