The Maelstrom Eye

Chapter Two

The first screams began at sunrise, only slightly muted as they entered through the frosted windowpanes of the old elven citadel. General Kobas Hamarka Vorr flipped a page as he finished reading another report at his oversized stone desk. He was in early today, hoping to plow through the mound of paperwork before him. The only interruption so far had been from his goblin aide, who had shuffled in bearing a wooden tray with an assortment of spiced meats, rice, fruit, and water for breakfast. The rest of the day, excluding meals, would be the usual ritual of reading, noting, signing, and moving on.

The only entertainment would be that provided by the elven prisoners, taken when their homeworld had been conquered by a humanoid naval fleet and the general's scro and ogre marines. Every hour, after the abrupt cessation of one elf's cries, a new voice would ring out its agony. This timing had proved helpful, and the general usually let the screaming set the pace of his work.

The present system of handling elven prisoners was a great improvement over the old one, the general reflected as he paused in his work. Many of the troops still preferred the dusk-to-dawn mass rituals now permitted only during religious holidays and military celebrations, when prisoners were many, but that system ate up too much time and required too many troops to manage the captives; it was simply wasteful. Now only three or four soldiers and a war priest could handle affairs, and the limited pool of subjects was stretched considerably. The timing also allowed for normal sleep, and the new ceremony still satisfied the legions. Best of all, it had a profound effect on those prisoners awaiting their turns on the red-stained granite block in the citadel's withered garden, and they offered up the most remarkable secrets in the hopes that they would be spared. That was always the most amusing part, thought the general, as he started the last of one batch of reports and took another bite of his meat and rice.

Sometimes the general would stop and listen to a particularly interesting cry a victim would make. He thought he could make out individual words in Elvish, most being pleas for mercy, but he was never sure. His hearing had only recently recovered from the day when the main gun on the Groundling Scythe had blown up in front of him during the landings on this curious little world, which the elves had named Spiral. The blast had otherwise merely bruised and cut the general in numerous places, thanks to his thick armor and innate fortitude, but it had also killed eighteen marines and his previous goblin aide, the third he had lost in only a year. Aides were damned hard to train properly, and getting along without them was inconvenient at best. He hoped the current one would last a while.

The morning sun's red light was supplemented by magical light globes set up around the room, and the general had no trouble reading. The air was still cool, not yet up to the dry oven heat that would come in the afternoon. The food was well prepared, and the water cold and fresh. It must have been the tedium of the reports, then, that caused General Vorr to let a page drop from his fingers to the desktop. He rubbed his bald gray pumpkin head with both huge hands, his eyes closed. It was hard to concentrate, and he wasn't sure what was bothering him. He'd gotten used to the low ceilings in the elven buildings, barely two feet above his eight-foot frame, and Spiral's sun didn't bother his eyes the way the brighter stars did. He paid no mind to extreme temperature changes. Even his steel-banded, black-trimmed armor was as comfortable as leisure clothes could hope to be.

It couldn't be a lack of exercise, either. Despite the end of direct combat action in these last few weeks, the general was careful to maintain his Herculean musculature with heavy lifting and stretching exercises every other day. His pale-gray skin had a healthy shine, and none of his many old injuries were bothersome these days.

Something was wrong. After a moment, the general knew what it was, and he knew also that there was no immediate cure for it. He sighed and looked down at his paper-strewn desk, noting the heavy, red-iron tarantula paperweight his troops had cast for him, then the thick mithril-steel globe the elves had long ago made of Spiral, showing the strange, winding rivers that flowed from its polar seas to its equatorial ocean and back. He felt no inspiration there, and that was the trouble. Spiral was already conquered.

Looking up, the general found himself staring at the immense clawed hands mounted to either side of the oaken double doors of his expansive office. The green, four-fingered husks went well against the white walls, mute testimony to the broken might of the elven ground forces. The zwarth that had once wielded those claws had been a real titan, a thirty-five-foot undead insectoid monster crewed by eight elves. General Vorr wished again that he had seen the expressions on those elves' faces when the zwarth had bounded out from ambush and fired its rapid spray of magic missiles directly at him while he was directing the landings on Spiral. By the Tomb of Dukagsh, that had been a fight, a damned good fight. Cutting the hands off the smoking green wreck afterward had been especially satisfying. Sometimes those elves knew a good trick or two, for all the good it did them in the long run.

