Orcs Page 13

  “It could be worth yours,” Mobbs replied.

  Coilla frowned. “How so?”

  “That depends on how much you value your heritage, and the destiny denied you.”

  “These are empty words, meant to postpone his death,” Haskeer thundered. “Stick ’im, I say.”

  “Give him his due,” Jup said.

  Haskeer glared at the dwarf. “Trust you to take his side.”

  “I’ll decide if there’s meaning in his words,” Stryke stated. “Make yourself plain, Mobbs.”

  “To do that, you need to know something of our land’s history, and I fear history is something we are all losing.”

  “Oh yes, tell us a story,” Haskeer mouthed acerbically. “We’ve all the time in the world, after all.”

  “Shut up,” Stryke intoned menacingly.

  “I for one know something of Maras-Dantia’s past,” Alfray put in. “What are you trying to say, gremlin?”

  “With respect, most of what you think you know, what many of us believe to be so, is only a mishmash of legends and myths. I have devoted myself to understanding the true course of events that led us to the present sorry situation.”

  “Humans have brought us to our present state,” Stryke declared.

  “Yes. But that was a fairly recent development in historical terms. Before then, life in Maras-Dantia had remained unchanged since time out of mind. Of course there was always enmity between the native races, and ever-shifting alliances often led to conflict. But the land was big enough for all to live in harmony, more or less.”

  “Then the humans came,” Coilla said.

  “Aye. But how many of you know that there were two influxes of that wretched race? And that at first relations between them and the elder races were not hostile?”

  Jup looked sceptical. “You jest.”

  “It is a fact. The first immigrants to arrive through the Scilantium Desert were individuals and small groups. They were pioneers looking for a new frontier, or fleeing persecution, or simply wanting to make a fresh beginning.”

  “They were persecuted?” Haskeer exclaimed. “Your tale beggars belief, wrinkled one.”

  “I tell you only the truth as I have found it, unpalatable as it may be.” The gremlin sounded as though his pride had been hurt.

  “Go on,” Stryke urged.

  “Although their ways seemed mysterious to the native population, and still do to most of us, those early incomers were left in peace. A few gained some respect. Hard to believe now, is it not?”

  “You can say that again,” Coilla agreed.

  “Tiny numbers of the outsiders even bred with members of elder races, producing strange hybrid offspring. But this you know, as I believe you are followers of the fruit of one such union.”

  Coilla nodded. “Jennesta. Followers isn’t quite the right word.”

  Stryke noted the spleen in her voice.

  “That comes later in the story,” Mobbs told them, “if you will allow me to return to it.” A vague expression clouded his features. “Now, where was I . . . ?”

  “The early incomers,” Alfray prompted.

  “Oh yes. As I said, the first wave actually got on with the elder races quite well. At least, they gave more cause for curiosity than concern. The second wave was different. They were more a flood, you might say.” He gave a snorting little laugh at his own witticism. The orcs remained granite-faced. “Er, yes. This second and larger inflow of humans was different. They were land grabbers and despoilers, and at best they saw us as a nuisance. It wasn’t long before they began to fear and hate us.”

  “They showed contempt,” Coilla murmured.

  “Yes, and no more so than in renaming our land.”

  “Centrasia,” Haskeer spat. He voiced it like an obscenity.

  “They treated us like beasts of burden, and set to exploiting Maras-Dantia’s resources. You know about that; it continues to this day, and grows more fevered. The rounding-up of free-roaming animals for their meat and hides, the overgrazing . . .”

  “The fouling of rivers,” Coilla added, “the levelling of forests.”

  “Putting villages to the torch,” Jup contributed.

  “Spreading their foul diseases,” Alfray said.

  Haskeer looked particularly aggrieved at the last point.

  “Worse,” Mobbs went on, “they ate the magic.”

  A stir went through the band, a murmur of agreement at the outrage.

  “To we elder races, our powers diminishing, that was a final insult. It sowed the seeds of the wars we have endured ever since.”

  “I’ve always been puzzled why the humans don’t use the magic they’ve taken against us,” Jup commented. “Are they too stupid to employ it?”

