'Know what I've never understood? If they're eating the magic, why don't they use it against us?'
Jup shrugged. 'Who can say?'
After a couple of hours' fitful sleep, the Wolverines resumed their journey.
Far to their right flowed the Calyparr Inlet, marked by a fringe of trees. To their left, the Great Plains rolled in seemingly endless profusion. But the scene was askew. What had once been fecund now lacked vitality, and it seemed that much of the colour had washed out of the landscape. In many places the grass was turning yellow and dying in patches. Low-growing shrubbery was stunted and brittle. Tree barks were patterned with sickly parasitic growths. A brief fall of light rain was tawny-hued and smelt unwholesome, as though sulphurous.
Dusk saw them arriving at a point roughly parallel with Scratch. If they continued at the same rate, Stryke reckoned, they could turn west at dawn.
Riding alone at the head of the file, he was preoccupied with weightier thoughts than navigation. He pondered the mystery of the dreams that were afflicting him, and his sense of futility in the face of the odds stacked against them was growing. But what would happen if they didn't find the kobold raiding party, and the cylinder, was something he tried not to think about.
Melancholy had as cold a grip on him as the chill night air by the time one of the advance scouts appeared. The grunt was approaching at speed, his mount's nostrils huffing steamy clouds.
Reaching the column, he reined in sharply and wheeled the sweating horse about.
Stryke put out a hand to catch the trooper's reins, steadying his ride. 'What is it, Orbon?'
'Encampment ahead, sir.'
'Do they have horses?'
'Yes.'
'Good. Let's see if we can parley for some.'
'But Captain, it's an orc camp, and it looks deserted.'
'Are you sure?'
'Zoda and me have been watching the place, and there's no sign of anything stirring 'cept the horses.'
'All right. Go back to him and wait for us. Don't do anything till we get there.'
'Sir!' The scout goaded his steed and galloped off.
Stryke called forward his officers and explained the situation.
'Is an orc camp something you'd expect to come across in these parts?' Jup asked.
'They're more common in our native northern regions, it's true,' Stryke explained, 'but there are a few nomadic orc clans. I suppose it could be one of those. Or a military unit on a mission, like us.'
'If the scouts are reporting no activity, we should approach with caution,' Coilla suggested.
'That's my feeling,' Stryke agreed. 'It may be an orc encampment, but that doesn't mean it's orcs we'll find there. Until we know better, we treat it as hostile. Let's go.'
Ten minutes later they found Orbon waiting for them by a large copse. Its trees shed brown leaves and the bushes were turning autumnal colours, though summer's mid point was still a phase of the moon away.
Stryke had the band quietly dismount. The healing wounded were left with Meklun and the horses. Orbon in the lead, the rest stealthily entered the grove.
Ten paces in, the ground began to slope, and it was soon clear that the copse sheltered a sizeable trench-shaped indentation. They descended on a pulpy carpet of leaves to a fallen tree where Zoda, stretched full-length, kept watch.
Enough dappled light from the setting sun penetrated the swaying canopy to show what lay below.
Two modest roundhouses, topped with thatch, and a third, smaller still, its roof incomplete. Five or six lean-tos built of angled, lashed saplings covered by irregular-shaped remnants of coarse cloth. Sluggish spring water trickling feebly through churned mud. A pair of tree stumps and a connecting bough forming a roughly constructed hitching rail. Seven or eight cowed, strangely silent horses tethered to it.
As Stryke took it all in, the memory of the dream or vision he'd had came back to him, but in diametric opposition to what he now saw. The orc settlement in his dream had had a feeling of permanence. This was itinerant and ramshackle. The dream was redolent with light and clean air. This was dark and stifling. The dream was life-affirming. This spoke of death.
He heard Coilla whisper, 'Abandoned, you think?'
'Wouldn't be surprised,' Alfray replied in hushed tones, 'bearing in mind it's close to Scratch and not that far from a Uni colony.'
