Off to the left, Haskeer held his sword two-handed, flapping reins forgotten, as he laid about the enemy. He split skulls, caved chests, hacked deep into limbs. Pink flesh was lacerated, bones cracked, ruby showers soaked all in range. Far gone in berserk frenzy, Haskeer took no account of human or animal, his blade carving horses and riders alike.
In the screaming, trampling chaos, a handful of the attackers flowed around the defensive barrier to strike at the Wolverines' vulnerable rear. Alfray and a couple of grunts turned to deal with the threat. Battle raged about Meklun's litter, crashing hooves and plummeting bodies failing to stir the insensible form.
Almost toppled from his mount by a club's glancing blow, in righting himself Alfray slashed his foe's saddle straps. The human pitched to one side and hit the ground. As he struggled to his feet, a riderless horse flattened him.
Joining the defence of the band's rump, Jup side-swiped one of two raiders who had Alfray boxed in. Dwarf and human crossed swords. Jup laid open the man's arm and followed through by planting cold steel in his ribcage.
A human's sword connected with Stryke's and bounced off. Stryke's response was a grievous blow to the other's neck, hewing flesh to the bone. The next to take the victim's place got equally short shrift. He managed to conjoin with Stryke's blade twice before a raking sword tip ribboned his face and sent him howling.
Fighting with sword and dagger, Coilla held off a pair of aggressors employing a crude pincer movement. One caught the long blade's edge across his throat. A second later the other halted the short blade's flight with his chest.
There being no other opponent to deal with, she turned her attention to Stryke. He was locked in combat with a scrawny, long-limbed antagonist, sandy-haired and blotchy-skinned. She judged it an adolescent of the species, and its artless movements betrayed a life unsullied by warfare. The youth's fear was palpable.
Stryke put an end to it with a swinging blow to the thorax. A smartly administered follow-through to the neck brought clean decapitation. Coilla's face was speckled with red drizzle from the spray.
She wiped the back of a hand across her eyes and spat to clear her mouth. It was a purely reflex action, undertaken with no more distaste than if the liquid had been rainwater. 'They're finished, Stryke,' she stated flatly.
He didn't need her confirmation. Human corpses littered the area. Only two or three remained alive to engage the band, and all were getting the worst of it. Haskeer was beating one over the head repeatedly with what looked like a cudgel. Closer examination showed it to be a human arm, white bone protruding from its sticky end.
A handful of the enemy were fleeing on horseback. About a third of the Wolverine grunts, whooping triumphantly, started after them. Stryke bawled and they abandoned the chase, though returning reluctantly. The human survivors disappeared from view.
Alfray knelt by Meklun's litter. The band began gathering discarded weapons and binding their wounds. Haskeer and Jup made their separate ways to Stryke and Coilla's side.
'Seems the injuries we took weren't too serious,' Jup related.
'No wonder,' Haskeer sneered. 'They fought like pixies.'
'They were farmers, not fighters. Uni zealots, by the look of them, probably out of Weaver's Lea. Hardly a true warrior among 'em.'
'But you didn't know that,' Haskeer growled accusingly.
'What you getting at?'Jup demanded.
'You brought them straight to us. What kind of idiot does something like that? You put the whole band in danger.'
'What did you expect me to do, meathead?'
'You should have led them away from here, taken them somewhere else.'
'Then what? Were Calthmon and me supposed to have lost ourselves out there?' He swept a hand at the wilderness. 'Or let 'em take us to protect you?'
Haskeer glared at him. 'That would've been no great loss.'
'Well, fuck you, pisspot! This is a warband, remember? We stick together!'
'They're gonna have to stick you together when I'm finished, you little snot!'
'Hey!' Coilla snapped. 'How about you two shutting your mouths long enough for us to get out of here?'
'She's right,' Stryke said. 'We don't know how many more humans might be heading for us. And farmers or not, if there's enough of them, we've got a problem. Where did you run into them, Jup?'
'Roadblock,' he replied sullenly. 'Up the trail.'
