Warriors of the Tempest

by Stan Nicholls

  'Gremlins?' Haskeer exclaimed. 'What the fuck we done to upset them?'

  'Wanna go and ask?' Stryke retorted.

  'They're coming in!' Alfray yelled.

  Some in the gremlin first rank had miniature curved bows. They unleashed bolts as they rode. Several flew over the Wolverines' heads. One embedded itself in Haskeer's saddle. Another nicked a grunt's arm. A couple of Wolverines replied in kind.

  'To hell with this,' Stryke growled. 'Engage!'

  He spurred hard and took the lead, the band at his heels. Pounded by torrential rain, mud-splattered, they headed for the enemy ranks.

  The two sides flowed into each other with cries and colliding steel. A melee of swinging swords, lunging spears and clashing shields broke out.

  Stryke made short work of the first gremlin he met. Dodging the creature's misjudged stroke, he ribboned his chest and sent him flying. The next to jostle in laid his blade across Stryke's with startling fury. They chopped and hacked, steel beating steel in a primitive, shrill melody. Brute force got Stryke through his foe's guard. A further blow punctured the gremlin's lung. Without halt, another duel commenced.

  Charging between two enemies, Alfray flipped his banner spar to the horizontal. It struck both of them, high enough and hard enough to unhorse the pair. A twist of the spar brought it to a defensive position in time to block a further opponent. Evading the raider's sword, Alfray rammed home the lance, turfing the eviscerated creature from its saddle.

  An overhand lob delivered one of Coilla's knives to a gremlin's eye. He disappeared screeching in the rabble. Beading another target, she was about to throw again when a gremlin sideswiped her. His blade was already moving, and near lopped off her nose. She seized his sword wrist, her grip like a bear cub's jaw, then set about stabbing. A triad of strikes settled it, fast and deep. The corpse toppled.

  One of the fallen's comrades moved in, shield up, scimitar gashing the air. She flattened back in her saddle and slammed her boot into the shield. Writhing to avoid his sword, grunting with effort, she pushed hard enough to tumble the gremlin from his mount. He fell to the mercies of pawing horses and yaks. No sooner was she up than another gremlin tried to make a name for himself. She ripped her sword free.

  Haskeer's sword was buried in the guts of a previous victim and lost with him, several killings ago. His dagger had been spent in similar fashion. Now he ducked and weaved through the attackers seeking a weapon.

  He saw his chance as he rode alongside a gremlin crossing swords with a grunt. The distracted creature was easy pickings for a blood frenzied orc. Haskeer reached out and hoisted him bodily from his mount. He swung the kicking foe over to his horse and brought the gremlin's back down onto the saddle's pommel, snapping his spine. Prising the sword from twitching fingers, he dumped the body.

  An opponent rushed towards him with a levelled spear. Haskeer swerved and brought his sword down on the passing heft, slicing it in two. Turning quickly, he was in time to send a second blow to the back of his opponent's sinewy neck, dropping him. Then two more foes closed in. Bellowing a war cry, he powered into them.

  In a fleeting lull, Stryke quickly scanned the scene. He reckoned they'd downed about half the enemy. The grunts were giving a good account of themselves and it looked like none of the band had taken serious wounds. One more push and they could end it. He bowled into the reeling scrum and commenced hacking.

  Another ten minutes of furious combat decided the matter. The gremlins who were able began withdrawing, leaving the bodies of their comrades, and the odd dead yak, scattered across the muddy swarth.

  Coilla struck down a fleeing gremlin by pitching a knife between his shoulderblades. Stryke galloped to her.

  'Do we go after them?' she said.

  He peered through the rain at the retreating raiders. 'No. We haven't got time for games.' He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled. 'No pursuit! Hold back!'

  Several grunts who'd given chase quit and turned, spraying mud. The others took to checking the enemy corpses, wary for shamming.

  Jup, Alfray and then Haskeer joined Stryke and Coilla.

  'What the hell was that about?' Alfray wondered.

  Stryke shook his head. 'The gods know. Casualties?'

  'Nothing serious, first look. I'll set to binding what we've got.'

  'I reckon it was bounty,' Coilla volunteered.

  'Or more of Jennesta's mercenaries,' Jup suggested.