General Vorr sat back, listening to the hoarse, distant cries of the fifth prisoner of the day. The garden ceremonies were good, but they were losing their morale value. This group of elves had been only farmers, after all, not warriors captured in battle. The last of the fighting for Spiral had been too long ago. Little Spiral's orange sun now rose and set across a world controlled by the Tarantula Fleet's ground and wildspace forces. With the local military ground into blood and bones, the troops lacked an appropriate outlet for their aggressions. Hunting down elven refugees in the deep caverns and mountains was a job for orcs and goblins, not highly trained marines like the general's black-armored scro and ogres.

We came here to kill elves, the general thought darkly, not to settle down, play games, and squabble among ourselves. Somewhere in this vast crystal sphere there were more elves, possibly even elements of the Imperial Fleet, but hunting for them would stretch the resources of the Tarantula Fleet too far until the scro had time to build more ships on Spiral. This was the third sphere the general had seen since the War of Revenge had begun, and the once-mighty fleet had been reduced by over two-thirds in constant, glorious, challenging, savage, righteous battle. All of the beautiful mantis ships were destroyed; hastily repaired derelicts and hijacked ships had been pressed into service. They had to rest or perish.

That was the whole problem, of course. General Vorr hated just sitting here, knowing his troops were rotting from within. We should be back in wildspace again, he thought. We've been grounded for five hands of days now, and the reports are filling with summary executions for fighting among the troops. That energy should be directed at the Imperial Fleet, not at fellow soldiers. It was the accursed politics behind it all, of course.

The general's eyes wandered around the room, taking in the crude array of tribal, religious, and unit banners crowding the walls to either side of the doors, past the zwarth's claws. The Tarantula Fleet admiral's policy of letting common orcs into the ground legions only fed the problem. Orcs had boundless hatred for elves, but they also had equally violent hatreds for almost every other sort of humanoid, including orcs of rival tribes and cults and even the ore-descended scro. Other humanoids were like that, but few as much as the orcs.

In their favor, the orcs and minor humanoids were useful for assaults on the gigantic, space-going dwarven citadels, where they could absorb the initial losses from traps and ambushes before the highbred scro and their allies took over and battered their ways through to the forges and redoubts. Rabble could be spared for rooting out survivors on conquered worlds like Spiral, settling down in the meanwhile to create their own colonies. Otherwise, they were just a nuisance.

Whether he liked it or not, Vorr knew that Admiral Halker and the admirals of all other fleets now at war with the elves were doing what had to be done, following the words and plans of the Almighty Dukagsh, the Scro Father. Only by uniting all humanoids into the War of Revenge could the elves be driven from wildspace like sparrows in the claws of a gale- and driven they now were. In the year that the war had been underway, the general had seen the Imperial Fleet forces in two crystal spheres destroyed; elven worlds and fleets in other spheres were rumored by scouts and spies to be under attack or to have fallen as well. The war was vast, and Vorr knew he saw only a small part of it. Few elves had escaped the butcher's cleaver, and little word had spread so far to alert other spheres of the coming of the blade. Spiral itself had fallen so rapidly that it was unlikely any other elves in this sphere knew of it yet. The elves, who had once ground the humanoids under their silver heel, had grown careless and lazy. They paid for it now with their lifeblood.

Still, Vorr reflected, if orcs and lesser vermin were to come along for the elf slaying, they'd have to pull their own weight. General Vorr carefully bled off his supply of naive orcish auxiliaries with every opportunity, sending them without qualm into deathtraps and ambushes. If Halker noticed the high losses among Vorr's orcs and goblins, he said nothing. Halker was a full-blooded scro himself, and it was likely that he understood and approved. Vorr never saw the need to bring the topic into the open and risk finding out differently.

A low knock sounded at the double doors, interrupting his thoughts. General Vorr's left hand casually dropped beneath the stone desktop, blunt fingers fitting into the leather grip of the weapon there. He'd been fooled once by a half-elven rogue on a suicide mission; he'd not be fooled twice. "Enter!" he called briskly, his voice booming through the room.

A lock clicked, and one of the half-ton doors swung silently open. The still air stirred to brief life. The door was held by the steel-armored arm of an ogre elite guard. The ogre, named Gargon, was unusually big, a head taller than the general himself, and he made a fine wrestling and sparring partner. Gargon never spoke, thanks to an arrow through his voice box, but Vorr considered that an asset.

