Stan Nicholls - Orcs First Blood 03 - Warriors Of The Tempest

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They rode like harpies fresh out of hell.

Jup turned in his saddle and looked back at their pursuers. He reck-oned there were maybe a hundred of

them, outnumbering the Wolver-ines four or five to one. They wore black and were heavily armed, and the

length of the chase had done nothing to cool their fire.

Now the leading humans were near enough to spit at.

He glanced at Coilla, riding abreast of him at the band's rear. She leaned forward, head low, teeth resolutely

clenched, bunched hair flow-ing like rippled bay smoke. The angular, tattooed corporal's stripes pat-terning

her cheeks stressed her stern features.

Ahead of Coilla, sergeants Haskeer and Alfray galloped headlong, their foaming mounts' hooves pounding the

frigid turf, kicking up clods of mud. The rest of the orcs were spread out on either side, grim-faced, bent into

the lashing wind.

All eyes were on the distant shelter of Drogan Forest.

'They're gaining!'Jup bellowed.

If any but Coilla heard, they didn't show it.'Then don't waste breath!' she yelled, glaring at the dwarf.'Keep

moving!'

Her mind was still on the spectacle they had witnessed earlier, of Stryke unhorsed, then carried off by a war

dragon. They had to assume it was one of Jennesta's, and that he was lost.

Jup shouted again, puncturing her brief reverie. He had an arm thrust out, pointing toward her neglected left

side. She swung her head. A custodian had drawn parallel with her. His sword was raised and his horse was

about to barrel into hers.

'Shit!'Coilla snapped. She pulled hard on the reins, turning herselfaside. It got her clear and bought enough

time to unsheathe her ownblade.

The human pressed in. He was waving the weapon and roaring, his words obliterated by the thunder of the

chase. His first swing was wide, the blade tip hewing air just short of her calf. A rapid second stroke came

closer and higher, and would have cleaved her waist if she hadn't tilted from him.

That made Coilla mad.

She whipped round and sent out a stroke of her own. The man ducked and it cut a whistling arc inches above

his head. He returned a thrust meant for her chest, but Coilla blocked it, knocking aside his sword. He made

another pass, and another. She deflected both, their blades connecting with a jarring, steely clatter.

Hunters and hunted sped on, pell-mell. They entered a small ravine perhaps a dozen horses wide. The terrain

flashed by, a blur of green and brown. On the edge of her vision Coilla was aware of more humans crowding

the band.

She stretched out and swiped at her antagonist again. The stroke missed, and overreaching she almost

toppled. He countered. Their weapons clashed, edge to edge, metal ringing. Neither found an opening.

There was a fleeting respite as they realigned themselves and Coilla checked the way ahead. It was as well

she did. The forward riders were splitting to either side of a dead tree square in their path, flowing around it

like fast-running water against a huge ship's prow. She tugged the reins to the right, throwing her centre of

balance in the same direction. The horse swerved and skimmed past the trunk. For an instant she had sight

of the bark's scabrous grain. A skeletal branch raked her shoulder. Then she was clear.

Where Coilla passed to the tree's right, the human took a route to the left. But it was an obstacle for the rest

of his kind. Their greater numbers clogged at the bottleneck, and for a moment he was alone. Seton being rid

of him, Coilla steered his way. They recommenced then duel as the gully gave way to open plains.

Trading blows, she was aware of the decamping Wolverines, with Jup staring at her over his shoulder. At the

same time the main body of custodians, coming up behind, was renewing speed. Coilla settled on bold move.

She let go of her reins, giving the horse its head, and clasped her sword two-handed. Inviting a fall was a risky

ploy, but she took the gamble.

It paid off.

This time, putting all her strength and reach into the swing, theblade bit flesh. It made contact at the elbow

joint of the custodian's sword arm, hacking deep. Blood jetted. Crying out, he dropped his weapon and

clamped the wound. Coilla's follow-up struck his chest, shattering bone, freeing a copious ruby gush. He

swayed, head rolling. She made to strike again.

There was no need. The bridle slipped from the wounded human's fist. For a second he bumped along

insensibly, a mere passenger, carried like a rag doll by his racing horse. Then he fell. A confusion of askew

limbs and tangled clothing, he hit the ground tumbling.

Before he came to rest, the custodian vanguard rode over him. Some went down in the collision and were

trampled in their turn. A chaotic scrum of screaming men and horses formed.

