Orcs First Blood - Legion Of Thunder Part 3

4.

Everything seemed so clear to Haskeer now, so obvious. The fog that clouded his mind had lifted and he knew exactly what needed to be done.

Spurring his horse, he entered another valley that would take him further north-east. Or at least he hoped it would. In truth his new clarity didn't extend to all his senses, and he was a little hazy about the precise direction in which Cairnbarrow lay. But he pushed on none the less.

For the hundredth time his hand went instinctively to his belt pouch, where he had the strange objects the warband called stars. Mobbs, the gremlin scholar who had told the Wolverines something about them, said their proper name was instrumentalities. Haskeer preferred stars. It was easier to remember.

He didn't know what the objects were or what they were supposed to do, any more than Stryke and the others did. But although he couldn't understand the stars' purpose, something had happened. Something that made him feel he had a kind of union with them.

They sang to him.

Sang wasn't the right word. It was the nearest he could come up with for what he heard in his head. He might have thought of it as whispering or chanting or the faint sound of an unknown musical in-strument, and would have been just as inaccurate. So he settled for singing.

He could hear them doing it now, even while they were in his pouch and out of sight. The things that looked like a hatchling's idea of stars were vocalising at him. Their language, if that's what it was, meant nothing to Haskeer, yet he caught its gist. It told him everything would be all right once he got them to where they belonged. The balance wouldbe restored. Things would go back to being the way they were before the Wolverines went renegade.

All he had to do was take the stars to Jennesta. He expected her to be so grateful she'd pardon the band. Perhaps even reward them. Then Stryke and the other Wolverines would appreciate what he'd had to do, and be grateful.

Leaving the valley, he came to a trail. It seemed to run the way he wanted to go, so he joined it. The track climbed to a rise and he urged his already lathering horse upward to the crest.

When he reached the top he saw a group of riders coming the other way. They were four in number. And they were humans.

They were all dressed in black, and each was more than adequately armed. One of them had the disgusting facial growth their kind called a beard.

Haskeer was too close to avoid being seen, or to turn back without them easily catching him. But in his present mood he didn't care about being seen. His only thought was that it was bad enough them being humans, worse that they were in his path. He wasn't going to tolerate anything that delayed him.

The humans looked taken aback at running into a lone orc in the middle of nowhere. They glanced around suspiciously for sign of others as they galloped towards him. Haskeer kept to the trail and didn't slacken pace. He only stopped when they blocked him, their mounts in a semicircle not much more than a sword's length away.

They took in his weather-beaten, craggy features, the crescent-shaped sergeant's tattoos on his cheeks, the string of snow leopard teeth at his throat.

He stared back, evenly, hard-faced.

The bearded human seemed to be their leader. He said, 'He's one of them all right.' His companions nodded.

'Ugly b.a.s.t.a.r.d, ain't he?' a clean-shaven one opined.

They laughed.

Haskeer heard them over the stars' beguiling song. Its urgency couldn't be denied.

'Are there more of your band around, orc?' the bearded one de-manded.

'Just me. Now move.'

That set them laughing again.

Another clean-shaven had his say. 'It's you that's moving, back to our master. Dead or alive.''Don't think so.'

The bearded rider leaned in to Haskeer. 'You sub-humans are lower than swine when it comes to head work. Try and understand this, stupid. In that saddle or over it, you're coming with us.'

'Stand aside. I'm in a hurry.'

The leader's expression turned flint-like. 'I'm not telling you again.' His hand went to his sword.

'Your horse is better than mine,' Haskeer decided. 'I'll be tak-ing it.'

This time there was a pause before they laughed, and it sounded less a.s.sured.

Haskeer gently tugged the reins of his mount, turning it slightly. He slipped his feet from the stirrups. A warm feeling began radiating from the pit of his stomach. He recognised the sign of an imminent frenzy and welcomed it like an old friend.

The bearded human glared. 'I'm going to cut your tongue out, you freak.' He started to draw his sword.

Haskeer leapt at him. He struck square, slamming into the human's chest. Locked together, they plunged from the horse's other side and hit the ground, Haskeer on top. Taking the brunt of the fall, the human was knocked senseless.

Haskeer rained punches on him, quickly rendering his face a b.l.o.o.d.y, pulpy mess.

The other riders were yelling. One jumped down from his mount and rushed in with sword drawn. Haskeer rolled aside from his lifeless victim, scrambling to his feet just as the swordsman launched an attack. Backing off fast from the slas.h.i.+ng blade, Haskeer wrenched free his own sword, levelling it to deflect the blows.

