The troop relaxed, most of them eyeing the second figure, who stayed mounted a spear’s lob distant.
“Sorry to spoil your pleasure,” the general told them, “especially today.”
“No problem, sir,” Stryke assured him. “What do you need?”
“Just for you to take delivery of that corporal you’re lacking. I’ve brought a replacement.”
More curious glances went the way of whoever was on the horse.
“Thank you, sir. And this replacement’s joining us now?”
“Yes, captain.”
“On
Braetagg’s Day?
” a hulking sergeant blurted. In a humbler tone he added, “Begging your pardon, General, sir.”
Stryke shot him a homicidal look.
The general appeared more benevolent. “That’s all right, Sergeant —”
“Haskeer, General.”
“Sergeant Haskeer. These are troubled times. Even Braetagg’s Day isn’t exempt from military needs. I want this corporal inducted and you back up to strength.”
Haskeer nodded sagely, as though imagining he conferred with an equal. Stryke suspected he only got away with it because of what day it was. He made a note to have him lightly flogged later.
Kysthan waved the rider to approach. “Good kill tally in the horde,” he explained as they waited. “Meets the band’s standard, and a gift for strategy.”
The steed came at pace, reining in by them, spattering clods of soil. Its passenger slid from the saddle like mercury down slingshot.
“Corporal Coilla,” the general announced.
The new arrival gave them a smile with real flint in it.
Stryke regarded her. They were probably of an age, a score of seasons or thereabouts, and not far off in height. Her craggy, slightly mottled hide looked healthy enough and she was pleasingly muscular. She had obvious pride, and a hard certainty in her eyes. A fitting demeanour. There was no denying she was a handsome orc.
She returned his gaze. What she saw was what she’d expected: a battle-tempered, robust warrior stamped with command. But there might have been a hint of something more, a small quirk of manner that betrayed deeper concerns than even the martial. Perhaps because of that, there was no denying he was a handsome orc.
“Well met,” she said, extending her hand.
He took it warrior-style, forearm clasping forearm, and thought how nicely humid her touch was. “Well met. Welcome to the Wolverines.”
Coilla scanned the others, lingering on each face for a fraction of a second yet scrutinising them all. She dwelt just a little longer on the only dwarf present, whose facial tattoos indicated he was a sergeant. Then her eyes flicked back to Stryke. She said nothing.
“You know what a hardy outfit this is,” General Kysthan told her. “I’m relying on you to fit in. Your record says you can. But put a foot wrong in a warband like the Wolverines and you’re liable to end up dead.”
“Yes, sir.”
Kysthan was already moving towards his ride. The band stiffened to attention again. “Good luck, Corporal.” He tugged a pair of black leather gloves from his belt. “Stryke, keep me informed on her progress.” The gloves flicked out in a parting gesture, as though he were swatting at a fly. “Enjoy the day!”
They watched him mount, wheel the horse and gallop across the parade ground through swelling crowds. His route led to the sugar white edifice of Cairnbarrow’s royal palace, its walls shining from dawn rain, its lofty towers piercing leaden clouds.
Coilla and the band eyed each other.
“What happened to the corporal I’m replacing?” she asked abruptly.
“What do you think?” Stryke replied. “Warbands take casualties. If that’s a problem —”
“No, no problem. It’s what I’d expect. So when do we start getting me invested?”
“I dunno why we have to do it at all on Braetagg’s Day,” Haskeer grumbled again.
“It’s as good as any other day,” responded an orc who looked the oldest, and who, like Coilla, bore the markings of a corporal. He turned to Stryke. “Maybe we should introduce her to the band before we do anything else, Chief,” he suggested.
Stryke indicated he should do it.
“I’m Alfray,” the ageing corporal told her. “Haskeer you’ve already heard from. He’s —”
“A moron,” the dwarf rumbled.
The sergeants exchanged murderous glances.
“And this is Jup,” Alfray said.
The dwarf winked at her, a bit roguishly she thought. A flash of white teeth lit his bearded face.
Coilla spoke impetuously. “I was expecting . . .”
“Somebody taller?”
“Somebody a little less . . . dwarfish,” she replied dryly. “I mean, I didn’t think there were that many in warbands.”
“You orcs aren’t the only ones skilled in combat.”
“In your dreams,” Haskeer muttered.
“More like a nightmare with your mug,” Jup returned.