A scro platoon officer strode with efficient precision through the doorway and into the broad office, his black leather armor squeaking pleasantly. Stopping well across the room from the desk, the only piece of furniture present aside from the general's thick wooden chair, the sergeant raised a black-gloved fist, forearm vertical and upper arm straight forward, the back of his fist directed at the general. A thick red spider emblem was clearly visible on the back of his glove.

"The Tarantulas remember!" the sergeant shouted, his flat, porcine snout raised with pride. He spoke in perfect Elvish. "Almighty Dukagsh hail my general!"

General Vorr grunted. "Speak." Tell me something different and new, he added mentally. It was time for a change. Fate would be his guide.

"Sit," said the sergeant crisply, switching to the scro's Orcish dialect. "Sergeant Hagroth bears news from Admiral Halker, who reports the sighting of a large flying vessel of unknown type approaching the camp along Victory Highway. The ship has signaled a desire to talk. We have scorpion-ship escorts with it now. The base is being brought to half alert. Admiral Halker requests your attention within the hour to meet with representatives of the intruders, dealing with them as is deemed best."

Fate actually listens to me, General Vorr thought with mild surprise. Tell Fate that you are weary with boredom, and it sends a cure. Was I better off being bored?

Vorr let his hand drop from the grip of his concealed weapon and looked down at the green-skinned humanoid standing at attention across the room. Sergeant Hagroth's black armor was cleaned and polished; the steel studs on the leather gleamed in the orange light from the tall windows. A scro marine's marine. The armored scro showed nothing but supreme confidence.

Far away, the elven voice arose to a shriek-then silence filled the room instead.

"Describe the intruder, Sergeant." Vorr had seen more than his share of unknown ships; it couldn't be too weird.

"Sir, the ship is built of stone blocks in the shape of a ziggurat. There are no visible doors or openings. It has four triangular sides and a square bottom, which it keeps facing the ground as it flies."

Fate was being too generous. The description fit the design of the pyramid ships used by certain undead human wizards, the sort that brought nothing but trouble. General Vorr abruptly shoved back his chair and stood to his full eight-foot height; Sergeant Hagroth barely reached past his chest. He carefully sorted and put away his papers, his well-oiled armor making no sound.

"Sergeant Hagroth," he said, "tell my staff to bring all the marines to full alert, but in secret. Show no outward sign of our preparations. I want the Fifth Leg Battalion in assault gear at once, war priests in the lead. Attach two wall-breaker ogres to each company." He paused, considering. "Battle bonuses and honors to the first company to get inside the pyramid, if it comes to that. No attacks are to be made unless I give the order. Death to anyone who fires before then. Inform Admiral Halker of my plans. Anything more?"

Sergeant Hagroth's face twitched as he fought to contain his excitement. He, too, must have felt the lash of boredom for far too long. "Sir, nothing more," he said, then stepped back one pace and raised his black-gloved fist in a final salute. "Vengeance is ours!" he shouted in Elvish.

"Get on it," returned the general in Elvish, looking down again at the stacks of paper on his desk. He heard the door shut and the faint sounds of someone hurrying away, then silence. He hesitated for a moment, wondering what was wrong. Oh, he thought, no screaming. The elf must have died already. That was odd because they usually lasted much longer than that. Vorr wondered what the elves thought when the scro administering the ritual tortures spoke to them in fluent Elvish; it must be torture all the more. The orcs and scro had remembered the victors of the Unhuman War too well for the victors' own good.

General Vorr had just finished stacking his reports and was preparing to leave when another knock sounded. He looked up, wondering what Fate could possibly be cooking up for him now. His hand again fell below the desktop and clutched the weapon's grip. "Enter!" he barked.

One of the steel-and-oak doors across the room opened gently. An emaciated Oriental human in flowery silken robes stepped through, a serene smile half hidden behind wisps of a white beard. A withered hand covered by paper-thin skin carelessly pushed the weighty door shut behind him. The old man appeared relaxed and calm.

"Greetings, General," said the old man in a strong voice, bowing once. His dark, almond-shaped eyes gleamed. "I pray that I am not disturbing your work."

Vorr eyed the intruder speculatively as his hands relaxed and let go of the weapon's grip. "We have visitors, Usso. I trust you've heard."

"Yes. When the gates open, the flood comes through." Without explaining the remark, the old man approached and raised his right hand as he reached the desk. Where his hand had been empty, a sheaf of papers now soundlessly appeared as if by magic-which, of course, it was.

