Warriors of the Tempest

by Stan Nicholls

  He cried out.

  The light died.

  Slowly, he lowered his hands and opened his eyes.

  Before him stretched a vast barren plain. There were no trees, no blades of greenery, nothing he could equate with any landscape he had ever seen before. It resembled a desert, though the sand was pewter-coloured and very fine, like volcanic ash. All that broke the desolate scene were numerous jagged, ebony-hued rocks, large and small, strewn across and partly buried by the sediment.

  The atmosphere was tropical. Tendrils of yellowish-green mist crept sluggishly at ankle level, and there was an unpleasant odour in the air that reminded him of sulphur and rotting fish. Way off in the distance towered black mountains of impossible height.

  But what shocked him most was the sky.

  It was blood red and cloudless. There were no stars. But close to the horizon hung a moon, and it was vast. He could see every pockmarked, scarred detail of its glowing, tawny surface. So large and near was it that he half believed he could pierce the great globe with an arrow. He wondered why it didn't fall and crush this forsaken land.

  Tearing his eyes away, he turned and looked behind him. The view was exactly the same. Silver-grey sand, craggy rocks, distant mountains, crimson sky. There was nothing that could have been a tunnel mouth.

  Despite the moist warmth, an ominous thought chilled his spine. Could he have died and gone to Xentagia, the orcs' hell? This certainly looked like a place of eternal purgatory. Would Aik, Zeenoth, Neaphetar and Wystendel, his race's holy Tetrad, descend on fiery war chariots and condemn his spirit to everlasting punishment?

  Then it occurred to him that if this was Xentagia it appeared sparsely populated indeed. Was he the only orc in history to deserve being consigned here? Had he alone committed some crime against the gods, of which he was unaware, that warranted damnation? And where were the tormenting demons, the Sluagh, that some said inhabited the infernal regions and whose single pleasure was making misery for errant souls?

  Something caught his eye. Across the blasted expanse there was movement. He strained to make it out. At first he couldn't. Then he realised he was watching a cloud of the yellow-green, all-pervasive smog. Only this was thicker and travelling with purpose. His way.

  Had he been right? Was he about to be judged? Denounced by the gods? Horribly tortured?

  His instinct was to put up a fight. On second thoughts how futile a plan that would be if he really was going to be confronted by the gods. The idea of running seemed just as stupid. He determined to face whatever it was. Whether deity or demon he wasn't about to betray his creed with an act of cowardice.

  He squared his shoulders and readied himself as best he could.

  There wasn't long to wait. The cloud, which billowed but somehow remained compact, rolled directly to him. There was no question of it being blown by the wind. It moved too precisely for that, and there was no wind anyway.

  The cloud settled in front of him, perhaps a spear's measure short. It continued to spin, and he would have expected to feel the misplaced air, but didn't. This close he could see there were uncountable numbers of golden pinpoints woven into the swirling smoke. He was less sure of what the cloud contained. But there was a shape of some kind.

  Almost immediately the sphere's rotation slowed. The dense mist began stripping off, layer by layer, and melted into the air. The darker form it surrounded gradually started to reveal itself. It became obvious that it was a figure.

  He tensed.

  The last wisps dissolved and a creature stood before him.

  He had imagined many things, but not this.

  The being was short and stocky. It had green-tinged, wrinkly skin and a large round head with spiky, projecting ears. Its attenuated, slightly protruding eyes had inky orbs with yellow-veined white surrounds and pulpy lids. No hair covered the pate or face, but there were bushy, reddish-brown sideburns, turning ashen. The nose was small and pinched, the mouth had the quality of hardened tree sap serrated with a file. Its clothing consisted of a modest robe of neutral colour, held with a cord.

  The creature was very old.

  'Mobbs?' Stryke whispered.

  'Greetings, Captain of the orcs,' the gremlin replied. He spoke softly, and a faint smile lightened his face.

  Myriad questions filled Stryke's mind. He settled on, 'What are you doing here?'

  'I have no choice.'

  'And I do? Where am I, Mobbs? Is this some kind of hell?'