Coilla snatched her flailing reins and spurred onward, several rider-less mounts in her wake.

She reached the tail end of the fleeing band to find Jup hanging back for her. As they rode on together the

enemy regrouped behind them.

'They're not gonna quit,' Jup decided.

'Do they ever?' She surveyed the land ahead. It was turning boggy. 'And this isn't running country,' she added.

'We're not thinking.'

'Eh?'

'We can't lead 'em to Drogan.'

Coilla frowned. 'No,' she agreed, her gaze flicking to the tree line. 'Bad way of repaying Keppatawn.'

'Right.'

'What, then?'

'Comeon, Coilla.'

'Shit.'

'Got another plan?'

She eyed the mob of humans. They were closing. 'No,' she sighed. 'Let's do it.'

Urging her horse, she put on a burst. Jup followed. They weaved through the ranks of grunts to the band's

head, where Alfray and Haskeer were leading the charge. The marshy footing was checking prog-ress, yet

still the pace smarted Coilla's eyes.

'Not the forest!' she called across.'Not to the forest!'

Alfray understood. 'A stand?' he shouted back, hefting the band's streaming war banner.

It was Jup who answered. 'What else?' he bawled.

'Stand, yes!' Haskeer chimed in. 'Orcs don't run!We fight!'

That was enough for Coilla. She curbed her mount. The others took her cue and reined in. At their hind the

custodians were coming up rapidly.

Wheeling about, she boomed,'Stand fast! We're meeting 'em!'

It wasn't her place to command. As the highest-ranking officers Jup or Haskeer should have given the order.

But nobody was thinking of formalities.

'Spread out!'Jup barked.'Make a line!'

With the enemy almost on them, the troop swiftly obeyed. They produced slingshots, throwing knives, short

spears and bows, though in spears and bows they were miserably equipped, having no more than four of

each among them. Snub blades and shot were more plentiful.

The custodians were baying as they swept in. Individual faces could be made out, twisted with bloodlust.

Their horses' steaming breath was visible. The earth rumbled.

'Steady!'Alfray cautioned.

Then they were a rock's lob from the orc line.

'Now!'Jup yelled.

The band loosed its meagre armoury. Arrows were fired, spears soared, clusters of stones flew.

There was a moment of chaos as the humans braked. Several were tossed from their horses by the sudden

halt. Others were felled by ar-rows and stinging shot. Here and there, shields went up.

Retaliation was swift, if ragged. A few arrows winged back, several spears sailed over; but from their

sparseness it seemed the custodians were as badly supplied as the Wolverines. Where they had them, orcs

raised their own shields. Projectiles rattled off them.

Soon the stockpiles were exhausted, and the sides fell to swapping jeers and taunts. Hands were filled with

close combat weapons.

'I give it another two minutes,' Coilla predicted.

She was wrong. The stand-off was broken in half that time.

Emboldened by their greater numbers, the humans suddenly rushed forward, a black tide thick with steel.

‘This is it,' Jup muttered darkly, hiking a butterfly axe from its saddle scabbard.

Haskeer drew a broadsword. Scooping back a sleeve, Coilla plucked a throwing knife from her arm sheath.

Alfray levelled the spiked banner spar.'Hold fast! And watch those flanks!'

Any other advice was drowned by the onslaught.

The custodians' larger numbers and lesser discipline had them grouping together as they came in to confront

the lesser force, hampering themselves. It didn't change the fact that each Wolverine faced towering odds, but

it did buy a few seconds grace.

Coilla used it to try picking off some of the enemy before they reached her. She flung her knife at the nearest

human. It smacked home in his windpipe and he plunged from his mount. Quickly snatching another blade,

she pitched it underarm at the next foe, spiking his eye. Her third throw was wide of its mark, and proved the

last. Now they were too close for anything but hand-to-hand. Shrieking a battle cry, she brought her sword

into play.

The first warrior to reach Jup paid for it dearly. A blow from the dwarf's weighty axe split his skull showering

blood and bone shards on all in range. Two more custodians waded in. Dodging their blades, Jup sent out a

wide horizontal swing that severed the hand of one and stove in the other's chest. There was no pause. More

opponents replaced the fallen. His weathered, bearded face straining with effort, Jup laid into them.