  'You wouldn't hire gremlins for the job,' Stryke said. 'The bounty, maybe.'

  A grunt called to them.

  'What is it, Hystykk?' Stryke bawled back.

  'We've got a live one here, sir!'

  They dismounted and sloshed over to see. Alfray was already there, kneeling in the slime next to a gremlin who could have been young, for all they knew. He had a bad chest wound, crusting his robe with gore. Rivulets of blood mixed with the drumming rain.

  He was taking deep breaths. His eyes were open and he constantly licked his lips.

  Jup got close and to the point. 'What is it, the reward?' The gremlin focused, but didn't comprehend. 'The bounty or what? Why the attack?'

  Alfray started fussing at the wound. The gremlin coughed. A little scarlet trickle crept from the corner of his mouth. But he spoke.

  'Retribution,' he whispered.

  Stryke was puzzled. 'What do you mean?'

  'Vendetta . . . revenge.'

  'For what? How have we wronged you?'

  'Murder. A kinslin.'

  'You're saying we murdered your kin?'

  'We killed any other gremlins lately?' Haskeer wondered out loud. Coilla shushed him.

  'Who are we supposed to have murdered?' Stryke asked, his words deliberate.

  'My clan . . . uncle,' the gremlin stumbled, his breathing more laboured. 'Just an . . . old, harmless . . . scholar. Didn't . . . deserve it.'

  An uncomfortable feeling grew from the pit of Stryke's stomach. 'His name?'

  The gremlin stared at him for a moment, then managed, 'Mobbs.'

  Stryke flashed his dream and remembered thinking he'd visited the afterlife. His veins chilled.

  'The bookworm?' Haskeer said.

  Coilla bent to the gremlin. 'You're wrong. We met Mobbs, that's all. He was fine when we left him.' She wasn't sure if she was getting through.

  Alfray's efforts with the wound were brisker. Blood still flowed. He dabbed his patient's face with a cloth to soak up some of the rain.

  Stryke gathered himself. 'I'm sorry about Mobbs' death. We all are. He wasn't our enemy. In a way, we have reason to be grateful to him.'

  Haskeer gave a small derisive snort.

  'What makes you think it was us?' Stryke went on.

  The gremlin's breathing was shallow now. 'Our own kind . . . found him. Group of . . . orcs . . . in area. Black Rock.' He achieved a look of contempt through the pain. 'You know this.'

  'No!' Coilla exclaimed. 'We rescued him, for the gods' sake!'

  'And you've been tracking us all this time?' Stryke marvelled 'Your efforts were in vain, my friend.'

  'Delorran,' Coilla said.

  'Of course. Had to be.' Stryke sighed. 'And I'd wager Jennesta's not been slow in spreading this story to further blacken our names.' He turned back to the gremlin. 'It wasn't us. Believe that.'

  The creature seemed oblivious. 'You have many . . . enemies. You'll . . . only last . . . so long.'

  'This has been a senseless waste of life,' Stryke told him. 'Isn't there enough killing without adding to it?'

  'Rich talk . . . coming . . . from . . . an orc.'

  'We're not crazed animals. But attack orcs and you have to expect us to fight back. It's what we do. As for Mobbs, I'm telling you—'

  Alfray laid a hand on his arm and slowly shook his head. Then he leaned forward and gently thumbed shut the gremlin's eyes.

  Stryke got up. 'Shit. All we do is bring death and suffering.'

  'And get blamed for everything,' Jup added.

  'Poor Mobbs,' Coil
la said.

  'We are liable for his death,' Stryke told her. 'Not directly, but it's down to us.'

  That's not so.'

  'Tell me how it isn't.'

  She didn't answer. None of them did.

  For a split second, the thought occurred to Stryke that at least Delorran had paid. Then he realised he'd learnt that in a dream. Hadn't he?

  It rained harder.

  8

  Rain drummed on the canvas tent.

  Jennesta paced. Patience wasn't a virtue with her, and she had never seen the gain in cultivating it. Her creed was that the rabble waited while leaders took. Seizing what you wanted got things done. But what she wanted was just beyond her grasp.

  She brooded too, on the depletion of the earth energies that made her sorcery erratic, and the lengths she had to go to in replenishing it.