'But why leave the horses?'
Stryke roused himself. 'Let's find out. Haskeer, take a third of the band and work your way round to the other side. Jup, Alfray, move another third to the right flank. Coilla and the rest, stay with me. We go in on my signal.'
It took a few minutes for the groups to position themselves. When he was sure all were in place, Stryke stood and made a swift chopping motion with his arm. The Wolverines drew their weapons and began moving down toward the camp in a pincer formation.
They reached level without incident, save the nervous shying of several of the horses.
Around the crude dwellings the ground was strewn with objects of various kinds. An upended cooking cauldron, broken pottery, a trampled saddlebag, the bones of fowl, a discarded bow. Ashes of long-dead fires were heaped in several places.
Stryke led his detachment to the nearest roundhouse.
He raised a finger to his lips, and pointed with his blade to deploy the group around the shanty. When they were in place, he and Coilla crept to the entrance. It had no door; a piece of tattered sacking served the purpose. Swords up, they positioned themselves.
He nodded. Coilla ripped aside the cloth.
An overpoweringly foul smell hit them like a physical blow. It was mouldy, sweet, sickly and unmistakable.
The odour of decaying flesh.
Covering his mouth with his free hand, Stryke stepped inside. The light was poor, but it only took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust.
The hut was filled with dead orcs. They lay three and four deep on makeshift cots. Others completely covered the floor. A pall of corruption hung heavy in the air. Only the scurrying of carrion disturbed the stillness.
Coilla was at Stryke's side, palm pressed against her mouth. She tugged at his arm and they backed out. They retreated from the entrance and gulped air as the rest of their group craned for a look inside the hut.
Stryke moved to the second of the larger roundhouses, Coilla in tow, arriving as Jup emerged ashen-faced. The stench was just as strong. A glance at the interior revealed an identical scene of huddled corpses.
The dwarf breathed deeply. 'All females and young ones. Dead for some time.'
'The same over there,' Stryke told him.
'No adult males?'
'None I could see.'
'Why not? Where are they?'
'I can't be sure, Jup, but I think this is a dispossessed camp.'
'I'm still learning your ways, remember. What does that mean?'
'When a male orc's killed in military service, and his commander says it's cowardice, the dead warrior's mate and orphans are cast out. Some of the dispossessed band together.'
'The rule's being rigidly applied since we came under Jennesta,' Coilla added.
'They're left to fend for themselves?' Jup asked.
Stryke nodded. 'It's an orc's lot.'
'What did you expect?' Coilla said, reading the dwarfs expression. 'A stipend and a tithed farm?'
Jup ignored the sarcasm. 'Any idea what killed them, Captain?'
'Not yet. Mass suicide's not impossible, though. It's been known. Or maybe they—'
'Stryke!'
Haskeer was standing by the smallest hut, waving him over. Stryke went to him. Coilla, Jup and some of the others followed.
'One of 'em's still alive in there.' Haskeer jerked his thumb at the entrance.
Stryke peered into the gloom. 'Get Alfray. And bring a torch!' He entered.
There was just one prone figure, lying on a bed of filthy straw. Stryke approached, and heard strained breathing. He stooped. In the poor light he could just make out the features of an
old orc female. Her eyes were closed and her face glistened under a film of perspiration.
A murmur at Stryke's back heralded Alfray's arrival.
'Is she wounded?'
'Can't tell. Where's that torch?'
'Haskeer's bringing it.'
The aged orc's eyes opened. Her lips trembled, as though she were trying to say something. Alfray bent to listen. There was a final outrush of breath, like a sigh, and the distinctive sound of the death rattle.
Haskeer came in with a burning brand.
'Give it here.' Alfray took the torch and held it over the dead female. 'Gods!'
He quickly pulled away from her, nearly colliding with Stryke.
'What is it?'
'Look.' Alfray stretched the torch at arm's length, bathing the corpse in light.
Stryke saw.
