The Maelstrom's Eye

by Roger Moore

  General Vorr sat back, listening to the hoarse, distant cries of the fifth prisoner of the day. The garden ceremonies were good, but they were losing their morale value. This group of elves had been only farmers, after all, not warriors captured in battle. The last of the fighting for Spiral had been too long ago. Little Spiral’s orange sun now rose and set across a world controlled by the Tarantula Fleet’s ground and wildspace forces. With the local military ground into blood and bones, the troops lacked an appropriate outlet for their aggressions. Hunting down elven refugees in the deep caverns and mountains was a job for orcs and goblins, not highly trained marines like the general’s black-armored scro and ogres.

  We came here to kill elves, the general thought darkly, not to settle down, play games, and squabble among ourselves. Somewhere in this vast crystal sphere there were more elves, possibly even elements of the Imperial Fleet, but hunting for them would stretch the resources of the Tarantula Fleet too far until the scro had time to build more ships on Spiral. This was the third sphere the general had seen since the War of Revenge had begun, and the once-mighty fleet had been reduced by over two-thirds in constant, glorious, challenging, savage, righteous battle. All of the beautiful mantis ships were destroyed; hastily repaired derelicts and hijacked ships had been pressed into service. They had to rest or perish.

  That was the whole problem, of course. General Vorr hated just sitting here, knowing his troops were rotting from within. We should be back in wildspace again, he thought. We’ve been grounded for five hands of days now, and the reports are filling with summary executions for fighting among the troops. That energy should be directed at the Imperial Fleet, not at fellow soldiers. It was the accursed politics behind it all, of course.

  The general’s eyes wandered around the room, taking in the crude array of tribal, religious, and unit banners crowding the walls to either side of the doors, past the zwarth’s claws. The Tarantula Fleet admiral’s policy of letting common orcs into the ground legions only fed the problem. Orcs had boundless hatred for elves, but they also had equally violent hatreds for almost every other sort of humanoid, including orcs of rival tribes and cults and even the orc-descended scro. Other humanoids were like that, but few as much as the orcs.

  In their favor, the orcs and minor humanoids were useful for assaults on the gigantic, space-going dwarven citadels, where they could absorb the initial losses from traps and ambushes before the highbred scro and their allies took over and battered their ways through to the forges and redoubts. Rabble could be spared for rooting out survivors on conquered worlds like Spiral, settling down in the meanwhile to create their own colonies. Otherwise, they were just a nuisance.

  Whether he liked it or not, Vorr knew that Admiral Halker and the admirals of all other fleets now at war with the elves were doing what had to be done, following the words and plans of the Almighty Dukagsh, the Scro Father. Only by uniting all humanoids into the War of Revenge could the elves be driven from wildspace like sparrows in the claws of a gale – and driven they now were. In the year that the war had been underway, the general had seen the Imperial Fleet forces in two crystal spheres destroyed; elven worlds and fleets in other spheres were rumored by scouts and spies to be under attack or to have fallen as well. The war was vast, and Vorr knew he saw only a small part of it. Few elves had escaped the butcher’s cleaver, and little word had spread so far to alert other spheres of the coming of the blade. Spiral itself had fallen so rapidly that it was unlikely any other elves in this sphere knew of it yet. The elves, who had once ground the humanoids under their silver heel, had grown careless and lazy. They paid for it now with their lifeblood.

  Still, Vorr reflected, if orcs and lesser vermin were to come along for the elf slaying, they’d have to pull their own weight. General Vorr carefully bled off his supply of naive orcish auxiliaries with every opportunity, sending them without qualm into deathtraps and ambushes. If Halker noticed the high losses among Vorr’s orcs and goblins, he said nothing. Halker was a full-blooded scro himself, and it was likely that he understood and approved. Vorr never saw the need to bring the topic into the open and risk finding out differently.

  A low knock sounded at the double doors, interrupting his thoughts. General Vorr’s left hand casually dropped beneath the stone desktop, blunt fingers fitting into the leather grip of the weapon there. He’d been fooled once by a half-elven rogue on a suicide mission; he’d not be fooled twice. “Enter!” he called briskly, his voice booming through the room.

