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  The henchlins levelled their weapons and kept coming. Stryke was still holding his breath.

  More and more smoke billowed from the brazier. It began filling the enclosed longhouse. Milky tendrils started drifting across the floor. A thickening cloud formed in the rafters above.

  One of the goblins moved in, hefting his mace.

  Unable to hold his breath any longer, Stryke expelled it. By instinct he took another. He felt a familiar light-headedness and battled to hang on to his concentration.

  Swinging his mace, the goblin charged.

  Stryke side-stepped and slashed at him. The rolling waves of an immense ocean. He shook his head to clear it of the image. His swing had missed. He aimed another. That was avoided too. The henchlin sent in a blow of his own that came near to connecting with Stryke's shoulder. A faultlessly blue sky. Stryke backed off, desperately trying to focus on reality.

  What worried him was that the goblin he was fighting didn't seem affected by the crystal. He couldn't tell if the others were or not.

  Stryke went on the attack.

  When he swung his blade it appeared to him to be many blades, each one birthing the next; a blade for every degree of space it passed through. So that at the end of its arc a shimmering multi-coloured fan hung in the air. The goblin's mace shattered it, imploding the chimera like a soap bubble.

  That made Stryke mad. He powered forward, swiping at the henchlin, driving him back under a deluge of blows. As he did so, he thought he saw, through the kaleidoscopic pageant flashing in his mind's eye, that the goblin swayed unsteadily and wore a glassy expression.

  Stryke took hold of his sword two-handed, as much to have something to hang on to as anything else, and dashed the mace from his opponent's hands. Then he lunged forward and skewered his chest.

  It had never occurred to him before what a fetching colour blood was.

  He snapped out of it, taking deep breaths to steady himself. Then realised that was a mistake.

  A pair of goblins sleepwalked into view, moving in ponderous slow motion.

  Crystalline droplets of rain on the petals of a yellow flower. He squared off with the nearest and engaged his sword. They fenced, though it felt more like wading through the depths of a peat bog. One of Stryke's passes opened his foe's arm, drawing fascinating, luminous crimson. He followed that with a gash to the goblin's stomach that exposed another palate of colours. As the dying henchlin fell for ever, Stryke spun, casually, to face his comrade.

  The second goblin had a spear he could have better employed as a walking stick. His legs seemed fit to fold under him as he poked the weapon feebly in Stryke's direction. He struck out at the spear like a searing bolt of lightning against a velvet blue sky and succeeded in severing it. The goblin stood stupidly with half a spear in each hand, his pinprick eyes blinking at the wonder of it.

  Stryke pierced his heart and revelled in the beautiful scarlet spray.

  Riding on horseback through a forest of towering trees. No, that wasn't what he was doing. He focused blearily on the two remaining guards. They wanted to play a strange game with lives as wagers. He'd half forgotten the rules. All he could remember was that the object was to stop them moving. So he set about it.

  The first of them, eyes dilated, was practically staggering. He had a sword in his hand and he swung it repeatedly. But mostly not in Stryke's direction. For his part, Stryke returned the swings, though he had to advance a step or two before their blades connected. Moonlight on a river with trailing weeping willows. That wasn't it either. He had to keep his mind on the game.

  Something dazzling passed in front of his face. Turning, he realised it was the second guard's flailing sword. He thought that was unfriendly. To pay him back, he flashed his own sword towards the goblin's face. It struck deep and soft, inspiring a surprisingly musical wail that faded as the vanquished unhurriedly fell from sight.

  That left one henchlin and Razatt-Kheage. The slaver still held back, his mouth twisted and working, disgorging silent words. A ruined cliff top fortress, white in the sun. Stryke shook that one off and went for the guard. He took some finding in the pellucid fog.

  Once located he bartered blows almost politely. For his part, Stryke stepped up the force and quantity of passes, doing his best to break the other's guard. Though in truth it was a guard that took little breaking. A waterfall plunging down a granite precipice. Pushing that back from him, he leapt forward, floating like a feather, and tried carving his initial on the henchlin's chest. Half an S and he was deprived of his canvas. Verdant meadows, dotted with herds of grazing game.

