“And purloined it.”
They watched the pyre consume itself, their enthusiasm a little dampened.
The Wolverines were lounging on the decking of one of their longhouse billets when Reafdaw came back from his errand.
“Get it?” Stryke said.
“Yes, Chief.” Smiling, the grunt took a small pouch from his belt satchel and handed it over.
The others gathered to watch Stryke open it. Inside was a quantity of tiny crystals, translucent but with a faint purple-pinkish hue.
“Seems choice,” Alfray judged.
Coilla leaned over to look. “Hmmm, pellucid. That should brighten the day.”
“You can’t beat a good charge of crystal lightning,” Jup agreed.
“Don’t think we’re going to make a habit of this,” Stryke warned them. “See it as Braetagg’s treat. Do the honours, will you, Alfray?”
The corporal rummaged in his field medical bag for a mortar and pestle, then set to grinding the crystals into a fine powder. Reafdaw helped him pack it into cobs.
Soon a distinctive aroma perfumed the air as the first pipes were passed round.
Expelling a long plume of chalky smoke, Jup wheezed, “I think I’m warming to this Braetagg.”
“That better dot be nisrespectful,” Haskeer said. “Er . . . Bhat tetter . . . Uhm . . . Just don’t
take the piss,
right?”
“Yuck fou,” the dwarf returned jovially.
Haskeer’s glazed eyes took on a puzzled cast.
Ribald jokes were told, triggering helpless laughter. Grunts took turns at the peculiarly orcish art of boasting, embellishing their deeds to points beyond absurdity. There was a lot of giggling.
Stryke leaned against the wall, the back of his head cradled in linked hands. “Another hour of this and the festivities proper should be getting under way.”
“If we can still walk to it,” Alfray slurred.
Jup was adrift in a convoluted and largely incoherent anecdote when Coilla interrupted with, “Who’s that?”
Bloodshot eyes lazily turned the way she indicated. Three mounted orcs galloped towards them. One had a fluttering purple cloak.
“Shit,” Stryke cursed, scrambling unsteadily to his feet. “Crelim.”
Coilla squinted at him. “Who?”
“Crelim. The General’s aide-de-camp.
Up!
All of you,
up!
”
There was an unsteady rising, aided by the tip of Stryke’s boot. Swaying orcs brushed dirt from their breeches and watched the party arrive.
Perfunctory salutes exchanged, Crelim lost no more time on formalities. “Direct orders from General Kysthan. Special assignment. You’re to come with me. Now.”
“Today, Major?” Stryke protested. “Is it really nec —”
“Our enemies are no respecters of days, Captain, and I’m not here for a debate.” He took in their appearance and reckoned their state. “Get your heads into a water butt first if you have to, only
move your arses!
”
Accompanying themselves with wholesale low-key grumbling, they did as they were told.
The crowds were bigger and growing. Crelim and his outriders, wordless, led them back to the square, and across it to the tent. A mass of orcs were outside, marshalled by a strong contingent of sentries.
“Jennesta’s own Imperial Guard, no less,” Alfray whispered.
Stryke nodded, still trying to clear out the fug.
When they dismounted, Crelim ordered the grunts to stay outside. He went in with Stryke, Haskeer, Alfray, Jup and Coilla.
There were more guards inside, living and dead. The detail assigned to protect Braetagg was sprawled on the ground, throats cut or backs knifed. Blood had splashed the tent walls.
More shocking was the absence of Braetagg himself.
Jup regarded the empty throne and said, “Maybe you were right, Haskeer. He got up and walked away.”
“That’s more than you’ll be doing if you don’t shut that mouth.”
Stryke silenced them with a chopping motion and a venomous face.
Crelim pointed to a wide slash in the back of the tent. “That’s how they got him out.”
“Why would anybody want to take him?” Coilla wondered. “I mean, what
for?
”
The Major shrugged. “All I know is that if the festivities start and there’s no Braetagg there could be disorder.”
“To put it mildly,” Alfray said.
“We can’t afford this getting out,” Crelim went on, “which is why we’ve brought in a special-operations band. You’re to act in secret. Your orders are to retrieve Braetagg’s remains and get them back here pronto.”
“And if we don’t?” Stryke asked.
“The Queen herself wants this resolved.”
“Don’t bother coming back, in other words.”
“You said it, Captain.”