  “I think it possible that they are simply ignorant. Perhaps they are not taking our magic for themselves but wasting it.”

  “That’s my feeling.”

  “The bleeding of the earth’s magic is bad,” Stryke said, “but their overturning of the natural order of the seasons is much worse.”

  “Without doubt,” Mobbs agreed. “In tearing the heart out of the land, the humans interfered with the flow of energies sustaining nature’s balance. Now the ice advances from the north as surely as humans pour in from the south. And all this has happened since your father’s father’s time, Stryke.”

  “I never knew my father.”

  “No, I know you orcs are raised communally. That isn’t my point. I’m saying all of this has happened to Maras-Dantia in fairly recent times. The coming of the ice has only really begun in my lifetime, for example, and despite what you may think, I am not that old.”

  Stryke couldn’t help noticing Alfray giving Mobbs a fleeting, sympathetic glance.

  “In my time I have seen the purity of the land ravished,” the gremlin recalled. “I have seen the treaties races built smashed and realigned by the Manis and Unis.”

  “And the likes of us forced to fight for one of those factions,” Coilla remarked, her depth of resentment apparent.

  Mobbs sighed ruefully. “Yes, many noble races, the orcs included, have been reduced to little more than serfdom by the outsiders.”

  Coilla’s eyes were blazing. “And suffered their intolerance.”

  “The two factions are indeed intolerant of us. But perhaps no more so than they are of each other. I am told that the more zealous of them, particularly among the Unis, regularly burn their own kind at the stake for something they call heresy.” He saw their curious expressions. “It is to do with breaking the rules about how their god or gods are to be served, I believe,” he explained. “Elder races have been known to behave in similar ways, mind. The history of the pixie clans, to take one example, is not without persecution and bloodshed.”

  “And there’s a race that can’t afford to lose anybody,” Haskeer pronounced, “seeing as how they’re such notorious butt bandits.”

  “What with that and their fire-starting abilities,” Jup pitched in, “I don’t know how they’ve survived this long. All that friction . . .”

  The band roared with bawdy laughter. Even Haskeer cracked a grin.

  Mobbs’s green hide took on a pink hue of embarrassment. He cleared his throat in an attempt at delicacy. “Er, quite.”

  Coilla seemed less amused than the rest, and impatient. “All right, we’ve had a history lesson. What about the cylinder?”

  “Yes, get to the point, Mobbs,” Stryke said.

  “The point, Commander, is that I believe this artifact has its origins long, long before the events we have just discussed. Back to the earliest days of Maras-Dantia, in fact.”

  “Explain.”

  “We spoke of symbiotes, those rare hybrids produced from unions between elder races and humans.”

  “Like Jennesta.”

  “Indeed. And her sisters, Adpar and Sanara.”

  “They’re mythical, aren’t they?” remarked Jup.

  “They are thought to exist. Though where they are, I have no
idea. It is said that while Jennesta is a balance of the two races, Adpar is more purely nyadd. No one knows much about Sanara.”

  “Real or not, what have they to do with the cylinder, beyond Jennesta laying claim to it?” Stryke asked.

  “Directly, nothing that I know of. It is their mother, Vermegram, of whom I am thinking. You know the stories of how mighty a sorceress she was, of course.”

  “But not as great as the one said to have slain her,” Stryke commented.

  “The legendary Tentarr Arngrim, yes. Though little is known of him either. Why, even his race is in doubt.”

  Haskeer sighed theatrically. “You repeat stories made up to frighten hatchlings, gremlin.”

  “Perhaps. I think not. But what I am saying is that I believe this artifact dates from ancient times, the golden age when Vermegram and Tentarr Arngrim were at the height of their powers.”

  Jup was puzzled. “I never understood how Vermegram, if she did exist, could possibly have been the mother of Jennesta and her sisters. Having lived so long ago, I mean.”

  “It is said that Vermegram’s life was of incredible longevity.”

  “What?” Haskeer said.

  “She was long-lived, blockhead,” Coilla informed him. “So Jennesta and her sisters are also incredibly old. Is that it, Mobbs?”

