“Where would we ride to that isn’t trouble for us?” Coilla asked. “Outside a dream, that is.”
Stryke stiffened, then decided she meant nothing by it. “Coilla’s right,” he told Haskeer. “There’s nowhere for us to go, not the way Maras-Dantia is now. And we’d never get Jennesta and the rest off our backs. The stars give us an edge.”
“We hope,” Jup murmured.
“The band agreed,” Stryke continued pointedly, “
all
of us. We said we’d go after the stars.”
“Never liked the idea,” Haskeer grumbled.
“You’ve had plenty of chances to get out.”
“It’s not the band. It’s those fucking things. There’s something wrong about ’em.”
“Something wrong about
you
,” Jup mumbled.
Haskeer caught it. “What’d you say?”
“All you’ve ever done is whinge,” Jup said.
“Not true,” Haskeer fumed.
“Oh, come on! And then there was all that cracked stuff about the stars singing at you—”
“Who you calling cracked?”
Haskeer was showing a flash of his old volatile self. Stryke wasn’t displeased with that, but could see the name-calling about to escalate. It was a complication he didn’t need. “That’s enough!” he snapped “We’re visitors here.”
He turned his attention to Keppatawn, Gelorak and Hedgestus, who looked slightly perplexed. “We’re all a bit tense,” he explained.
“I understand,” Keppatawn assured him.
Freeing the cover on his belt pouch, Stryke put the star with its fellows. He was aware of the others watching him do it, and especially of Haskeer, who wore an expression resembling distaste.
As the pouch was secured, Keppatawn sighed, “Good riddance.”
That had Jup raising an eyebrow and the orcs exchanging looks, but none commented.
“Here,” the centaur chieftain said, handing the phial to Hedgestus, “a tear shed by Adpar.”
The old seer accepted it gingerly. “I confess I thought it impossible. That she was capable of something as humane as crying, I mean.”
“Self-pity,” Coilla informed him crisply.
“Ah.”
“But what am I supposed to
do
with it?” Keppatawn asked.
“There are precedents in lore to guide us. As with the blood of a warlock or the ground bones of a sorceress, we must assume this essence to be very powerful. It should be employed as a dilution, combined with ten thousand parts of purified water.”
“Which I drink?”
“Not if you value your life.”
“Or your bladder,” Jup let slip.
Stryke fixed him with a stern gaze but Keppatawn took it in good humour and smiled.
Hedgestus cleared his throat. “The potion is to be applied to the afflicted limb,” he went on. “Not all at once but over three days, and for the best effect during the hours of darkness.”
“That’s it?” Keppatawn said.
“Naturally there are also certain rituals to observe and incantations to be chanted which —”
“Which serve to do nought but fill the forest with caterwauling.”
“They have an important function,” Hedgestus objected indignantly, “and they—”
Grinning, Keppatawn waved him down. “Easy, easy. You know how I enjoy pulling your tail, old charger. If there’s a chance of your concoction working you can wail for a month for all I care.”
“Thank you,” the seer responded doubtfully.
“So when do we start?”
“Preparing the solution should be a matter of . . . oh, four or five hours. You can have the first application tonight.”
“Good!” Keppatawn gave the seer’s shoulder a genial if weighty slap. Hedgestus tottered slightly and Gelorak lent his arm again. “Now we celebrate! Feast, drink, swap lies!” He scanned their faces and paused. “You seem less than keen, Stryke, from your look. I know you lost a trooper, but this isn’t disrespect. It’s just our way.”
“No, it’s not that.”
“What’s up, Stryke?” Coilla said.
“The tear isn’t all we brought.”
Haskeer gawped at him. “You what?”
Keppatawn was puzzled. “Really?”
“I should have told you earlier,” Stryke admitted. “Jennesta’s on her way to these parts, with an army.”
“Shit,” Jup whispered.
“How do you know this?” Alfray asked.
“Glozellan told me. She’d no reason to lie.”
“How long before she arrives?” Keppatawn wanted to know.
“Two, three days. I’m sorry, Keppatawn. She’s after us —” he patted his belt bag “—and these.”
“She has no fight with us, nor we with her.”
“That wouldn’t stop her.”
“We’re used to defending ourselves, should it come to that. But if it’s you she’s after, why squander her followers’ lives? Why divert herself?”