"My spies have been busy," Usso said, almost cheerfully, setting the papers in a neat stack on the desk and turning them around to face the general. "I trust their reports will make entertaining reading." The old man's hands pulled back, then began to fingerspell words rapidly against the desk's surface. The general appeared to study the new reports while reading Usso's message.

Elf and human guerrillas here. Three groups. I have waned unit commanders. Some seek you.

General Vorr considered the news soberly. "Nothing interesting here," he growled, thumbing a report page absently. He kept up the charade in case the guerrillas had the ability to scry on their meeting with spells, magical mirrors, or crystal balls. "Any other news?"

"The pyramid ship has halted two miles outside the base's northern gate. It shows no sign of hostility. It is also invulnerable to scrying, so I cannot say more about it." The frail old man looked toward the windows and grinned mirthlessly. "We should be so fortunate. The air is itself a window for the ants, if not for those insects that fly."

We're being magically spied upon by the intruders on the base and possibly by the flying pyramid's inhabitants, Vorr interpreted. "Do, um, the ants and bees travel together these days?" Vorr asked. He felt foolish trying to speak in riddles so those scrying on him couldn't make out his intent. Usso was so much better at deception, making it an an.

Usso pointed a narrow finger at the top report. "The answer lies here," he said, and his fingers began working again. No. Pyramid from other world. Elves from Spiral. Bad timing. I go. Stay alert.

Vorr sighed heavily, his huge hands resting on the cool stone desk. Then he straightened and busied himself with filing papers in a desk drawer. "Work to be done, then. I will see to greeting our visitors from the pyramid-and I'll be watchful."

"I shall stay watchful as well. A little fresh air would not hurt you, so I'll leave your door open."

Usso meant for reinforcements to get to the general rapidly if necessary, Vorr knew. A closed door would not stop magically armed commandos. "Fine," Vorr said, still storing papers. "I'll be on my way in a minute."

The wizened man bowed formally, though the general ignored him, and turned to walk back to the closed doors. "Call if you need me," Usso said as he left-but his voice had changed. It was now a very feminine one, seductive and young. After opening a door and motioning for Gargon to leave it ajar, Usso was gone.

Vorr had most of the paperwork put away in a wall safe behind his chair and was about to take the last of it with him when a loud thump came from the double doors. He turned around. The door that had been open was now closed. After a startled pause on the other side came the sounds of heavy, pounding fists, followed by regular body slams against the wood and steel.

A locking spell. That was quick, Vorr thought. He had no time left. He was on the wrong side of the desk and couldn't go for his weapon. Vorr dropped his papers and reached for the only two solid objects on the desktop: the steel globe and the red tarantula statuette. He spun, scanning the room.

An elf stood before him, having appeared out of nowhere just thirty feet away in front of the double doors. It was a female with silver hair and no armor, her staff sparkling with spell power. The coiled emblem of the massacred House of Spiral blazed from her fiery diadem.

General Vorr threw the steel globe in his right hand with all the force he could summon. The impact of the sphere against her upper chest flipped the elf completely over in the air, her staff spinning away. She struck the wall behind her, then fell in a crumpled heap, her wide blue eyes staring at the ceiling. More teleporting images came into view. A tall human in a coveted helm and plate armor appeared to his far left. Teeth bared, Vorr flung the forty-pound red spider with his other hand. Solid iron crashed into the knight's upraised shield, knocking the attacker into a dwarf who had appeared nearby. Both fell cursing into a heap.

Eyes of Dukagsh, Vorr thought, they must want me badly. The room was still filling with teleporting intruders. Out of nine attackers so far, six were still on their feet. All stood at least twenty-five feet from the general. Several were making spell-casting motions. He knew instantly what was coming and almost relaxed to enjoy it.

The spy reports from Usso!

Vorr turned and snatched the last stack of papers on his desk, flinging it at a short male elf in a glittering green cloak. The elf sidestepped the papers, which sailed out of harm's way. The elf pulled something small from his necklace-a golden bead, it looked like-then flung it at the general with a snap of his wrist. "For Spiral!" he shouted in the world's Elvish, his face filled with cold rage.

The tiny bead burst into a flaming yellow streak that struck the general's chest-and vanished with a sputtering hiss that a flame would make when doused by water. Almost immediately, Vorr saw a second fireball and a stream of shining magic missiles streak toward him from his right, where other wizards must have appeared, but these spells vanished with equal speed when they struck him.

