Orcs (19 page)

“We don’t even know what this star thing is, or what it does,” he moaned, repeating a point already made numerous times before.

Stryke’s patience was wearing thin, but he took another shot at explaining. “We know Jennesta wants it, that it’s important to her, which in itself gives it power. That’s all you need to hold on to.”

Haskeer effectively ignored that and kept the questions coming. “What do we do even if we find the second star? What about the other three? Suppose we never find them? Where do we go? Who do we ally ourselves with when all hands are turned against us? How can —”

“For the gods’ sake!” Stryke flared. “Stop telling me what we
can’t
do. Concentrate on what’s possible.”

“What’s possible is that we’ll all lose our heads!” Haskeer yanked on his horse’s reins and rode back down the column.

“I don’t know why you wanted him to stay, Stryke,” Coilla remarked.

“I’m not sure myself,” he sighed. “Except I don’t like the idea of breaking up the band, and whatever else you can say about the bastard, at least he’s a good fighter.”

“We might be needing that particular skill,” Jup said. “Look!”

A column of thick black smoke was rising from the direction of Weaver’s Lea.

15

Mobbs was happy.

He had been liberated from the kobolds. The orcs that had rescued him had spared his life, despite their fearsome reputation. Given the choice, he could think of more suitable guardians of an instrumentality, but at least it looked as though they weren’t going to hand it to Jennesta. To Mobbs’ way of thinking, that seemed the lesser of two evils. And he hoped he had been able to impress on the orcs that their future course of action should be designed to help all the elder races. He even had a fascinating historical document as a souvenir of his adventure. Perhaps some good would come from his ordeal after all.

But the last couple of days had seen more than enough excitement for a humble scholar, particularly one of his age, and he was glad to be out of it.

It was more than six hours since the orcs had taken him to the edge of Black Rock Forest and pointed him north. All he had to do was keep the forest on his right and, when it came to an end, veer east for the coast and then along to Hecklowe. What he hadn’t bargained on was the forest being so large and the journey so long. Or perhaps it just seemed that way to an old academic unused to travelling. The first time he had made this journey, going the other way, he was the kobolds’ captive, and they had brought him blindfolded in a covered wagon.

He was a little worried that he might run into the kobolds again, or some other group of brigands, particularly as he was far from being a good rider and unlikely to outrun them. In fact, as a member of such a small race, his feet did not reach the horse’s stirrups. All he could do was trust in the gods and make as fast a pace as he was able.

But the world had a way of imposing its troubles on him. An hour or two before, he had noticed a column of black smoke behind him, in the south. If he had his bearings correctly, it was coming from the area of Weaver’s Lea. Every so often he glanced over his shoulder. The pillar of smoke seemed no more distant and ever higher.

He was thinking about what its cause might be when he became aware of movement to his left.

The land in that direction was hilly, and dotted with patches of trees seeded from the main forest by birds and the wind. So he couldn’t make out what was approaching other than that it appeared to be a party of horse riders. He assumed it wasn’t kobolds because they rode not horses but kirgizils. His fading eyesight wouldn’t let him make out more and he grew apprehensive. All he could do was stay on his trail and hope they passed without seeing him.

It was a forlorn hope.

The riders turned from their parallel heading, put on a spurt of speed and made for the path he was travelling. He clung to the belief that he had not been spotted until they climbed the slight rise leading to his track, emerging ahead of and behind him.

Then he saw that they were orcs. He felt relief. This must be the band that had freed him, Stryke’s band, probably back to ask more about the instrumentality. Or perhaps to escort him through this troubled region.

Mobbs pulled back on the reins and halted. The orcs trotted to him.

“Greetings,” he hailed. “Why have you returned?”

“Returned?” one of them said. He bore the facial tattoos of a sergeant.

Mobbs blinked. He didn’t recognise the one who had spoken. None of the others looked familiar either. “Where’s Stryke?” he asked jauntily. “I can’t see him.”

The looks on their faces showed it was the wrong thing to say. He was confused. An orc with captain’s tattoos steered his horse through the troopers. Again, Mobbs didn’t remember seeing him before.

