Stan Nicholls - Inferno

“Better to be at the enemy’s throats than each other’s. It’ll bleed off the tension. ’Specially Stryke’s.”

As Jup spoke, Stryke rushed at the troopers, bellowing a war cry. The rest of the band took it up and thundered after him. All but Standeven, who hung back, looking fretful.

The two lines met in a bellowing roar and the clatter of steel.

Stryke tore into the human ranks like a hot cleaver through pig fat. A pair of troopers went down in a brace of heartbeats, and instantly he was engaging a third. He fought like a berserker, oblivious to whistling blades and lunging spears. His only aim was rending the flesh of anything in his way.

Coilla and Pepperdyne worked in unison, carving a path deep into the enemy’s ranks, until they ran into one of the undead. The process by which Jennesta magically created her zombie adherents endowed them with a strength and stamina most lacked in life. This one was an exceptional example, and must have been hulking even before he met his fate. Armed with what looked like a tree trunk, he took a hefty swipe that caught Pepperdyne off guard. The blow was glancing, but enough to bring him to his knees. A follow-up would have brained him, had Coilla not rushed in, sword swinging. She struck the zombie at its waist, cutting deep. Back on his feet, Pepperdyne rejoined the fray, adding his weight to the fight. Together they hacked their foe to pieces.

Jup and Spurral also fought in harmony. Given their height, this was as much necessity as choice. Employing a well-practised technique, Jup used his staff to crack kneecaps, toppling opponents and bringing them in range of Spurral’s blade.

Haskeer had no truck with anything like finesse. Having felled a trooper with a thrust to the man’s chest, he had his sword dashed from his hand by a stray blow. Menaced by a trio of advancing soldiers he swiftly hoisted the corpse and hurled it at them. They went down like a row of skittles. Snatching up his sword, Haskeer followed through.

The new recruits instinctively fought as a group, with Dallog marshalling them, and gave a good account of themselves. Even Wheam, his confidence growing, managed to inflict some damage.

The whole band, steeped in frustration, vented their anger with orcish fury. They stabbed, slashed and pounded at the enemy mercilessly, intent on nothing short of a massacre.

At length, Stryke wrenched his blade from the innards of the last human and stood panting as he surveyed the slaughter.

“Feeling better?” Coilla said.

He wiped blood from his face with the back of a hand. “Some.”

Jup arrived. “Casualties light,” he reported. “Dallog’s patching up those who need it.”

Stryke nodded. “Then let’s keep moving.” He set off.

They took the jungle path leading to the dwarfs’ village, alert to any further danger. The journey was uneventful until they were almost at the settlement, when they spotted columns of black smoke beginning to rise above the trees. Shortly after, they entered the clearing.

All but two or three of the huts were burning, and a dozen or so dead dwarfs were scattered about. Some of the band caught the briefest glimpse of movement in the jungle. It was judged to be natives fleeing to their hiding places. Coilla called out to them, but got no reply. The remaining huts were searched, along with the surrounding terrain, and proved deserted. Lookouts were posted, and the private with the best head for heights, Nep, was ordered to climb one of the taller trees to spy out the land. Stryke set half a dozen grunts on the more or less endless task of finding suitable wood to replenish their store of arrows. The rest of the band gathered around him.

“No Jennesta,” Haskeer said tightly, glaring at Pepperdyne. “So much for your brilliant plan.”

“It was a reasonable assumption,” the human protested.

“And nobody had a better idea,” Coilla added.

Haskeer switched his baleful stare to her. “That’s right, take his side. As usual.”

“It was the best idea,” she repeated deliberately.

“Yeah, right.”

“If you’ve got some kind of beef, Haskeer, let’s hear it.”

“I’m not keen on humans having a hand in how this band’s run.”

“I haven’t,” Pepperdyne told him. “I was just trying to help.”

“And a fat lot of good that turned out. We don’t need your help. So why don’t you-”

“ Shut it,” Stryke warned, his tone ominous. “We’re all in this together, and I’ll have no bickering.”

“Now you’re taking his part,” Haskeer grumbled.

“I said shut… it. There’ll be no indiscipline in this band. And if anybody thinks otherwise they can step up now.”

Haskeer looked as though he just might, except they were interrupted by a shout from Nep at the tree top.

“What?” Stryke bellowed back.

“The ships! They’ve gone!”

“Which?”

“All but ours!”

Stryke signalled for him to come down.

“So Jennesta has left the island,” Jup said.

“And that other bunch too, by the sound of it,” Spurral put in.

“Shit,” Haskeer grated through clenched teeth.

“ Now what do we do?” Coilla said.

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

“Anything?” Pelli asked.

“Nothing.”

“Take the wheel. I’ll try.”

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

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

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

“How?”

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

“Those held by the orc warband?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Copies? That would be a remarkable achievement.”

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

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

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

“But I’m puzzled.”

“How so?”

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