Orcs (58 page)

“I’m fine. Or I will be soon. I wouldn’t say my head was exactly
clear
, but the ride will fix it.”

Haskeer came over holding a pile of the fur jackets. Jup drifted after him.

“They ain’t exactly refined,” Haskeer opined as he sorted sizes.

“Wouldn’t have thought that would have bothered you,” the dwarf remarked.

Haskeer ignored him and started handing out the garments. “Let’s see. Captain.” He tossed a fur. “Alfray. And here’s yours, Jup.” He held it up for them to see. “Look at the size of that. Like a hatchling’s. Wouldn’t cover my arse!”

Jup snatched it. “You should use your head for that. It’d be an improvement.”

Simmering, Haskeer strode off.

Stryke stood, ever so slightly unsteady on his feet, put on the fur jacket and wandered over to Alfray.

“How you feeling?” the corporal asked.

“Not too bad. Don’t want to see any more crystal for a while, though.”

Alfray smiled.

“You were right about the stars,” Stryke went on. “If I’d had them on me —”

“I know. Lucky.”

“I’ll take them back now.”

“Given any thought to dividing them?”

“I know it makes sense, but I reckon I’ll hang on to them. If I’m going to be parted from the band again, I’ll give them to you for safekeeping.”

“You know best, Stryke.” His tone indicated that he didn’t agree, but perhaps he thought now wasn’t the time to argue. He dug into a pocket and produced the three stars, but didn’t return them immediately. He held them in his cupped palm and studied them. “You know, despite what I said about keeping these, I’m glad to be handing them back. Having them feels like an awesome responsibility.”

Stryke accepted the stars and they were returned to his belt pouch. “I know what you mean.”

“Strange, isn’t it? We feel that way about them yet we still haven’t got a clue what they’re for. What we going to do, Stryke? I mean, whether we got another star from the centaurs or not?”

“It was always my idea to use them to barter a pardon from Jennesta. But the more I think about it, the more I reckon that’s what we
shouldn’t
do.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for a start, can you see her honouring her end of any bargain? I can’t. More important than that, though, is the power these things seem to have.”

“But we don’t know what kind of power it is. That’s the point.”

“No. But we’ve heard enough hints along the way. What Tannar had to say, for instance. And the fact that Jennesta, a sorceress, wants them.”

“So what
do
we do with them?”

“I was thinking along the lines of finding somebody who could help us use them. But for good, not evil. To help orcs and the other elder races. Perhaps to strike a blow against humans, and our own despots.”

“Where would we find somebody like that?”

“We found Mobbs, and he told us about the instrumentalities in the first place.”

“Don’t you sometimes wish he hadn’t?”

“Things had to change. They
were
changing. Mobbs didn’t make us do what we did. He just gave us a reason, albeit a pretty cloudy one. All I’m saying is that maybe we could find someone even more knowledgeable. A magician, an alchemist, whatever.”

“So that’s what you think we ought to do? Rather than trading them for our lives with Jennesta?”

“It’s an idea, that’s all. Think on this, Alfray. Even if we did get Jennesta to deal, and she stuck to it, what kind of a life would we have? Do you honestly think we could just go back to being what we were? Carrying on as if nothing’s happened? No, that’s over. Those days are gone. In any event, the whole land’s going down in flames. Something bigger’s needed.” He slapped the pouch. “Maybe these things are the key to that.”

“Maybe.”

“Let’s get to Drogan.”

He gave the order to break camp.

The forest was only two or three hours away, and the route couldn’t have been simpler. All they had to do was follow the inlet.

As he hoped, the ride, which they took steadily, helped clear Stryke’s still-pounding head. But his mouth seemed permanently dry and he drank copious amounts of water on the way.

He offered the canteen to Coilla, riding next to him at the head of the column. She shook her head. “I’ve been talking to Haskeer,” she said, “or trying to, about what happened when he went off with the stars.”

“And?”

“In most ways he seems like his old self again. Except when it comes to explaining what happened then.”

“I believe him when he says he really doesn’t know.”

“I think I do too. Despite the whack over the head he gave me. But I’m not sure I can ever trust him again, Stryke. Even though he did help rescue me.”

