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  The centaur raised an eyebrow. 'Your name's known here. Have you come on your own account or do you act for others?'

  'We're here for ourselves.'

  The other centaurs still had their bows levelled at the band.

  'You're gaining a reputation as an orc who brings trouble with him, Stryke. I ask again, what business have you here?'

  'Nothing that brings you trouble. We seek a centaur called Keppatawn.'

  'Our chief? You require armaments?'

  'No. We want to talk with him on another matter.'

  Gelorak studied them thoughtfully. 'It's for him to decide whether he wishes to treat with you. I'll take you to him.' He glanced at Stryke's sword. 'I would not demean you by asking that you surrender your weapons during your stay here. That's not something one should lightly ask of an orc, I think. But you are on your honour not to draw them in anger.'

  'Thank you. We appreciate the consideration. Our weapons will not he drawn unless any draw theirs against us. You have my word.'

  'Very well. Come.'

  He waved a hand. The bows were lowered.

  Gelorak led the band deeper into the great forest, the other centaurs close to hand. Eventually they came to a much larger clearing.

  There were buildings that resembled stables, along with more conventional thatched, round huts. The largest structure by far looked like an open-fronted barn. It housed an enormous forge. In blasting heat and clouds of smoke, sweating centaurs hammered on anvils and worked bellows. Others used tongs to remove glowing pieces of metal from braziers. They plunged them, hissing and steaming, into barrels of water.

  Fowl and pigs ran free. There was a distinct odour of dung in the air, and it wasn't all from the livestock.

  Dozens of centaurs, young and old, were going about their chores. Most of them stopped and stared when the Wolverines arrived. Stryke took some comfort from the fact that their reaction seemed born more of curiosity than ill will.

  'Wait here,' Gelorak instructed. He cantered off towards the armoury.

  'What do you think?' Coilla asked.

  'They seem friendly enough,' Stryke judged. 'And they let us keep our weapons. That's a good sign.'

  Gelorak re-emerged accompanied by another centaur. He was of middle years and his beard was greying. The powerful, muscular physique that must have marked him out in youth was still in evidence, but it was tempered by a deformity. He was lame. Withered and spindly, his right foreleg dragged as he walked.

  'Well met,' Stryke greeted.

  'Well met. I am Keppatawn. I'm also a centaur of direct impulses and busy. So you'll forgive me if I'm blunt. What do you want?'

  'We have business to discuss with you. A trade that could prove to your advantage.'

  'That remains to be seen.' He assessed them, eyes shrewd. His tone lightened. 'But if it's business, that's always best discussed over a meal. Join us for food and drink.'

  'Thank you.' Stryke dreaded the idea of anything else to eat, but knew protocol demanded acceptance.

  The band was ushered to heavy oak tables placed near the clearing's centre. There were benches on just one side for the orcs' benefit; centaurs stood to eat.

  Meat and fish were brought. There was freshly baked bread, dishes of fruit, and baskets brimming with nuts, as befitted forest dwellers. Ale was provided too, along with jugs of heady red wine.

  Once they were into the meal, which in Stryke's case meant eating just enough to avoid offence, he toasted their hosts. 'A generous repast.' He raised a flagon. 'We thank you.'

  'I've often thought there are few disputes that can't be put right by a good meal and some fine wine,' Keppatawn replied. He drained his own flagon, then belched. It was a demonstration of the centaurs' well-known liking for life's more sensual pleasures, which not uncommonly veered into excess. 'Though I guess it's a little different with you orcs, eh?' he added. 'We tend to ask questions first, preferably while feasting, then fight. It's the other way round with you, isn't it?'

  'Not always, Keppatawn. We are capable of reason.'

  'Of course you are,' he replied goodnaturedly. 'So what is it you want to be reasonable about today?'

  'You have an item we'd like to trade for.'

  'If you're talking of weapons, you won't find better anywhere in Maras-Dantia.'

  'No, not weapons, though in truth yours are renowned.' He lifted his cup and took a drink. 'I'm talking about a relic. We call it a star. You may know it better as an instrumentality.'

