Inferno

10

The Wolverines built a funeral pyre on the beach of the elves’ island.

Stryke would have preferred to skip the ritual and push on. But the discontent about Harglo’s burial at sea felt by many in the band was something he didn’t want to rekindle.

Assuming the function that was once performed by his predecessor, the late Alfray, Dallog again conducted a ritual in which he entrusted their fallen comrade to the care of the gods. Not everyone in the band was happy with the corporal fulfilling this role; Haskeer in particular wore an expression showing more than simple grief. But he and the few other dissenters held their peace.

Bhose’s corpse was laid on the pyre. His weapons, helm and shield were distributed amongst the band, as was the custom, but his sword was placed in his hand. Then Stryke said a few words, paying tribute to Bhose’s courage and loyalty, and they consigned his body to the flames.

All the elves had gathered, watching from a distance in respectful silence. Mindful of not stoking tensions in the band, Pepperdyne saw to it that he and Standeven also stood apart. Coilla would have preferred Pepperdyne at her side, but throughout the ceremony contented herself with sidelong glances that caught his eye.

It took some hours for the pyre to do its work. The Wolverines stayed to the end, in a mood close to reverential, while the elves slowly drifted back to their settlement. At length, Stryke broke the spell with an order for the band to stand down.

As he passed, Haskeer said, “Another good comrade gone.”

Stryke nodded. “Yeah.”

“This mission’s costing us dear in lives.”

“It’s the price we have to pay sometimes.”

“Did Bhose have to pay it today?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know that the way we fought made much sense. Trying to box those goblins in, then taking it out to the beach.”

“What would you have done?”

“It ain’t just that; it’s this whole mission. It started simple. Now we’re floating round these lousy islands with a bunch of hangers-on and the band bleeding members.”

“You’re painting it too black. We fight and some of us die, you know that. It’s the orcs’ lot.”

“Yeah, but-”

“And we’ve no choice. At least, I haven’t as long as Thirzarr’s out there somewhere. Even if we were ready to leave we can’t rely on the stars anymore. So like it or not, we’re stuck with what we’ve got.”

“And if we don’t make it home?”

“Then we’ll settle for getting our own back on Jennesta.”

“Some chance.”

“Taking chances is something else we do, even slim ones. But you don’t have to. If you don’t like the way things are going you can stay here with the elves.”

“No, no. I only-”

“Or if you think you can do better at leading the band, be my guest and try.”

“Look, Stryke, I just-”

“ Otherwise, stop bellyaching. Got it?”

Haskeer sighed and mumbled, “Got it.”

“Right. Now let’s see if we can find out what happened to Bhose.” He turned and walked away. Haskeer followed, and the rest of the band fell in behind them.

Stryke led them to the elves’ village. It had become a sombre place. The elves had dead of their own, many of them, and the bodies were laid out in front of Mallas Sahro’s lodge. He sat on an imposing, throne-like chair overlooking the scene, a couple of attendants at his side. When he saw the Wolverines approaching he rose to meet them.

“On behalf of my clan,” he said, “allow me to express regret at the loss of your comrade.”

Stryke nodded. He glanced at the rows of elven dead. “Your folk have suffered too. Our sympathies.”

“Thank you. We have an old saying: ‘There will be tears enough to rival the ocean.’ That never seemed more apt.”

“Why did you decide to use your magic after all?”

“The answer lies before you. In the past the goblins have taken a life here, a life there. Never before have they slaughtered us on such a scale. That, and because of what you said about us using our powers to throw off their yoke.”

“You aided us, and we’re grateful. But it was our fault. They were here because of us. We brought you trouble, and for that we owe you an apology.”

“No, you don’t. We already had that particular trouble. The goblins have plagued us for a long time, but it took today’s events to force us to act. It was a lesson. A hard one, to be sure, but necessary.”

“I’m pleased you see it that way. Though you must be aware that they might return for vengeance.”

“In which case we have our defensive magic. Hopefully it will be enough to ward them off. In any event, given the beating you inflicted on them, I suspect it will be a while before they brave our shores again.”

“I trust you’re right about that. But you probably aren’t the only islanders in these parts to be tormented by them. You might think of making common cause with your neighbours. There’s strength in numbers.”

“A wise thought. I’ll set about it once our period of mourning ends.”

“Don’t leave it too long,” Stryke cautioned.

“What we don’t understand,” Coilla said, “is what happened to Bhose.”

“Yeah, how the hell did the goblin manage a shot like that?” Jup wanted to know.

“Shadow-wing,” Mallas Sahro replied.

“What?” Stryke asked.

“The bow Gleaton-Rouk used. Its name is Shadow-wing. At least, that’s one of its names. It has many.”

“And it’s enchanted.”

“Of course. No ordinary bow could perform that way.”

“How does it work? I mean, why did it single out Bhose in particular?”

“Shadow-wing is subject to a very specific type of magic. The shafts it looses have to be daubed with blood from the intended victim. Once so anointed the arrow will always find its target. Always. It has nothing to do with the skill of the archer.”

“That explains something we saw when the goblins were retreating,” Coilla recalled. “One of them risked himself to pick up a weapon.”