The floor then exploded in a hurricane of fire beneath his boots, the concussion of the flames hammering his body as it took him by surprise. He instinctively stepped back and raised his arms to ward the fire away from his face, though he knew he was safe. The magical flames died away almost at once.

The air was filled with ash and smoke. His desk and the floor around him were now covered with black soot, and his once-comfortable chair and the tribal flags and banners on the wall behind him were engulfed in yellow flames.

Vorr, however, was unharmed and still on his feet. The attackers gasped when they saw him. The general used the seconds he gained to vault over his desktop. His left hand found the grip on the weapon under his desk, and he tore it free of its leather harness.

The human knight, now weaponless and on hands and knees, produced a small, golden object from a belt pouch and hurled it clumsily across the room. The other attackers held back. The object clanged on the floor just a dozen feet away from the general. It was a statuette of a lion. "Lord of Cats!" shouted the knight in a hoarse female voice. "Slay the humanoid!"

The golden figurine abruptly expanded and changed shape, growing a mane and numerous two-inch fangs within seconds. Its meowing cry turned into a full-throated roar. Vorr raised the metallic double-barrel device he'd tugged from under his desk, aimed from the hip, and pulled both triggers.

He never heard the blast, but he felt its punch; it was too close and too loud. While he had braced himself as best he could, the recoil slammed Vorr hard in the gut, and he staggered back a step before he caught himself. A deafening whine filled his head for a few moments before his hearing recovered. Through the sulfurous smoke, he saw the thrashing shape of an enormous lion with two three-foot-long spears of barbed steel sticking out from its shaggy mane. Bright gore splattered the floor around the beast as it writhed in agony and shivered, then collapsed and moved no more.

"Hammer time!" shouted a male human. "Then torch him!" The attackers were still holding back but were in the act of drawing more weapons-throwing weapons.

"No! He is fireproof!" an elven male called out in Elvish. "Strike Plan B! We must-"

The elf sounded like a leader. Vorr whipped the discharged harpoon-bombard overhand and let go. The weapon crossed the room in a whirling, circular blur and smacked the elf in the face, then went on to clang against the wall beyond, splattering red droplets across it. The elf fell backward when he was hit, his sword flying, one arm raised uselessly to ward off the blow.

As the elf fell, everyone else in the room stepped forward and threw weapons of their own at the general, who shielded his face with his foot-thick arms. A twisting, magical rope slapped around his legs, but fell limp to the floor. Something thumped against his chest, cracking a rib with a stab of pain. A hatchet blade punched through the banded armor near the base of his neck, leaving a tingling and burning sensation. Poison. Vorr had no time to strip off his armor and wipe the wound to keep it from hurting, but no matter what poison it was, he could afford to wait and withstand the pain.

Reaching for his belt, the general pulled out a three-pronged device like a black fork with a long central tine. He then lunged around the desk at the knight, the nearest of the attackers, who had drawn a gray long sword and was charging in for the kill.

The sword had begun its downward arc when Vorr's iron fork aught it, turned it aside with a fluid sweep, and jerked it out of the knight's grasp. Vorr spun in place, the butt of the fork coming around to slam the knight in the back and throw the human forward. The spin gave Vorr a chance to glance around the room. He then sidestepped and kicked at the axe-wielding dwarf who came at him next. The axe cut through Vorr's leg armor before it and its owner were knocked rolling more than a dozen feet away.

The fighting became a jumble of sharp, violent images. An elf thrust in with his sword, only to be caught and thrown into the desk, breaking his spine. The snarling dwarf came at him again with a broken nose and a bloodstained beard, long daggers in his red hands. Two chanting priests, human and elven, lost their attack spells when Vorr rushed and leaped up to body-slam them both. Glowing blades tore at his armor and flesh, licked out for his face, stabbed for his back, cut down for his neck. Streams of lightning and energy came at him and were snuffed out as they touched him. Shouts and screams filled the air. He lost track of all time in the madness of dodging and fighting, the crackling flames and smoke, and sprawled bodies and slippery blood.

At some point, he saw that the elven leader was crawling aimlessly across the floor. A bubbling, whimpering noise spilled from the mask of red where his face had been. He was in the way, so Vorr straddled him and grasped his head. The elf s neck snapped when Vorr wrenched his huge hands backward and sideways, and the elf fell with a clatter of armor at last.