Eyes closed, Stryke massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. He sighed. “Any idea who might have done this?”
“No. But there’s one possibility. Some pyros have been seen in the area over the last couple of days. One of the dragon patrols sighted a party of them just yesterday afternoon, down towards Hecklowe.”
“And that’s all there is to go on?”
Crelim nodded. “We’re relying on you. Don’t tarry.”
He turned and left, retinue in tow.
“On fucking Braetagg’s —”
“
Don’t say it, Haskeer
,” Stryke cautioned in even, icy tones.
“Pyros?” Coilla said.
“A human cult. Fire worshippers or some such.”
“What, Manis? Unis?”
“Don’t think they’re either.”
“They’re a magical sect,” Alfray explained.
Coilla was disdainful. “
What?
Since when did humans have magic any more than orcs do? They’re only good at bleeding it.”
“Maybe they’re seekers of magic rather than actually possessing it,” Jup suggested. “They probably want some mastery of the earth energies, like most of the other elder races.”
“Sounds crazy to me,” Haskeer opined.
“And your point is? We’re talking about
humans,
bonehead.”
“Who you calling a bonehead, you little scumpouch?”
“
Enough!
” Stryke growled. “Who knows what good Braetagg’s corpse is to these pyros,
if
they took it. What’s important is getting it back, else the day ends in bloodshed.”
Jup was examining the area around the empty throne. “Perhaps magic’s the key,” he told them. “My mild magic, farsight. Though it’s much depleted, thanks to those fucking interfering humans.” He knelt and plucked something from the seat of the throne. They saw it was a minute scrap of cloth. “This isn’t Braetagg’s. It’s a coarse weave, not like anything he was wearing.”
“Could be anybody’s.”
“True. But it doesn’t match any of the guards’ uniforms either.” He looked up at Stryke. “Most of all, it’s the only clue we have.”
“Is it enough?” Alfray wondered. “For the farsight?”
“I don’t know,” the dwarf replied. “Could be. What do you reckon, Stryke?”
“You’re supposed to be a trailblazer. Blaze.”
They were around ten miles west of Cairnbarrow. The palace’s spires could still be seen, but so too could the bulwark of the glacier, a thin white line dominating the northern horizon. Light rain had begun to fall. It was sallow, with a vaguely unpleasant odour reminding them of sulphur and decaying things.
The mounted band looked on as Jup crouched with his hands immersed in mud, eyes closed, sampling the earth energies. Eventually he stood and started wiping the muck away. “The strength’s irregular. Bastard humans.”
“But?” Stryke said.
“But I think they’re heading for Taklakameer.”
“It’s kind of a big area to cover, isn’t it?” Coilla ventured. “For just thirty of us?”
“Yes,” Stryke agreed. “So the sooner we get on, the better.”
They continued westward. Every so often, Jup used his erratic farsight and insisted their quarry was still moving towards the inland sea.
Eventually the band arrived at a bluff overlooking the wind-rippled waters. The vastness of the sea, and the curling mists clinging to its surface, meant the far shores couldn’t be seen. But the water lapping the nearest bank was scummy and defiled.
“Now what?” Alfray wanted to know.
“Can your farsight narrow the search, Jup?” Stryke asked.
“Not much more than this. You know water can smother it.”
“How so?” Coilla said.
“Water holds the magic, in the same way forest glades and remote valleys do. Maybe because those are harder places for humans to plough up, mine and graze.”
“If there’s more magic, doesn’t that increase your farsight?”
“That’s the problem. It heightens the power but also everything I pick up. It’s hard to explain. You could say it’s a bit like being blinded by the light.”
Stryke had a plan. “We’ll split into two groups and scour the shore north and south. I’ll lead one, along with you, Alfray, and you, Coilla. We’ll take half the grunts and head south. Haskeer and Jup, you’ll take the other half. If either group comes across anything they can’t handle, send a runner.”
They set off.
Stryke’s group hugged the shoreline, and they could see Jup and Haskeer’s doing the same. Soon they were out of sight of each other.
After riding in silence for a few minutes, Coilla ventured, “Is it safe leaving those two together, Captain?”
“Who?”
“Jup and Haskeer, of course.”
“It’s true there’s not a lot of love lost between them, but when the cards are down, they’re Wolverines first. Anyway, they’re not hatchlings. If they behave like they are, on a mission, they’re out and they know it.”