  Stryke was finding it hard to stay on his feet. But he had to, the game wasn't over yet. There was one more player. He looked around for him. Razatt-Kheage was near the door but making no attempt to leave. Stryke swam toward him through a long, long tunnel filled with honey.

  When he finally got there, the goblin hadn't moved. He couldn't, he was petrified. As Stryke faced him, the slaver went down on his knees, as though curtseying. The mouth was still working and Stryke still couldn't make out the words, or indeed hear a sound except a kind of faint sibilant whining. He supposed the goblin was pleading. That was something players did sometimes. The sun blazing on an endless beach. Only this creature wasn't playing. He was refusing to, and it had to be against the rules. Stryke didn't like that.

  He drew back his sword. Walking along an endless beach. Razatt-Kheage, dirty little rulebreaker, carried on opening and closing his mouth. Rolling green hills and exalted frosty clouds.

  Stryke's sword travelled home. The slaver's mouth stayed open, wide, in a silent scream. The smiling face of the female orc of his dreams.

  The sword cleaved Razatt-Kheage's neck. His head leapt from his shoulders, flew upward and back. The body gushed and slumped. Stryke's gaze followed the spiralling head, a dumpy bird without wings, and fancied he saw it laugh.

  Then it hit the floor a dozen feet away with a noise like a dropped ripe melon, bounced twice and was still.

  Stryke leaned against the wall, exhausted. But elated too. He had done a good thing. He moved himself. Coughing and heaving, head full of sights and sounds and smells and music, he tottered to the door. A few seconds' fumbling with the bolts got it open.

  He reeled out, wreathed in heady white smoke, and stumbled off into the dazzling landscape.

  19

  'Drink this,' Alfray said, offering Stryke another cup of steaming green potion.

  Head in hands, Stryke groaned, 'Gods, not more.'

  'You took in a massive dose of crystal. If you want to clear your system of it, you need this, food, and plenty of water, to make you piss it out.'

  Stryke lifted his head and sighed. His eyes were puffy and red. 'All right, give it here.' He accepted the cup, downed the noisome brew in one draft and pulled a face.

  'Good.' Alfray took back the cup. Bending to the cauldron over the fire he scooped another ration. 'This one you can sip until the food's ready.' He pushed it into Stryke's hand. 'I'm going to check on the preparations.' He walked off to supervise the grunts loading their horses.

  When he was sure Alfray wasn't looking, Stryke turned and poured the cup's contents into the grass.

  It had been a couple of hours since he came out of the longhouse. He'd wandered for a while, uncertain of his bearings, before running into the hunting party. They were dragging half a dozen dead lembarrs. Lurching erratically and mouthing gibberish, he had to be practically carried back to camp, where his faltering account of what had happened proved a jaw-dropper.

  Now lembarr carcasses roasted on spits, giving off a delicious smell. Appetite sharpened by the pellucid, Stryke's mouth watered in anticipation.

  Coilla arrived with two platters of meat and sat beside him. He wolfed his as if starving.

  'I'm really grateful, you know,' she said. 'For killing Razatt-Kheage that is. Though I would have preferred doing it myself.'

  'My pleasure,' he replied, mouth full.

  She stared at him inte
ntly. 'Are you sure he didn't say anything about where Lekmann and the others might have gone?'

  Stryke was still coming down from the crystal. Right now, he didn't want to be nagged. 'I've told you all I know. They've gone.' He was a little testy.

  Dissatisfied, Coilla frowned.

  'I reckon you won't see them bounty hunters again,' he added placatingly. 'Cowards like that wouldn't tangle with a warband.'

  'They owe me a debt, Stryke,' she said. 'I'm going to collect it.'

  'I know, and we're going to help any way we can. But we can't go looking for them, not now. If our paths ever cross again—'

  'Fuck that. It's time somebody hunted them.'

  'Don't you think this is getting to be a bit of an obsession?' He chewed as he talked.

  'I want it to be an obsession! You'd feel the same way if you'd been humiliated and offered for sale like cattle.'

  'Yes, I would. Only there's nothing we can do about it at the moment. Let's talk about this later, shall we? My head, you know?'