Vorr pulled back and looked around quickly. Across the hazy, body-littered room, only one opponent remained. It was the knight, missing her helmet. Vorr blinked, startled to see a female warrior confront him. She was a tall, blond-haired human, reasonably pretty by their standards. Strands of curly, wet hair were plastered to her forehead and neck. She gripped her recently recovered sword with both hands, crouched and facing Vorr, ready to move in any direction. Vorr saw a faint aura around the woman's slim gray blade. No telling what it could do, but it mattered little now.

If the woman knew her doom was sealed, she never showed it. She followed Vorr with unblinking eyes. Her mouth was open just a bit, as if she were concentrating on a knotty problem of philosophy. The tip of her sword hovered in the air like a hummingbird.

Not what you'd expect from a human, the general thought, his mind clearing from the battle. He moved right; she rotated, sword up, and coughed once on the foul, smoky air. He kept the three-pronged fork ready in his right hand, pointing down at the floor. His left hand, nearer the knight, was aimed down at the knight's feet with fingers extended, ready to grab, strike, block, or distract. If the knight didn't strike, he could try a feint to get within reach of the sword and take it away from her. Or he could throw something to wear her down. This circling around would get old quickly, and it wasn't becoming to true warriors. Better to drive in and be done with it.

He started forward. The knight adjusted her distance, shifting the grip on her sword to compensate. She coughed again and cleared her throat, but the point on her weapon was still steady and confident. Vorr readjusted his thinking about his foe. She looked to be far better than he had thought. If he lunged in, she could probably evade and thrust at least as well as he could. Her armor didn't seem to slow her down, so it was probably magical. During the mad melee earlier, she had turned aside one of his strikes and danced back before he could strike on the return swing, and she cut him in the side as well. She must have learned something when he knocked her sword away the first time. This was a real fight. He felt strangely pleased and anxious. Anxious to win.

"I asked you to call if you needed help," said a petulant voice out of the haze. The voice was silky and feminine, the same voice that Usso had used before he had left.

General Vorr licked his lips. The blond warrior had not moved a muscle while the voice spoke, but now she turned her head slightly, obviously straining to hear anyone approaching from her flanks or rear.

"Let me have her, Kobas," said the voice. "I want to play, too."

"Get out of here," Vorr said in a low, steady voice, his lips barely moving. He noted a pool of blood to the knight's right and slowly edged backward and to her right to draw her toward it.

"I don't want you out playing with other girls," said the disembodied voice with an unmistakable bite to it. Vorr noticed something forming in the air behind the swordswoman. It looked like a glowing rod-no, a sword, floating in the air. One of Usso's deadlier spells, probably from a prized scroll. The swordswoman did not notice the sword, though she noted that Vorr was looking behind her. She would have to decide now if it was a trick.

"Usso…" Vorr warned, still maintaining his calm but feeling the strain wear his patience away.

The sword rotated in the air, aiming point-first at the swordswoman's back.

Damn that magic-casting, shape-changing slut, Vorr raged. This was a warrior's fight. He hurriedly stepped back, anticipating Usso's imminent attack and trying to get the knight where he wanted her. The swordswoman followed, stepping into the pool of blood.

With a bellowing shout, Vorr lunged at the knight, iron fork coming out and up to strike at her face or catch her blade if she made another roundhouse strike. She didn't. The woman kept her balance, having apparently been aware of the bloodied floor, and crouched, stabbing directly upward. The blade bit like a viper through a chink in Vorr's steel armor and deep into the muscle of his forearm. Vorr roared and jerked back in bright pain, but he kept his grip on the fork. He struck down in figure-eight arcs to keep the knight back while he readjusted his stance to regain his initiative and attack with his other hand.

"Game's over," said a cold, flat feminine voice. Something punched the knight hard from behind, nearly throwing her forward onto her face. She was suddenly supported awkwardly in the air, bent back like a marionette on a single string attached to her armor's breastplate. Vorr saw the blood-covered tip of a glowing sword blade thrust out between two plates of the knight's abdominal armor. The blade continued to push out of the armor, twisting and cutting upward, until two feet of it showed. The knight's face was hideously contorted with agony, her mouth open wide. She made a strangled, gasping sound.

Falling from nerveless fingers, the knight's sword clanged loudly against the floor. The glowing sword behind her abruptly vanished. The knight crumpled backward with a metallic clatter and thump, relaxing against the floor.

For a few seconds, General Vorr could only breathe heavily and stare down at the fallen warrior. He lowered his arms.