'So we have to find another way forward.'
'More time wasted,' Haskeer grumbled.
The shadows were lengthening. Another couple of hours and they'd be travelling in the dark, a prospect Stryke didn't welcome if there were rampaging mobs of humans on the loose. 'I'm doubling the number of scouts riding ahead,' he decided, 'and I want four covering our rear. You're in charge of that, Haskeer. I'll organise the advance scouts myself. Get on and pick your detail.'
Glowering, the sergeant moved away.
'I'm going to check on Meklun,' Stryke told Coilla and Jup. 'You two get the column moving, but keep it slow until the outriders have left.'
He trotted off.
The dwarf gave Coilla a rueful look.
'Spit it out,' she told him.
'This all seemed so simple when it started; now things are getting complicated,' he complained. 'And more dangerous than I counted on.'
'What's the matter, you want to live forever?'
Jup thought about it.
'Yes,' he said.
10
Jennesta had made the woman's end swift compared to her normal practice. Not through any sense of mercy, but rather a mixture of boredom and the need to attend to more pressing matters.
She climbed down from the altar and unstrapped the bloodied unicorn horn she used as a dildo. With the deft skill of experience she quickly disembowelled the human's corpse; so speedily that the heart was still throbbing as she raised it to her mouth.
The repast was no more than adequate. Her tastes were growing either more refined or more jaded.
Physically and magically refreshed, but hardly better tempered, she sucked the juices from her fingers and brooded about the cylinder. The deadline she'd imposed on the hunting party was nearly up. Whether they'd succeeded or not, the time had come to hedge her bets and increase pressure in the search for the Wolverines.
It felt cold. The chill penetrated even here, in her inner sanctum. A log fire had been laid in the huge hearth but remained unlit. Jennesta stretched a hand. A pulsing bolt of luminescence, straight as a die, stabbed the air silently. The fire ignited with a roar. Basking in its warmth, she remonstrated with herself for needlessly wasting the energy just obtained. But, as ever, her delight at manipulating physicality was the stronger emotion.
Reaching out, she tugged a bell pull. Two orc guards entered. One had a bolt of sacking under his arm.
'You know what to do,' she told them. Her tone was offhand and she didn't bother looking their way.
They set about cleaning up the mess. The sacking was shaken out and placed on the floor. Taking the body by its wrists and ankles, the guards lowered and covered it.
Uninterested, Jennesta pulled the cord again, twice this time.
As they left, the orcs passed another attendant coming in. Momentarily wide-eyed at the sight of their blood-soaked bundle, the elf hastily adopted a bland, impassive expression.
The menial was new, and Jennesta found it as hard to guess its sex as she had its recent predecessor. Although she'd found out in the end, of course. She made a mental note, again, to slow down the rate at which she was getting through the servants. None of them was around long enough to learn the job.
Curtly instructed, the elf assisted the Queen in dressing. Jennesta chose black, as was her custom for excursions outside the castle; skin-tight leather top and riding breeches, the latter tucked into thigh-high, tall-heeled boots of the same material. Over this she donned an ankle-length sable cloak, fashioned from the pelts of forest bears. Her hair was pinned up under a matching fur cap.
Sh
e discharged the servant brusquely. The elf retreated, bowing low and ignored.
Jennesta went to a table by the altar and inspected a collection of coiled whips. She selected one of her favourites to complete her ensemble. Slipping a slender hand through its wrist thong, she walked to the door, pausing for a second to check herself in an adjacent mirror.
The orc bodyguards outside snapped to attention as she exited, then made to accompany her. She dismissed them with a careless wave and they resumed their positions. Following the corridor, she came to a staircase, lit by burning torches in iron brackets every ten or twelve steps. As she climbed, she lifted the hem of her cloak, almost daintily, to stop the trim getting dirty.
She reached a door. An orc sentry opened it for her. Jennesta stepped out into a large courtyard surrounded by high walls, the castle towers looming far above. It was dusk and the air was frigid.