  A lock clicked, and one of the half-ton doors swung silently open. The still air stirred to brief life. The door was held by the steel-armored arm of an ogre elite guard. The ogre, named Gargon, was unusually big, a head taller than the general himself, and he made a fine wrestling and sparring partner. Gargon never spoke, thanks to an arrow through his voice box, but Vorr considered that an asset.

  A scro platoon officer strode with efficient precision through the doorway and into the broad office, his black leather armor squeaking pleasantly. Stopping well across the room from the desk, the only piece of furniture present aside from the general’s thick wooden chair, the sergeant raised a black-gloved fist, forearm vertical and upper arm straight forward, the back of his fist directed at the general. A thick red spider emblem was clearly visible on the back of his glove.

  “The Tarantulas remember!” the sergeant shouted, his flat, porcine snout raised with pride. He spoke in perfect Elvish. “Almighty Dukagsh hail my general!”

  General Vorr grunted. “Speak.” Tell me something different and new, he added mentally. It was time for a change. Fate would be his guide.

  “Sit,” said the sergeant crisply, switching to the scro’s Orcish dialect. “Sergeant Hagroth bears news from Admiral Halker, who reports the sighting of a large flying vessel of unknown type approaching the camp along Victory Highway. The ship has signaled a desire to talk. We have scorpion-ship escorts with it now. The base is being brought to half alert. Admiral Halker requests your attention within the hour to meet with representatives of the intruders, dealing with them as is deemed best.”

  Fate actually listens to me, General Vorr thought with mild surprise. Tell Fate that you are weary with boredom, and it sends a cure. Was I better off being bored?

  Vorr let his hand drop from the grip of his concealed weapon and looked down at the green-skinned humanoid standing at attention across the room. Sergeant Hagroth’s black armor was cleaned and polished; the steel studs on the leather gleamed in the orange light from the tall windows. A scro marine’s marine. The armored scro showed nothing but supreme confidence.

  Far away, the elven voice arose to a shriek – then silence filled the room instead.

  “Describe the intruder, Sergeant.” Vorr had seen more than his share of unknown ships; it couldn’t be too weird.

  “Sir, the ship is built of stone blocks in the shape of a ziggurat. There are no visible doors or openings. It has four triangular sides and a square bottom, which it keeps facing the ground as it flies.”

  Fate was being too generous. The description fit the design of the pyramid ships used by certain undead human wizards, the sort that brought nothing but trouble. General Vorr abruptly shoved back his chair and stood to his full eight-foot height; Sergeant Hagroth barely reached past his chest. He carefully sorted and put away his papers, his well-oiled armor making no sound.

  “Sergeant Hagroth,” he said, “tell my staff to bring all the marines to full alert, but in secret. Show no outward sign of our preparations. I want the Fifth Leg Battalion in assault gear at once, war priests in the lead. Attach two wall-breaker ogres to each company.” He paused, considering. “Battle bonuses and honors to the first company to get inside the pyramid, if it comes to that. No attacks are to be made unless I give the order. Death to anyone who fires before then. Inform Admiral Halker of my plans. Anything more?”

  Sergeant Hagroth’s face twitched as he fought to contain his excitement. He, too, must have felt the lash of boredom for f
ar too long. “Sir, nothing more,” he said, then stepped back one pace and raised his black-gloved fist in a final salute. “Vengeance is ours!” he shouted in Elvish.

  “Get on it,” returned the general in Elvish, looking down again at the stacks of paper on his desk. He heard the door shut and the faint sounds of someone hurrying away, then silence. He hesitated for a moment, wondering what was wrong. Oh, he thought, no screaming. The elf must have died already. That was odd because they usually lasted much longer than that. Vorr wondered what the elves thought when the scro administering the ritual tortures spoke to them in fluent Elvish; it must be torture all the more. The orcs and scro had remembered the victors of the Unhuman War too well for the victors’ own good.

  General Vorr had just finished stacking his reports and was preparing to leave when another knock sounded. He looked up, wondering what Fate could possibly be cooking up for him now. His hand again fell below the desktop and clutched the weapon’s grip. “Enter!” he barked.