  Frustration and uncertainty made her more than usually dangerous. Which, in Jennesta's case, was saying a lot.

  She was toying with the idea of issuing some capricious order. Something that would achieve nothing beyond the needless wasting of a few lives and her pleasure at the smell of blood. But then the flaps of the tent were parted and Mersadion deferentially entered.

  He bowed and was about to speak.

  'Are we ready to leave?' she demanded, eschewing formalities.

  'Almost, Majesty.'

  'I hate this unnecessary waste of time.'

  'The army needed resting, ma'am, and the livestock had to be fed.'

  Jennesta knew the reasons well enough and waved aside his explanations. 'If you didn't come to tell me you were ready, then what?'

  His reply was hesitant. 'News, ma'am.'

  'And from your face, not good.'

  'It concerns your Dragon Dam, Glozellan.'

  'I know her name, General. What about her?'

  He tried to break it carefully. 'She and . . . two other handlers, along with their charges, have . . . They've . . . left your service, Majesty.'

  As she took it in, tiny supernovas flared in her remarkable eyes.

  Darkly. 'Left my service.' She mouthed the sentence slowly and deliberately. 'By which you mean they've deserted. Correct?'

  She seemed to him for all the world like a coiled viper, ready to strike. Not trusting words, he nodded.

  'You're sure of this?' She checked herself. 'Of course you are. Else you wouldn't risk telling me.'

  Mersadion knew how true that was. 'We have no reason to doubt the loyalty of the other handlers,' he offered.

  'As we had none concerning Glozellan.' She was seething, building up to something.

  He trod gingerly, hoping to placate her. 'If you have misgivings, we can replace the handlers. And we still have sufficient dragons. ma'am, despite losing three. As to a new dam, there are several candidates for promotion who—'

  'All the handlers are brownies. How can I trust any of them? There will be a purge in the dragon squadrons.'

  'Majesty.'

  'First the Wolverines, then the bounty hunters I sent after them: now the Mistress of Dragons has abandoned my cause.' She fixed him with her wintry gaze. 'And all the while a steady bleeding from my army. How do I come to be surrounded by so many cowards and traitors?'

  It was a question he would never dare answer. He thought to avoid it by shifting her view. 'You could see it as the ranks purifying themselves, ma'am. Those left are bound to be the most loyal to Your Majesty.'

  She laughed. Head back, raven hair tumbling. A flash of sharp white teeth. Her eyes glittering with mirth.

  He adopted a nervous closed-mouth grin.

  Jennesta gulped back her composure and, still smiling, said, 'Don't think I see anything funny, Mersadion, this is pure derision.'

  His face resumed its wary slump.

  'You have a politic way of putting things. You'd have me believe the flagon's half full.' She leaned in to him, her laughter already a fading memory. 'But you're just an orc. When it comes to thinking, you punch above your weight. Let me tell you why treachery decays the ranks. It's because the officers aren't harsh enough in their discipline. And the line of command stops at your door.'

  Only when events went badly, Mersadion reflected.

  Jennesta drew back. 'I won't tolerate laxity. This is your last warning.'

  Whatever he expected her to say or do in no way prepared him for what happened next.

  She spat at him.

  The spray soaked his right cheek, below the eye and as far as the line of his ear. It was an action that shocked and bewildered him in equal part, and he had no idea how to react.

  Then he felt warmth on his flesh. Prickly heat spread all over the side of his face. He winced with discomfort and raised a hand, but touching the affected area made it worse. In seconds it grew hotter, like myriad fiery needles piercing his skin.

  Jennesta stood and watched, rapt and faintly amused.

  The sensation moved to scalding, as though vitriol had been splashed on him. He abandoned composure and cried out. His face blistered. He smelt the tissue burning. Pain became torment, then went beyond that. He screamed.

  'Last warning,' she repeated, weighting the words. 'Ponder it.' She discarded him with an indolent gesture.

  Doubled in agony, effluvium rising from his ravaged features, he blundered his way out. Through the whipping flaps Jennesta caught a glimpse of him stumbling to a water butt. She heard him howl.

  Her action was a scintilla of the rage she could have shown at his news. She'd had enough of reversals, and if he brought her more the price would be his life. But for now she was content to brand him a failure. Literally.

