Stryke wheeled about to face Hobrow. By now the preacher was gibbering. Stryke whipped his reins around one of the buggy’s shafts and jumped, rocking the carriage as he landed. Unable to escape, Hobrow pressed himself into the seat and squirmed. Stryke grabbed a handful of his coat, pulled him to his feet and commenced battering him. His hat flew off, his face bloodied, but he held on to the sack.
A gang of custodians was running their way. Stryke increased the lathering and prised free the sack. Hobrow went down. He was still alive, much to Stryke’s regret. But there was no time to rectify that now. He hastily remounted and pulled away as the first wave of would-be rescuers swept in.
Breggin and Gant had managed to loose the humans’ horses and stampeded them. Several custodians tried to stem the bolting animals and were horribly trampled. The horses ran on to spread further chaos.
Stuffing the sack into his jerkin, Stryke bawled the order to retreat.
The Wolverines disengaged and began to move out. Where they could, they struck down the enemy as they left.
Into the trees and climbing the slope, Stryke spotted Jup ahead. He caught up with him. Haskeer was semiconscious, his head rolling from side to side, and breathing shallowly. They came out of the trees and made the crest of the rise, the remainder of the band close behind. Stryke quickly checked. All were present.
Several loose custodians’ horses also emerged from the dip and ran off in different directions.
“That should keep ’em busy!” Jup shouted.
“Look!” a grunt yelled.
From the south, another group of black-garbed humans was riding hard their way. At the rear was a covered wagon.
“Mercy’s group,” Stryke said.
Some of them made for the rise. Others started after the Wolverines.
Stryke spurred his mount and led the band across the plain.
Evening wasn’t far off. A chill wind blew in from the great northern ice field. It grew even colder.
Alfray’s half of the Wolverines was making good progress in its journey to Drogan. Good enough that when they came to a tributary that flowed inland from the Calyparr Inlet before taking a great loop back, he decided to make early camp on its bank. He reasoned they could start out again before first light.
When the band petitioned for a ration of pellucid, he reasoned further that it would do no harm. They deserved it. But just a little; they were still a fighting unit and, after all, the crystal was meant for bartering.
A cob or two of the drug was imbibed. Then Alfray and Kestix fell into what passed, in orc terms, for a philosophical discussion.
“I’m just a simple soldier, Corporal,” the grunt said, “but it seems to me that no one could ask for better gods than ours. What need is there for others?”
“Ah, how much easier things would be if everybody agreed with us,” Alfray replied, not entirely seriously.
Kestix saw no irony. Voice a little slurred and eyes glassy from the crystal, he pressed the issue. “I mean, when you’ve got the Square, what more could you want?”
“It’s always seemed enough for me,” Alfray agreed. “Which one of the Tetrad do you favour most?”
“Favour most?” Kestix looked as though no one had ever asked him the question before. “Well, the way I look at it, there’s not much to choose between them.” He thought for a moment. “Maybe Aik. Everybody likes the god of wine, don’t they?”
“What about Zeenoth?”
“The goddess of fornication?” Kestix smirked like a hatchling. “She’s worthy of glorifying, know what I mean?” He gave Alfray a lewd wink.
“And Neaphetar?”
“He’d have to be the one, wouldn’t he? God of war and all that. He’s the name on
my
lips when we go in for a fight. Boss orc, Neaphetar.”
“You don’t think him cruel?”
“Oh, he’s cruel, yeah. But just.” He stared vacantly at Alfray for a second, then asked, “Who’s your favourite, Corp?”
“Wystendel, I think. The god of comradeship. I enjoy combat.
Course
I do, I’m an orc. But sometimes I think the camaraderie of a good band’s the best of our lot.”
“Anyway, I reckon the Square’s got it right. Fighting, fucking, feasting. Rude and rowdy. That’s how gods
should
be.”
A grunt passed him a pipe. He sucked on it, his cheeks hollowing as the smoke went down. Pungent vapour billowed from the bowl. Kestix handed the cob to Alfray.
“What I don’t understand,” the grunt went on, “is this gassion, er, passion . . . this passion for a single pod. Shit!
God
. For a single god.”
“It does seem a strange notion,” Alfray allowed. “But then humans aren’t short of crazed ideas.”