Haskeer's savage rain of blows downed both his initial attackers. But the second took the blade with him as

he fell, leaving Haskeer to face his next assailant bare-handed. The man had a pike. They wrestled for it,

knuckles white, the barbed spear jerking back and forth. Plumbing all his strength, Haskeer drove the butt

into the man's stomach, breaking his grip. With a dextrous flip, the weapon was delivered to its owner's

innards. Prised free, it served again on another custodian. But this vic-tim's writhing snapped it, leaving

Haskeer with a useless length of shank.

Then two things happened at once. Another human moved in on him with flashing sword. And a lone arrow

zipped from the scrum to pierce Haskeer's forearm.

Howling more with fury than pain, he wrenched out the gory shaft. Brandishing the arrow he lurched forward

and employed it like a dagger, stabbing at the custodian's face. The distraction let Haskeer snatch away the

wailing man's blade and gut him. His place was instantly taken. Haskeer fought on.

Favouring a hatchet over the spar for close combat, Alfray wielded it with deadly precision. But in truth it was

all he could do to hold back the storm. Though he had an orc's lust for bloodletting, his years were beginning

to tell. Yet despite his waning stamina he matched any in butchery. For now.

He scanned the melee and saw that he wasn't the only one over-extended. The whole band was on the point

of being overwhelmed, with fighting especially brutal at the wings, where the enemy was trying to outflank

them. The Wolverines may have had little option other than a

stand, but it was proving too bold a move. They were taking wounds though so far none of them had gone

down. That wouldn't last.

Though only a corporal, Alfray was on the point of ignoring protocol and shouting the order himself. Jup beat

him to it, yelling words that stuck in an orc's throat.

'Fall back! Fall back!'

The instruction spread along the besieged line. Grunts hastily disentangled themselves and withdrew. The

face-off became a rearguard action. But the custodians, suspicious of a feint, were wary of going after their

quarry with any zeal. The band knew their reluctance was temporary.

Arms aching from the exertion of slaughter, Coilla retreated with the rest, reopening the gap between the

lines. The Wolverines moved closer together.

She came to Jup. 'What now? Run again?'

'No chance,' the dwarf panted.

Coilla ran a palm over her cheek, wiping blood. ‘Thought so.'

Their opponents were working themselves up for the final assault.

At Coilla's shoulder, Alfray said, 'We got a good few.'

'Not enough,' Haskeer responded gruffly.

In undertones, some of the grunts were calling on orc deities to guide their blades. Or to make their deaths

suitably heroic and swift. Coilla suspected the humans were appealing to their own god in similar vein.

The custodians began advancing.

There was a keening sound in the air. A fast moving shadow passed over the Wolverines. They looked up and

saw something like a swarm of elongated insects sweeping across the sky. The dark cloud had already

reached its apex and was curving down towards the enemy.

It fell upon them wrathfully. The forefront of the custodian line was riddled with lethal bolts. They bored into

upturned faces and chests, arms and thighs. Their velocity took them through the paltry defences of helmets

and visors. Shields could have been made of paper for all the good they did. Peppered with numerous shafts,

men and horses succumbed wholesale in a struggling, bloodied mass.

A large force was riding, hell-bent, from the direction of the forest, and even as the band spied them they

unleashed another deadly cloud The arrows' great arching path was well above the Wolverines, yet still they

instinctively ducked. Once more death rained mercilessly on the heads of the humans, bringing further

mayhem and chaos.

As their allies approached, the band began to make them out.

Squinting at the reinforcements, eyes shaded with a hand, Alfray exclaimed, 'Keppatawn's clan!'

Jup nodded. 'And well timed.'

The small army of centaurs at least equalled the humans in strength of numbers. And they would reach the

fray in minutes.

'Who's at their head?' Alfray wondered.

Knowing him to be lame, the band didn't expect Keppatawn himself to be leading the offensive.

'Looks like Gelorak,' Jup reported.

The young centaur's muscular physique and distinctive flowing chestnut mane were now plain to see.

Haskeer finished wrapping a piece of dirty cloth around his wound. 'Why talk when there's killing undone?' he

grumbled.

'Too right,' Coilla agreed, breaking ranks.'At the bastards!'

They weren't slow in following her lead.

The custodians were in bedlam from the arrow blizzard, their dead and maimed littering the plain. Loose

horses and walking wounded added to the anarchy, and those custodians still mounted milled in a

directionless daze. They were easy pickings for a vengeful warband.

