Aching, badly winded, he was only thinking of getting up when rough hands were laid on him. He had an impression of black-garbed humans. They set to punching and kicking him. Unable to fight back, the best he could do was cover his face with his hands.
They hauled him to his feet and took his weapons. The pouch was ripped from his belt. His hands were bound behind his back.
Through the agony, Haskeer focused on a figure that had appeared in front of him.
“Are you sure he’s secure?” Kimball Hobrow asked.
“He’s secure,” a custodian confirmed.
Another henchman passed Haskeer’s pouch to the preacher. He looked inside and his face lit with joy. Or it might have been avarice.
Thrusting in his hand he brought out the stars and gleefully held them aloft. “The relic, and another to match! It is more than I dared hope. The Lord is with us this day.” He threw up his arms. “Thank You, Lord, for returning what is ours! And for delivering this creature to us, the instruments of Your justice!”
Hobrow scowled at the orc. “You will be punished for your wrongs, savage, in the name of the Supreme Being.”
Haskeer’s head was clearing a little. The singing had faded and been replaced by this ranting human lunatic. He couldn’t move or get his hands free. But there was one thing he could do.
He spat in Hobrow’s face.
The preacher leapt back as though scalded, his expression horrified. He began rubbing at his face with the back of his sleeve and muttering, “Unclean, unclean.”
When he was through, he asked again, “Are you sure he’s well bound?”
His followers assured him. Hobrow came forward, balled his fist and delivered several blows to Haskeer’s stomach, yelling, “You will pay for your disrespect to a servant of the Lord!”
Haskeer had taken worse. A lot worse. The punches were quite feeble, in fact. But the custodians, probably realising how ineffective their leader’s efforts were, also started laying into him.
Over the beating he heard Hobrow shout, “Remember the lost hunting party! There could be more of his kind around! We must leave here!”
Barely conscious, Haskeer was dragged away.
Alfray and his half of the Wolverines journeyed in the direction of Calyparr Inlet for most of the day without incident.
He had used his authority to confer a temporary field promotion on Kestix, one of the band’s more able grunts. In effect, this meant Kestix acted as a kind of honorary second-in-command. It also meant Alfray had somebody to pass the time with on a nearly equal basis.
As they rode westward, through the yellowing grasslands of the plains, he sounded out Kestix about the mood in the ranks.
“Concerned, of course, sir,” the trooper replied. “Or perhaps worried would be a better word.”
“You’re not alone in that.”
“Things have changed so much and so fast, Corporal. It’s like we’ve been swept along with no time to think.”
“Everything’s changing,” Alfray agreed. “Maras-Dantia’s changing. Maybe it’s finished. Because of the humans.”
“Since the humans came, yes. They’ve upset it all, the bastards.”
“But take heart. We could make a difference yet, if we carry out our captain’s plan successfully.”
“Begging your pardon, Corporal, but what does that mean?”
“Eh?”
“Well, we all know it’s important for us to find these star things, only . . . why?”
Alfray was nonplussed. “What are you getting at, trooper?”
“We still don’t know what they do, what they’re for. Do we, Corporal?”
“That’s true. But apart from any . . . let’s say any magical power they might command, we do know they have another kind of power. Others want them. In the case of our late mistress, Jennesta, powerful others. Maybe that gives us an edge.”
Alfray turned to check the column while Kestix digested that. When he righted himself, there was another question.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how do you see our mission to Drogan, Corporal? Do we go straight in and try to grab the star?”
“No. We get as near to this Keppatawn’s village as possible and observe. If things don’t look too hostile, we might see about parleying. But basically we watch and wait for the rest of the band to turn up.”
Hesitantly, Kestix asked, “You think they will?”
Alfray found that mildly shocking. “Don’t be defeatist, trooper,” he replied, a bit sternly. “We have to believe we’ll rejoin with Stryke’s party.”
“I meant no disrespect to the captain,” the grunt quickly affirmed. “It’s just that things don’t seem in our control any more.”
“I know. But trust Stryke.” He fleetingly wondered if that was good advice. Not that he didn’t think Stryke was to be trusted. It was just that he couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling that their commander might have bitten off more than he could chew.
His reverie was cut through by shouts from the column, and Kestix yelling, “Corporal! Look, sir!”
Alfray gazed ahead and saw a convoy of four wagons, drawn by oxen, coming round a bend ahead. The trail the orcs and the wagons were on ran through a low gully with sloping sides. One party or the other would have to give way. It wasn’t yet possible to make out the wagons’ occupants.
Several thoughts ran through Alfray’s mind. The first was that if his band turned around it was bound to attract attention. Not to mention that it wasn’t in the nature of orcs to run. His other thought was that if whatever was in the wagons proved hostile, they were unlikely to number many more than his company. He didn’t see that as insuperable odds.
“Chances are these are just beings going peacefully about their business,” he told Kestix.
“What if they’re Unis?”
“If they’re any kind of humans, we’ll kill ’em,” Alfray informed him matter-of-factly.
As the two groups drew nearer, the orcs identified the race in the wagons.
“Gnomes,” Alfray said.
“Could be worse, sir. They fight like baby rabbits.”
