Inferno

2

The Gateway Corps ship had sailed beyond sight of the dwarfs’ island. But the Corps elf commander, Pelli Madayar, who had taken the wheel herself, was uncertain which course to set. For that, she looked to her goblin second-in-command, Weevan-Jirst. He was gazing at a plump, gleaming gem nestling in his palm.

“Anything?” Pelli asked.

“Nothing.”

“Take the wheel. I’ll try.”

They swapped places. She warmed the gem in her hand, then stared hard at it. Its swirling surface was cloudy.

“Is something wrong with it?” Weevan-Jirst asked in the rasping timbre peculiar to his race.

“There shouldn’t be, given the quality of its magic. I’ll check.”

“How?”

Pelli was aware that although high in the Corps’ magical hierarchy, her deputy still had a lot to learn. “By comparing it with a set of instrumentalities we already know about,” she explained.

“Those held by the orc warband?”

She nodded. “You’re aware that each set of artefacts has its own unique signature; what some call its song. We know the tempo of the ones the Wolverines have. I’ll see if I can attune to them. One moment.” Face creased in concentration, she softly recited the necessary spell. At length she said, “There,” and showed him the gem.

Images had appeared on its facade. They were arcane, and continuously shifting, but to adepts their meaning was plain.

“The orcs’ instrumentalities,” Weevan-Jirst interpreted, “on the isle of dwarfs.”

“Yes. Which confirms that the fault doesn’t lie in our method of detection.”

“I see that. So why can’t we trace the artefacts Jennesta has?”

“Because I’m now certain that she’s done something unprecedented, or at least extremely rare. The instrumentalities she’s using are copies, presumably taken from the originals the orcs have. Their emanations are unlike those given off by the genuine articles, which is why we’re finding it difficult to track them.”

“Copies? That would be a remarkable achievement.”

“Oh, yes. There’s no doubting her extraordinary magical talent. Moreover, I believe she’s also tampered with the originals in some way, giving her a measure of control over them.”

“Which would explain the erratic way the Wolverines were world-hopping before arriving in this one.”

“Indeed it would. She’s toying with them.”

“But I’m puzzled.”

“How so?”

“Our mission is to retrieve the orcs’ instrumentalities, and we know where they are. So why have we left them behind on the island?”

“We now have not one, but two sets of instrumentalities in irresponsible hands. And Jennesta’s ability to duplicate them is potentially catastrophic. Imagine dozens, scores, hundreds of instrumentalities in circulation. The Corps could never control a situation like that.”

“It doesn’t bear thinking about,” Weevan-Jirst agreed gravely.

“We’ve two options. We can go back to the island to tackle the orcs again, and run the risk of losing Jennesta for ever. Or we concentrate on her, knowing we can find the orcs as long as they have the artefacts, which they’re unlikely to part with.”

“We don’t know where she is.”

“I think we can find out by recalibrating our detection methods on the basis that her instrumentalities are copies.”

“Is that possible?”

“In theory. Only it might take a little while. But there’s something else that could work to our advantage. Jennesta has Stryke’s mate, and we can almost certainly count on him pursuing her too. With luck, we’ll be able to bag both sets at the same time.”

“How will they know where she’s gone?”

“Don’t underestimate how tenacious a race the orcs are. I’d put a large wager on them working it out.”

The goblin looked doubtful. “Isn’t this deviating from our orders?”

“I have autonomy in the field, to a degree.”

“Yes,” he hissed, “ to a degree. Are you going to consult higher authority?”

“Karrell Revers? No. At least, not yet.”

“Can I ask why not?”

“I have total respect for his judgement, but he’s not here.”

“You mean he’d likely order you to stick to our original mission.”

“Probably. And we’d lose precious time while the situation’s debated on homeworld.” She gave him a concerned look. “Of course, I appreciate that you might be unhappy with my plan. But I’ll take full responsibility for-”

“I’ll be glad to abide by any decision you make, Pelli. For the time being.”

She decided not to pursue that comment. “Thank you. Meantime, we have something else to attend to.” She looked along the deck. The bodies of three of their comrades were laid out, wrapped in bloody sheets. “Then we have a score to settle with Jennesta.”

There were dead on Jennesta’s ship too. Some walked and breathed, after a fashion. Others would never do either again.

Several of the latter were being pitched overboard by a party of the former.

The corpses being disposed of were dwarfs, broken and bloodied following Jennesta’s creative interrogation methods. Apart from mundane necessity, the fate of the discarded cadavers had the additional effect of chastening her followers. But although Jennesta embraced, indeed revelled in the appellation tyrant, she was coming to understand the value of tempering stick with carrot when it came to her subordinates’ loyalty. This took several forms. The promise of power and riches under her dominion was one way. Another was the dispensing of pleasure, her sorcery being capable of conferring sensations of wellbeing, even ecstasy, as readily as terror.