“He mistook us for the Wolverines,” the sergeant reported, nodding at Mobbs. “He mentioned Stryke.”

Delorran drew level with the gremlin and studied him, hard-eyed. “Perhaps all orcs look the same to him,” he said. There was no trace of humour in his voice, and certainly no warmth.

“I can assure you, Captain, that —”

“If you know Stryke’s name,” the Captain cut in, “you must have encountered the Wolverines.”

Mobbs sensed danger. Somehow he knew that admitting to it put him in a difficult position. But he couldn’t see how to deny it.

While he dithered, the Captain’s patience visibly stretched. “You’ve had contact with them, yes?”

“It’s true I did run into a band of orc warriors,” Mobbs finally replied, choosing his words prudently.

“And what?” Delorran pressed. “Passed the time of day? Chatted about their exploits? Aided them in some way, perhaps?”

“I cannot see what aid an old gremlin like myself, and a lowly scholar at that, could possibly offer such as yourselves.”

“They’re not like ourselves,” the Captain snapped. “They’re renegades.”

“Really?”
Mobbs put on what he hoped was a convincing show of surprise. “I had no idea of their . . . status.”

“Perhaps you were more successful in learning where they were going?”

“Going? You don’t know, Captain?”

Delorran drew his sword. Its menacing tip hovered at Mobbs’s chest. “I’ve not time to waste, and you’re a bad liar. Where are they?”

“I . . . I don’t . . .”

The blade pricked the gremlin’s matted robe. “Talk now or never again.”

“They . . . they mentioned that they might be going . . . going to . . . Trinity,” Mobbs imparted reluctantly.

“Trinity? That hotbed of Unis? I
knew
it! What did I tell you, Sergeant? They’ve not only deserted, they’ve turned traitors, the bastards.”

The sergeant looked Mobbs over. “Suppose he’s lying, sir?”

“He’s telling the truth. Look at him. It’s all he can do not to piss himself.”

Mobbs rose in the saddle to his full, modest height, ready to deliver a dignified rebuttal of the insult.

Without warning, Delorran drove his sword into the gremlin’s chest.

Mobbs gasped and looked down at the blade. Delorran tugged it free. Blood flowed freely. Mobbs looked at the orc officer, incomprehension written all over his face. Then he toppled from the saddle.

The alarmed horse bucked. Reaching out for its reins, the sergeant steadied it.

Delorran noticed a saddlebag that had been concealed by the gremlin’s robe. He flipped it open and began rifling. It held little more than the rolled parchment. Delorran realised that it was very old, but could otherwise make no sense of it.

“This might have some bearing on the object we’re looking for,” he admitted lamely. “Perhaps we could have questioned him more closely.”

The sergeant thought his superior looked faintly embarrassed. Naturally he didn’t draw attention to it. Instead he glanced at the gremlin’s body and contented himself with, “Bit late to put that right now, sir.”

The irony was lost on Delorran. He was staring at the column of smoke.

By evening, the Wolverines were much nearer the pillar of smoke, which now showed white against the darkness. They were close to Weaver’s Lea, and expected to reach it at any time. As they rode, they spoke in hushed tones.

“Something big’s going on around here, Stryke,” Jup said. “Shouldn’t we try avoiding Weaver’s Lea altogether?”

“There’s no way of reaching Trinity without going
somewhere
near the place.”

“We could turn back and not go to Trinity at all,” Alfray suggested. “Regroup and think again.”

“We’re committed,” Stryke told him, “and wherever we go, we’d have to expect trouble.”

The exchange was cut short by the return of an advance scout.

“The settlement’s just on the other side of a rise about half a mile further along, sir,” he reported. “There’s trouble there. It’d be best to dismount when you reach the hill and approach on foot.”

Stryke nodded and sent him back.

“The gods know what we’re walking into,” Haskeer grumbled.

But the complaint wasn’t delivered in his usual acerbic style and Stryke ignored it. He passed on an order for silence in the ranks and the band resumed its journey.

They got to the rise without hindrance, dismounted and climbed to join the waiting scouts.

Weaver’s Lea stretched out below them. It was a sizeable human community, and typical in consisting mainly of cottages, most built of part stone, part wood. There were some larger buildings: barns, grain stores, meeting halls and at least one place of worship, bearing a spire.