No sooner had the orcs waded in and commenced their slaughter than they were joined by the troop of

centaurs. With clubs, spears, short bows and crooked blades they assured the rout. The rump of the

cus-todian force soon turned and fled, chased off by a knot of fleet-footed centaurs.

Exhausted, battle-grimed, Coilla surveyed the aftermath. The aux-iliary chief of the Drogan clan trotted to her

side and sheathed his sword. He pawed the ground a couple of times.

'Thanks, Gelorak,' she said.

'Our pleasure. We have no need of such unwanted guests.' He gave a flick of his plaited tail. 'Who were they?'

'Just a bunch of humans serving their god of love.'

He smiled wryly, then asked, 'How went your journey to Scarrock?'

'Well and . . . not so well.'

Gelorak cast his eye over the warband. 'I do not see Stryke.'

'No,' Coilla replied softly. 'No, you don't.'

She stared at the darkening sky and tried to hold back her despair.

He was in a narrow tunnel that stretched endlessly before and behind him.

His head almost touched the ceiling, and when he extended his arms he could lay his hands on either wall,

which felt cold and slightly clammy. Ceiling, walls and floor were made of stone but the tunnel seemed to

have been bored rather than constructed because there were no joints or sign of blocks having been fitted

together. There was no illumination of any kind either, yet he could see quite clearly. The only sound was his

own laboured breathing.

He didn't know where he was or how he came to be here.

For a while he stood quite still, trying to make sense of his sur-roundings and uncertain of what to do. Then a

white light appeared far ahead. No such light showed in the other direction, so he assumed he was facing the

tunnel's exit. He began walking towards it. Unlike the slippery smoothness of the walls and ceiling, the floor

was rough in texture, giving him purchase.

It was hard to keep track of time but after about ten minutes, as best he could reckon, the light didn't look

any nearer. The features of the tunnel remained absolutely uniform, and the silence was unbroken save for

his footfalls. He pressed on, moving as fast as he could in the confined space.

His lack of a sense of time became timelessness. All notion of the passing of minutes and hours deserted

him. There was only an endless now, and a universe consisting solely of his pursuit of a light he could never

reach. His body became a trudging automaton.

At some indefinable point in his monotonous journey he was roused by a fancy that the light had grown

brighter, though not necessarilylarger. Soon he found it hard to look directly at it for more than a few

seconds.

With each step he took, the pure white light grew stronger and stronger until walls, floor, ceiling, everything

was obliterated. He closed his eyes and still saw it. Keeping on, he clamped his hands to his face to shut it

out, but that made no difference.

Now it pulsated, throbbing to a beat he could feel pounding at his chest, tearing at the very core of his being.

The light was pain.

He wanted to turn and run away. He couldn't. He was no longer walking but being sucked into its blinding,

agonising, searingly cold heart.

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 pock-marked, 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 thegods, 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 er-rant 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 what-ever 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 sur-rounds 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?'

‘Ihave 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.'

‘Ithought 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.'

’Idon't know about magnitude.' Stryke pronounced it with the fal-tering 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 grem-lin 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.'

’Idon'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. 1 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.

’Ican'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 effect.

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 in-strumentality 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 momen-tum.

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 starwould 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, Jen-nesta'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 instrumental-ities, 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 mis-taking it.

He stood ready, hand on sword.

The band was escorted into Drogan Forest.

Guards had been doubled in case the humans returned, and the centaurs were on 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 settle-ment, 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. 'Ser-geant. 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.'

'Youdid?’ 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 drag-ons 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 abrownie mak-ing 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 no-ticed 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.'

The band should be doing that,' Jup said. 'He's one of our own.'

'You need rest, and we know the terrain.' He addressed his second-in-command. 'Muster search parties,

Gelorak, and post lookouts on higher ground.' The young centaur nodded and galloped off. Keppatawn

returned his attention to Jup and Coilla. 'There's nothing more we can do at the moment. Come.'

He lead them to an oak trestle-table. They slid wearily onto its bench seat. A centaur was passing, towing a

small two-wheeled cart loaded with rations. Keppatawn reached out and yanked a narrow-necked stone jug

from the creaking load.

‘I think you could use ale,' he ventured. Sinking his teeth into the jug's cork stopper he drew it out and spat it

away, then slammed the jug on the table.