  The remark silenced the table. Stryke hoped it hadn't put a permanent damper on things.

  After a pause, Keppatawn smiled, signalling a resumption of chatter. Though it was at a lower level as all strained to hear. 'We do have the artifact you refer to,' he admitted. 'And you're not the first to travel here hoping for it.'

  'There have been others?'

  'Over the years, yes.'

  'Can I ask who?'

  'Oh, a motley bunch. Scholars, soldiers of fortune, those claiming mastery of black sorcery and white, dreamers . . .'

  'What was their fate?'

  'We killed them.'

  The band stiffened a little at hearing that.

  'But not us?' Stryke persisted.

  'You've come asking, not trying to take. I'm talking about the ones who arrived with ill intent.'

  'There were those who didn't?'

  'Some. We usually let them live, and of course they left disappointed.'

  'Why?'

  'Because they couldn't, or wouldn't, meet my terms for bartering what you call the star.'

  'What might those terms be?'

  'We'll get to that. I have somebody for you to meet.' He turned to Gelorak, standing next to him. 'Bring Hedgestus, and tell him to fetch the relic.' Gelorak downed the last of his wine and trotted off. 'Our shaman,' Keppatawn explained to Stryke. 'He's the instrumentality's keeper.'

  In due course, Gelorak came out of a small lodge on the fringe of the clearing with an ancient centaur of unsteady mien. Unlike any of the other clan members the band had seen, he wore several necklaces threaded with what looked like pebbles, or possibly nut shells. For his part, Gelorak carried a small wooden box. Both walked slowly.

  After introductions, to which Hedgestus responded solemnly, Keppatawn ordered the star produced. The ornately carved box was placed on the table and opened.

  It held a star that again differed from the others Stryke had. This one was grey, with just two spikes projecting from the central ball.

  'Doesn't look like much, does it?' Keppatawn commented.

  'No,' Stryke agreed. 'May I?'

  The centaur chieftain nodded.

  Stryke gently lifted the star from its box. It had occurred to him that it might be a fake. He tried applying some subtle pressure. The thing was absolutely solid, like the others.

  Apparently Keppatawn realised what Stryke was doing, but didn't seem to mind. 'It's more than tough, it's indestructible. I've never seen anything like it, and I've worked with every material there is. I tried it in the furnace once. Didn't even scorch it.'

  Stryke put the star back.

  'Why do you want it?' Keppatawn said.

  It was a question Stryke had hoped to avoid. He decided on an outdated answer, figuring that counted as partial truth. 'We're out of Queen Jennesta's horde. We figured we might be able to use this to bargain our way back in.' He added, 'She has a passion for old religious artifacts.'

  'Given her reputation as a ruler, that seems a strange ambition.'

  'We're orcs and we need a horde. Hers is the only one we fit into.'

  Stryke had the distinct impression that Keppatawn didn't believe a word of it. And he feared he might have put a foot wrong by mentioning Jennesta. Everybody knew her character. The centaur could think she was an unsuitable custodian of the star.

  So he was surprised when Keppatawn said, 'I don't really care what you want it for. I'd be glad to get rid of the damn thing. It's brought us nothing but ill-luck.' He nodded at the box. 'What do
you know of this and its rumoured fellows?'

  Stryke latched on to the word rumoured. The centaurs didn't know for a fact that others existed. He made up his mind not to tell them he had any. 'Very little, to be honest,' he replied truthfully.

  'That's going to disappoint Hedgestus here. All we know is that they're supposed to have magical powers. But he's been trying to squeeze something out of this one for twenty seasons now without success. I think it's all lembarr shit.'

  Keppatawn wasn't offering information, he was asking for it. Stryke was relieved. A little knowledge could have complicated the situation. 'You said you had some kind of terms laid down for trading the star,' he reminded him, 'and nobody's taken them up.'

  'Yes. None has even tried.'

  'Is it a question of trade? We can offer a large quantity of prime pellucid for—'

  'No. What I require in exchange for the star is a deed, not riches. But I doubt you'll be willing to undertake it.'

  'What do you want done?'

  'Bear with me while I explain. Have you not wondered where I got the star from?'