“Yeah, I mean, how can
one
god handle everything all by himself? That’s a team effort, surely?”
The pipe had Alfray comfort conscious. It set him ruminating. “You know, before the humans came, races used to be a damn sight more tolerant of each other’s beliefs,” he slurred. “Now everybody’s trying to ram their religion down your throat.”
Kestix nodded sagely. “The incomers have a lot to answer for. They’ve caused such ructions.”
“Still, you’ve made me think that we haven’t paid enough attention to our gods lately. Reckon I’ll sacrifice to ’em soon as I get the chance.”
They slipped into silence, each lost in his own kaleidoscopic mind theatre. The rest of the band slumped too, though there was a measure of horseplay and chuckling.
An indefinite amount of time passed. Then Kestix sat up. “Corporal.”
“Hmmm?”
“What do you think that is?”
Creamy mist was rising from the rivulet. Through it, from the direction of the inlet, a vessel approached.
Alfray roused the band. Somewhat unsteadily, and grumbling, they lurched to their feet and armed themselves.
The tendrils of smog parted.
A barge glided majestically towards them. Low in the water, it was wide, its sides almost touching the banks. There was a spacious deck cabin astern. A carved figurehead in the likeness of a dove stood at the prow. The craft’s single canvas sail rippled and crackled in the evening breeze.
When the barge was near enough for its crew to be seen, a groan went up from the band.
“Oh, no,” Kestix sighed. “Just what we need.”
“At least they’re not life-threatening,” Alfray reminded him.
“Bloody aggravating, though, sir.”
“No need to kill unless you have to,” Alfray told the grunts. “The only magic they’ve got is for moving themselves about, so that’s no real threat. Hang on to anything of value.”
He thought of simply ordering a speedy retreat. But that meant leaving behind possessions to be looted, and chances were that those on the barge would only follow them until their notorious curiosity was satisfied. Which could amount to being dogged for days. Better to get it over with and weather the squall.
“Perhaps they’ll just go by,” Kestix said, more in hope than expectation.
“I don’t think that’s in their nature, trooper.”
“But we’re
orcs
. Don’t they know it’s
dangerous
tangling with us?”
“Probably not; they aren’t very bright. But remember it won’t go on for ever. We can wait it out.”
The barge’s sail dropped. An anchor splashed.
Then a couple of dozen diminutive figures rose from the deck like balloons and headed for the orcs. It wasn’t so much flying as directional floating. They pointed themselves the way they wanted to go, languidly flapped their stumpy little arms, and slowly glided.
They looked a bit like human or dwarf babies. Alfray knew they weren’t. Some of them were probably older than he was, and all of them were well versed in thieving ways. But he reckoned it was their resemblance to young helpless lifeforms that prevented many more of them being slaughtered by irate travellers.
The imps had large heads and big, round eyes that would have been appealing but for their wicked glints. They were pink-skinned and hairless, save for short, wispy down on their heads. Their sex was undefined. They wore tanned hide loincloths not unlike shiny black diapers, ringed with cloth pouches. Imps did not bear arms.
As they floated, they babbled. High-pitched, unintelligible, annoying.
A cluster of the creatures arrived overhead. Then they swooped, and suddenly they weren’t so indolent.
They descended on the band’s heads, shoulders and arms. Tenaciously clinging to the orcs’ clothes, their prying fingers scrabbled to filch anything they could find in pockets and pouches. They tried prising away weapons and trophy necklaces. Petite hands snatched grunts’ helmets.
Alfray grabbed and shook one of the miniature pilferers to disengage it from his jerkin. It was surprisingly hard work. When he got it loose he shoved it away forcefully. The imp sailed off, spinning on its axis.
More and more of them disgorged from the barge and collected over the band like winsome vultures. As an orc disentangled himself from one imp another dropped and took its place.
Swatting at an assailant with the back of his hand, Alfray yelled, “How do they get this many on a damn little boat like that?”
Kestix would have answered, except one of the creatures was tweaking his nose in its tiny fist. Its other hand was delving into the grunt’s belt pouch. With an effort, Kestix pulled the imp off and flung it from him. It coasted into a hovering knot of its fellows, scattering them like slow-motion skittles.
As Alfray peeled away an imp hugging his chest, a grunt hopped past with one clutching his leg. He was kicking furiously in an attempt to shake it free.