  The gremlin shook his head. 'No. At least not in the sense you mean.'

  'Where, then?'

  'This is a . . . between land, neither of your world nor mine.'

  'What are you talking about? Aren't we both Maras-Dantians?'

  'Such questions are less important than what I have to tell you.' Mobbs indicated their surroundings with an absent sweep of his hand. 'Accept this. See it as a forum that enables us to meet.'

  'More riddles than answers. You're ever the scholar, Mobbs.'

  'I thought I was. Since being here I've realised I knew nothing.'

  'But where—'

  'Time is short.' With hardly a pause he added, 'Do you remember our first meeting?'

  'Of course I do. It changed everything.'

  'Helped a change already underway, more like. An act of midwifery perhaps. Though neither of us knew the magnitude of what was to come once you chose your new path.'

  'I don't know about magnitude.' Stryke pronounced it with the faltering respect due a word he'd never used before. 'All it's brought me and my band is trouble.'

  'It will bring you more, and worse, before you triumph.' The gremlin corrected himself: 'If you triumph.'

  'We're holding together with spit and gumption, running around looking for pieces of a puzzle we don't understand. Why do we want more trouble when we don't even know what we're doing?'

  'But you know why you're doing it. Freedom, truth, the unveiling of mystery. Big prizes, Stryke. And they have a price. In the end you may or may not think that price worth paying.'

  'I don't know that it's worth it now, Mobbs. I've lost comrades, watched order crumble, seen our lives torn apart.'

  'You think it wasn't coming to that anyway? The whole of Maras-Dantia is on a downward track, the incomers have ensured that. You have a chance to make a difference, at least for some. If you stop now, you guarantee defeat. Carry on and you have a slim chance of victory. I won't pretend it's more than that.'

  'Then tell me what to do.'

  'You want to know where to find the last instrumentality and what to do with them all once you have?'

  Stryke nodded.

  'I can't tell you. I have no more knowledge than you in that respect. But have you considered the possibility that the objects of your search want to be found?'

  'That's crazy. They're just . . . things.'

  'Perhaps.'

  'So you've nothing to offer me but warnings?'

  'And encouragement. You're so close. You will be given the chance of completing your task, I don't doubt that. Though there will be more blood, more death, more heartache. Despite this you must keep on.'

  'You speak with such certainty. How do you know these things?'

  'My present . . . state brings me a small insight into events yet to be. Not particulars, but a glimpse of the larger currents shaping future times.' His face darkened. 'And a fire is coming.'

  Stryke's backbone prickled again as realisation dawned. 'You said you had no choice in being here,' he mouthed, half aloud.

  Mobbs didn't reply.

  Stryke repeated his earlier question, this time with some force. 'Where are we, Mobbs?'

  The aged scholar sighed. 'You might call it a repository. A realm of shades.'

  'How long have you been here?'

  'Since just after we parted. Courtesy of another orc, a Captain Delorran.'

  The gremlin pulled aside the edges of his robe and revealed his chest. He bore a wound, dry of blood now, so deep and pernicious it could have had only one e
ffect.

  Confirmation of his suspicion had the colour draining from Stryke's face. 'You're . . .'

  'Dead. Undead. Between two worlds. And not likely to rest until things are resolved in yours.'

  'Mobbs, I . . . I'm sorry.' It seemed such a weak thing to say.

  'Don't be,' the gremlin replied gently, closing his robe.

  'Delorran was chasing me. If I hadn't involved you—'

  'Forget that. I have no ill will for you, and Delorran himself has paid. But can't you see? Free yourself and you free me.'

  'But—'

  'Whether you like it or not, Stryke, the game is afoot and you're a player.' Mobbs stretched an arm to point over the orc's shoulder. 'Heed!'

  Mystifed, Stryke spun around. And gaped at insanity.

  The gigantic moon, just beginning to set behind the mountain range, had transformed into a face. It had the features of a female, and one he knew too well. Her hair was black, her eyes were unfathomable. She had skin that glinted with a faint emerald and silver lustre, as though flesh had commingled with fish scales.