  'It had crossed my mind.'

  'The star and my lameness I got from Adpar, Queen of the nyadd realm.'

  Stryke wasn't alone in being surprised by that. 'We always thought her a myth.'

  'Perhaps you were encouraged in that belief by her sister, Jennesta. Adpar's no myth.' His hand went to his spoilt leg. 'She's all too real, as I discovered. She just doesn't leave her domain. And few who enter it uninvited come out again.'

  'Would you mind telling us what happened?' Coilla said.

  'It's a simple story. Like your race, mine has certain rites of passage. When I was a youth I was vain. I wanted to achieve adulthood with a task no other centaur had dreamed of. So I took myself off to Adpar's palace in search of the star. By sheer blind luck I secured the thing, but I paid for it. I escaped with the star and my life, but barely. Adpar employed a spell that left me as you see me. Now instead of using weapons in the field I'm reduced to making them.'

  'I'm sorry for your trouble,' Coilla told him. 'But I for one don't understand what you want us to do.'

  'Restoring the full use of my body means more to me than any amount of gems or coin. Or even crystal. It's the only thing I would barter for the star.'

  'We're not healers,' Jup reminded him. 'How can we achieve that? Our comrade Alfray here has some curative powers, but—'

  'Mending such an injury would be beyond my meagre abilities, I'm afraid,' Alfray put in.

  'You misread me,' Keppatawn said. 'I know how my condition can be righted.'

  Stryke swapped puzzled looks with his officers. 'Then how can we be of help?'

  'My hurt was magically inflicted. The only cure is itself magical.'

  'We aren't wizards either, Keppatawn.'

  'No, my friend; had it been that simple I would have engaged the services of a wizard long since. The only thing that will make me whole again is the application of one of Adpar's tears.'

  'What?'

  There were general murmurs of disbelief from the orcs.

  'You're taking the piss,' Haskeer reckoned.

  Stryke glared at him.

  Fortunately, Keppatawn didn't take umbrage. 'I wish I was, Sergeant. But I speak the truth. Adpar herself let it be known that such was the sole remedy.'

  The ensuing silence was broken by Coilla. 'I suppose you've thought of offering her a trade? The star for the return of your health.'

  'Of course. Her treachery bars that. She would see it as a way of having both the star back and my life. I was only maimed in the first place because she couldn't kill me. Nyadds are a malicious and vengeful race. As we know too well from the raiding parties that occasionally swim up the inlet to the forest.'

  'Let's get this straight,' Stryke said. 'We get you one of Adpar's tears and you'll give us the star?'

  'On my word.'

  'What would it involve, exactly?'

  'A journey to her realm, which lies at the point where Scarrock Marsh blends into Mallowtor Islands. That's only a day's ride from here. But there's trouble there. Adpar makes war on her merz neighbours.'

  'They're peace loving, aren't they?' Haskeer asked. He used the word peace like a curse.

  'With Adpar so close they've had to learn not to be. And there are disputes over food. The ocean is not immune from the disruption wrought on the supply of magic by humans. We have problems with nature's balance ourselves.'

  'Where does Adpar's palace lie precisely?' Stryke wanted to know. 'Can you show us on a map?'

  'Yes. Though I fear getting there is by far the easiest part of the task. My father once mounted an expedition with the aim of seizing Adpar. He and all his companions were lost. It was a grievous blow to the clans in its time.'

  'No disrespect to your father's spirit, but we're used to fighting. We've handled determined opposition before.'

  'I don't doubt it. But that wasn't what I meant about the hardest part. I was wondering how you could induce a stony-hearted bitch like Adpar to produce a tear.'

  'The subject's a bit of a mystery to us,' Coilla confessed.

  'How so?'

  'Orcs don't cry.'

  Keppatawn was taken aback. 'I didn't know that. I'm sorry.'

  'Because our eyes don't leak?'

  'We'll have to think on that aspect of it,' Stryke interrupted. 'But subject to talking this over with my band, we'll give it a go.'

  'You will?'

  'I make no promises, Keppatawn. We'll spy out the land, and if it looks an impossible task we won't go on. Either way, we'd be back to tell you.'