'Get out,' he said. 'Both of you. Now!'
Haskeer and Alfray scrambled to exit, Stryke in their wake.
Outside, the rest of the band had gathered.
'Did you touch her?' Stryke demanded of Haskeer.
'Me? No . . . no, I didn't.'
'Or any of the other dead?'
'No.'
Stryke turned to the Wolverines. 'Did any of you touch the corpses?'
They shook their heads.
'What's going on, Stryke?' Coilla asked.
'Red spot.'
Several of the band stepped back on reflex. Exclamations and curses ran through the ranks. Grunts began covering their mouths and noses with kerchiefs.
Jup hissed, 'Bastard humans.'
'The horses can't get it,' Stryke said. 'We'll take them. I want us out of here fast. And burn everything!'
He snatched the torch from Alfray and hurled it into the hut.
The straw caught immediately. In seconds the interior was an inferno.
The band dispersed to spread the fire.
8
Delorran's boot crunched against something. Looking down, he found he'd trodden on a broken slab of wood displaying part of a neatly painted word.
It read: Home/
He kicked it aside and returned his attention to the burnt-out human settlement. His troopers were sifting through the ruins, rummaging in debris, upending charred planks, disturbing clouds of ash dust.
The search had begun before dawn. Now it was early afternoon and they were no nearer finding anything of importance, least of all the cylinder. Nor was there any sign of what had happened to the Wolverines. That much had been obvious from shortly after they arrived, and Delorran had sent out parties to scour the surrounding area for clues. None had yet returned.
He paced the compound. An unseasonable wind was gusting in from the north, picking up bite as it funnelled over the chalky line of far-off glaciers. The Captain puffed into his cupped hands.
One of his sergeants came away from the search and trotted toward him. He shook his head as he approached.
'Nothing?' Delorran said.
'No, sir. Neither the item or any orc bones in the ashes. Only human.'
'And we know none of the scavengers reported collecting Wolverine corpses for their pyres after the battle, except possibly a couple of grunts. Stryke and most of his officers are well enough known to be recognised, so we can take that as true.'
'Then you reckon they're still alive, sir?'
'I never really doubted it. I couldn't see a quality band losing out to the kind of opposition they met here. The real mystery is what's happened to them.'
The sergeant, a stolid veteran, his tattoos of rank fading, was better suited to combat than solving riddles. The best he could do was remind Delorran of another puzzle. 'What about the empty cellar in the barn, Captain? You think that's anything to do with it?'
'I don't know. But a cleaned-out silo, not even a grain, at a time when you'd expect to find corn down there seems odd. I'd wager the humans were using it to store something.'
'Loot?'
'Could be. What it comes to is that the Wolverines aren't dead, they're gone; and it looks like they've taken at least one valuable with them.'
Delorran's rivalry with the Wolverines' leader and his belief that he, not Stryke, should have been given command of the band was widely known. As was the long-standing animosity between their respective clans. Aware of the possibility that Delorran might have his own reasons for questioning Stryke's honesty, and the shoals of inter-clan politics, the sergeant made no comment. He kept to a neutral 'Permission to resume duties, sir.'
The Captain waved him away.
Well beyond mid point, the arching sun continued its inexorable journey across the sky. Half his allotted time used up, Delorran's apprehension was growing. He should be heading back for Cairnbarrow in the next couple of hours to meet the deadline. And quite possibly his death.
A rapid decision had to be made.
There were three options. Finding the cylinder here and returning home in triumph seemed less likely by the minute. That left going back without it and facing Jennesta's wrath, or disobeying orders and continuing to look for the Wolverines.
Cursing the Queen's impatience, he agonised about what to do.
His deliberations were interrupted by the appearance of two of the scouts he'd sent out earlier.
They reined in their lathering horses beside him. One rider was a lowly grunt, the other a corporal. The latter dismounted.
'Pack four reporting, sir!'
Delorran gave him a curt nod.