  Jennesta, hybrid queen, opened her overly broad, canine-toothed mouth and roared with silent laughter.

  A hand rose from behind the range. It was of the same incredible scale as the face. Its unnaturally slender fingers, tipped with nails half as long again, clutched some vast object. With an almost casual flip, the hand pitched its load toward the plain.

  Stryke stared, dumbfounded, as the thing tumbled end over end and hit the ground at an angle. A massive plume of dust went up. The earth shuddered. Then the object bounced, spun in the air, came down and bounced again.

  When it had done that half a dozen times two things dawned on Stryke.

  First, he recognised the object. It was what Mobbs called an instrumentality and the Wolverines had dubbed a star. It was the first one the band found, at Homefield, a Uni settlement. But whereas Stryke knew it as something he could easily fit into his palm, now it was of titanic proportions. Its sandy-coloured central sphere would have taken a team of horses to move. The seven projecting spikes were as big as mature oaks.

  Second, he realised it was coming straight at him.

  He turned to where Mobbs was standing. The gremlin had vanished.

  Tumbling, rocking the ground like a small earthquake every time it touched down, the star bounded closer. It didn't seem to lose momentum.

  Stryke started to run.

  He pelted across the bizarre wasteland, zigzagging boulders, arms pumping. The star gained on him, beating the ash with bone-jarring blows, crushing rocks, throwing up clouds of dust, spiralling through the air with awesome splendour.

  Stryke could hear it, feel it, at his back. Straining to outpace it, he sneaked a look over his shoulder. He saw two of the mighty spikes smashing down like the legs of a giant, fall forward, rip out of the ash and fly off again. A wave of dust blinded him for a second, then another crash tossed the ground and the star was close enough to touch.

  He threw himself aside using every ounce of muscle power the sprint had left him. As he rolled in the clinging ash his fear was that the star would turn and continue the chase. He came to rest and scrambled to his feet, ready to bolt.

  The star kept to its path, flattening every obstacle, drumming a thunderous rhythm as it careered away. He watched as it sprang across the plain. When it was a distant speck he let out the breath he'd been holding.

  His eyes were drawn back to what he hoped would be a restored moon. That hope was dashed. Jennesta's enormous form remained, floating in an ocean of blood, glaring down at him.

  Once more, she raised her hand. It held more than before. She cast again, and this time a trio of stars cascaded, striking the ground in a ragged line. Triple puffs of ash erupted. The stars bounced and headed for Stryke.

  He recognised these, too. The first was green with five spikes, the second dark blue with four spikes, the last grey with two spikes. They were the other stars the band had collected.

  As they ranged in on him it seemed there was an intelligence at work, guiding them more cunningly than the first star. One came in an unerringly straight line. The ones on either side of it travelled in a more meandering fashion, bouncing far out and then back close. It was a classic pincer formation. And Stryke was sure they were moving at much greater speed than the initial star.

  Again he ran. He took an erratic, unpredictable route to make it harder for them. But every time he looked back they were still on his trail, and they remained in the same relationship to each other, like a trawl net ready to scoop him. He put on all the speed he could muster. His limbs throbbed with pain. When he gulped for breath it felt like inhaling fire.

  Then one of the tremendous stars bounced down on his right-hand side, erupting ash. He veered to the left. Another landed, blocking his way. The third was spinning above him. Stumbling, he fell awkwardly. He rolled onto his back. A shadow covered him. Helplessly he saw the airborne star plunge towards him, knowing that in an instant he'd be pulverised.

  He was trapped like an insect, watching as a great boot descended to grind him to pulp.

  And he thought he could hear a strange, lilting, faraway song.

  He was yelling.

  It took him a moment to realise he was awake. And alive. A few seconds more passed before he was sure of where he was. Sitting up he used his sleeve to wipe at the sweat that covered his face despite the cold. He was panting, his breath clouding in the thin, chill air.

  The dream wasn't like the others, but it was just as vivid, every bit as real. He tried to make sense of it, running through it in his mind. Then he thought of Mobbs.

  More blood on his hands.