“Shut up,”
Stryke growled menacingly, “the pair of you.”
They retreated into morose silence.
Alfray cleared his throat. “The troopers,” he continued, commencing to point them out. “That’s Kestix. There’s Finje and Zoda. Hystykk, Bhose, Slettal, Darig. Let’s see. Vobe, Liffin, Noskaa . . . er . . . Calthmon, Wrelbyd, Prooq. That’s Meklun . . . Reafdaw, Gant, Jad . . . Gleadeg, Toche, Breggin.” He blinked at the farthest faces. “Talag and . . . Seafe. Oh, and Nep, Orbon and Eldo, at the back there.”
Some of the grunts acknowledged Coilla; others kept a wary reserve.
“Right,” Stryke announced, glad that was over. “You’ll be billeting here, Corporal.” He jabbed a thumb at the wooden longhouses behind them, bedecked with clan shields. “But there’s not much we’ll be doing this day. Let’s see how things are going with the celebrations.”
There were murmurs of approval from the band.
Coilla shrugged. “Fine by me.”
They strolled in the direction of the main square, Coilla walking beside the other officers. The grunts stuck together in their own group, indulging in a certain amount of horseplay she imagined Stryke wouldn’t normally allow.
Crowds were gathering for the festivities. They were mostly orcs, as would be expected on such a day, but with a smattering of other races, including a few humans of the Mani creed. A knot of gremlin emissaries passed by, solemn in grey robes. Daintily framed elf servants bustled on errands. Brownie dragon handlers, proud and aloof, weaved through the mass. Far overhead, a squadron of their charges circled on leathery, serrated wings.
Chill gusts came in from both the eastern ocean and the advancing ice sheet in the north. More rain threatened.
Wrapping his jerkin tighter, Alfray broke the silence. “It gets a little worse every year. In my time, Braetagg’s Day was a summer festival. Look at it now.”
“
Humans,
” Haskeer spat. “Fucking up the magic.”
“Unis anyway,” Alfray corrected. “Them and their wretched single god.”
“Manis, Unis; not much to choose between them if you ask me.”
“Don’t be too loose in spreading that thought, Haskeer,” Stryke cautioned. “You wouldn’t want it getting back to our mistress.”
“The Queen’s a chancer,” Alfray said, “we all know that. She’ll back the Manis only as long as it suits her.”
“That’s enough careless talk,” Stryke decreed, glancing around for flapping ears.
“I don’t know a lot about Braetagg’s Day,” Jup confessed. “I’ve never actually been in Cairnbarrow for it before. Tell me about it.”
“Admitting you’re ignorant, eh?” Haskeer gibed.
“Ignorance I leave to you. You’re so much better equipped for it.”
“Braetagg was a great orc chieftain,” Alfray quickly put in. “You must know that much.”
“Course,” Jup said. “The rest of it’s a bit vague though.”
“To be honest, it’s not all that clear to us either. We don’t know where he came from or exactly when he lived, except it was about a century ago. What we do know is that he led our race in some famous victories. That was when the United Orc Clans was a
real
power. Before things started going down. He struck off the yoke at a time when some of the other elder races looked to enslave us. So, above all, we honour him as a liberator.”
“Pity it didn’t stick,” Coilla remarked sourly.
From his expression it was obvious Stryke thought that was dangerous talk too. But he kept his peace.
As they continued their trek, Coilla found herself slightly apart from the others, with only Jup to hand.
“Take a tip?” he asked in an undertone.
She nodded.
“Watch your tongue. You’re not in the horde any longer. Things get noticed more in a smaller group like this.” He let that soak in, then added, “Not that I’m saying we don’t agree with you.”
“All right. Question?”
“Sure.”
“What’s the beef between you and Haskeer?”
“I haven’t got one. Well, maybe a bit,” he relented. “It comes down to this thing about dwarfs. Lots of beings feel the way he does.”
“You mean the way dwarfs . . . blow with the wind?”
“We both know what we’re talking about, Coilla. My race has a reputation for siding with whoever has the most coin, even if they happen to be Unis. Some see it as treachery. I reckon we’re just . . . practical.”
“So how practical is it being in one of Jennesta’s warbands? You could be doing something less dangerous, and probably better paid.”