'What the hell,' Jup responded. He raised the jug two-handed and drank. It was offered to Coilla. She shook

her head.

Easily hoisting the jug with one hand, Keppatawn gulped a long draft. He wiped the back of his arm across

his mouth. 'Now tell me what happened.'

Coilla took the lead. 'Stryke wasn't the only band member we lost. On the way back one of our grunts,

Kestix, was killed by nyadd warriors in Scarrock Marsh.' She felt a stab of anguish. Kestix had died saving

her.

'I'm truly sorry,' Keppatawn said. 'The more so as you undertook the task for me.'

'We did it as much for ourselves. You're not to blame.'

'Frankly, I'm surprised our casualties weren't heavier,' Jup put in. 'given the chaos down there.'

'How so?' Keppatawn asked.

'Adpar's dead.'

'What?Are you sure?'

'We were there when she died,' Coilla told him. 'And no, it wasn'tus.

'You had an eventful journey indeed. How did she die?'

'It was Jennesta's doing.'

'Shewas there?'

'Well . . . no.'

'Then how do you know it was her?'

It was a good question. Coilla hadn't really had time to think it through. Now she realised there was a

mystery. 'Stryke said so,' she replied distantly. 'He seemed certain of it.'

Apparently Jup hadn't given it much thought either. 'Yes, but how?'

'Must have known something we didn't,' Coilla decided, though she couldn't imagine how.

'Anyway, there was anarchy in the nyadd realm,' she summed up tersely. 'We only got out because the merz

helped us.'

Keppatawn looked reflective. He stroked his full-bearded chin with thumb and forefinger. 'We'll have to be even

more alert after this. Adpar's death changes the whole power structure in this region. And not necessarily for

the better.'

'But she was a tyrant.'

'Yes. But at least we knew where we were with her. Now others will move to fill the void she leaves, and

they're an unknown quantity. It can only bring more instability, and Maras-Dantia already has plenty of that.'

They were interrupted by the arrival of a swaggering Haskeer. He had his arm in a sling and was wolfing a

hunk of roast meat. His lips and cheeks shone with grease.

'Where's Alfray?' Coilla said.

'Bimbing whoons,' Haskeer replied with a full mouth.

She nodded at his arm. 'How's yours?'

He swallowed, tossed away the stripped bone and loudly belched. 'All right.' Without asking he snatched the

jug and guzzled heartily, head back, ale dribbling down his face. He belched again.

'As ever, your courtly manners put us all to shame,' Jup com-mented.

Haskeer looked dimly baffled. 'You what?'

'Forget it.'

There was a time when the dwarf's gibe would have had the two sergeants at each other's throats. Perhaps

Haskeer was mellowing, orsimply didn't understand he was the butt of sarcasm, but in the event he just

shrugged and asked, 'What do we do now?'

'Try to find Stryke. Apart from that, we don't know,' Jup confessed.

Haskeer wiped his oily fingers on his fur jerkin. 'Suppose we can't find him?'

'Don't eventhink that,' Coilla rumbled ominously.

The truth was that she could think of nothing else herself.

Stryke watched as the behemoth sank through the air and touched down on the mountain plateau.

The dragon's sinewy wings crackled as they folded in on them-selves. Its great head slowly turned to regard

him, slitty yellow eyes unblinking, milky smoke curling from cavernous nostrils. The creature was panting,

dog fashion, a glistening tongue the size of a horse blanket lolling from its massive jaws. It brought with it a

smell of raw fish, halitosis and broken wind.

Stryke retreated a few steps.

The beast's handler disengaged herself and slid from its scaly back.

Almost everything she wore comprised shades of brown, from jer-kin and trews to high boots and thin

brimmed hat. The hat's white and grey decorative feather, and simple gold strands at her wrists and neck,

were the only departure.

It was an enigma that brownies, a hybrid race born of elves and goblins, neither of which excelled in height,

should be so lanky. She was even taller than the norm, and her height was more striking because she held

herself totally erect. Her frame looked deceptively delicate and she was overly thin. As with all brownies her

proud expression could be mistaken for conceit.

'Glozellan!What thehell's going on?' Stryke demanded.

She seemed unfazed. 'I'm sorry to have left you so long. I couldn't avoid it.'