“It must have been the weapon that wounded your comrade during the battle. The blood on it would have guided Shadow-wing’s arrow. In all probability the goblin retrieved the weapon knowing only that it had wounded an orc. It happened to be your comrade Bhose. It could have been any member of your band who sustained an injury that bled.”

“Why didn’t you warn us about this bow?” Jup said.

He shrugged his shoulders. “We simply didn’t have the chance.”

“What do you know about the bow?” Stryke said. “Where did it come from?”

“It was long thought to be a myth. Like all such fables, there are many stories attached to it, most contradictory. But the prevailing legend is that it was made by the goblins’ gods, long, long ago. They have strange gods, as you know, and not a few of them dark.”

“How did these gods come to be parted from it?”

“Again, there are different stories. Some say it was stolen from them by a celebrated goblin hero, who himself has many names. Others hold that the gods gifted it to a goblin in gratitude for a task he performed. Or that it was used by one god to kill another, a rival, and the bow was flung from the clouds in disgust, and landed on earth to vex the world of mortals. The tales are legion. As are those surrounding Shadow-wing’s passage through history. What the stories have in common is that corruption, treachery and death always attend the bow. Gleaton-Rouk is a master of those black arts, so I suppose it comes as no surprise that he has gained it. As I say, we thought the bow was just a story. I wish it could have stayed that way.”

“Well, we’re heading away from here. Chances are we’ll not see Gleaton-Rouk again, much as we’d like to have a reckoning with him. Likely it’s you that’ll have to face that damn weapon again.”

“If so, we shall be extra cautious about any of our blood that’s spilt.”

“I wouldn’t count on having seen the last of Gleaton-Rouk, Stryke,” Coilla suggested. “He has a grudge to settle with us.”

“We’re not going looking for him. Thirzarr comes first.”

“I thought this band believed in avenging its own,” Haskeer rumbled.

“We’ll go after him once we’ve settled our score with Jennesta.”

“If we’re still alive.”

“If we’re able, I vow we’ll cross paths with Gleaton-Rouk again.”

“And be careful not to bleed anywhere near him,” Jup added.

Spurral gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs.

“When must you leave?” Mallas Sahro asked. “Can you stay and take refreshments, or rest?”

“We’re moving on soon as we can,” Stryke said. “Besides…” He looked at the elf corpses. “… this is your time for grief, not feasting with strangers.”

“At least let us supply you with food and fresh water for your journey.”

“That would help. Thank you.”

“And this,” the chief said, slipping a hand into a pocket in his robe. He brought out a bracelet. Made of a silvery, semi-rigid material, it was about as wide as an orc’s finger was long, and was studded with blue stones of various sizes. There was a hinged clasp, indicating that it opened. “This is a charm to ward off magical attacks. It, too, is old, though not as ancient as the bow. It won’t repel the strongest magic, but might buy you a brief respite. Take it.”

“You’re sure?”

“I know orcs have no innate talent for magic, as elves do, and we have other charms. I think that you might need this more than us.”

“We’ll take any help we can get.”

“Be aware that once the bracelet is on your wrist it will be impossible to remove until either its protection is no longer needed or its power is spent.”

“I suppose it’ll stop me losing it,” Stryke reasoned. “But how long does its power last? And how will it know it isn’t needed anymore?”

“If unused, its magical energy could last centuries. In the event of it having to counter really potent sorcery, it might be less than a day. As to how it will know when to release itself… it will know.” He stared hard at Stryke. “So, your arm?”

Stryke obliged and Mallas Sahro clamped the bracelet on his wrist. Once the clasp clicked into place the bracelet visibly contracted and tightened. Stryke felt it gently fasten snugly against his flesh.

“By the end of the day you won’t even be aware of it,” the chief assured him.

Stryke looked it over, turning his wrist. “I’m obliged.” His gaze went to the sea. “We’ve got to be moving now.”

“I’ll have the supplies brought out right away.” He nodded at one of his aides, who hurried off. “And I have a suggestion. When they left, the goblins abandoned one of their ships; the one they used to try to board yours. It’s not quite as big as the one you arrived in, but it’s faster. Why not take it?”

“Good idea, we’ll do that.”

“Go in peace then, and be assured that you will always have a welcome here.”

Not long after, the Wolverines were back at sea and the elves’ island was out of sight. The wind was strong. With Pepperdyne in his usual place at the wheel, and a sleeker vessel, they made good progress.

Stryke was at the stern, sitting on the deck with his back to the rail, studying the bracelet. The chart was spread out on his lap. He had grown more morose since they set sail, and Coilla approached with care.

“Suits you,” she said, nodding at the armlet.

He smiled thinly. “I was wondering if it protected just me, or all of us. Stupid of me not to ask.”

“Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.” She glanced up at the ship’s black, billowing sails. “They were right about this ship being faster.”

“I could wish for the magical speed it had when we first saw it.”

“Jode reckons we’ll be there soon. Maybe as soon as late tomorrow. Hang on.”

“I’ve no choice.”

She crouched next to him. “Stryke… about Bhose. I-”

“You’re not going to sound off about that too, are you? It’s bad enough listening to Haskeer grousing.”