'I think our group's come up with something, sir. We've found signs of a fight south of here, in a small valley.'
A fragile hope stirred in the Captain's breast. 'Go on.'
'The place is littered with dead kobolds, kirgizils and horses.'
'Kobolds?'
'From the lizard tracks down the valley sides it looks like they ambushed somebody.'
'Doesn't mean it was the Wolverines. Unless you found any of their bodies.'
'No, sir. But we came across discarded rations; standard orc issue. And this.' The corporal dug into his belt pouch and retrieved the find. He dropped it on to Delorran's outstretched palm.
It was a necklace of three snow-leopard fangs, its strand broken.
Delorran stared at it, absently fingering the five identical trophies looped around his own throat. orcs were the only race that wore these particular emblems of their mettle, and they were a prerequisite of the officer class.
He made his decision.
'You've done well.'
'Thank you, sir.'
'Your group will lead us to this valley. Meanwhile, I want you to find yourself a fresh horse and carry out a special mission.'
'Yes, sir.'
'Congratulations, Corporal. You're going to get home earlier than the rest of us. I need you to carry a message to Cairnbarrow with all speed. For the Queen.'
'Sir.' This time there was a slight hesitancy in the corporal's response.
'You're to deliver the message to General Kysthan personally. No one else. Is that understood?'
'Sir.'
'The General is to tell Jennesta that I have a lead on where the Wolverines have gone and am in hot pursuit. I'm sure I can catch them and return the item the Queen desires. I beg more time, and will send further messages. Repeat that.'
The corporal paled a little as he recited it. He didn't doubt it wasn't what Jennesta would want to hear. But he was disciplined enough, or fearful enough, to obey orders without question.
'Good,' Delorran said. He handed back the necklace. 'Give this to the General and explain how it was found. Best pick a couple of troopers to go with you, and burn hell for leather. Dismissed.'
Gloomy-faced, the corporal remounted and made off, the silent grunt in his wake.
Delorran was giving Jennesta no choice. It was a dangerous ploy, and his only chance of surviving it lay in recovering the artefact. But he couldn't see another way.
He consoled himself with the thought that she had to be amenable to reason, notwithstanding her dreadful reputation.
Jennesta finished eviscerating the sacrifice and laid down her tools.
Her work had left a sizeable opening in the cadaver's chest, and entrails dangled wetly from his excavated abdomen. But her skill was such that only one or two tiny crimson flecks stained her diaphanous white shift.
She went to the altar and used the flame of a black candle to light another bundle of incense sticks. The heady fug already perfuming the chamber grew thicker.
A pair of her orc bodyguards were moving back and forth clutching heavy buckets in both hands. One of them spilled a dribble of the contents, leaving a thin trail on the flagstones.
'Don't waste that!' she snapped irritably. 'Unless you want to replace it yourselves!'
The guards exchanged furtive looks, but exercised more care as they lugged their pails to a large round tub and emptied them into it. The tub was built like a barrel, with seasoned wooden uprights sealed at the joins and embraced by metal hasps. It differed from a barrel in having much lower sides, and in being big enough to comfortably hold a reclining drey horse, should Jennesta choose to use if for such a purpose. Which as far as her orc attendants were concerned was not beyond the bounds of possibility.
She walked over to the vessel and contemplated its interior. The orcs returned, the muscles on their arms standing out as they hauled four more buckets. Jennesta watched as they tipped in the load.
'That'll do,' she said. 'Leave me.'
They bowed, demonstrating a peculiarly orcish form of inelegance. The echoing thump of the weighty door marked their departure.
Jennesta turned back to the tub of fresh blood.
She knelt and breathed deep of its unique aroma. Then she swished her fingertips through the viscous liquid. It was warm, not far short of body temperature, which made it a better medium. As an agent of the ritual it would intensify the power that had once come naturally but these days had to be nourished.
Her cat sashayed into range, meowing.
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