'Am I a prisoner here?' He still clutched his sword.

She arched her almost non-existent brown eyebrows. Otherwise she stayed glacial. 'No, you're not a

prisoner;I'm hardly capable of holding you captive. And there are no dragon squadrons on their way, loaded

with Jennesta's troops, if that's what you think.' Her voice took on an even more caustic edge. 'It looks like

you've not fully understood that I was trying to help you. Perhaps I didn't make that clear.'

'You didn't makeanything clear.'

'I thought rescuing you from those humans was clear enough.'

'Yes . . . Yes, it should have been. Thank you for that.'

She gave an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement, thensaid, 'Now put that sword away.' He lingered

and she added in a mock-ing tone, 'You're quite safe.'

Contritely he sheathed his blade. 'But you can't blame me, you being the Queen's Dragon Mistress and—'

'No longer.' Her face was unreadable.

'Explain yourself.'

'Too many slights, too many blows. I've had enough, Stryke. I've left her. As a member of a race that prides

itself on its loyalty, it wasn't an easy decision. But Jennesta's cruelty and misrule have overridden that. So,

I'm a deserter. Like you.'

'These really are strange days.'

'Two other dragon handlers and their beasts deserted with me. I left you here to go and aid them.'

'That'll be a blow to Jennesta.'

'Others are deserting too, Stryke. Not in hordes, but there's a steady bleed.' She paused. 'Many would rally to

you.'

'They don'tknow me, I'm no saviour. I didn't evenmean to desert.'

'But you're a leader. You've proved that commanding the Wolver-ines.'

'Heading a warband isn't the same as running an army or a realm. Most who do are false, wicked. Jennesta,

Adpar, Kimball Hobrow ... I don't want to be like them.'

'You wouldn't. You'd be helping to remove their kind.'

'The elder races shouldn't be fighting amongst themselves. It's the humans we have to stand against. Or at

least the Unis.'

'Exactly. And to do that the races have to be united.'

'Well let somebody else do the uniting. I'm just a simple soldier.' He looked to the advancing ice sheet and

the unnatural glow suffusing the gloomy sky above it. As though on cue, a few flakes of snow began falling.

The dragon gave a rumbling snort.

'Humans are mad, irrational, needlessly destructive. They eat the magic. But they aren't alone in destroying

Maras-Dantia. Other races—'

'I know.You're not going to change me on this, Glozellan, so don't try.'

'As you wish. Though it could be that you'll have no choice in the matter.'

He let that go and changed the subject. 'Talking of humans, do you know the name Serapheim?'

There was no hint of recognition. 'I've known few humans, and certainly none called that.'

'You didn't bring anybody else here last night, before or after me?'

'No. Why should I? You mean a human?'

Half suspecting the story-weaver's appearance had been some kind of delusion, he backed off. 'I expect I ... A

dream. Forget it.'

She stared at him curiously. The snow swirled thicker. After a moment she said, 'The rumours are that you

have something Jennesta wants.'

He weighed his response before deciding she could be trusted. After all, she'd likely saved his life. 'It's more

than one thing,' he said, dig-ging into his belt satchel.

The three stars filled his cupped palm. Glozellan gazed at the strange objects.

’Idon't really know what they are or what they're for,' he con-fessed, 'except they're called instrumentalities.

My band calls them stars.'

'These are instrumentalities.Reallv?'

He nodded. It was the first time he'd seen her express anything approaching awe. No mean achievement with

a brownie.

'You've heard of them?' he asked.

She gathered herself. 'The legend of the instrumentalities is known to my folk.'

'What can you tell me about them?'

'In truth, not much. I know there are supposed to be five, and that they're very old. There is one story

connecting them with my race. We have a famous ancestor, Prillenda, though little is known about him

either. He was . . . well, a kind of philosopher seer, and it's said he was inspired to make prophecies by one

of these things.'

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1Theyrodelikeharpiesfreshoutofhell.Jupturnedinhissaddleandlookedbackattheirpursuers.Hereckonedthereweremaybeahundredofthem,outnumberingtheWolverinesfourorfivetoone.Theyworeblackandwereheavilyarmed,andthelengthofthechasehaddonenothingtocooltheirfire.Nowtheleadinghumanswerenearenoughtospitat.Heglanc...

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Stan Nicholls - Orcs First Blood 03 - Warriors Of The Tempest

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