"Damn you," he said through his teeth. He looked up at the ceiling and roared aloud. "The lords of the Abyssal Deep take you and keep you! Damn you for interfering!"

The disembodied voice made no reply. She was probably off sulking somewhere. Bitch.

He slowly slid the iron fork back into his belt, then held his wounded arm and put pressure on it to aid the regeneration. Fate had been especially kind to him at birth; Vorr was not only immune to all magic and poison, but his wounds healed at an astounding rate. Vorr often wondered if either his orcish father or ogrish mother had also been part troll; in either event, he was grateful to them for that, if for nothing else. He checked the wound and noted that the bleeding had stopped, though not the pain. When he looked up again, he noticed with surprise that the fallen woman still breathed.

The knight had been a brave one and a good fighter. She hadn't been a talker, uttering stupid threats like some warriors did. The general hesitated, then undid a flap on one of his small belt pouches and pulled out a tiny silver vial. She deserved an honorable death, at least.

The knight was unarmed, but Vorr doubted she could have lifted a weapon if she'd had one. Bubbles of blood formed on her lips, the bright red running down to her neck. Her breathing was labored and irregular. Her eyes were partially open, but she didn't react when Vorr loomed over her, his round gray face solemn and heavy. He knelt down beside her, keeping one hand free. She might have one trick left.

Vorr unscrewed the cap on the vial, then gently slipped his thick fingers behind her head and lifted it from the cold floor. "Drink this," he said in a quiet, deep voice. She tried to put up a hand to ward the vial away, but he ignored her feeble strength and put the vial to her bloodied lips. "Drink this," he repeated. "It will ease the pain."

Blue liquid poured from the vial into her mouth. She almost gagged, then swallowed reflexively. For a moment she resisted, struggling weakly-then the knight relaxed, the wind easing from her lungs in a long, slow sigh. She looked almost sleepy as the poison took effect, deadening all her pain. She would go out with peace and honor, with the best of the general's foes.

Her eyes rolled back in her head, then rolled down again and focused as she turned her head toward the general. Her red lips worked as the final sleep took hold.

"I…" she whispered. "I would have… won."

She smiled, then her head sagged in his hand, her pale eyes closing. After a few moments, Vorr let her head down gently, then recapped the vial.

"Very touching," came Usso's voice, echoing in the still room. "Do you do this kind of thing with all the girls?"

Muscles knotted in his neck, shoulders, and jaws. Vorr got to his feet and replaced the vial, then picked up the knight's sword and laid it across her chest.

"Next time, Kobas, I'll save you the trouble and just kill all the pixies before they-"

"Shut up! Damn you to the Pits of the Nine Hells! Shut up!" Vorr roared. "Get our of here!"

Silence answered him. He no longer cared if she watched him. They'd settle this later.

He tried the double doors and found them immobile. Whatever spell the attackers had used on it before their entry into the command room had welded the doors together; his antimagical touch was of no help. The smoke was becoming a problem now since he had breathed so much of it, so he broke at the windowpanes to get more air. He next collected the altered spy reports that Usso had brought in just before the attack. Only a few of the papers were damaged, but all were ingible. Many of the unit banners and flags were burned to crispy rags, however; even one of the zwarth hands had been damaged, though not badly so. It was a shame.

There was a shout outside the double doors, followed by a thundering of feet. General Vorr stepped out of the way.

One of the half-ton doors split and danced free of its hinges with a thunderclap explosion, then both doors were smashed to the floor. Two hulking ogres, fully nine feet tall and covered in thick leather and armor plate, crashed into the room, hauling a huge wooden pole between them as their ram. The ogres' feet crushed and scattered the bodies around them. Behind the ogres came wild and frenzied shouts, and a force of armed ogres and scro poured into the room, swords and axes held high, led by Gargon himself.

For the first time in weeks, General Vorr felt like laughing, out it was entirely too much effort.

"You're late," he said. "Just clean this place up."

"You're late," Fleet Admiral Halker said with the trace of a smile, "but I understand you were busy."

"It's over with, sir." In newly cleaned armor. General Vorr bowed and stood at attention before his superior's cluttered desk. His arm had healed, but his shoulder still burned from the poisoned axe; he ignored it. "Two other guerrilla groups came in with the assassin team, directed at the prisoners' barracks and the war priests' armory, but all have been neutralized. We've taken only light casualties. Four ogres and seventeen scro died at the armory, and eight scro and eleven orcs at the barracks, among them a war priest on the torture team for the day. Our wizard Usso destroyed those attacking the armory, then assisted with mopping up those who had attacked me."

