The bluff surmounted, Stryke called a halt. A couple of troopers were sent ahead to alert the forward scouts. Meklun’s litter was disengaged from the horse dragging it, and the makeshift stretcher carefully laid flat. Alfray pronounced him little improved.
As fires were lit and horses watered, Stryke went into a huddle with the other officers.
“We’re not making bad headway,” he announced, “despite the handicaps. But it’s time for a decision on our route.” He drew a dagger and knelt. “The human settlement . . . what was it called?”
“Homefield,” Jup offered.
Stryke made a cross in a patch of hardened mud. “Homefield was here, in the northern end of the Great Plains, and the nearest hostile human colony to Cairnbarrow.”
“Not any more,” Haskeer remarked with dark glee.
Disregarding him, Stryke slashed a downward line. “We’ve been moving south.” He carved another cross at the line’s end. “To here. We need to turn south-east for Black Rock. But we’ve got a problem.” To the right and down a little from the second cross, he gouged a circle.
“Scratch,” Coilla said.
“Right. The trolls’ homeland. It’s smack in the path of the most direct route to Black Rock.”
Haskeer shrugged his shoulders. “So?”
“Given how belligerent trolls can be,” Jup told him, “we should avoid it.”
“
You
might want to run from a fight;
I
don’t.”
“We’ve no need of one, Haskeer,” Stryke intervened coolly. “Why make extra trouble for ourselves?”
“ ’Cause going round Scratch will cost us time.”
“We’ll lose a lot more if we get caught up in a fight there, and a fully armed warband riding through their territory is just the thing to start one. No, we’ll skirt the place. Question is, which way?”
Coilla jabbed her finger at the improvised map. “The next-shortest way would be to head due east now, toward Hecklowe and the coast. Then we’d make our way south, through or around Black Rock Forest, to Black Rock itself.”
“I’m not happy about going near Hecklowe either,” Stryke said. “It’s a free port, remember. That means plenty of other elder races. We’re bound to tangle with at least one that has a grudge against orcs. And the forest’s infested with bandits.”
“Not to mention that turning east from here takes us a bit too close to Cairnbarrow for comfort,” Alfray added.
“The advantage of approaching Black Rock from the forest side is that we’d have the cover of trees,” Jup put in.
“That’s scant return for all the risks we’d run.” Stryke employed his knife again, extending the line down beyond the elliptical shape he’d drawn. “I think we have to carry on south, past Scratch,
then
turn east.”
Coilla frowned. “In which case, don’t forget this.” She leaned over and used her finger to outline a small cross below Scratch. “Weaver’s Lea. A Uni settlement, like Homefield, but much bigger. Word is that the humans there are more fanatical than most.”
“Is that possible?” Jup asked drily of no one in particular.
“We’d have to pass between the two,” Stryke granted. “But it’s all flat plains in those parts, so at least we could see trouble coming.”
Alfray studied the markings. “It’s the longest route, Stryke.”
“I know, but it’s also the safest. Or the least dangerous, anyway.”
“Whatever damned route we take,” Haskeer rumbled, “nobody’s said anything about Black Rock being a short piss away from
there
.” He plunged his own knife into the ground, to the right of Coilla’s crude addition.
Jup glared at him. “That’s supposed to mean Quatt, is it?”
“Where your kind comes from, yes. Being so close should make you feel at home.”
“When are you going to stop blaming me for the wrong done by all dwarves?”
“When your race stops doing the humans’ dirty work.”
“I answer for myself, not my whole race. Others do what they must.”
Haskeer bridled. “There’s no
must
about helping the incomers!”
“What do you think
we’re
doing? Or are you too stupid to notice who Jennesta’s allied with?”
As with most spats between the sergeants, this one escalated rapidly.
“Don’t lecture
me
on loyalty, rat’s prick!”
“Go shove your head up a horse’s arse!”
Faces twisted with malice, they both began to rise.
“Enough!”
Stryke barked. “If you two want to tear each other apart, that’s fine by me. But let’s try to get home alive first, shall we?”
They eyed him, weighed the odds for a second, then backed off.
“You’ve all got your duties,” he reminded them. “Move yourselves.”