  Stryke checked himself. It was stupid to feel guilty because of a dream. For all he knew, Mobbs was alive and well. But somehow he couldn't quite bring himself to believe that.

  He was still muddled and had to get a grip. Climbing to his feet, he walked to the edge of his prison.

  The mountaintop plateau he'd been deposited on by Glozellan, Jennesta's Dragon Dam, was quite small, perhaps a hundred paces long by sixty wide, with only a couple of rock outcrops to give some protection from the wind. He didn't know why Glozellan had brought him here. The probability was that he had been snatched at the behest of her mistress, and it was just a matter of time before he faced her wrath.

  He surveyed the view, not really sure where he was, beyond it being some way north of Drogan. Maybe one of the peaks in Bandar Gizatt or Goff. The fact that he had a glimpse of ocean to the west, and could clearly see the looming ice field further north, seemed to confirm this. Not that it mattered.

  The temperature was low and the keen wind stung. Stryke was glad of his fur jerkin, and pulled it tighter about himself as he pondered the last few hours' events. Glozellan had left without explanation. Shortly after, the mysterious human who called himself Serapheim had been here, though how he came and went from such an inaccessible place was beyond Stryke's understanding. Then there were the instrumentalities, the stars.

  The stars.

  He remembered them singing. Just before he slept they were making some kind of sound. But it wasn't out loud, it was in his head. It wasn't singing either, but that was the nearest he could come to describing it. Just like Haskeer.

  That gave him pause.

  Stryke slipped a freezing hand into his belt pouch and brought out the stars. He examined them. The one they got at Homefield, sandy-coloured with seven spikes of varying lengths; the Trinity star, green with five spikes; the dark blue one with four spikes, from Scratch. They weren't 'singing' now.

  He frowned. Nothing to do with these things made any sense.

  Then he saw something approaching, several miles distant. A great black shape with lazily flapping saw-toothed wings. There was no mistaking it.

  He stood ready, hand on sword.

  3

  The band was escorted into Drogan Forest.

  Guards had been doubled in case the humans returned, and the centaurs were o
n a war footing.

  Alfray took Haskeer away to dress his wound properly, and to tend to the injured grunts. The other Wolverines scattered through the settlement, looking for food and drink. Accompanied by Gelorak, Coilla and Jup made their way to the clan chief.

  Keppatawn was found at the entrance to his weapons forge, barking orders and despatching messengers. Once fit and muscular, age had greyed his beard and lined his face. He was lame, his withered right foreleg dragging uselessly.

  After greeting Gelorak, he turned to the pair of Wolverines. 'Sergeant. Corporal. Welcome back.'

  Jup nodded.

  'Sorry to bring you trouble, Keppatawn,' Coilla told him.

  'Don't be. A good fight now and again sharpens our mettle.' The centaur grinned roguishly. 'So, how went your mission?'

  'We got what you wanted.'

  'You did?' Keppatawn beamed. 'Wonderful news! Everything they say about you orcs—' He saw their faces. 'What's wrong?'

  Neither answered.

  Keppatawn looked about the clearing. 'Where's Stryke?'

  'We don't know,' Jup admitted glumly.

  'Meaning?'

  'His horse fell when we were trying to outrun the humans,' Coilla explained. 'Then a war dragon came out of nowhere and took him.'

  'You're saying he was captured?'

  'We didn't see him being forced, if that's what you mean. Too busy running for that. But Jennesta's one of the few with command of dragons these days.'

  'I got a look at the handler,' Jup said. 'I'm pretty sure it was Glozellan.'

  Coilla sighed. 'Jennesta's Dragon Dam. That settles it.'

  'Maybe not,' the dwarf offered. 'Can you imagine a brownie making Stryke do something he didn't want?'

  'I . . . I just don't know, Jup. All I know is Stryke's gone, and the stars and the tear have gone with him.' To Keppatawn she added, 'Sorry. Should have said.'

  The chieftain betrayed no obvious disappointment, but they all noticed his hand absently rub against the thigh of his ravaged leg. 'I can't miss what I've never had,' he replied stoically. 'As to your Captain, we'll scour the area.'