  She nodded, dropped her plate by the fire and walked off.

  In the background, several grunts were stitching fur jerkins. There had been just enough pelts to go round.

  Stryke was finishing his food when Alfray reported back.

  'Well, we're ready for Drogan. Any time you are.'

  'I'm fine. Or I will be soon. I wouldn't say my head was exactly clear, but the ride will fix it.'

  Haskeer came over holding a pile of the fur jackets. Jup drifted after him.

  'They ain't exactly refined,' Haskeer opined as he sorted sizes.

  'Wouldn't have thought that would have bothered you,' the dwarf remarked.

  Haskeer ignored him and started handing out the garments. 'Let's see. Captain.' He tossed a fur. 'Alfray. And here's yours, Jup.' He held it up for them to see. 'Look at the size of that. Like a hatchling's. Wouldn't cover my arse!'

  Jup snatched it. 'You should use your head for that. It'd be an improvement.'

  Simmering, Haskeer strode off.

  Stryke stood, ever so slightly unsteady on his feet, put on the fur jacket and wandered over to Alfray.

  'How you feeling?' the corporal asked.

  'Not too bad. Don't want to see any more crystal for a while, though.'

  Alfray smiled.

  'You were right about the stars,' Stryke went on. 'If I'd had them on me—'

  'I know. Lucky.'

  'I'll take them back now.'

  'Given any thought to dividing them?'

  'I know it makes sense, but I reckon I'll hang on to them. If I'm going to be parted from the band again, I'll give them to you for safekeeping.'

  'You know best, Stryke.' His tone indicated that he didn't agree, but perhaps he thought now wasn't the time to argue. He dug into a pocket and produced the three stars, but didn't return them immediately. He held them in his cupped palm and studied them. 'You know, despite what I said about keeping these, I'm glad to be handing them back. Having them feels like an awesome responsibility.'

  Stryke accepted the stars and they were returned to his belt pouch. 'I know what you mean.'

  'Strange, isn't it? We feel that way about them yet we still haven't got a clue what they're for. What we going to do, Stryke? I mean, whether we got another star from the centaurs or not?'

  'It was always my idea to use them to barter a pardon from Jennesta. But the more I think about it, the more I reckon that's what we shouldn't do.'

  'Why not?'

  'Well, for a start, can you see her honouring her end of any bargain? I can't. More important than that, though, is the power these things seem to have.'

  'But we don't know what kind of power it is. That's the point.'

  'No. But we've heard enough hints along the way. What Tannar had to say, for instance. And the fact that Jennesta, a sorceress, wants them.'

  'So what do we do with them?'

  'I was thinking along the lines of finding somebody who could help us use them. But for good, not evil. To help orcs and the other elder races. Perhaps to strike a blow against humans, and our own despots.'

  'Where would we find somebody like that?'

  'We found Mobbs, and he told us about the instrumentalities in the first place.'

  'Don't you sometimes wish he hadn't?'

  'Things had to change. They were changing. Mobbs didn't make us do what we did. He just gave us a reason, albeit a pretty cloudy one. All I'm saying is that maybe we could find someone even more knowledgeable. A magician, an alchemist, whatever.'

  'So that's what you think we ought to do? Rather than trading them for our lives with Jennesta?'

  'It's an idea, that's all. Think on this, Alfray. Even if we did get Jennesta to deal, and she stuck to it, what kind of a life would we have? Do you honestly think we could just go back to being what we were? Carrying on as if nothing's happened? No, that's over. Those days are gone. In any event, the whole land's going down in flames. Something bigger's needed.' He slapped the pouch. 'Maybe these things are the key to that.'

  'Maybe.'

  'Let's get to Drogan.'

  He gave the order to break camp.

  The forest was only two or three hours away, and the route couldn't have been simpler. All they had to do was follow the inlet.

  As he hoped, the ride, which they took steadily, helped clear Stryke's still-pounding head. But his mouth seemed permanently dry and he drank copious amounts of water on the way.

  He offered the canteen to Coilla, riding next to him at the head of the column. She shook her head. 'I've been talking to Haskeer,' she said, 'or trying to, about what happened when he went off with the stars.'