  One of the steel-and-oak doors across the room opened gently. An emaciated Oriental human in flowery silken robes stepped through, a serene smile half hidden behind wisps of a white beard. A withered hand covered by paper-thin skin carelessly pushed the weighty door shut behind him. The old man appeared relaxed and calm.

  “Greetings, General,” said the old man in a strong voice, bowing once. His dark, almond-shaped eyes gleamed. “I pray that I am not disturbing your work.”

  Vorr eyed the intruder speculatively as his hands relaxed and let go of the weapon’s grip. “We have visitors, Usso. I trust you’ve heard.”

  “Yes. When the gates open, the flood comes through.” Without explaining the remark, the old man approached and raised his right hand as he reached the desk. Where his hand had been empty, a sheaf of papers now soundlessly appeared as if by magic – which, of course, it was.

  “My spies have been busy,” Usso said, almost cheerfully, setting the papers in a neat stack on the desk and turning them around to face the general. “I trust their reports will make entertaining reading.” The old man’s hands pulled back, then began to fingerspell words rapidly against the desk’s surface. The general appeared to study the new reports while reading Usso’s message.

  Elf and human guerrillas here. Three groups. I have waned unit commanders. Some seek you.

  General Vorr considered the news soberly. “Nothing interesting here,” he growled, thumbing a report page absently. He kept up the charade in case the guerrillas had the ability to scry on their meeting with spells, magical mirrors, or crystal balls. “Any other news?”

  “The pyramid ship has halted two miles outside the base’s northern gate. It shows no sign of hostility. It is also invulnerable to scrying, so I cannot say more about it.” The frail old man looked toward the windows and grinned mirthlessly. “We should be so fortunate. The air is itself a window for the ants, if not for those insects that fly.”

  We’re being magically spied upon by the intruders on the base and possibly by the flying pyramid’s inhabitants, Vorr interpreted. “Do, um, the ants and bees travel together these days?” Vorr asked. He felt foolish trying to speak in riddles so those scrying on him couldn’t make out his intent. Usso was so much better at deception, making it an an.

  Usso pointed a narrow finger at the top report. “The answer lies here,” he said, and his fingers began working again. No. Pyramid from other world. Elves from Spiral. Bad timing. I go. Stay alert.

  Vorr sighed heavily, his huge hands resting on the cool stone desk. Then he straightened and busied himself with filing papers in a desk drawer. “Work to be done, then. I will see to greeting our visitors from the pyramid – and I’ll be watchful.”

  “I shall stay watchful as well. A little fresh air would not hurt you, so I’ll leave your door open.”

  Usso meant for reinforcements to get to the general rapidly if necessary, Vorr knew. A closed door would not stop magically armed commandos. “Fine,” Vorr said, still storing papers. “I’ll be on my way in a minute.”

  The wizened man bowed formally, though the general ignored him, and turned to walk back to the closed doors. “Call if you need me,” Usso said as he left – but his voice had changed. It was now a very feminine one, seductive and young. After opening a door and motioning for Gargon to leave it ajar, Usso was gone.

  Vorr had most of the paperwork put away in a wall safe behind his chair and was about to take the last of it with him when a loud thump came from the double doors. He turned around. The door that had been open was now closed. After a startled pause on the other side came the sounds of heavy, pounding fists, followed by regular body slams against the wood and steel.

  A locking spell. That was quick, Vorr thought. He had no time left. He was on the wrong side of the desk and couldn’t go for his weapon. Vorr dropped his papers and reached for the only two solid objects on the desktop: the steel globe and the red tarantula statuette. He spun, scanning the room.

  An elf stood before him, having appeared out of nowhere just thirty feet away in front of the double doors. It was a female with silver hair and no armor, her staff sparkling with spell power. The coiled emblem of the massacred House of Spiral blazed from her fiery diadem.