As they duelled, the two mounted riders jockeyed to take swipes at him. Dodging their blows, and the careening horses, Haskeer concen-trated on the nearest threat. He drove forward, bombarding the human with a relentless series of hefty strikes. Soon he had his opponent in defensive mode, all his energy directed to fending off Haskeer's on-slaught.

Ten seconds later Haskeer went into a feint, skirted an ill-judged swing and brought his blade down on the human's forearm. Still grip-ping the sword, the severed limb portion fell away. His stump pumping blood, the screaming human pitched headlong beneath the hooves of a rearing horse.

While its rider fought to disentangle his mount, Haskeer went for the other horseman. His method was straightforward.

s.n.a.t.c.hing the reins he pulled down with all his strength, as though tugging a bell rope to warn of invasion. The rider was hurled from his saddle and smashedinto the earth. Delivering a hearty kick to his head, Haskeer vaulted on to the animal's back. Bringing the horse about, he faced the last oppo-nent.

Spurs biting into his mount's flanks to impel it forward, the black-garbed human met him. Haskeer engaged his whipping sword. They hacked at each other savagely, chopping, bludgeoning, trying to find a way through to flesh, all the while fighting to control their wheeling horses.

At length, Haskeer's stamina proved the greater. His continuous battering found less and less resistance. Then his strikes began to evade the human's guard. One scored, raking the man's arm and bringing a pained cry. Haskeer kept on with new-found vigour, dealing unstoppable pa.s.ses, hacking like a crazed thing. The human's guard vanished. A well-aimed slash hewed inches deep into chest tissue. He toppled.

Haskeer steadied his new horse and surveyed the corpses. He felt no particular triumph at overcoming the odds; he was more irritated at having been held up. Wiping the gory blade on his sleeve, he returned it to its sheath. Yet again his hand unconsciously went to the belt pouch.

He was reorienting himself, figuring which way to go now, when his attention was caught by movement at the corner of his eye. Looking west, he saw another party of humans, also dressed in black, galloping in his direction. He reckoned there were thirty or forty of them.

Even in his battle-crazed state he knew he couldn't fight a mob of that size single-handed. He urged the horse forward and fled.

The stars filled his mind with their singing.

On a hilltop a quarter of a mile away, another group of humans watched the tiny figure riding across the plains, and a band of their fellows pursuing it.

Foremost of the watchers was a lofty, slender individual, dressed like his Uni companions in head-to-toe black. Unlike them, he wore a tall, round, black hat. The garment was a sign of his authority, though none present would have questioned his leaders.h.i.+p whether he wore it or not.

His face was best described as resolute, and showed no hint of ever having been burdened with a smile. Greying whiskers adorned an acute chin, the mouth was a bloodless slit, his eyes were dark and brooding.

Kimball Hebrew's mood, not unusually, was apocalyptic.

'Why do You forsake me, Lord?' he ranted skyward. 'Why let the unG.o.dly, inhuman vermin go unpunished for defying Your servant?'

He turned to his followers, his inner elite known as custodians, and berated them. 'Even the simple task of hunting down the heathen monsters is beyond you! You have the Creator's blessing through me, His worldly disciple, yet still you fail!'

They avoided his gaze, sheepishly.

'Be certain that I can take back what I have bestowed in His exalted name!' he threatened. 'Return what is rightfully the Lord's, and mine! Go forth now and smite the depraved sub-humans! Let them feel the wrath!'

His followers ran for their horses.

Down on the plain, the orc renegade and the humans chasing him were almost lost from sight.

Hobrow sank to his knees. 'Lord, why am I cursed with such fools?' he implored.Mersadion, recently elevated to commander of Queen Jennesta's army, approached a st.u.r.dy oak door in the lower depths of the palace at Cairnbarrow. The orc Imperial Guards standing on either side of it stiffened to attention. He acknowledged them with a curt nod.

Reflecting on the fate of his predecessor, and on his own compar-ative youth, the orc General applied an effort of will to control his nerves as he rapped on the door. He took a morsel of comfort from knowing that obeying a summons fromher affected everyone this way.

From within, faintly through the solid door, came a response. It sounded melodious and unmistakably feminine.

Mersadion entered.

The chamber was of stone with a high vaulted ceiling. There were no windows. Drapes and tapestries decorated the walls, some of the latter depicting scenes and practices he preferred not to dwell upon. At one end of the room stood a small altar, and before it a coffin-shaped marble slab. The purpose of these items of furnis.h.i.+ng was something else he elected not to think about.

Jennesta sat at a large table. Scattered about its surface were candles that provided most of the chamber's light. The dim illumination gave her already outre appearance an even more bizarre aspect. There was something almost spectral about her.

