Stan Nicholls - Orcs:Bad blood

"It's a hex!" Haskeer yelled, and would have dashed the gem with his blade.

" No! " Stryke protested. "Wait! Look."

The pillar of smoke issuing from the gem had changed colour from white to blue. As they watched, the blue gave way to red, and the red to gold. Every few seconds the hue changed, so that the column hosted all colours in rapid succession. In turn these bled into the egg-shaped cloud suspended above their heads, giving it a rich vibrancy.

Haskeer and Stryke were mesmerised by it.

The coloured haze took on the appearance of solidity, as though it were a canvas hanging in the air. A canvas upon which a deranged artist had hurled pots of paint. But order soon swept away the chaos, and a distinct feature came into focus.

A human face.

It belonged to a male. He had shoulder-length auburn hair, and a beard, trimmed short. His eyes were blue, his nose hawkish, and his well shaped mouth was almost feminine.

"It's him!" Haskeer exclaimed. "Serapheim!"

Stryke needed no confirmation. He, too, instantly recognised Tentarr Arngrim.

The sorcerer was of indefinite age to an orc's eye, but they knew him to be much older than he appeared. And no matter how alien a race humanity might be, the man's presence and authority were obvious to them, even filtered through an enchanted gem.

" Greetings, orcs." Arngrim spoke as clearly as if he stood before them.

"You're supposed to be dead!" Haskeer shouted.

"I don't think he can hear you. This isn't… now."

"What?"

"His likeness has been poured into that gemstone somehow."

"You mean he is dead?"

"Just listen."

" Don't be afraid," the wizard's image went on. " I realise how foolish a thing that is to say to a race as courageous as yours. But be assured that I mean you no harm."

Haskeer looked far from comforted. They kept their swords raised.

" I'm speaking to you now because the stone was designed to be activated once it detected the presence of Stryke." Arngrim smiled, adding mellifluously, " I hope this is so, and that you can hear my words, Captain of the Wolverines. I can't see or hear you, as should already have been explained by Parnol, the emissary who delivered this message. He's a trusted acolyte. And don't be deceived by his youth. He's wise beyond his years, and brave, as you'll find." The sorcerer smiled again. " Forgive me if this embarrasses you, Parnol; I know how you dislike a fuss."

Stryke and Haskeer glanced at the messenger's body.

" Parnol's role, as I expect he's already told you, was not only to bring you the gem, but to act as your guide, should you agree to my proposal."

"Guide?" Haskeer said.

" What Parnol wouldn't have told you is the nature of the task," the sorcerer continued. " I judged it best to present that myself." He paused, as though collecting his thoughts. " You believed me to be dead, perhaps. The circumstances in which we parted must certainly have led you to that conclusion. But I had the good fortune, and the necessary skills, to survive the destruction of the palace at Ilex. My story isn't important at the moment, however. Of much more significance is the reason I've sought you out, and the point of this message."

"'Bout time," Haskeer grumbled.

"Ssshh!"

" On the principle that a picture outweighs a torrent of words, consider this."

Arngrim vanished. He was replaced by a kaleidoscope of images. Scenes of orcs being whipped, hanged, burnt alive or cut down by cavalry. Orcs fleeing, their lodges plundered and their livestock scattered. Orcs herded like animals, to internment or slaughter. Orcs humiliated, mocked, beaten, put to the sword.

In every case, their tormentors were human.

" I feel shame for my race," said Arngrim, his voice accompanying the imagery. " Too often we act like beasts. What you see is happening now. These outrages are taking place in a world similar to yours. But a world less fortunate, where orcs are dominated by cruel oppressors and have had their freedom stolen, as yours was."

"Orcs fucked over by humans," Haskeer muttered. "What's new?"

" You can aid your fellow creatures," the sorcerer told them. " I'm not saying it would be easy, but your martial skills, your valour, might even help bring about their liberation."

Haskeer grunted charily. Stryke shot him a glare.

" Why would you want to undertake such a mission? Well, if the plight of your orc comrades isn't enough, look upon something else you know."

The scenes of persecution and destruction faded. They were replaced by a female form, not entirely human, nor totally of any other race. Her eyes were somewhat oblique and unusually long-lashed, and they had dark, immeasurable depths. Her aquiline nose and shapely mouth were set in a face a little too flat and broad, framed by waist-length hair the colour of squid's ink. Most striking was the texture of her skin, which had a faint glistening of green and silver, giving the impression that she was covered in minute scales. She was beautiful, but her allure was just this side of freakishness.

" Jennesta," the wizard supplied unnecessarily.

The sight of her chilled Stryke and Haskeer's spines.

" Yes, she survived the portal. I don't know how. And even though she's my own offspring, my bitterest regret is that she lived." Jennesta was shown riding a black chariot at the head of a triumphant parade; addressing a frenzied crowd from the balcony of a palace; presiding at a mass execution. " Let me be blunt. Her continued existence is a bigger problem than the fate of your kin, no matter how dire their situation. Because if left unchecked, she'll enslave more, of your kind and mine. Alone, I'm unable to defeat Jennesta. But it could be within your power, perhaps, to stop her, and to gain your revenge. If you choose that path, Parnol will thoroughly brief you. But he'll need the instrumentalities you possess if he's to be your guide. His journey to your world was one-way. I trust you still have them, else the enterprise is doomed before it's begun." Arngrim smiled again. " Somehow, I think you do."

"Know-all," Haskeer mumbled.

A fresh image emerged: five perfect spheres of different colours, each the size of a newborn's fist. They were fashioned from an unknown material. All had projecting spikes of variable lengths, and no two spheres had the same number. " The instrumentalities, or stars, as you choose to call them, have remarkable powers. Greater even than I was aware of when I created them. Though perhaps I should have known, given how bringing them into being drained me of so much. It was the kind of achievement sorcerers have only once in a lifetime. I could never construct another set. But note. Although rare, the instrumentalities are by no means unique."

"Does he mean there's more of 'em?" Haskeer whispered.

"Must be. How do you think he got here?" Stryke jabbed a thumb at the corpse.

" Parnol would use the stars you hold to navigate the portals," Arngrim explained. " For instance, to reach the place you last left, Maras-Dantia, they would have to be manipulated like this." As he spoke, the spheres came together in a way that seemed implausible, if not actually impossible, and formed a single, interlocked entity. " To travel to the land I showed you requires this configuration." The stars executed another improbable manoeuvre, ending again in one piece. " And to return to where you now are…" They shifted and locked together in a different but still perfect combination. " Attempting to use the instrumentalities without having first set them causes them to act randomly, and that can be very dangerous. But you've no need to worry about how they operate. That's Parnol's job." His voice took on a graver tone. " Your duty is to guard them as you would your own lives. Apart from being your only way home, they must never fall into the wrong hands. I urge you to accept the task I've outlined, Wolverines. For the sake of your kind, and for the greater purpose."