Jennesta harassed him.
“Whenever it shows itself, crush it. Disloyalty’s a canker that quickly festers if it isn’t cut out.”
“With respect, ma’am, I think you overestimate the problem,” he dared to suggest, quickly appending, “The
majority
are loyal.”
“So you keep saying. Yet still we have sedition and deserters. Make every hint of disobedience, every whisper of rebellion a capital offence. With no exceptions, whatever the rank.”
“We’re doing that, Majesty.” He might have added that she well knew it, had he felt suicidal.
“Then you can’t be applying the principle rigidly enough.”
Withering
was too poor a word to describe the look she gave him. “A fish rots from the head, General.”
She meant him, of course, but Mersadion saw the unintended irony. He kept his reply to a prudent, “Ma’am.”
“Those who serve me well are rewarded. Bad servants pay the price.”
It was news to him that there were rewards. He’d had none apart from an unasked-for promotion to an impossible job.
“Do I need remind you of your predecessor, Kysthan, and his protégé Captain Delorran?” she went on, and not for the first time.
“No, Majesty, you don’t.”
“Then ponder their fate.”
He did. Often. It was part of living on the edge of a volcano. He was starting to think the deserters could hardly be blamed, and that her increasing harshness was worsening the situation. Swiftly he checked that line of thought. He knew it was irrational, but he had an abiding fear that she might be able to read his mind.
She spoke then, and he almost started. But it was more to herself than him. “When I get what I want, none of you will have a choice in the matter of loyalty or anything else,” she muttered. In a clearer tone she ordered, “Get them moving! I want no more delay.”
Her whip cracked on the back of the horses and the chariot surged ahead. Mersadion had to move smartly to avoid the scythes. As he spurred to catch up, he glanced at the display she’d arranged.
A line of fourteen “dissidents,” all dead now, hanging in cages suspended by gibbets over large open fires.
The subdued army was being made to pass by them to appreciate their mistress’s justice. Some looked away. Many held cloths to their noses and mouths against the fearful odour.
Ash fluttered in the wind. Clouds of orange sparks twisted skyward.
Orcs were meant for the ground.
Stryke had that confirmed for the second time as Glozellan took him to Drogan. The wind was brutal, and the beating of the dragon’s wings added an updraft that made him wonder if he could hang on. His rear was numb from the beast’s knobbly back, swirling snow made his eyes water and it was so cold he lost feeling in his hands. When he tried to talk to the Dragon Dam he couldn’t make himself heard over the buffeting.
He concentrated on the view. The glacier in the north looked like a milk spill inching across the landscape, and he was startled by how great an area it covered. Then the dragon wheeled about and he was looking down at lesser mountain ranges with white-tipped peaks. They gave way to sheer cliffs falling to rugged ground dotted with scrub.
Lines of hills passed beneath, and valleys resembling long, ribbed leaves. Mirror-surfaced lakes swathed in cottony mist. Waving woods. At length they came to the rolling Great Plains. Later he spotted the silver thread of the Calyparr Inlet, the green cluster of Drogan Forest.
The dragon roared. It blasted his ears and shook his bones. Glozellan shouted something he couldn’t make out.
They fell, it seemed to him, then dived, the rush of air stopping his breath. He felt the dragon realigning itself, levelling, and the dive became a glide. The ground sucked them closer, the tops of trees grew from raindrops to barrel lids. Screeching flocks of birds scattered.
Then the land was parallel, moving underneath faster than a charge. They were flying away from the forest, but in a banking arc that would eventually encircle it. He understood Glozellan was scouting for lingering custodians or other hostile forces, and lent his eyes to the cause.
Their girdling of Drogan took them briefly over a lip of ocean. He glimpsed waves hammering craggy rocks; pebbly beaches; an expanse of land; grass; trees. The slash of the inlet appeared, straight at this point, a god’s burnished blade. Then the plains again, and the closing of their circle.
There was an exodus from the forest even before they touched down. Centaurs, and orcs on horseback and foot, raced to meet them.
The dragon landed with a gentle bump. Stiff-limbed, Stryke clambered down from behind Glozellan. She stayed perched on the rumbling giant.
He looked up at her. “Thank you, Glozellan. Whatever you do, good luck with it.”