  General Vorr threw the steel globe in his right hand with all the force he could summon. The impact of the sphere against her upper chest flipped the elf completely over in the air, her staff spinning away. She struck the wall behind her, then fell in a crumpled heap, her wide blue eyes staring at the ceiling. More teleporting images came into view. A tall human in a coveted helm and plate armor appeared to his far left. Teeth bared, Vorr flung the forty-pound red spider with his other hand. Solid iron crashed into the knight’s upraised shield, knocking the attacker into a dwarf who had appeared nearby. Both fell cursing into a heap.

  Eyes of Dukagsh, Vorr thought, they must want me badly. The room was still filling with teleporting intruders. Out of nine attackers so far, six were still on their feet. All stood at least twenty-five feet from the general. Several were making spell-casting motions. He knew instantly what was coming and almost relaxed to enjoy it.

  The spy reports from Usso!

  Vorr turned and snatched the last stack of papers on his desk, flinging it at a short male elf in a glittering green cloak. The elf sidestepped the papers, which sailed out of harm’s way. The elf pulled something small from his necklace – a golden bead, it looked like – then flung it at the general with a snap of his wrist. “For Spiral!” he shouted in the world’s Elvish, his face filled with cold rage.

  The tiny bead burst into a flaming yellow streak that struck the general’s chest – and vanished with a sputtering hiss that a flame would make when doused by water. Almost immediately, Vorr saw a second fireball and a stream of shining magic missiles streak toward him from his right, where other wizards must have appeared, but these spells vanished with equal speed when they struck him.

  The floor then exploded in a hurricane of fire beneath his boots, the concussion of the flames hammering his body as it took him by surprise. He instinctively stepped back and raised his arms to ward the fire away from his face, though he knew he was safe. The magical flames died away almost at once.

  The air was filled with ash and smoke. His desk and the floor around him were now covered with black soot, and his once-comfortable chair and the tribal flags and banners on the wall behind him were engulfed in yellow flames.

  Vorr, however, was unharmed and still on his feet. The attackers gasped when they saw him. The general used the seconds he gained to vault over his desktop. His left hand found the grip on the weapon under his desk, and he tore it free of its leather harness.

  The human knight, now weaponless and on hands and knees, produced a small, golden object from a belt pouch and hurled it clumsily across the room. The other attackers held back. The object clanged on the floor just a dozen feet away from the general. It was a statuette of a lion. “Lord of Cats!” shouted the knight in a hoarse female voice. “Sla
y the humanoid!”

  The golden figurine abruptly expanded and changed shape, growing a mane and numerous two-inch fangs within seconds. Its meowing cry turned into a full-throated roar. Vorr raised the metallic double-barrel device he’d tugged from under his desk, aimed from the hip, and pulled both triggers.

  He never heard the blast, but he felt its punch; it was too close and too loud. While he had braced himself as best he could, the recoil slammed Vorr hard in the gut, and he staggered back a step before he caught himself. A deafening whine filled his head for a few moments before his hearing recovered. Through the sulfurous smoke, he saw the thrashing shape of an enormous lion with two three-foot-long spears of barbed steel sticking out from its shaggy mane. Bright gore splattered the floor around the beast as it writhed in agony and shivered, then collapsed and moved no more.

  “Hammer time!” shouted a male human. “Then torch him!” The attackers were still holding back but were in the act of drawing more weapons – throwing weapons.

  “No! He is fireproof!” an elven male called out in Elvish. “Strike Plan B! We must —”

  The elf sounded like a leader. Vorr whipped the discharged harpoon-bombard overhand and let go. The weapon crossed the room in a whirling, circular blur and smacked the elf in the face, then went on to clang against the wall beyond, splattering red droplets across it. The elf fell backward when he was hit, his sword flying, one arm raised uselessly to ward off the blow.

  As the elf fell, everyone else in the room stepped forward and threw weapons of their own at the general, who shielded his face with his foot-thick arms. A twisting, magical rope slapped around his legs, but fell limp to the floor. Something thumped against his chest, cracking a rib with a stab of pain. A hatchet blade punched through the banded armor near the base of his neck, leaving a tingling and burning sensation. Poison. Vorr had no time to strip off his armor and wipe the wound to keep it from hurting, but no matter what poison it was, he could afford to wait and withstand the pain.