  'Possibly,' the centaur remarked in an undertone. 'No slight intended, my friend.'

  'None taken. You've made the dangers clear.'

  'I suggest you rest here tonight and set out on the morrow. And I couldn't help but notice that your weapons are somewhat less than adequate. We'll re-equip you with the best we have.'

  'That's music to an orc's ears,' Stryke replied.

  'One more thing.' Keppatawn slipped a hand into a pocket of his leather apron. He brought out a small ceramic phial and handed it to Stryke.

  Alfray studied its exquisite decoration. 'Do you mind if I ask where you got this?'

  An expression came to Keppatawn's face that could almost be called bashful. 'Another youthful prank,' he admitted.

  20

  Every time he ventured into what he persisted in thinking of as out there, he paid a price. His powers diminished by a small but discernible degree. The ability to properly coordinate his thoughts grew poorer.

  He hastened his own death.

  As he couldn't spend enough time here regenerating between visits, the problem was likely to escalate. Indeed his actions were endangering even here itself.

  He dwelt on the very real likelihood that he made no difference by going out. He might even have made things worse, for all that his interventions were light and as limited as he could manage.

  On the last occasion he almost brought disaster down on their heads. In trying to do the right thing he came near doing wrong again.

  But there was no choice. Events were too advanced. And now even the vessels of his own blood were turning on each other. Only unpredictable fate prevented catastrophe, and what little he might be able to do. Weary as he felt, he had to prepare to go forth once more, in the guise.

  He could have wished for death to remove the burden, but for the guilt engendered by knowing he was responsible for so much suffering. And for worse to come.

  The sombreness of the gathering was only outweighed by its rising sense of panic.

  Adpar lay in a dimly lit coral chamber. She had been placed on a seaweed bed, whose healing properties were thought beneficial, through which water was allowed to ebb in the hope that it too might prove rejuvenating. For good measure her body was covered in plump leeches that gorged on her blood in the belief it would thereby be purified.

  She was in a delirium. Her lips trembled, and the silent words
she mouthed could be made sense of by nobody. When semi-delirious she raged against the gods and, more vehemently, her sibling.

  A select group was present, drawn from higher elders, the military's upper ranks and her personal healers.

  The chief of all the elders took aside the Head Physician for a whispered conversation.

  'Are you any nearer finding the cause of this malady?' he asked.

  'No,' the elderly physic admitted. 'All the tests we have tried give no clue. She responds to none of our remedies.' He moved closer, conspiratorially. 'I suspect a magical influence. If it didn't go against all of her Majesty's expressed wishes, when she was able to make them, I would have called in a sorcerer.'

  'Dare we disobey and do so anyway? Given that she seems beyond ken of what's happening?'

  The healer drew an appraising breath through his scabrous nyadd teeth. 'I know of no manipulator of the magic anywhere near competent enough to deal with this. Not least because she disposed of all the best ones herself. You know how much she dislikes the thought of rivalry.'

  'Then can we not summon one from outside the realm?'

  'Even if you could find anyone willing to come, there's the question of time.'

  'Are you saying she might not survive?'

  'I wouldn't care to pronounce on that, to be honest. But we have brought back patients with ailments as grave, though granted we knew what they were. I can only—'

  'No procrastination, please, healer. The future of the realm is at stake. Will she live?'

  He sighed, wetly. 'At the moment she is more likely to pass than stay.' Hurriedly he added, 'Though we are of course making every possible effort to save her.'

  The elder looked at the queen's dreadfully pale, sweat-drenched face. 'Can she hear us?'

  'I'm not sure.'

  They moved back to the bedside. Lesser minions gave them room.

  Stooping, the chief elder whispered gently, 'Majesty?' There was no response. He repeated himself in a louder tone. This time she stirred slightly.

  The physician delicately applied a damp sponge to her brow. Her colouring took on a paltry improvement.

  'Your Majesty,' the elder said again.

  Her lips moved and her eyes flickered.

  'Majesty,' he repeated insistently. 'Majesty, you must try to listen to me.'