But every so often evidence of Maras-Dantia’s failing magic was apparent when an imp plummeted and landed hard on the ground. Bouts of frantic arm-waving were needed to get them unsteadily aloft again. Alfray figured this happened because the imps passed over weakened lines of energy that broke the spell. Unfortunately it didn’t down enough of them.
Still they rained down, anchoring themselves on any unoccupied parts of their victims. Orcs booted them aside, elbowed them, ripped them from clothes and threw them clear. Alfray saw a grunt holding an imp by an arm and a leg. He spun around several times and let go. Thumb planted in its mouth, the imp shot towards the barge in a great arc.
Alfray started to worry that the grunts would lose patience and start killing the pests. “Get rope!” he bellowed, batting an imp from his face. “
Rope!
”
It was an order easier issued than obeyed. Bent double, a couple of grunts made for the horses, hands over their heads to fend off dive-bombing imps. With difficulty, they managed to retrieve a length of rope.
“Take ends and spread out with it!” Alfray shouted. As they battled to do that he drew his sword. “Present weapons! Use the flats to round them up!”
An awkward struggle ensued, with grunts doing their best to shed imps and corral them together. It took a lot of bottom-whacking and bullying, but after about ten frustrating minutes most of the bleating creatures were bunched. Some rose above the cluster, but there was nothing to be done about them.
Alfray barked an order. The grunts with the rope encircled the mass of imps with it. A couple of tugs and a hastily tied knot secured the bond.
Under Alfray’s direction the band hauled the living load back to the barge. The rope was tied to the mast and the anchor brought up. They raised the sail. It caught the wind and billowed. With a helping push from all hands, the craft moved off, gathering speed.
Struggling ineffectually, the restrained imps squealed as the barge was swallowed by mist. A handful of stragglers flew after it.
Alfray expelled a breath as he watched it go. He ran the back of a hand across his forehead. “I hope Stryke’s having a better time of it,” he said.
Hobrow’s men didn’t pursue Stryke’s group for long, so at the earliest opportunity he halted the band.
Haskeer was helped down from Jup’s horse and his bonds were cut. He was conscious but largely insensible. They sat him down and gave him water, which he had trouble swallowing. His neck bore vivid rope burns.
“I wish Alfray was here,” Stryke said as he examined Haskeer’s injuries. “He’s taken quite a battering, but I’d say there’s no major damage.”
“Except maybe to his brain,” Jup returned. “Don’t forget why he’s in this state in the first place.”
“I haven’t.” He slapped Haskeer’s cheeks several times. “Haskeer!”
That brought him round a bit, but not enough. Stryke took the water canteen and poured its contents over Haskeer’s head. The liquid streamed down his face. His eyes opened. He mumbled something they couldn’t understand.
Stryke slapped him some more. “Haskeer!
Haskeer!
”
“Hmm? Wha—?”
“It’s me. Stryke. Can you hear me?”
Haskeer responded weakly. “Stryke?”
“What the hell you been playing at, Sergeant?”
“Playing . . . ?”
Stryke shook him, not far short of violently. “Come on! Snap out of it!”
Haskeer succeeded in focusing. “Captain . . . what . . . what’s happening?” He seemed totally bewildered.
“What’s happening is that you’re a fairy’s breath away from a charge of desertion. Not to mention trying to kill other band members.”
“
Kill
. . .
?
Stryke, I swear—”
“Forget swearing, just explain yourself.”
“Who am I supposed to have tried killing?”
“Coilla and Reafdaw.”
Angrily, Haskeer snapped, “What do you think I am, a . . . a . . .
human?
”
“You did it, Haskeer. I want to know why.”
“I . . . I can’t . . . I don’t
remember
.” He looked around, still dazed. Jup and the grunts were staring at him. “Where are we?”
“Never mind. Are you saying you don’t know what’s been going on? That you’re not responsible?”
Haskeer slowly shook his head.
“All right. What
do
you remember?” Stryke persisted. “What was the last thing?”
Haskeer set to thinking. It was obviously an effort. Eventually he said, “The battlefield. We went through it. Then . . . dragons. Dragons chasing us. Fire.”
“That’s all?”
“The singing . . .”
“Singing? What do you mean?”