But the most striking thing about the town was that much of it was on fire.

A few figures could be seen, outlined by the blaze, running to and fro. Here and there they were trying to douse the flames, but their efforts looked futile.

“There should be many more humans about than this,” Coilla reckoned. “Where are they?”

The scouts shrugged their shoulders.

“There’s no point in hanging around here waiting to be spotted,” Stryke decided. “We’ll circle this and push on.”

An hour later, having topped a higher range of hills, they found out what had happened to all the humans.

In a valley below, two armies faced each other.

An engagement was near, and had probably only been delayed by nightfall. The number of torches and braziers twinkling like a swath of stars on either side indicated that the conflict was major.

“A Uni and Mani battle,” Jup sighed. “Just what we needed.”

“How many would you say there were?” Coilla said. “Five or six thousand a side?”

Stryke squinted. “Hard to tell in this light. Looks like at least that many to me.”

“Now we know why Weaver’s Lea was burning,” Alfray concluded. “It must have been the opening shot.”

“So what do we do, Stryke?” Coilla wanted to know.

“I’m not keen on backtracking and risking another clash with the kobolds, and trying to get round a field of battle in the dark’s too chancy unless we want to run into raiding parties. We’ll stay put here tonight and look at the situation tomorrow.”

Unable to move on, unwilling to go back, they watched the unfolding scene below.

When dawn broke, most of the band were sleeping. A roar from the battlefield roused them.

In the cold light of morning, the size of the armies could be clearly seen, and they were easily as large as Coilla had estimated.

“Not long before they meet now,” Stryke judged.

Jup rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Human against human. No bad thing from our point of view.”

“Maybe not. I just wish they weren’t doing it now, and here. We’ve enough problems.”

Somebody pointed to the sky. Several dragons were approaching at a distance.

“So the Manis have help,” Alfray said. “From Jennesta, you think, Stryke?”

“Could be. Though she’s not the only one with command of them.”

Haskeer came out with, “Well, wouldn’t you know it. Both armies have dwarves in their ranks.”

“So?” Jup responded.

“Says it all, doesn’t it? Your kind will fight for anybody with enough coin.”

“I’ve told you before: I’m not responsible for every dwarf in the land.”

“Makes me wonder how much their loyalty’s to be valued when it goes to the highest bidder. For all we know, you . . .” A coughing fit broke the invective. Red-faced, he barked and hawked.

“You all right, Haskeer?” Alfray asked. “That doesn’t sound too good to me.”

Haskeer caught his breath and responded angrily. “Get off my back, sawbones! I’m fine!” He resumed coughing, though less violently.

Stryke was about to put in a word when a grunt’s yell distracted him.

The band turned and looked down the hill behind them. A group of mounted orcs were approaching the foot of the rise. They outnumbered the Wolverines by about three to one.

“A search party?” Coilla wondered.

“For us? Could be,” Stryke said.

“Maybe they’ve been sent to reinforce the Mani side in the battle,” Jup suggested.

The newcomers were nearer. Stryke cupped his eyes and concentrated on them. “Shit!”

Coilla looked at him. “What’s the matter?”

“The officer leading them. I know him. He’s no friend.”

“He’s an orc, isn’t he?” Alfray reasoned. “We’re on the same side, after all.”

“Not when it comes to Delorran.”

“Delorran?”
Alfray exclaimed.

“You know him too?” Coilla said.

“Yes. He and Stryke have a lot of . . . history.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Stryke granted. “But what the hell’s he doing here?”

It was no mystery to Alfray. “It’s obvious, isn’t it? Who better to hunt you down than somebody who hates you enough not to give up?”

The search party halted. Delorran and another orc rode forward a little further and stopped too. The second orc raised a war banner and moved it slowly from side to side.

They all understood the signal. Coilla articulated it. “They want to parley.”

Stryke nodded. “Right. You’ll come with me. Get our horses.”

She ran off to obey the order.

Stryke leaned over to Alfray and slipped him the star. “Guard this.” Alfray put it in his jerkin. “Now signal that we’re going down to talk.”