“Can’t blame you for that. But I think what happened to him was somehow beyond his control. Hell, we have to believe that about a comrade, and whatever else you can say about Haskeer, he’s no traitor.”

“Just about the only thing he said was that the stars sang to him. Then he clammed up, embarrassed. That singing stuff sounds crazy.”

“I don’t think he’s crazy.”

“Neither do I. So, any idea what he means?”

“No. They’re just dead objects far as I’m concerned.”

“Still no idea what they’re for?”

He grinned. “If I did, believe me, I’d have told you. Yelled it. I was talking to Alfray about this earlier. What I didn’t say to him was that even if the stars are blind, useless pieces of wood or something, I’d still have us go after them.”

Coilla gave him a quizzical look.

“No, I’m not crazy either,” he told her, pushing his doubts about the dreams to arm’s length. “I see it like this. If we need anything, we need a purpose. Without one, this band would fall apart quicker than you can spit. It’s our military upbringing, I suppose. Even though we’re not part of the horde any more we’re still orcs and we’re still part of the orc nation, scattered and reviled as that might be. I figure we hang together or get hanged apart.”

“I understand. Maybe there’s something in the orc nature that craves comradeship. I don’t think we’re really meant to be lone beings. Anyway, whatever happens, whatever we might or might not have thrown away, you’ve given us that purpose, Stryke. Even if it all goes murderously wrong any minute, we still had that. We tried.”

Stryke smiled at her. “Yes, right. We tried.”

They had reached the edge of the forest. It was mature, enormous, dark.

Stryke halted the column. He waved forward Alfray, Jup and Haskeer.

“What’s the plan, chief?” Jup asked.

“Like I said before: simple and straightforward. We raise a flag of truce and try to make contact with Keppatawn’s clan.”

Alfray began preparing the flag, using the Wolverines’ banner spar. “Suppose there’s more than one clan in the forest, Stryke?” he said.

“We’ll have to hope they’re all friendly with each other and pass us on. Let’s go.”

With some apprehension they entered the trees. Alfray held aloft the flag. He was aware, as they all were, that it was universally recognised but not always universally respected.

The interior of the forest was cool and smelt earthy. It wasn’t as dark inside as it appeared from without. The silence was near absolute, and that made all of them edgy.

After riding for ten minutes they entered a small clearing.

“Why do I feel I have to whisper?” Coilla whispered.

Alfray looked up at the forest’s ceiling far above, where sunlight shafted. “This place seems almost holy, that’s why.”

Jup agreed. “I reckon the magic’s strong here. The water from the inlet, the covering of trees; they both help hold it. This might be one of Maras-Dantia’s few remaining untouched oases. Something like the way it once was.”

Haskeer seemed oblivious to all that. “What do we do, just keep wandering about in here until we find a centaur?”

All around, scores of centaurs appeared from behind trees and crashed out of bushes. Some held long, slim spears. Most had short horn bows, notched and pointing the band’s way.

“No,” Coilla replied.

“Take it easy!” Stryke told the band. “Steady now.”

A centaur came forward. He was young and proud. The hair on the lower, equine portion of his body was silken brown. He had a fine tail and sturdy hoofs. Above, where his body somewhat resembled that of a human, he had muscular arms and abundant chest hair. He was straight-backed. A curly beard adorned his face.

Several of the band’s horses shied.

“You’re in clan territory,” the centaur announced. “What’s your business here?”

“Peaceable business,” Stryke assured him.

“Peaceable? You’re orcs.”

“And we have a reputation, yes. It tends to go before us. As does yours. But like you, we fight in just cause, and we don’t betray a flag of truce.”

“Well said. I am Gelorak.”

“I’m Stryke. This is my warband, the Wolverines.”

The centaur raised an eyebrow. “Your name’s known here. Have you come on your own account or do you act for others?”

“We’re here for ourselves.”

The other centaurs still had their bows levelled at the band.

“You’re gaining a reputation as an orc who brings trouble with him, Stryke. I ask again, what business have you here?”

“Nothing that brings you trouble. We seek a centaur called Keppatawn.”

“Our chief? You require armaments?”

“No. We want to talk with him on another matter.”