  “Not necessarily. In fact, I think Jennesta is probably no older than she appears to be. Remember, Vermegram’s death and whatever fate befell Arngrim occurred not that long ago.”

  “That must mean Vermegram was an ancient crone when she birthed her brood. Are you saying she stayed fertile into her dotage? That’s insane!”

  “I don’t know. All I would say is that scholars are agreed she possessed magic of remarkable potency. Given that, anything is possible.”

  Stryke slipped the cylinder free of his belt and laid it at his feet. “What had she to do with this thing?”

  “The earliest annals that mention Tentarr Arngrim and Vermegram contain hints about what I believe to be this cylinder. Or rather, what it contained: knowledge. And knowledge means power. A power many have given their lives to possess.”

  “What kind of power?”

  “The stories are vague. As best as I can grasp it, it is a . . . key, let us call it. A key to understanding. If I am right, it will throw light on many things, not least the origin of the elder races, including orcs. All of us.”

  Jup stared at the cylinder. “Whatever’s inside this little thing would tell us all that?”

  “No. It would begin to tell you. If my reasoning is correct, it would set you on that path. Such knowledge does not come easy.”

  “This is horse shit,” Haskeer complained. “Why don’t he talk in plain language?”

  “All right,” Stryke intervened. “What you’re saying, Mobbs, is that the cylinder contains something important. Given how much Jennesta wants it, that hardly comes as a surprise. What are you getting at?”

  “Knowledge is neutral. It is generally neither good nor bad. It becomes a force for enlightenment or evil depending on who controls it.”

  “So?”

  “If Jennesta has command of this knowledge it’s likely no good will come of it, you must know that. It could be better used.”

  “You’re saying we shouldn’t return the cylinder to her?” Coilla asked.

  Mobbs didn’t answer.

  “You are, aren’t you?” she persisted.

  “I have lived for many seasons and seen many things. I would die content if I thought my one cherished wish might come true.”

  “Which is?”

  “You do not know, even in your heart? My dearest wish is that our land be returned to us. That we could go back to the way things were. The power of this artifact is the nearest we may ever get to a chance of that. But just a chance. It would be the first step in a long journey.”

  The passion of his words quietened them all for a moment.

  “Let’s open it,” Coilla said.

  “What?” Haskeer exclaimed, leaping to his feet.

  “Aren’t you curious about what we might find inside? Don’t you wish, too, for a power that might free our land?”

  “Like fuck I do, you crazy bitch. Do you want to get us all killed?”

  “Face it, Haskeer; we’re as good as dead anyway. If we go back to Cairnbarrow, that cylinder and the pellucid will count for nothing as far as Jennesta’s concerned. Any of you think otherwise and you’re fooling yourselves.”

  Haskeer turned to the other officers. “You’ve more sense than she has. Tell her she’s wrong.”

  “I’m not sure she is,” Alfray replied. “I think the minute we screwed up our mission we signed our own death warrants.”

  “What have we got to lose?” Jup added. “We have no home now.”

  “I’d expect that of you,” Haskeer gibed. “Your place was never with orcs anyway. What do you care if we live or die?” He looked to Stryke. “That’s right, isn’t it, Captain? We know better than a female, a has-been and a dwarf, don’t we? Tell them.”

  Every eye was on Stryke. He said nothing.

  “Tell them,” Haskeer repeated.

  “I agree with Coilla,” Stryke said.

  “You . . . you can’t be serious!”

  Stryke ignored him. What he saw was Coilla smiling, and few faces in the band showing disapproval.

  “Have you all gone fucking mad?” Haskeer demanded. “You, Stryke, of all orcs; I didn’t expect this of you. You’re asking us to throw everything away!”

  “I’m asking that we open this cylinder. Everything else we’ve thrown away already.”

  “Stryke’s just saying we should look,” Jup said. “We can reseal it, can’t we?”

  “And if the Queen discovers we’ve tampered with it? Can you imagine her wrath?”