“I can’t answer for all my kind, much as Haskeer keeps trying to hold me to account. It might seem strange to you, what with you orcs having been bartered into the Queen’s service and all, but some of us think there’s a cause worth fighting for here. Somebody’s got to stop the humans tearing the guts out of Maras-Dantia. The bad ones, anyway.”
“Indentured or not, most of us think that too. Look, Sergeant, I don’t give a fuck about the politics. All I care about is whether my comrades are good at their job and are gonna cover my back.”
“That’s the way I see it. And that’s the thing about Haskeer. He’s a bastard, but he’s a good fighter, and he’s enough of a team player to be there when you want him. It’s one of the things I like about orcs.” He smiled. “By the way, forget the rank. Call me Jup.”
“Is he the only one giving you a hard time?”
“He is now, more or less. I had to do a lot to prove myself when I first joined this band. It’ll be the same with you for a while.”
“Only dwarf and only female, eh?”
“Right. But at least you have the advantage of being an orc.”
They entered the square. Strands of bunting had been hung and pennants billowed in the wind. Numerous clan shields were racked in columns. Mountainous bone-fires stood ready for kindling by tarred arrows at the height of the celebrations.
Skirting roped-off areas set aside for tourneys later in the day, the band moved into the shadow of the palace. A grand tent had been pitched, cloth flapping, regal ensigns basted on either side of its entrance. Two orc sentinels guarded it, spears crossed. Recognising Stryke, they stepped aside, allowing the band to file into the cavernous interior.
Burning brands and watery sunlight dappled by the marquise’s fabric gave the place an eerie illumination.
As one they stopped, regarding with awe what was housed there.
Alfray laid a hand on Coilla’s arm. “First time you’ve seen him?”
A nod was all she could manage.
Most of the grunts stared with something near reverence, and not a little superstitious dread.
At length, Jup decided, “I think it’s unnatural, and probably unsanitary.”
“Watch what you’re insulting, short-arse,” Haskeer rumbled ominously.
Stryke gave them a stern look and mouthed, “
Show respect
.”
A throne of some splendour had been placed in the centre of the tent. It was embellished with beaten gold inlays and silver tracings. Its backrest was fashioned into the likeness of a phoenix rising from artfully carved flames. Rubies served as the beast’s eyes, and burned crimson. If not quite managing the grandeur of any of Jennesta’s thrones, it was still fit for a warlord.
Braetagg sat in it.
More accurately, he was propped, one hand resting on the hilt of a jutting broadsword. The empty scabbard lay across his lap, and he wore a simple gold crown. His mail shone, his leather trews were unsullied and his boots had been polished.
His skin was stretched, clearly showing the outlines of bones beneath, and it had the colour of yellowing parchment. Once stitched, his mouth now had a rictus that displayed several teeth of similar hue. The eyes were hollow sockets. There was a faint tint about the corpse’s parched flesh that spoke of the unguents and herbs employed by the embalmers.
“He looks like he could stand up and talk to us,” Haskeer declared wonderingly.
“I fucking hope not,” Jup said.
Horns of ale and canteens of rugged wine were snapped from belt clips. Handing them round, the band took turns toasting their forebear. In solidarity, even Jup had his share. When it came to Coilla, they all watched approvingly as she downed hers without blanching. She noticed Haskeer draining his flask in a single draft.
They lingered for a while, then Stryke ordered them out.
Blinking in the stronger light, they took a second to realise the crowd was facing the palace, heads craning. They followed their gazes to a high balcony and the figure standing there.
Queen Jennesta was dressed in white, her cascade of ebony hair flowing free in the keen breeze. From where they were standing her features couldn’t really be made out. But they were familiar enough with her half-human, half-nyadd ancestry, and the abnormal geometry of her dark beauty.
The Wolverines had come late to her address, or quite possibly harangue. In any event, distance and the wind made it hard to catch more than odd words. They were trying to interpret what they could hear when she raised her arms and began negotiating a complex series of hand gestures.
There was a blinding flash of orangey-green light. Something like a fireball streaked down from her lofty perch, leaving a vivid red trace-line in its wake. It struck one of the steeped bonfires with a thunderous roar and the pile instantly erupted in flames. The crowd cheered and hooted.
“Bread and circuses,” Alfray sniffed, seemingly unimpressed.
“Come
on
,” Jup told him, “Braetagg’s Day existed long before she came along.”