“In search of us. I reckon she’s somehow found out we were in Scarrock. When she sees we’re not there, she could end up at your door.”
“Then we’ll make it clear you aren’t here either. And if Jennesta wants to argue the point she’ll find it costly.”
“We’ll stand with you,” Haskeer promised.
“Yes,” Stryke agreed, “we should stay and fight. There are Hobrow’s custodians too. They could return.”
Keppatawn considered that for a moment. “It’s good of you to offer, but . . . no. The stars are important, I see that. We can fight our own battles. You have to get away from here.”
There was a brief silence, then Jup said, “Where to?”
Stryke sighed. “That’s our next problem.”
“But not one you need worry about now,” Keppatawn told him. “Join us in food and ale, shrug off your cares for a few hours. Call it celebration or wake, it’s your choice.”
“With the enemy bearing down?”
“Is whether we feast or not going to stop Jennesta’s coming? I don’t think so. No more than supping on gruel would.”
“It’s a good way of looking at it, Stryke,” Alfray opined. “And the band could do with unwinding.”
Stryke addressed Keppatawn. “Celebrating a warrior’s life or a victory isn’t unknown to us orcs. Though it’s possible to celebrate too well.” He was thinking of Homefield and how that particular occasion had led to all their later troubles. Before the centaur chief could question his remark, Stryke added, “We’d be honoured to join you.”
The passing hours brought mellower moods.
Fowl, game and fish bones littered the banqueting boards, along with nut husks, discarded fruit and scraps of bread. Honeyed ale had been downed and spilt in quantity.
Now servers moved among the tables with tankards of mulled wine, and fires were banked against the creeping cold. At Alfray’s suggestion Stryke had some of the band’s cache of pellucid broken out. Smouldering cobs were handed round.
Off to one side a troupe of centaurs made low music with pipes and hand-harp. Others used muffled beaters to pound drums fashioned from hollowed tree trunks.
As repleteness, liquor and crystal subdued the revelry, Keppatawn hammered his table with a flagon. The babble and music died.
“Long-winded speeches don’t suit us,” he boomed. “So let’s just toast our allies, the Wolverines.” Tankards were raised, ragged cheers went up. He directed his gaze at Stryke. “And a salute to your fallen.”
Stryke got unsteadily to his feet. “To lost comrades. Slettal, Wrelbyd, Meklun, Darig and Kestix.”
“May they feast in the halls of the gods,” Alfray responded.
A more sombre toast was drunk.
Another tankard was placed in front of Stryke. The server dropped in spice, then plunged a red-hot iron brand into the wine to mull it, releasing its aromatic tang in a little cloud of steam.
Stryke held up the brew. “To you, Keppatawn, and your clan. And to the memory of your revered father . . .”
“Mylcaster,” Keppatawn whispered.
“. . . Mylcaster.”
The name was echoed reverently by a number of the centaurs before they drank.
“To our enemies!” Keppatawn declared, drawing perplexed glances from the orcs. “May the gods confound their senses, dull their blades and bung up their arseholes!” That brought ribald laughter, particularly from the grunts. “Now take your ease, and let tomorrow look after itself.”
The music struck up again. Chatter resumed.
But a cloud darkened Keppatawn’s face as he turned to Stryke. “My father,” he sighed. “The gods alone know what he would have made of the changes we’ve seen.
His
father would barely recognise the land. The seasons ailing, war and strife, the dying of the magic —”
“The coming of the humans.”
“Aye, all our ills stem from that infernal race.”
“But you don’t seem to be doing too badly here in the forest,” Alfray observed.
“Better than many. The weald nourishes us, protects us; it’s our cradle and our grave. But we don’t live in isolation. We still have to deal with the outside world, and it’s going to hell. The chaos can’t be held at bay forever.”
“None of us will be free of it until the humans are driven out,” Alfray replied.
“And perhaps not even then, my friend. Things may have gone down too far.”
“We meant it when we offered to stay and fight,” Stryke reminded him. “Just say the word.”
“No. You have to move on and finish what you’ve started.”
Stryke didn’t tell him he had no idea how to do that. “Then at least let us help you beef up your fortifications,” he suggested, “in case Jennesta does attack. We’ve a few days in hand.”
“That I will agree to. Your special skills would be welcome. But I don’t want you lingering too long for our sakes.”