Her half-nyadd, half-human origins meant Jennesta's skin had a s.h.i.+mmery green and silver glitter, as though she was covered in tiny scales. A face a mite too flat and broad was framed by ebony hair with a sheen that made it appear wet.

She had an overly sharp chin, somewhat aquiline nose and ample mouth. Her striking, uncommonly long-lashed eyes were oblique, and seemed fathomless.

She was beautiful. But it was a kind of beauty observers were un-likely to have known existed until seeing her.

Mersadion stood rigidly just inside the door, not daring to speak.

She was preoccupied, poring over ancient-looking tomes and yellowing charts. A ma.s.sive book with metal clasps lay open beside her. He no-ticed, as he had more than once before, that her fingers were peculiarly long, an impression added to by lengthy nails.

Without lifting her eyes, she said, 'Be at ease.'

That was something no one managed in her presence. He relaxed a little, but knew better than to overdo it.

An awkward silence stretched as she continued studying. He leaned forward slightly to sneak a look. She noticed and her glance flicked up to him. To his surprise, instead of reacting furiously, as he feared, she smiled indulgently.

Naturally that made him feel even warier.

'You are curious, General,' she said. It wasn't a question.

'Ma'am,' he replied hesitantly, mindful of her unpredictability.

'As you have many different weapons in your armoury, so do I. This is one.'

He took in the untidily piled desk. 'Majesty?'

'I grant it doesn't cut or pierce or slash, but its power is as keen as any blade.'

She noticed his blank expression, and added with brittle patience, 'As above, so below, Mersadion. The influence of heavenly bodies on our daily occasions.'

He grasped her meaning. 'Ah, the stars.'

'The stars,' she confirmed. 'More accurately, the Sun, the Moon and other worlds in their relations.h.i.+p to ours.'

He was losing her meaning already, but it was unwise to say so. He remained silent and hoped he looked suitably attentive.

'These,' she went on, tapping one of the charts, 'are a tool in our hunt for the Wolverines.'

'How so, my lady?'

'It isn't easy explaining to ... lowly intelligences.'

He felt almost relieved at the casual insult. It was more in keeping with her style.

'The position of the celestial spheres resolves both character and coming events,' she explained. 'Character is moulded at the instant of birth according to which spheres are in the sky. The cosmic wheels turn slow and exceeding fine.' She reached for a scroll. 'I had the birth records of the Wolverines' commanders sought out. Naturally the lower ranks are of no consequence. Now I know the natal marks of the five officers, and thus something of their essential natures.'

'Natal marks, Majesty?'

She sighed, and he feared having gone too far. 'Youknow what natal marks are, Mersadion, even if you've never heard them called thatbefore. Or are you going to tell me that the Viper, the Seagoat or the Archer are unknown to you?'

'No. No, of course not, ma'am. Sol signs.'

'As the rabble would have it, yes. But at its heart this discipline is far more profound than the rubbish mouthed by soothsayers in the mar-ketplace. They degrade the art.'

He nodded, judging it wisest to say nothing.

'The . . .sol signs of the Wolverine officers give an insight into their personalities,' Jennesta continued, 'and how they might act in certain circ.u.mstances.' She weighted the scroll with a couple of candlesticks. 'Pay attention, General.

Perhaps you'll learn something.'

'Ma'am.'

'The sergeant Haskeer is ruled by the natal mark Longhorn. That makes him bull-headed, stubborn, impetuous, in extreme situations in-clined to savagery. The dwarf sergeant, Jup, is a Balladier. The warrior with a soul. He tends to see the mythic element in events. But he is equally blessed with practicality. The corporal Alfray is ruled by the Spanglefish. That means he can be a dreamer. He has a tendency to live in the past, and is probably conservative. Hemay possess healing pow-ers. The female orc, Corporal Coilla, is a Basilisk. A spitfire, headstrong, given to reckless bravery. But also a loyal comrade.'

Jennesta paused long enough for Mersadion to venture a prompt. 'And their Captain, Majesty? Stryke?'

'He is in some ways the most interesting of this ragtag band. A Scarab. It rules the divine, the revelation of things hidden, change and the mystical. It also has strong martial properties.' She removed the candlesticks and let the scroll re-roll itself. 'Of course, these are just thumbnail sketches, and all are tempered, strengthened or weakened, depending on many factors.'

'You mentioned coming events, your Highness.'

'Our future paths are mapped out for us. For every action there is a reaction, and this too is pre-ordained.'

'So all is written beforehand?'

'No, not all. The G.o.ds have given us the wild card of free will. Though I could wish it were not so in every case,' she added darkly.

Emboldened by her apparent openness, he asked, 'What have your studies revealed of the future, ma'am?'