“And you, Captain. But I’ve something else to say that you must heed. Jennesta is heading for Scarrock, and she’s leading an army. She’s only a couple of days behind us, and could easily pick up your trail. You aren’t safe here.”
Before he could reply she whispered something in the dragon’s capacious ear and urged it away. It lifted, sturdy wings working their rhythm, fleshy legs gathering in. The backwash had Stryke retreating a few paces and shading his eyes with a hand.
He watched the leviathan impossibly rise, and saw its bulk convert to grace. It climbed, swung, described a courtly circuit overhead. Glozellan’s arm went up and out. He returned the farewell. Then she took an eastward bearing and soared away.
Stryke was still staring when the others arrived.
Alfray, Haskeer, Jup and several grunts had ridden. Coilla had too, on Gelorak’s back. There were scores of other centaurs with them, and the first of the running orcs approached at speed. They gathered around him, everyone’s relief palpable. A clamour went up.
He waved them quiet. “I’m fine! It’s all right, I’m fine.”
Coilla slid from the centaur’s back. “What’s been happening, Stryke? Where have you been?”
“Learning that an enemy turned out to be a friend.”
“What—”
“I’ll explain. But over food and drink.”
He was given a horse and they headed for the forest.
The short journey allowed him a little time to think about Glozellan’s news, and the fact that there seemed no rest.
Not far from the forest stood a crooked line of low hills topped with copses. On one, hidden in the trees, three figures stretched out, watching events below. They had their horses hobbled in the thicket behind, and were vigilant for patrols.
The watchers were human.
“Those
bastards
,” one of them rumbled vehemently.
He had a look of depravity that matched his companions’, but he was shorter and scrawnier, and had a wiry, nervous energy they lacked. His sickly yellow hair was as thin as his near-transparent goatee, and his teeth were ruins. What nature and self-neglect hadn’t given him was provided by enemies; a black leather patch covered his right eye, most of his left ear had been torn off, the little finger of his right hand was grubbily bandaged.
“Makes me want to puke, looking at the things,” he went on, staring at the retreating centaurs, and especially at the orcs. “Damned filthy, lousy —”
“Will you shut the
fuck
up, Greever?” hissed the man lying next to him. “I can’t think for your never-ending whine.”
The first human wouldn’t normally take that kind of talk, but the group’s self-appointed leader wasn’t somebody to gainsay. He was beefy, if starting to run to seed through dissipation. A scar branded his pockmarked face, travelling from the centre of his cheek to the corner of his mouth. He had greasy black hair and an unkempt moustache. His eyes were dark and harsh.
“
You
ain’t lost what
I
have, Micah,” the other returned in a grating whisper. He indicated his eye, ear and finger. “All because of that orc
bitch
.”
“Not your eye though, Greever,” the third human reminded him.
“What?”
“Not your eye. She didn’t do that.”
“No, Jabeez, she didn’t.” The reply was delivered as though to a wilful and brainless child. “It . . . was . . . another . . . orc.
Same difference!
”
Forehead crimped, the third man took a few seconds to absorb that, then said, “Oh, yeah.”
In appearance he was the most conspicuous of the trio. Had the other two been combined into one being he would still easily outweigh them. But his huge bulk was due to muscle, not fat. His head and face were completely hairless. His nose had been broken at least once and set badly. He had a banal mouth, like a knife slash in dough, and the eyes of a newborn hog.
“Mind you,” he added, “as for the
new
wound —”
Big and dim as he was, the first human’s expression stopped him.
Greever Aulay and Micah Lekmann returned their attention to the forest scene. The last of the orcs and centaurs were entering the forest. Jabeez Blaan fidgeted, impersonating a flesh molehill trying to flatten itself.
“So what do we do, Micah?” Aulay wanted to know. “Attack?”
“Attack? You got a death wish? Course we don’t attack!”
“They’re only fucking
orcs!
”
“
Only
orcs? You mean only the best fighters in Centrasia, after our kind? Only the ones that done for your good looks?” He sniggered unpleasantly. “Them the orcs you mean?”
Aulay took that but looked murderous. “We’ve killed enough of ’em in our time.”
“Yeah, but not by going square against a band that size, and never in anything like a fair fight. You know that.”