Gelorak studied them thoughtfully. “It’s for him to decide whether he wishes to treat with you. I’ll take you to him.” He glanced at Stryke’s sword. “I would not demean you by asking that you surrender your weapons during your stay here. That’s not something one should lightly ask of an orc, I think. But you are on your honour not to draw them in anger.”

“Thank you. We appreciate the consideration. Our weapons will not be drawn unless any draw theirs against us. You have my word.”

“Very well. Come.”

He waved a hand. The bows were lowered.

Gelorak led the band deeper into the great forest, the other centaurs close to hand. Eventually they came to a much larger clearing.

There were buildings that resembled stables, along with more conventional thatched, round huts. The largest structure by far looked like an open-fronted barn. It housed an enormous forge. In blasting heat and clouds of smoke, sweating centaurs hammered on anvils and worked bellows. Others used tongs to remove glowing pieces of metal from braziers. They plunged them, hissing and steaming, into barrels of water.

Fowl and pigs ran free. There was a distinct odour of dung in the air, and it wasn’t all from the livestock.

Dozens of centaurs, young and old, were going about their chores. Most of them stopped and stared when the Wolverines arrived. Stryke took some comfort from the fact that their reaction seemed born more of curiosity than ill will.

“Wait here,” Gelorak instructed. He cantered off towards the armoury.

“What do you think?” Coilla asked.

“They seem friendly enough,” Stryke judged. “And they let us keep our weapons. That’s a good sign.”

Gelorak re-emerged accompanied by another centaur. He was of middle years and his beard was greying. The powerful, muscular physique that must have marked him out in youth was still in evidence, but it was tempered by a deformity. He was lame. Withered and spindly, his right foreleg dragged as he walked.

“Well met,” Stryke greeted.

“Well met. I am Keppatawn. I’m also a centaur of direct impulses and busy. So you’ll forgive me if I’m blunt. What do you want?”

“We have business to discuss with you. A trade that could prove to your advantage.”

“That remains to be seen.” He assessed them, eyes shrewd. His tone lightened. “But if it’s business, that’s always best discussed over a meal. Join us for food and drink.”

“Thank you.” Stryke dreaded the idea of anything else to eat, but knew protocol demanded acceptance.

The band was ushered to heavy oak tables placed near the clearing’s centre. There were benches on just one side for the orcs’ benefit; centaurs stood to eat.

Meat and fish were brought. There was freshly baked bread, dishes of fruit, and baskets brimming with nuts, as befitted forest dwellers. Ale was provided too, along with jugs of heady red wine.

Once they were into the meal, which in Stryke’s case meant eating just enough to avoid offence, he toasted their hosts. “A generous repast.” He raised a flagon. “We thank you.”

“I’ve often thought there are few disputes that can’t be put right by a good meal and some fine wine,” Keppatawn replied. He drained his own flagon, then belched. It was a demonstration of the centaurs’ well-known liking for life’s more sensual pleasures, which not uncommonly veered into excess. “Though I guess it’s a little different with you orcs, eh?” he added. “We tend to ask questions first, preferably while feasting, then fight. It’s the other way round with you, isn’t it?”

“Not always, Keppatawn. We are capable of reason.”

“Of course you are,” he replied good-naturedly. “So what is it you want to be reasonable about today?”

“You have an item we’d like to trade for.”

“If you’re talking of weapons, you won’t find better anywhere in Maras-Dantia.”

“No, not weapons, though in truth yours are renowned.” He lifted his cup and took a drink. “I’m talking about a relic. We call it a star. You may know it better as an instrumentality.”

The remark silenced the table. Stryke hoped it hadn’t put a permanent damper on things.

After a pause, Keppatawn smiled, signalling a resumption of chatter. Though it was at a lower level as all strained to hear. “We do have the artifact you refer to,” he admitted. “And you’re not the first to travel here hoping for it.”

“There have been others?”

“Over the years, yes.”

“Can I ask who?”

“Oh, a motley bunch. Scholars, soldiers of fortune, those claiming mastery of black sorcery and white, dreamers . . .”

“What was their fate?”

“We killed them.”

The band stiffened a little at hearing that.

“But not us?” Stryke persisted.

“You’ve come asking, not trying to take. I’m talking about the ones who arrived with ill intent.”