“I’m not about to blame you for anything. I’m more worried that you might be blaming yourself for Bhose’s death.”

“No more than when anybody in the band gets themselves killed.”

“So quite a lot then.”

“We’re born to kill, and to flirt with our own deaths. It’s the orcs’ creed. But when you’re in command you can’t help thinking that some choice you made, an order you issued, might have been wrong and put the band in peril.”

“And Thirzarr?”

“Thirzarr as well. I’ve put her and the hatchlings in danger. I don’t even know if they’re still alive.”

“We all signed up for this mission. All right, Thirzarr and the hatchlings didn’t, but they’re orcs too. My point is: they know the odds.”

“Corb and Janch don’t, not yet. They’re too young.”

“The clan in Ceragan do. They’ll be looking after them, the way we all watch each other’s backs in the band.”

“If Jennesta left anybody alive.”

“You’ve got to have hope, Stryke. Why else go on?”

He pondered that for a moment, then said, “You seem to be living on hope yourself.”

She was puzzled. “What d’you mean?”

“You and Pepperdyne.”

“What?”

“You hope it’ll work out. But you could be storing trouble for yourself, Coilla. Orcs and humans come from different worlds, and you know how much bad feeling there’s been between them. The chances are you’ll-”

“Oh, you’re good, Stryke. You’ve managed to turn it from you to me. As usual.”

“I mean it. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.” His words were not said unkindly.

Because of that, and the strain he was under, she bit back her anger. “You found contentment,” she replied coolly, “don’t deny it to me.”

“I might have lost it.”

“For your sake, I hope not. But whatever passes between Jode and me is our concern, nobody else’s.”

“Just think about what you’re doing.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’ll catch you later.” As she left, Stryke went back to studying the bracelet.

She was fuming as she headed towards the prow.

“Coilla.”

“Yes?” she snapped, spinning to face whoever had spoken. “Oh, Wheam. Sorry.”

“That’s all right. It’s been a tough day, what with Bhose and everything.”

“You’re not wrong. I’ve been meaning to say: you did well helping defend the ship. We’re all proud of you.”

The youth looked both pleased and embarrassed. “Thanks, Coilla.” Then the cheer went out of his face. “I wish everybody felt that way.”

“Who doesn’t?”

For answer, he nodded. She followed his gaze. Further along the deck, Dallog and Pirrak stood close together. They were deep in conversation.

“Like I told you before,” Coilla said, “Dallog has charge of all you tyros. You can’t expect him to play favourites.”

“He doesn’t seem to have any time for me these days. Only Pirrak.”

“Who probably needs special attention. You should be pleased you don’t.”

Wheam brightened a little. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“There’s usually more than one way to look at things. Don’t pick the worst.”

Haskeer arrived, his expression flinty, and would have passed them without a word had Wheam not spoken.

“Sergeant!” Haskeer stopped and stared at him. “We’ve all been saddened by the loss of our comrade Bhose,” Wheam said, reaching for the goblin lute he habitually had slung on his back, “and I’ve been honouring him in verse. Can I offer you a lament?”

“Only if I can offer you a kick up the arse,” Haskeer growled. He stomped off, scowling.

“Happy ship,” Coilla remarked. “Don’t mind him, Wheam. Why don’t you get some sleep? There might not be much chance after we make landfall.”

“Yes, I suppose I should. But…”

“What now?”

“Some of the band have been talking about the Krake, and how it can pull a ship under and-”

“They should know better. Don’t worry about it; we’ve more pressing concerns. Now get yourself to your bunk. And if we get attacked by sea monsters I’ll give you a call.”

They sailed on through the night and much of the next day. Late in the afternoon they spotted a landmass.

“That has to be it,” Pepperdyne said, perusing the map.

Stryke nodded. “So let’s land.”

“We need to take care. This chart’s not the clearest I’ve ever seen, but it looks like there could be hidden rocks off those shores.” He pointed. “Here, see? We’ll need to take soundings.”

“Do what you have to.”

They approached the island with caution, and Pepperdyne got one of the privates to measure the water’s depth with a length of rope and a lead weight. It proved unusually deep, but there was no problem finding a path through any submerged rocks. Eventually they dropped anchor just off the main beach. A skeleton crew was left to guard the ship, along with Standeven, while the rest of the band waded ashore. They saw no signs of life.

“As islands go,” Coilla said, “this one’s not very big.”

“Big enough for a settlement,” Stryke replied. “We’ll head inland.”

The island’s interior was swathed in dense jungle and at first they had to hack their way through. They would have expected to disturb birds or the myriad small animals that lived in the undergrowth, but there was only silence. Soon they came to an area where trees had been felled and the scrub cleared to form an open space. They found the settlement.

It was in ruins. There were perhaps a score of lodges and huts, and not one was undamaged. Something like half were burnt out. They saw the mutilated bodies of a few dogs, but no corpses of any other kind, and certainly nothing living.

“We’re too late,” Coilla whispered.

“So what do we do now, Stryke?” Spurral asked.

He gazed about, a look of utter despondency on his face.

“Stryke?” Coilla urged.

“I don’t know,” he said.