A dragon was tethered in the centre of the quadrant, one foreleg ringed by an iron fetter the size of a barrel. An equally colossal chain ran from the shackle and encircled the stump of a mature oak.
The dragon's snout was buried in a small mountain of fodder that blended hay, brimstone, the carcasses of several whole sheep and other, less identifiable titbits. Ample quantities of steaming droppings, containing white slithers of bone and shiny clinker, had already been deposited at the beast's rear end.
Jennesta pressed a delicate lace handkerchief to her nose.
The dragon's handler walked towards her. She was dressed in tan-coloured garb of various shades. Her jerkin and trews were chestnut and soft as chamois, her sturdy knee boots mahogany-hued brushed suede. The only variation was a white and grey feather in her narrow-brimmed hat, and discreet cords of gold about her neck and wrists. Unusually tall even by the standards of her rangy species, she wore a proud, near-haughty expression.
The Dragon Dam's race always intrigued Jennesta. She had never had a brownie. But she harboured a small, grudging respect for them, too. Or at least as much as she was capable of feeling for any other than herself. Perhaps because, like her, brownies were hybrids, the offspring of unions between elves and goblins.
'Glozellan,' Jennesta said.
'Majesty.' The Mistress of Dragons gave a minimal bow of her head.
'You've had your briefing?'
'Yes.'
'And my orders are understood?'
'You wish dragon patrols sent out to search for a warband.' Her voice was high-pitched, reedy.
'The Wolverines, yes. I sent for you in person to emphasise how vital your mission is.'
Should Glozellan have thought it strange that the Queen wanted her own followers hunted down, she didn't betray the fact. 'What would you have us do if we find them, my lady?'
Jennesta didn't like the if, but let it pass. 'That's where you and your fellow handlers must take the initiative.' She selected her words with care. 'In the case of sighting the band in a place where they can be captured, our land forces are to be alerted. But if there's the slightest possibility of the Wolverines escaping, they are to be destroyed.'
Glozellan's pencil-thin eyebrows rose. She knew better than to comment more explicitly, let alone protest.
'If you have to kill them you'll send word immediately,' Jennesta continued, 'and guard their remains, with your lives if necessary, until reinforcements arrive.' She was confident that the cylinder was capable of withstanding the heat of a dragon's breath. Fairly confident anyway. There was an element of unavoidable risk.
The dragon chewed noisily on the spine of a sheep.
After mulling over what had been said for a moment, Glozellan replied, 'We'd be looking for a small group. We don't know exactly where they are. It won't be easy, unless we fly low. That leaves us vulnerable.'
Jennesta's composure was strained. 'Why does everyone bring me problems?' she snapped. 'I want solutions! Do as I say!'
'Your Majesty.'
'Well, don't just stand there! Get on with it!'
The Dragon Dam nodded, turned and loped to her mount. Having clambered up the rigging to the saddle, she signalled an orc guard waiting by a far wall. He approached bearing a mallet. Several heavy blows to the shackle clasps released the chain. The guard retired to a safe distance.
Glozellan stretched forward, a lean hand on either side of the dragon's neck. It twisted its head, bringing a cavernous ear to her face. She whispered into it. Sinewy wings spread and billowed with a leathery crackling sound. The dragon let out a thunderous roar.
Gigantic muscles in its legs and flanks stood out like smooth scaly boulders. The wings flapped, sluggishly at first then with gathering speed, displacing great gusts of air that lashed the courtyard with the strength of a minor storm.
Jennesta held on to her cap and her cloak swirled as the dragon rose. The feat seemed impossible for such a behemoth, but the miracle was achieved, marrying the absurdly cumbersome with the surprisingly graceful.
For a few seconds the creature hung motionless, save for the laboured strokes of its mighty wings, about halfway up the side of the castle's edifice. The newly visible moon and stars were part obscured by its bulky, ragged-edged silhouette. Then the shape continued its ascent, took a heading towards Taklakameer and soared away.
The door Jennesta had passed through opened. General Kysthan emerged, escorted by a small contingent of her personal guard. He looked pale.