“Have you run into these pyros before?”
“Not really. Some of the other bands have.”
“They’re not numerous but they are fanatical,” Alfray added, “and that’s often more dangerous.”
“What’s the plan if we find them?” Coilla said.
Stryke looked as though he found the question odd. “We kill them. What else?”
“Keep your eyes peeled.”
“That’s a fucking stupid thing to say,” Haskeer flared. “What else do you think I’d be doing?”
“I don’t know,” the dwarf said. “Playing with your fertilising sac?”
“Get off that horse and I’ll ram your head up its arse.”
“It’d be an improvement over looking at your face.”
“You want yours rearranged, just say.”
“Yeah, in the middle of a mission. That’d be really smart.”
“
Sergeants!
” one of the grunts hissed.
“What?” they chorused irritably.
“Over there.” He pointed.
Off to their right, inland from the shore, stood a brace of low dumpy hills with a copse between. The light of a fire could be seen through the trees.
Haskeer and Jup brought the column to a halt.
“What do you reckon?” Haskeer said.
“Let’s do a recce.”
“All of us?”
“Nah, we can handle this by ourselves.”
The grunts were ordered to stay with the horses. Jup and Haskeer went off.
They approached the copse stealthily, keeping low, cutting a zigzag path. Then they were on their bellies, crawling in the undergrowth, until they stopped at the fringe of a clearing.
A large fire had been built at its centre. Twenty or thirty figures clustered around it, their shadows elongated and grotesque in the gathering dusk. The figures had oddly shaped heads.
Haskeer gawped at them. “What the hell race are they?”
“
Humans
, dolt,” Jup whispered. “They’re wearing wolves’ heads.” Something else caught his eye. “Look over there.”
At the edge of the firelight, Braetagg’s body lay stretched out on a flat rock. One of the wolf-headed humans stood close by. The arcane movements of his hands, accompanied by a low chant from many of the others present, implied a ritual of some kind.
“We need the full strength for this,” Jup reckoned. “Let’s get out of here.”
Haskeer nodded. “Right.”
“
Wrong
.”
They didn’t even get a chance to turn and see who’d spoken. Seized by rough hands, they were hauled to their feet. Half a dozen humans, sporting wolves’ heads like macabre cowls, surrounded them. Blades against their throats, the Wolverines were disarmed and their wrists bound.
Haskeer shot Jup a venomous look. “ ‘
We can handle this by ourselves,
’ ” he mocked.
“
Hold your noise!
” one of the humans ordered. “Least until the Master gets started on you.” He smirked at his comrades. They broke into unpleasant laughter.
The captives were frog-marched into the clearing, their appearance putting a stop to the dirge. Led through the staring ranks, they were taken to the man standing next to Braetagg’s corpse. From his arrogant bearing, and the deferential way the others addressed him, he was obviously the sect’s leader.
Eyes as dead as those on the wolf headgear he wore, the human regarded Jup and Haskeer contemptuously. “So. Intruders. And sub-humans at that.”
“We ain’t sub anything to do with
your
kind,” the dwarf retorted.
For his trouble he took a sharp crack across his face with a gauntlet. Trickles of blood snaked from his nose and the side of his mouth.
“What you doing with Braetagg?” Haskeer demanded. He strained against his bonds, uselessly.
“Seeking magic,” the Master told him, his voice intense. “Tapping the energy the same way you so-called elder races do.”
“Mine doesn’t.”
Haskeer’s reward was a blow to the stomach that doubled him.
“How can a corpse have anything to do with the magic?” Jup raged. “You crazy bastards!”
“Crazy?” the Master repeated, looking genuinely affronted.
He turned to the corpse and seemed to study it for a moment. Then he grasped the smallest finger of Braetagg’s right hand and snapped it off with an audible crack. A tiny puff of grey dust attended the break.
Haskeer’s hollered protest was stifled by fresh blows. For good measure, the pyros gave Jup’s kidneys a pummelling too. Ignoring their struggles, the leader held the finger up at eye level, examining it. That done, he tossed it into the fire.
The flames instantly blazed more brightly, liberating a myriad of swirling, multicoloured sparks. By turns, the pyre burned emerald, scarlet, gold and turquoise, each with an intensity so dazzling it was hard to look at. It beggared belief that a scrap of arid flesh could make such tumult. Haskeer and Jup were confounded by the sight of it.