But there was a kind of follower for whom neither punishment nor bliss was the spur. These rare individuals shared her taste for cruelty. And Jennesta had found one. His name was Freiston. He was a young low-ranking officer in the Peczan military, one of those who had thrown in their lot with her in the hope of extravagant rewards. He was a human, so naturally she distrusted him. Not that she didn’t distrust all races, but she was especially suspicious of humans. After all, her father was one.

Freiston had caught her attention because of his skill as a torturer, and his passion for it, which had proved useful. On the strength of that she promoted him to her notional second-in-command.

Following the debacle on the island, they were in Jennesta’s cabin. She was seated, regally; he was required to stand. Also present was Stryke’s mate, Thirzarr, who lay insensible on a cot. She looked as though she was sleeping, but it was a state only Jennesta’s sorcery could rouse her from.

“Did you get what you want, ma’am?” Freiston asked.

She smiled. “My wants exceed anything you could imagine. But if you mean the information I needed to set our course, then yes.”

“If I may say so, my lady, it’s ironic.”

“What is?”

“That those dwarfs should have given their lives for something as mundane as a location.”

She gave him a withering look. “It’s hardly mundane to me. But it was a case of making them understand, rather than them trying to withhold what I wanted. Not that you’re complaining, surely? You obviously enjoyed it.”

“I’m ready to serve you in any way necessary, ma’am.”

“Perhaps you should have been a diplomat rather than a soldier.” He started to respond. She waved him silent. “We’ll be in a combat situation at landfall. I need my force in good order and well briefed on what they’ll be up against. You’ll see to it.”

“Ma’am. We’re going to be a little under strength in a couple of key areas due to a few of our people being left behind on the dwarfs’ island.”

“Do I look like someone who cares about that? If they were too slovenly to obey my evacuation order I don’t need them.”

“Yes, m’lady. Can I ask when we’ll reach our destination?”

“In about two days. What I seek turned out to be nearer than I suspected. So you’re going to be a busy little man, Freiston.” She rose. “Let’s set the wheels turning.” Glancing at Thirzarr’s recumbent form, she led him out of the cabin.

From the deck, the other four vessels in her flotilla could be seen, ploughing in her flagship’s wake. On the deck itself, one of Jennesta’s undead stood motionless over a dwarf’s body. She swept that way, Freiston in tow.

Approaching, she saw that the zombie was General Kapple Hacher. Or had been. He was staring at the cadaver. Freiston showed no emotion at seeing his one-time commanding officer so hideously reduced.

Jennesta was furious. “What are you doing, you dolt?” she raged. “You had your orders. Take that-” She jabbed a finger at the corpse. “-and cast it overboard.”

The drooling hulk that had been a great army’s general and governor of a Peczan province carried on staring.

“Do it!” Jennesta insisted, further incensed. “Obey me!”

Hacher lifted his gaze to her, but otherwise stayed motionless. Her patience exhausted, she continued haranguing, and took to cuffing him with a rings-encrusted fist, raising puffs of dust from the tatters of his decaying uniform. After a moment his eyes, hitherto glassy, flickered and showed something like sentience, and perhaps a hint of defiance.

Freiston’s hand went to his sword hilt.

“ Do… as… you’re… told,” Jennesta commanded, fixing Hacher with a look of smouldering intensity.

The light died in his eyes and they returned to insensible. With a kind of rasping sigh he bent to the corpse. He lifted it with no sign of effort and, straightening, tossed it over the rail. There was a distant splash.

“Now get back to your duties,” Jennesta told him.

Hacher slowly turned and trudged away, heading for the prow and a group of fellow zombies hefting supplies.

Jennesta saw Freiston’s expression and answered his unspoken question. “Sometimes, when their original force of will was strong, subjects can be less compliant.” She indicated the party Hacher was joining. “They’re imperfect beings; far from the ideal I have in mind.”

“Can they be improved, ma’am?”

“Oh, yes. In the same way that a peasant using poor clay makes poor pots, this first batch has flaws that carried over from the material I was forced to use. But with the right subjects, and refinements I’ve made to the process, the next batch is going to be far superior. As you’ll soon see. But you have something on your mind, Freiston. What is it?”

“We have the orc’s female,” he replied hesitantly.

“Stryke’s mate, yes. What of it?”

“If he’s as pig-headed as you say, my lady, won’t his band be after us?”

“I’m counting on it.”

“Ah.” He knew better than to query her reasoning, but ventured another thought. “And the group that attacked us? Who were they?”

“They can only have been the Gateway Corps. I thought they were a myth, but it appears not.”

“Aren’t they another threat?”

“They’re meddlers. Self-appointed so-called guardians of the portals. There’ll be a reckoning for what they did today.”

Freiston had doubts about that, given that Jennesta had just had to retreat from them. But naturally he kept his opinion to himself.

“Neither orcs nor a ragbag of interfering elder races are going to stand in my way,” she went on. “There’s going to be a very different outcome the next time our paths cross.”