“Yes, and they tend to keep themselves to themselves.”
“They’re only ever a problem if anybody takes an interest in their hoards. And I seem to remember their magic has to do with finding underground gold seams, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
“If there’s any talking to be done, leave it to me.” Alfray turned and barked an order to the column. “Maintain order in ranks. No weapons to be drawn unless necessary. Let’s just take this easy, shall we?”
“Do you think they’d know about the band having a price on its head?” Kestix wondered.
“Maybe. But as you said, they’re not usually fighters. Unless bad manners and foul breath count as weapons.”
The lead wagon was now a short stone’s lob from the head of Alfray’s column. There were two gnomes on the riding board. A couple more stood behind them, in the wagon proper. Whatever load the wagon carried was covered by a white tarpaulin.
Alfray threw up a hand and halted the column. The wagons stopped. For a moment, the two groups stared at each other.
Some held that gnomes looked like dwarves with deformities. They were small in stature and disproportionately muscular. They had big hands, big feet and big noses. They sported white beards and bushy white eyebrows. Their clothing was nononsense coarse jerkins and trews in uninspiring colours. Some had cowls, others soft caps with hanging bobs.
All gnomes appeared incredibly old, even when new-born. All had made an art of scowling.
After a moment’s silence, the driver of the lead wagon announced testily, “Well, I ain’t moving!”
Further back, stony-faced wagoneers stood to watch.
“Why should we clear the road?” Alfray said.
“Hoard? Hoard?” the driver fog-horned. “We ain’t got no hoard!”
“Just our luck to get one hard of hearing,” Alfray grumbled. “Not hoard,” he enunci
ated slow, loud and clear, “road!”
“What about it?”
“Are you going to shift?” Alfray shouted.
The gnome thought about it. “Nope.”
Alfray decided to take a more conversational, less disputatious tack. “Where you from?” he asked.
“Ain’t saying,” the gnome replied sourly.
“Where you heading?”
“None of your business.”
“Then can you say if the way to Drogan is clear? Of any humans, that is.”
“Might be. Might not. What’s it worth?”
Alfray remembered that gnomes were notorious for knowing the price of everything but the value of nothing. Good road courtesy, for instance.
He gave in. At his order, the column urged their horses up the sides of the gully and let the gnomes through.
As the lead wagon passed, its poker-faced driver mumbled, “This place is getting too damn crowded for my liking.”
Watching them rumble away, Alfray tried jesting about the incident. “Well, we made short shrift of them,” he stated ironically.
“That we did,” Kestix said. “Er . . . Corporal?”
“Yes, Private?”
“Where exactly do shrifts come from?”
Alfray sighed. “Let’s get on, shall we?”
10
Coilla had never spent so much time in the company of humans before. In fact most of her previous experience had to do with killing them.
But being with the bounty hunters for several days made her more aware than ever of their otherworldliness. She had always viewed them as strange, alien creatures, as rapacious interlopers with insatiable appetites for destruction. Now she saw the nuances that underlined the differences between them and the elder races. The way they looked, the way their minds worked, the way they smelt: in so many ways humans were weird.
She put the thought aside as they reached the crest of a hill overlooking Hecklowe.
It was dusk, and lights were beginning to dot the freeport. Distance and elevation made it possible to see that the place hadn’t so much been planned as simply had happened. As befitted a town where all races met on an equal footing, Hecklowe consisted of a jumble of structures in every conceivable architectural style. Tall buildings, squat buildings, towers, domes, arches and spires cut the skyline. They were made from wood and stone, brick and wattle, thatch and slate. Beyond the town’s far edge the grey sea could just be made out in the fading light. Masts of taller ships poked up over the rooftops.
Even from so far away a faint din could be heard.
Lekmann stared down at the port. “It’s a while since I been here, but nothing’s changed, I reckon. Hecklowe’s permanent neutral ground. Don’t matter how much you hate a race, in there it’s a truce. No brawling, no fights. No settling of scores in a lethal way.”
“They kill you for that, don’t they?” Blaan said.
“If they catch you.”
“Don’t they search for weapons on the way in?” Aulay asked.
“Nah. They leave it to you to give ’em up. Searching ain’t practical no more since Hecklowe became such a popular place. But if you’re fighting in there, it’s summary execution by the Watchers. Not that they’re as lively as they used to be. They can still do for you, though, so be careful of ’em.”
Coilla spoke out. “The Watchers don’t work properly because your kind’s bleeding the magic.”
“Magic,” Lekmann sneered. “You sub-humans and your fucking magic. Know what I think? I think it’s all horse shit.”
“You’re surrounded by it. You just can’t see it.”
“That’s enough!”
“If we find them orcs there’s gonna be fighting, ain’t there?” Blaan said.
“I’m thinking we’re just going to stay on their tails until they come out, then move. If we have to face ’em inside, well, we’re used to slipping a blade into somebody’s ribs on the quiet.”
“That sounds like your style,” Coilla remarked.
“I told you to shut your face.”
Aulay was unconvinced. “This ain’t much of a plan, Micah.”
“We work with what we got, Greever. Can you think of another way?”
“No.”