Haskeer couldn’t resist a parting shot. “If we’re going anywhere near Quatt,” he snarled, “better watch your backs.” He shot the dwarf a malicious look. “The locals are treacherous in those parts.”
He and his fellow officers scattered to their chores. But Stryke motioned for Jup to stay.
“I know it’s hard,” he said, “but you have to hold back when you’re provoked.”
“Tell Haskeer that, Captain.”
“You think I haven’t? I’ve made it clear he’s heading for a flogging, and not for the first time since I’ve led this band.”
“I can take the insults about my race. The gods know I’m used to that. But he never lets up.”
“He’s bitter for his own reasons, Jup. You’re just a handy scapegoat.”
“It’s when he questions my allegiance that my blood really boils.”
“Well, you have to admit your race is notorious for selling its loyalty to the highest bidder.”
“Some have, not all.
My
loyalty isn’t for sale.”
Stryke nodded.
“And there are those among the dwarves who say similar things about orcs,” Jup added.
“Orcs fight only to further the Mani cause, and indirectly at that. We’ve little choice in the matter. At least your race has free will enough to decide. We were born into military service and have known no other way.”
“I know that, Stryke. But you
do
have a choice. You could determine your own fate, as I did when I chose which side to back.”
Stryke didn’t like the way the conversation was going. It made him uneasy.
He avoided a direct reply by steering Jup to the topic he’d wanted to raise in the first place. “Maybe we orcs have a choice, maybe we don’t. What we haven’t got is farsight. Dwarves have, and we could use it now. Has your skill improved?”
“No, Stryke, it hasn’t, and I’ve been trying, believe me.”
“You’re sensing nothing?”
“Only vague . . .
traces
is the nearest word, I suppose. Sorry, Captain; explaining to somebody from a race with no magical abilities isn’t easy.”
“But you are getting traces. Of what? Kirgizil tracks? Or —”
“As I said,
traces
is an inexact word. Language isn’t enough to describe the skill. The point is that what I’m picking up doesn’t help us. It’s weak, muddled.”
“Damn.”
“Perhaps it’s because we’re still too close to Homefield. I’ve often noticed that the power seems lower where humans are concentrated.”
“It could come back the further away we get, you mean?”
“It
might
. Truth to tell, farsight was always pretty basic in dwarves anyway, and nobody really knows how we or the other elder races draw the power, except it comes from the earth. If humans are digging and tearing in one place they can sever a line of energy, and it bleeds, starving wherever else it goes. So in some areas magic works, in others it doesn’t.”
“Know what I’ve never understood? If they’re eating the magic, why don’t they use it against us?”
Jup shrugged. “Who can say?”
After a couple of hours’ fitful sleep, the Wolverines resumed their journey.
Far to their right flowed the Calyparr Inlet, marked by a fringe of trees. To their left, the Great Plains rolled in seemingly endless profusion. But the scene was askew. What had once been fecund now lacked vitality, and it seemed that much of the colour had washed out of the landscape. In many places the grass was turning yellow and dying in patches. Low-growing shrubbery was stunted and brittle. Tree barks were patterned with sickly parasitic growths. A brief fall of light rain was tawny-hued and smelt unwholesome, as though sulphurous.
Dusk saw them arriving at a point roughly parallel with Scratch. If they continued at the same rate, Stryke reckoned, they could turn east at dawn.
Riding alone at the head of the file, he was preoccupied with weightier thoughts than navigation. He pondered the mystery of the dreams that were afflicting him, and his sense of futility in the face of the odds stacked against them was growing. But what would happen if they didn’t find the kobold raiding party, and the cylinder, was something he tried not to think about.
Melancholy had as cold a grip on him as the chill night air by the time one of the advance scouts appeared. The grunt was approaching at speed, his mount’s nostrils huffing steamy clouds.
Reaching the column, he reined in sharply and wheeled the sweating horse about.
Stryke put out a hand to catch the trooper’s reins, steadying his ride. “What is it, Orbon?”
“Encampment ahead, sir.”
“Do they have horses?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Let’s see if we can parley for some.”
“But Captain, it’s an orc camp, and it looks deserted.”
“Are you sure?”