  An unmeasured span of time passed as she reflected on events. It came to an end when several of her orc personal guard arrived, making an awkward show of subservience. They brought her a captive, bound with chains; an offering to revitalise her powers, if only temporarily. Despite her mood, the sight of the vessel stirred Jennesta's curiosity.

  So many races, so large an appetite, so little time.

  She had never had the chance to savour a nappee before. Nymphs of pastures and forests, they were a scarce, coy race, not often seen. This was a particularly fine example. The creature was tall for her kind at about three feet in height. She was slender, with sparkly, near luminous skin, and delicately beautiful.

  Some said nappees had two hearts. Finding out would take Jennesta's mind off her travails for a while.

  The rain had finally stopped.

  Stryke allowed a short rest break, the band settling at a point where Norentellia's shore had partially eroded the inlet. Twilight thickened the sky, and the view was of frowning clouds over a black, wind-driven ocean.

  After eating, Coilla and Stryke moved away from the others. Sitting on horse blankets, sharing a canteen of wine gifted by the centaurs, for a while they talked about the gremlin attack. But tiredness, the warmth of the alcohol and, above all, the desire to share his burden overtook Stryke. He steered the conversation to his bizarre dreams. Before long, Coilla knew all.

  'Are you sure this place you dream about isn't somewhere you know?' she asked. 'Somewhere in the . . . real world, I mean.'

  'No. The climate alone marks it out. When have we ever seen Maras-Dantia as it truly should be, as it was?'

  'Then perhaps you've made it up for yourself,' she ventured. 'Your mind's somehow created what you want to be.'

  'Which sounds like another way of saying I'm mad.'

  'No! That's not what I meant. You aren't mad, Stryke. But with the world going to hell in a pisspot, it's natural to want—'

  'I don't think it's that. Like I said, these dreams, or whatever they are, they're as real as being awake. Well, almost.'

  'And you always see this same female each time?'

  'Yes. It's more than seeing her, too. I . . . meet her, talk with her, like I would with somebody when I'm awake. Except not everything she says makes sense.'

  Coilla frowned. 'That's unusual for dreams. She's not somebody you've ever known?'

&n
bsp; 'I would have remembered, believe me.'

  'You say that like she's real. These are just dreams, Stryke.'

  'Are they? I only call them dreams because it's the nearest I can think of.'

  'They happen when you're asleep, don't they? What else does that make them except dreams?'

  'It's the feeling I get, the . . .' He shook his head, frustrated with words. 'I can't put it over. You'd have to go through it yourself.'

  'Let's get this clear,' she stated matter-of-factly. 'What are you saying's happening to you if they aren't dreams?'

  'It's like . . . maybe when I sleep my guard's down, and that . . . lets something in.'

  'Listen to yourself. You're not making sense.'

  'I'm not, am I? But I know it's getting to where I don't want to sleep.'

  'You have these . . . dreams every time you sleep?'

  'No, not every time. And that sort of makes it worse. It's like throwing dice whenever I need to sleep.'

  She weighed her next remark carefully. 'If they aren't dreams, there's one possibility to think about. Could they be some sort of magical attack?'

  'By Jennesta, you mean?'

  Coilla nodded.

  'I've thought of that, of course I have. Do you think it's something she could do?'

  'Who knows?'

  'But why would she want to? I mean, what's the point?'

  'To make you think you're insane. To sow the kind of doubts you're talking about and lay siege to your mind.'

  'That occurred to me, but somehow I don't believe it. As I said, in many ways the dreams are . . . pleasant. They've even strengthened my will once or twice. How would that serve Jennesta's plan?'

  'I'm not saying it is her, just that it's a possibility. And who knows how her twisted reasoning works?'

  'I grant you that. I still think she'd go for something more direct though.' He studied Coilla's face, and what he saw there told him it was safe to lay everything out for her. 'That isn't all.'

  'Uhm?'

  'The dreams aren't the only strange thing. There's something else.'

  She looked puzzled, and apprehensive. 'What do you mean?'

  Stryke took a breath. 'That business with Haskeer and the stars. Him saying they . . . sang to him.'

  'That was the fever.'