  'And?'

  'In most ways he seems like his old self again. Except when it comes to explaining what happened then.'

  'I believe him when he says he really doesn't know.'

  'I think I do too. Despite the whack over the head he gave me. But I'm not sure I can ever trust him again, Stryke. Even though he did help rescue me.'

  'Can't blame you for that. But I think what happened to him was somehow beyond his control. Hell, we have to believe that about a comrade, and whatever else you can say about Haskeer, he's no traitor.'

  'Just about the only thing he said was that the stars sang to him. Then he clammed up, embarrassed. That singing stuff sounds crazy.'

  'I don't think he's crazy.'

  'Neither do I. So, any idea what he means?'

  'No. They're just dead objects far as I'm concerned.'

  'Still no idea what they're for?'

  He grinned. 'If I did, believe me, I'd have told you. Yelled it. I was talking to Alfray about this earlier. What I didn't say to him was that even if the stars are a blind, useless pieces of wood or something, I'd still have us go after them.'

  Coilla gave him a quizzical look.

  'No, I'm not crazy either,' he told her, pushing his doubts about the dreams to arm's length. 'I see it like this. If we need anything, we need a purpose. Without one, this band would fall apart quicker than you can spit. It's our military upbringing, I suppose. Even though we're not part of the horde any more we're still orcs and we're still part of the orc nation, scattered and reviled as that might be. I figure we hang together or get hanged apart.'

  'I understand. Maybe there's something in the orc nature that craves comradeship. I don't think we're really meant to be lone beings. Anyway, whatever happens, whatever we might or might not have thrown away, you've given us that purpose, Stryke. Even if it all goes murderously wrong any minute, we still had that. We tried.'

  Stryke smiled at her. 'Yes, right. We tried.'

  They had reached the edge of the forest. It was mature, enormous, dark.

  Stryke halted the column. He waved forward Alfray, Jup and Haskeer.

  'What's the plan, chief?' Jup asked.

  'Like I said before; simple and straightforward. We raise a flag of truce and try to make contact with Keppatawn's clan.'

  Alfray began preparing the flag, using the Wol
verines' banner spar. 'Suppose there's more than one clan in the forest, Stryke?' he said.

  'We'll have to hope they're all friendly with each other and pass us on. Let's go.'

  With some apprehension they entered the trees. Alfray held aloft the flag. He was aware, as they all were, that it was universally recognised but not always universally respected.

  The interior of the forest was cool and smelt earthy. It wasn't as dark inside as it appeared from without. The silence was near absolute, and that made all of them edgy.

  After riding for ten minutes they entered a small clearing.

  'Why do I feel I have to whisper?' Coilla whispered.

  Alfray looked up at the forest's ceiling far above, where sunlight shafted. 'This place seems almost holy, that's why.'

  Jup agreed. 'I reckon the magic's strong here. The water from the inlet, the covering of trees; they both help hold it. This might be one of Maras-Dantia's few remaining untouched oases. Something like the way it once was.'

  Haskeer seemed oblivious to all that. 'What do we do, just keep wandering about in here until we find a centaur?'

  All around, scores of centaurs appeared from behind trees and crashed out of bushes. Some held long, slim spears. Most had short horn bows, notched and pointing the band's way.

  'No,' Coilla replied.

  'Take it easy!' Stryke told the band. 'Steady now.'

  A centaur came forward. He was young and proud. The hair on the lower, equine, portion of his body was silken brown. He had a fine tail and sturdy hoofs. Above, where his body somewhat resembled that of a human, he had muscular arms and abundant chest hair. He was straight-backed. A curly beard adorned his face.

  Several of the band's horses shied.

  'You're in clan territory,' the centaur announced. 'What's your business here?'

  'Peaceable business,' Stryke assured him.

  'Peaceable? You're orcs.'

  'And we have a reputation, yes. It tends to go before us. As does yours. But like you, we fight in just cause, and we don't betray a flag of truce.'

  'Well said. I am Gelorak.'

  'I'm Stryke. This is my warband, the Wolverines.'