  “I’ve no need to imagine it,” Stryke told him. “That’s one reason we should seize any chance to change things for ourselves. Or perhaps you’re happy with the way they are?”

  “I accept the way things are, because I know we can’t change anything. At least we’ve got our lives, and now you want to waste them.”

  “We want to find them,” Coilla said.

  Stryke addressed the whole band. “For something this important, something that touches all of us, we’re going to do what we’ve never done before. We’re going to have a show of hands. All right?”

  Nobody objected.

  He held up the cylinder. “Those who think we should leave this be and return to Cairnbarrow, raise your hand.”

  Haskeer did. Three grunts joined him.

  “Those who say we should open it?”

  Every other hand went up.

  “You’re outvoted,” Stryke declared.

  “You’re making a big mistake,” Haskeer muttered grimly.

  “You’re doing the right thing, Stryke,” Coilla assured him.

  Right or not, the relief he felt was almost physical. It was as though he was doing something honest for the first time in as long as he could remember.

  But that didn’t stop the icy tingle of fear that caressed his spine as he looked at the cylinder.

  14

  As the band looked on in silence, Stryke took a knife to the cylinder’s seal. Having cut through it, he prised off the cap. There was a faint whiff of mustiness.

  He pushed his fingers inside. Their clumsiness made for a moment of awkward fumbling before he slipped out a rolled parchment. It was fragile and yellowing with age. This he handed to Mobbs. The gremlin accepted it with a mixture of eagerness and reverence.

  Stryke shook the cylinder. It rattled. He held it up and looked into it.

  “There’s something else in here,” he said, half to himself.

  He patted the tube’s open end on his palm. An object slid out.

  It consisted of a small central sphere with seven tiny radiating spikes of variable lengths. It was sandy-coloured, similar to a light, polished wood. It was heavier than it looked.

  Stryke he
ld it up and examined it.

  “It’s like a star,” Coilla decided. “Or a hatchling’s toy of one.”

  He thought she was right. The object did resemble a crude representation of a star.

  Mobbs had the parchment unrolled on his lap, but was ignoring it. He stared awestruck at the object.

  “What’s it made of?” Alfray wondered.

  Stryke passed it to him.

  “It’s no material I know,” the field surgeon pronounced. “It’s not wood, nor bone.”

  Jup took it. “Could it be fashioned from some kind of stone?” he asked.

  “Something precious?” Haskeer ventured, interest overtaking his resentment. “Carved from a gem, maybe?”

  Stryke reached for it. “I don’t think so.” He squeezed it in his fist, gently at first, then applying all his strength. “Whatever it is, it’s tough.”

  “How tough can it be?” Haskeer grunted. “Give it here.”

  He raised the object to his mouth and bit it. There was a crack. A spasm of pain creased his face and he spat out a bloody tooth. “Vuckk!” he cursed.

  Stryke snatched the star and wiped it on his breeches. He inspected it. There wasn’t a mark. “Very tough then, if your fangs can’t make an impression.”

  Several band members sniggered. Haskeer glared at them.

  Mobbs’s attention was torn between the object and the parchment. His expression was intense, excited, as his gaze went from one to the other.

  “What do you make of it, scholar?” Stryke asked.

  “I think . . . I think this is . . . it.” The gremlin’s hands were shaking. “What I hoped for . . .”

  “Don’t keep us in the dark,” Coilla demanded impatiently. “Tell us!”

  Mobbs indicated the parchment. “This is written in a language so old, so . . . obscure, that even I have difficulty understanding it.”

  “What can you make out?” she persisted.

  “At this stage, merely fragments. But I believe they confirm my suspicions.” He was jubilant, in a Mobbs kind of way. “That object . . .” he pointed to the star in Stryke’s hand, “. . . is an instrumentality.”

  “A what?” Haskeer said, dabbing at his mouth with a grubby sleeve.

  Stryke gave the thing to Mobbs. He accepted it gingerly. “An instrumentality, in the old tongue. This is tangible proof of an ancient story hitherto thought a myth. If the legends are true, it could have been handled by Vermegram herself. It may even have been created by her.”