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.'
The light went out of the enchantment. Instantly, the column of smoke was sucked back into the gemstone. Evening shadows returned, and the quiet.
'I'll be fucked,' Haskeer said.
'You put it like a poet.'
' Greetings, orcs.'
They swung back to the gem, blades ready. It was glowing again.
' Don't be afraid, I realise how foolish…'
The stone began fizzling. It throbbed with a grey luminescence.
'… a thing that is to say to a race as courageous…'
A greenish vapour was streaming from the gem. It crackled and spat.
'… as yours. But be assured — '
There was a loud report. Fragments of gemstone shot in all directions.
Stryke went over and prodded the smouldering remains with his sword tip. The dying embers gave off a fetid odour.
They stood in silence for a while, then Haskeer said, 'What the hell do you make of all that?'
'It could be what we need.'
'What?'
'Do you ever feel…?'
'Feel what?'
'Don't get me wrong; finding Thirzarr, coming here, having the hatchlings… they're the best things that ever happened to me. But…'
'Spit it out, Stryke, for fuck's sake.'
'This place has everything we hoped for. Good hunting and feasting, comradeship, tourneys, our own lodges. Yet, now and again, don't you get a little… bored?'
Haskeer stared at him. 'I thought I was the only one.'
'You feel that way?'
'Yeah. Don't know why. Like you say, life's good here.'
'Maybe that's it.'
Perplexity creased Haskeer's brow. 'Whadya mean?'
'Where's the danger? Where's the enemy? I know we skirmish with other clans sometimes, but that's not the same. What we're missing is a… purpose.'
Haskeer glanced at the fragments of the gemstone. 'You're not taking this seriously, Stryke?'
'Wouldn't it be good to have a mission?'
'Well, yeah. But — '
'What better than to whet our blades again, and to help some fellow orcs? And have the chance to pay back that bitch Jennesta.'
'It's crazy. Ask yourself: why's the sorcerer taking our side? Why not his own kind? If we learnt one thing, it's don't trust humans.'
'He helped us before.'
'When it suited him. I reckon there's more to this.'
'Could be.'
'Anyway, this is all so much jaw flapping.' He nodded at Parnol. 'He ain't gonna be doing no guiding.'
'Maybe we don't need him.'
'Oh, come on, Stryke. You couldn't follow all that fucking around with the stars Serapheim showed us… could you?'
'The movements that get us back here; I'm trying to keep them in my head.'
Haskeer looked impressed. 'What about the others?'
'Er… no.'
'Not much good then, is it? He said it was dangerous if — '
'I know what he said. But something's been nagging at me.'
He went over to the dead body. Kneeling, he removed the amulet the man was wearing. Haskeer peered over Stryke's shoulder as he examined it.
The engravings etched into its surface were small, and they strained to make them out. They consisted of rows of symbols in groups of five. The symbols were circles with lines protruding at various angles. Stryke studied them for what seemed like a long time.
'That's it,' he finally announced.
'What?'
'See that third lot of figures? It's the same as the way the stars have to be moved to get back here.'
Haskeer did nothing to hide his incomprehension. 'Is it?'
'Looks that way. All these markings are different, and there's a lot more than the three Serapheim showed us.'
'You mean… that tells you how to use the stars?'
'Yes. The messenger must have had it to help him remember. Like a map. I reckon this first line is how to get to Maras-Dantia, and the second gets you to that world with the orcs. The rest… who knows?'
'That's pretty smart, Stryke,' Haskeer stated admiringly.
Stryke put the amulet around his neck. 'Don't get too excited; I could be wrong. But I've often wondered why Arngrim gave me the stars. Perhaps we know now.'
'Think he planned this? From the start?'
'Could be he was mindful of future trouble.'
'And counting on us to deal with it.'
'Who knows? Humans are two-faced.'
'That's no lie.'
Stryke adopted a pensive expression. 'There was something about the things he showed us. Did you notice? Not once were those orcs fighting back.'
It hadn't occurred to Haskeer before. 'They weren't, were they?'
'And when did our kind ever turn a cheek?'
'What's wrong with 'em?'
All Stryke could do was shrug.