“Zoda and me have been watching the place, and there’s no sign of anything stirring ’cept the horses.”
“All right. Go back to him and wait for us. Don’t do anything till we get there.”
“Sir!” The scout goaded his steed and galloped off.
Stryke called forward his officers and explained the situation.
“Is an orc camp something you’d expect to come across in these parts?” Jup asked.
“They’re more common in our native northern regions, it’s true,” Stryke explained, “but there are a few nomadic orc clans. I suppose it could be one of those. Or a military unit on a mission, like us.”
“If the scouts are reporting no activity, we should approach with caution,” Coilla suggested.
“That’s my feeling,” Stryke agreed. “It may be an orc encampment, but that doesn’t mean it’s orcs we’ll find there. Until we know better, we treat it as hostile. Let’s go.”
Ten minutes later they found Orbon waiting for them by a large copse. Its trees shed brown leaves and the bushes were turning autumnal colours, though summer’s mid point was still a phase of the moon away.
Stryke had the band quietly dismount. The healing wounded were left with Meklun and the horses. Orbon in the lead, the rest stealthily entered the grove.
Ten paces in, the ground began to slope, and it was soon clear that the copse sheltered a sizeable trench-shaped indentation. They descended on a pulpy carpet of leaves to a fallen tree where Zoda, stretched full-length, kept watch.
Enough dappled light from the setting sun penetrated the swaying canopy to show what lay below.
Two modest roundhouses, topped with thatch, and a third, smaller still, its roof incomplete. Five or six lean-tos built of angled, lashed saplings covered by irregular-shaped remnants of coarse cloth. Sluggish spring water trickling feebly through churned mud. A pair of tree stumps and a connecting bough forming a roughly constructed hitching rail. Seven or eight cowed, strangely silent horses tethered to it.
As Stryke took it all in, the memory of the dream or vision he’d had came back to him, but in diametric opposition to what he now saw. The orc settlement in his dream had had a feeling of permanence. This was itinerant and ramshackle. The dream was redolent with light and clean air. This was dark and stifling. The dream was life-affirming. This spoke of death.
He heard Coilla whisper, “Abandoned, you think?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Alfray replied in hushed tones, “bearing in mind it’s close to Scratch
and
not that far from a Uni colony.”
“But why leave the horses?”
Stryke roused himself. “Let’s find out. Haskeer, take a third of the band and work your way round to the other side. Jup, Alfray, move another third to the right flank. Coilla and the rest, stay with me. We go in on my signal.”
It took a few minutes for the groups to position themselves. When he was sure all were in place, Stryke stood and made a swift chopping motion with his arm. The Wolverines drew their weapons and began moving down toward the camp in a pincer formation.
They reached level without incident, save the nervous shying of several of the horses.
Around the crude dwellings the ground was strewn with objects of various kinds. An upended cooking cauldron, broken pottery, a trampled saddlebag, the bones of fowl, a discarded bow. Ashes of long-dead fires were heaped in several places.
Stryke led his detachment to the nearest roundhouse.
He raised a finger to his lips, and pointed with his blade to deploy the group around the shanty. When they were in place, he and Coilla crept to the entrance. It had no door; a piece of tattered sacking served the purpose. Swords up, they positioned themselves.
He nodded. Coilla ripped aside the cloth.
An overpoweringly foul smell hit them like a physical blow. It was mouldy, sweet, sickly and unmistakable.
The odour of decaying flesh.
Covering his mouth with his free hand, Stryke stepped inside. The light was poor, but it only took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust.
The hut was filled with dead orcs. They lay three and four deep on makeshift cots. Others completely covered the floor. A pall of corruption hung heavy in the air. Only the scurrying of carrion eaters disturbed the stillness.
Coilla was at Stryke’s side, palm pressed against her mouth. She tugged at his arm and they backed out. They retreated from the entrance and gulped air as the rest of their group craned for a look inside the hut.
Stryke moved to the second of the larger roundhouses, Coilla in tow, arriving as Jup emerged ashen-faced. The stench was just as strong. A glance at the interior revealed an identical scene of huddled corpses.
The dwarf breathed deeply. “All females and young ones. Dead for some time.”
“The same over there,” Stryke told him.