“So what do we do, Micah?” Blaan asked.
“Use our heads.” He regarded the questioner. “Or some of them, anyway. Which is what Greever here ain’t doing. He’s all fired up, and that clouds his sense.” Lekmann nodded at the forest. “What we gotta do with this bunch is the tried and tested. Bide our time, take ’em down singly or in small groups. Play our cards smart, we could still turn a coin or two on this.”
“This ain’t about coin no more,” Aulay growled. “It’s about getting even.”
“You bet. And I want those freaks as much as you do. But maybe we can pick up some bounties too. And that relic thing they stole, that’s gotta have value. Revenge tastes sweet and all that, but so do food, drink, the finer things. We need where-withal.”
“Who’s going to give us bounty or buy that relic except Jennesta? And I reckon we ain’t her favourites since we double-dealed her.”
“I prefer ‘left her service,’ ” Lekmann corrected.
“Whatever you call it, I don’t think it was too wise a move.”
“Careful, Greever, you’re straying into thinking and that’s my territory. I can handle Jennesta.”
His companions looked doubtful. Aulay replied, “Maybe you can, maybe you can’t. I’m beyond that now. I just want that orc bitch, that Coilla.”
“But if there’s spoils too you’ll take ’em, right?” His voice hardened. “Don’t go fucking this. We work together or we’re lost.”
“Don’t fret about me, Micah.” He brought up his left hand. Or rather what had been. Now a cylindrical metal plug extended from his wrist. Attached to its end was a sharpened curve of steel, part billhook, part blade. Its polished surface caught and amplified the dismal light. “Just get us near enough to those freaks and I’ll earn my keep.”
As Stryke dug in his belt pouch he was afraid the phial might have broken. But the miniature ceramic bottle was intact and its tiny stopper was still in place.
He laid it in Keppatawn’s outstretched palm. The centaur stared at it for a moment and seemed uncharacteristically lost for words. Then in an undertone he managed, “Thank you.”
“We try to keep our word,” Stryke told him.
“I never doubted that. But I regret you losing one of your band doing it.”
“Kestix knew the score. All orcs do. And the mission suited our aim as much as yours.”
Coilla nodded at the phial and asked, “What do you do with it?”
“Good question,” Keppatawn replied. “I’ll have to consult our shaman about that. In any event we need him to complete our bargain. Gelorak, fetch Hedgestus.”
His second-in-command moved across the encampment toward the seer’s coop.
Stryke was relieved that attention had shifted from him to some extent. He had been fed, watered and generally fussed over. Then, with a sizeable audience looking on, he explained what had happened. But he didn’t say anything about Serapheim appearing on the mountaintop, or his strange dream. Nor did he mention the stars “singing,” although the memory of it had him eyeing Haskeer with something like sympathy.
Most of the others had melted away to their chores, leaving just the Wolverine officers, Keppatawn and Gelorak. Stryke preferred a small group. He didn’t know how the centaurs would take the news about Jennesta.
Gelorak reemerged from the shelter with the ancient seer in tow. Hedgestus moved slowly and falteringly on uncertain legs. A small ornamented chest was tucked under one of Gelorak’s arms; he used the other to steady his ward.
Hedgestus greeted the orcs as Keppatawn took the box. He opened it and showed them the star. It was as they remembered: a grey sphere with two spikes of irregular lengths, made from unidentifiable matter.
“We keep our word too,” Keppatawn said, holding the box out to Stryke.
“We never doubted it,” Stryke told him dryly.
“Before you take this,” the centaur added, “are you sure you want to?”
“
What?
” Jup exclaimed. “Course we do! Why do you think we went through all that mud and shit?”
“Stryke knows what I mean.”
“Do I?”
Keppatawn nodded. “I think so. This could be a poisoned chalice. More harm than good may come from it. That’s the reputation of these things, and our experience.”
“We already figured that out,” Coilla said, hinting mild sarcasm.
“We’ve chosen our path,” Alfray put in, “we can’t stop now.”
Unusually for him, Haskeer voiced no opinion. Stryke thought he knew why.
He reached out and took the star. “As my officers say, we didn’t come this far to give up. Besides, we’ve no option, no other plan.”
But then Haskeer offered, “We do. We could toss those things away. Ride out of trouble.”