'You have word of our quarry?' she asked.
'Yes and . . . no, Majesty.'
'I'm in no mood for riddles, General. Just tell me straight.' She patted the side of her leg impatiently with the coiled whip.
'I've had a message from Captain Delorran.'
Her eyes narrowed. 'Go on.'
The General fished a square of folded parchment from his tunic pocket. Despite the cold, he was sweating. 'What Delorran has to say may not immediately seem like news your Majesty would wish to hear.'
With a deft flick of her hand, Jennesta unwound the whip.
The night was moonlit and starry. A gentle breeze pleasantly tempered its warmth.
He stood at the door of a grand lodge. There were sounds inside.
Stryke looked around. Nothing troubled the genial countryside and it did not feel threatening. In itself that was almost beyond his comprehension. The normality seemed disturbing.
Hesitantly, he reached out to try the door.
Before he could, it opened.
Light and noise blasted him. A figure was outlined by brightness. He couldn't see its features, only an inky contour. It came toward him. His hand went to his sword.
The shape became the female orc he had met before. Or imagined. Or dreamt. She was just as handsome, just as proud, and her eyes held the same tender steel.
Stryke was taken aback. She was, too, but less so.
'You've returned,' she said.
He stammered some banal reply.
She smiled. 'Come, the festivities are well underway.'
He let her usher him into the great hall.
It was crowded with orcs, and only orcs. Orcs feasting at long tables laden with food and drink. Orcs engrossed in good-natured conversation. Orcs laughing, singing, enjoying raucous horseplay and rough games.
Females made their way through the company bearing tankards of ale and horns of ruby wine, baskets of fruit and platters of tender meats. A fire burned in the middle of the floor on slate blocks, with joints of game and hunks of fowl roasting over it on spits. Smoke suffused with dancing sparks drifted up to a hole in the roof. Perfumed woods released their aromas to mingle with the myriad other smells scenting the air. Among them, Stryke thought he detected the sweetly pungent odour of crystal.
At one end of the hall, adult males lounged on skins of fur, drinking and roaring at ribald jokes. At the other, boisterous adolescents engaged in sham combat with wooden swords and muffle-ended staves. Drummers beat jaunty rhythms. Squealing youngsters chased each other through the throng.
Many revellers greeted Stryke warm-heartedly, despite him being
a stranger.
'Are you celebrating.' She snatched a flagon from a tray held high by a passing server, and drank from it. Then she passed it to him.
Stryke took a deep draught. It was mulled ale, flavoured with honey and spices, and it tasted wonderful. He drained the cup.
The female moved closer to him. 'Where have you been?' she asked.
'That's not an easy question.' He put his flagon down on a table. 'I don't know if I'm sure of the answer myself.'
'Again you shroud yourself in mystery.'
'I see you as a mystery, and this place.'
'There's nothing mysterious about me, or this place.'
'I know it not.'
She shook her head in good-natured pique. 'But you're here.'
'That means nothing to me. Where is here?'
'I see you're no less eccentric than when we first met. Come with me.'
She led him across the hall to another, smaller door. It opened to the back of the lodge. The cooler air outside had a sobering effect, and closing the door deadened most of the clamour.
'See?' She indicated the calm night-time landscape. 'All is as you'd expect.'
'As I would have expected once, perhaps,' he replied. 'Long ago. But now . . .'
'You're talking giddiness again,' she cautioned.
'What I mean is, is it like this . . . everywhere?'
'Of course it is!' A second passed as she made a decision. 'I'll show you.'
They walked to the end of the lodge. When they turned its corner they came to a stand of horses. Most were war chargers, magnificent, immaculately groomed animals with elaborate, gleaming tackle. The female selected two of the finest, a pure white and a pure black stallion.
She told him to mount. He hesitated. She climbed on to the white, her movements fluid, dextrous, as though born to the saddle. He took the black.
They rode off. At first she led, then he caught up and they galloped through the velvety countryside together.
Bodyguard of Lightning Page 9