“No, you can’t. Be like Jabeez here, and leave the thinking chores to me. All right?”
“Right, Micah.”
Lekmann turned to Coilla. “As for you, you’ll behave down there and hold your tongue. “ ’Les’ you want to lose it. Got that?”
She gave him an icy stare.
“Micah,” Blaan said.
Lekmann sighed. “Yes?”
“Hecklowe’s where all the races can go, right?”
“That’s right.”
“So there could be orcs there.”
“I’m banking on it, Jabeez. That’s why we’re here, remember?” His synthetic patience was wearing thin.
“So if we see orcs, how do we know if they’re the ones we’re looking for?”
Aulay grinned, displaying rotting teeth. “He’s got a point, Micah.”
Lekmann obviously hadn’t thought that aspect through. Finally he jabbed a thumb at Coilla. “She’ll point them out for us.”
“Like hell I will.”
He leered menacingly at her. “We’ll see about that.”
“So what do we do about weapons?” Aulay said.
“We’ll hand in our swords at the gates, but keep a little something in reserve.”
He took a knife from his belt and slipped it into his boot. Blaan and Aulay did the same, only Aulay hid two knives—a dagger in one boot, a thrower in the other.
“When we get down there you’ll say nothing,” Lekmann repeated to Coilla. “You ain’t our prisoner, you’re just with us. Got it?”
“You know I’m going to kill you for this, don’t you?” she replied evenly.
He tried to laugh that off. But he’d looked into her eyes and his performance was unconvincing. “Let’s go,” he said, spurring his horse.
They rode down to Hecklowe.
Near the gates, Aulay cut Coilla’s bonds and whispered to her, “Try to run and you get a blade in your arse.”
There was a small multiracial crowd at the gates, on foot and mounted, and a queue moving past a checkpoint where weapons were being handed in. The bounty hunters and Coilla got in line, and reached the checkpoint before they saw their first Watchers.
They were bipedal, but that was about as much resemblance as they had to flesh-and-blood creatures. Their bodies were solidly built and seemed to consist of a variety of metals. The arms, legs and barrel chests looked something like iron. Bands of burnished copper ran around their wrists and ankles. Another, wider band girdled their waists, and it could have been beaten gold. Where there were joints, at elbows, knees and fingers, silver rivets glistened.
Their heads were fashioned from a substance akin to steel and were almost completely round. They had large red gems for some kind of eyes, punched-hole “noses” and a slot of a mouth with sharpened metal teeth. On either side of their heads depressed openings acted as ears.
They were of uniform height, standing taller than any of the bounty hunters, and despite the nature of their bodies they moved with surprising suppleness. Yet they did not entirely mimic the motions of an organic lifeform, being given to occasional ungainliness and a tendency to lumber.
Their appearance could only be described as startling.
The humans placed their weapons in a Watcher’s outstretched arms and it moved off with them to a fortified gatehouse.
“Homunculi,” Coilla mouthed. “Created by sorcery.”
Aulay and Blaan exchanged awed glances. Lekmann tried to look casual.
Another Watcher arrived and dropped three wooden tags into Lekmann’s palm by way of receipts. Then it waved them into the town.
Lekmann passed out the tags as they walked. “See, told you it was no problem getting a few blades in.”
Stuffing his tag into a pocket, Au
lay commented, “I thought they might have been a bit more thorough.”
“I reckon the so-called Council of Magicians running this place is losing its grip. But if they ain’t competent that’s good news for us.”
They made their way into the bustling streets, leading their horses and carefully keeping Coilla boxed in. Aulay saw to it that he covered her back, the better to deliver his threat.
Hecklowe swarmed with elder races. Gremlins, pixies and dwarves talked, argued, bargained and occasionally laughed together. Little groups of kobolds weaved through the crowd, chattering among themselves in their own unintelligible language. A line of stern-faced gnomes, pickaxes over shoulders, went purposefully about their business. Trolls wearing hoods as protection against the light were led by hired elf guides. Centaurs clopped along the cobbled roads, proudly aloof in the throng. There were even a few humans, though it was noticeable that they were less often to be seen mixing with other races.
“What now, Micah?” Aulay asked.
“We find an inn and work out our strategy.”
Blaan beamed. “Ale, good!”
“This ain’t no time to be getting all unnecessary, Jabeez,” Lekmann warned him. “We need clear heads for what has to be done. Got it?”
The man mountain sulked.
“But let’s get these horses stabled first,” Lekmann suggested. To Coilla he added, “Don’t get no smart ideas.”
They worked their way further into the port’s teeming thoroughfares. They passed stalls and handcarts brimming with sweetmeats, fish, breads, cheeses, fruit and vegetables. Costermongers sang out the quality of their trays of wares. Merchants pulled stubborn asses laden with bolts of cloth and sacks of spices. Wandering musicians, street performers and vociferous beggars added to the cacophony.
On corners, brazen succubus and incubus whores touted for customers with appetites jaded enough to brave the dangers of going with them. The smell of pellucid sweetened the air. It mingled with incense wafting from the open doors of a myriad of temples dedicated to every known pantheon of gods. Through it all Watchers patrolled, paths miraculously clearing for them in the chaos.
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