"The vermin of Spiral still have some fight in them, then," the old admiral said with some surprise, leaning back in his cushioned chair. He scratched at the thick gray fur on the head of the worg that sat at his side; the huge wolf panted, eyes closed in pleasure. "Any idea of where they came from, their main base?"

"None, sir. All those who personally fought me are dead now. The war priests will interrogate their spirits within the next few hours. I'll have them see you for their reports."

The admiral nodded absently. His heavy black robes shook as he patted the worg's head, the red spider emblem across his chest partially hidden in the folds of cloth. "I take it that there were no survivors among the other groups of intruders?" he said wistfully, with a pale gleam in his green eyes.

"Two, sir, from the group at the prisoners' barracks. They're conscious and ready for interrogation."

"Ah." The old scro gave a toothless smile, his snout wrinkling with satisfaction. "It is always good to have a chance to chat with the enemy. I will enjoy my work this evening, once we've settled things with our other visitors. Speaking of which, the one in command of the ziggurat is here now. He claims to have an interesting proposal for us."

Vorr bit back on his next remark. This must have been visible to the admiral, as the old scro waved a lazy hand. "Speak freely. The room is sealed with lead mesh, and no one can spy on us here, or so Usso has informed me. The pyramid ship's commander is in the waiting room with a few of his bodyguards-under our own guard, of course. The war priests are monitoring him-or it-for spying spells and such. I'd like to have Usso here, but he seems to have business elsewhere." The general took a deep breath. "Sir, pyramid ships are usually controlled by undead humans. I was involved in a boarding action against one in the Glowrings Sphere, before I came to this fleet. A lich in command there destroyed seventy-two boarders just by itself. Other pyramid ships are reported to be commanded by others of the living dead, working together to bring about an empire of the dead throughout wild-space. I advise the greatest caution in dealing with whatever being claims to command that ship. I put my marines on full alert because of it."

The old scro nodded again, his lips sucking in over his hardened gums. "Our visitor then lacks subtlety, General, as he has already revealed himself to be a lich, of human origin. He claims not to threaten us and further claims to know the location of, as he says, 'a treasure to fight for gladly you will.' His speech is curious, probably archaic. Anyway, he's said nothing about undead empires so far."

The admiral was lost in thought. His flat, yellow-green face lacked the scars that marked many other military leaders, but Admiral Halker had climbed the ranks with his own kind of power, rooted in magic, charisma, and a genteel sadism that made even other scro uncomfortable. He pushed his chair back from his desk and stood. The worg licked its lips and watched, then settled down to lie on the floor. Halker adjusted his belted black robes, belt weapons, wheel-lock firearm, and magical paraphernalia, pampering his appearance. "Unless you have any objections, General," he said, motioning to the door, "let's go downstairs and see our guest to discuss this 'treasure to fight for.' " The admiral then looked up quizzically at his imposing subordinate. "Purely out of curiosity, how did your boarding force deal with that lich in the Glowrings Sphere?"

Vorr looked him in the eye. "I killed it," he said. The admiral stared at him a moment, then laughed. "Of course! Forgive my asking. You're a dream come true."

Being here is a dream come true for me, too, Vorr thought as he agreed modestly and headed for the door. I thought I'd never get away from the hell pit I grew up in. Sometimes, though, I've wondered if there wasn't a reason for things to be as bad as they were early on-a reason to suffer blow after blow, breathing the heavy fumes from Father's breath, or lying awake with Mother's demon-haunted shrieks ringing in my ears. I was already at the bottom of the pile for having a low-born orcish father and an insane ogre for a mother. I had to kill three scro before they would let me into their military school, no matter that I was stronger than any of them had ever been and healed ten times as fast. The Troll, they called me, and laughed-but rarely to my face. Then they discovered that I was immune to magic and poison, too. After that, they let me do anything and said nothing about it.

So, maybe there was a reason for things to be as they were. I've fought all my life, but I'm stronger now for what I've withstood. My own parents could not break me when I was helpless before them, but they were helpless enough later when I came home from military school and killed them.

The admiral had finished speaking as they reached the door. Vorr had no idea what the old scro had just said. It didn't really matter.

"Shall we be off, sir?" Vorr asked politely, opening the door ad stepping aside.