“All right.”
“And while that’s going on we’ll forge new weapons for you.” Pointedly, but with good humour, he added, “Seeing as you’ve been so careless with the last batch we made you.”
“We get through a lot of weapons,” Jup informed him. “It’s an overhead of our trade.”
“Thanks, Keppatawn,” Stryke said. “It’s good for us to kick in something. We seem to have taken much from you and given so little in return.”
The centaur waved that aside. “Weapons are nothing, we’ll be making plenty in any case. As to giving, if you bring about the healing of this wretched limb —” he laid a hand on his blighted thigh “—you will have given more than I could ever hope for.”
There was a stir at one of the paddocks. A small group of chanting centaurs appeared. Hedgestus was at its head, supported by Gelorak, with four or five acolytes bringing up the rear. They began making their way across the clearing at a stately pace.
“Ah, the moment of truth,” Keppatawn said, signalling the music to stop.
With everyone looking on, the procession arrived at his table, their chanting lowered to a murmur. Two of the aides were carrying between them a stout wooden tub with curved iron handles. The table was cleared and the tub carefully set down. It was two-thirds full of what appeared to be unremarkable plain water.
“Don’t look like much, does it?” Haskeer remarked.
Stryke placed a finger to his lips and glared at him.
“Come on,” Keppatawn urged the shaman, “let’s get on with it.”
A stool was brought and the chieftain lifted his leg onto it. Hedgestus held out his hand. One of the acolytes passed him a yellow sea sponge. He immersed it in the liquid, squeezed out the excess and with an effort bent to apply it. As he gently dabbed, the chanting swelled again.
If the onlookers expected an instant result they were disappointed.
After two or three swabbings Hedgestus noticed Keppatawn’s quizzical expression. “We must be patient,” he advised. “The enchantment will need a little time to effect itself.”
Keppatawn tried to look stoical. The shaman continued with his ministration. Chanting droned on.
Eventually many of the bystanders started to melt away. Alfray sidled off with a clutch of grunts. Yawning cavernously, Haskeer went in search of more drink. Jup slouched, chin in hands, looking vacant.
Coilla, eyes as limpid as opals despite the alcohol and crystal, caught Stryke’s attention. They quietly withdrew.
“I was getting worried about you,” she confessed, “disappearing like that.”
“To be honest, so was I.” It was the first time he’d spoken to any of the band with nobody else around. He was glad to drop his defences a bit.
“I thought we’d really lost it this time,” she said. “Not knowing if you’d gone willingly, and having the stars with you.”
“Now we’ve got four.” He fingered his belt pouch. “I never thought we’d get this far.”
She smiled and indicated the others. “Don’t tell them that.”
His mood stayed doleful. “But we’re no nearer knowing what they do.”
“Or where we go next.”
He nodded. After a moment he continued, “Something strange happened on that mountaintop. That human, Serapheim, was there.”
“Glozellan took
him
there too?”
“That’s the thing. She didn’t. He just . . . appeared, somehow. Went the same way. And there was no getting off that peak without a dragon, believe me.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Yes. But what he said wasn’t plain. I sort of understood what he was getting at, but I . . .” He trailed off, lost for words. “He said I should carry on searching for the stars.”
“Why would he do that? Who
is
he?”
Stryke shrugged.
Coilla studied his face. “You don’t look too good,” she decided. “What’s wrong? Apart from all the shit we’re going through, that is.”
“I’m all right. Except . . .” He wanted to tell her about the dreams and how he feared for his sanity.
“Yes?” she coaxed.
“It’s just that I’m —”
A grunt jogged up to them. “Sir! Corporal Alfray wants a rota for the work parties tomorrow.”
“Very good, Orbon. Tell him I’ll be right there.”
“Chief.” The trooper went off again.
“What were you going to say, Stryke?” Coilla asked.
The moment had passed. “Nothing.” She was about to speak again. He stopped her. “It’ll keep. Meantime, there’s work to be done. Then we’ve got to get out of here. Jennesta’s coming.”
Kimball Hobrow looked on as the stragglers drifted into the bivouac.
He knew what had happened. Forward riders from his custodian regiment, bloodied and dispirited, had reported on the debacle at Drogan. The indignity of being bested by sub-humans cut deep with him and his rage had been towering. Then he fell to brooding on revenge and planning his next move.