trajectory became more acute. Impossibly gathering speed, it descended so fast they couldn’t see it.
The arrow struck Bhose in his chest.
“Back!” Stryke yelled. “ Pull back!”
The band hastily retreated, making for the trees, keeping low and dragging Bhose with them.
As soon as they reached shelter, Jup examined their comrade.
He looked up at the circle of Wolverines. “He took it square to the heart. He’s dead.”
Coilla gazed out at the departing goblin ships and said, “How the hell did they do that?”
9
Surrounded by his brothers-in-arms, an orc lies dead on the edge of a beach, his blood seeping into the sand.
The sand consists of an untold number of grains. The number of grains of sand on all the beaches of all the islands is trivial compared to the number of worlds that exist.
The void between them is unimaginably great, and terrible. But tenuous, spider-web bridges connect the worlds, woven by the power of the instrumentalities.
An endless expanse. A blue-black canvas speckled with infinite points of light.
One speck, no brighter and no dimmer than most, was verdant. Ceragan, a blue-green world, was home to orcs. It was largely unspoilt, but a small part of it had been defiled.
At the encampment, they were still clearing up the damage. Their own dead had gone to their pyres; the attackers’ corpses, far greater in number, had been disposed of less ceremoniously. Now the orcs were repairing their dwellings.
Nearly half of the lodges had been wholly or partly destroyed by fire. The corrals were broken and the livestock had scattered. Wagons were upended, and a barn stood in ruins. The carcasses of horses and cows were being hauled away.
The settlement echoed to the sounds of hammering and sawing. Timber was unloaded from overburdened wagons. Smiths pounded anvils next to braziers of glowing coals. Lengths of rope were woven and roofs re- thatched. New fortifications were being erected.
Wandering through all the activity were two young male hatchlings. They were siblings, the eldest over four summers old, his brother three. Each clutched a skilfully crafted hatchet. They were much smaller versions of the weapons carried by the adults, but just as sharp, and woe to anyone who tried parting the pair from them. Not that it would occur to orcs to do so.
The hatchlings roamed with no particular purpose, driven by boredom, curiosity and a certain amount of anxiety. Their parents had been snatched from them, and although they were being cared for, they were adrift and fretful. They were more careless than they would have been if adults they respected were watching over them. It showed in their mud-caked boots and mucky britches.
The younger of the two moved with less certainty than his brother. In common with the very young of many races, he walked like a small drunk, stumbling occasionally. Only when he toppled and couldn’t right himself did his brother stretch out a hand to him.
They watched as roofs were fixed, fences rebuilt and debris heaved from the well. Some greeted them with a nod or a few distracted words. Most ignored them. Their offers to help were dismissed with gruff laughter or sharp words. They were resigned to staring.
“There you are!”
They turned at the sound of the familiar and not altogether welcome voice, and saw the clan’s chief, Quoll, sweeping their way. He was still big and powerfully built, despite his advancing years, and seemed incredibly ancient to them. Festooned with the armlets, bangles and leopard-tooth necklaces signifying his position, he was accompanied by his usual entourage of kin and dogsbodies.
He stood over the hatchlings, his followers looking on. “Where have you been?” he demanded.
“Right here,” Corb told him.
“You’re the oldest. It’s your duty to look after your brother.”
“He does!” Janch protested.
Quoll fixed him with an icy gaze, which to the youngster’s credit he held and tried, less successfully, to return. “Judging by the state you’re both in I’m not sure about that. What have you been doing?”
“Just playing,” Corb replied casually.
“Hmmm. Getting under everybody’s feet more like.”
“No we haven’t,” Janch muttered, his eyes now on his own feet.
“The time is coming to put aside childish things,” the chieftain declared portentously. “What with your parents lost and-”
“They’re not!” Corb protested.
“Not this again. Listen to me, both of you. Part of growing up is learning to accept what the gods have in store for us. You have to resign yourself to them being gone.”
“Don’t say that!”
“It’s the truth, Corb. You must come to terms with it.”
“ No. They’re not dead. I know they’re not. Don’t care what you say.”
“ How do you know?”
“They’re great warriors. Nobody could kill them. I just… feel it.” Janch nodded vigorously in agreement.
Quoll sighed, and his forceful tone softened a little. “Yes, Stryke showed his valour many times; and Thirzarr matched him in bravery and skill. Look at the price paid by the force that took her. But look too at the commander of that force, the witch.”
Corb and Janch shuddered inwardly, remembering the stories their mother told about the witch, and the raid that confirmed them.
Quoll himself recalled the ferocity of her attack, but stayed master of his emotions. And he resolved not to criticise Stryke in front of the hatchlings, though he half blamed their father for bringing near ruin on them all. “Going against a power like hers is pissing into a gale,” he continued, “even for an orc. I admire your loyalty to your parents, and your faith in them. But it’s best not to rely too much on hope.”
“What about Wheam?” Janch piped up.
The chieftain held his steadfast expression, no matter what was going on inside. “I have to suppose that my son is lost too. He was a disappointment to me. My wish is that he met his end with some dignity, and courage, as an orc should.” He had spoken in a kind of mild reverie, avoiding their eyes. Now his clarity returned and he looked to them. “Face it. Stryke and Thirzarr are probably dead, thanks to the witch.”
She was no witch. She was a sorceress, and resented being thought of otherwise. And Jennesta’s resentment was not to be stirred up lightly.
She stood on a beach on a world unimaginably distant from Ceragan. Night was falling and the moons were beginning to appear. Not that she was in any way softened by the sight.
A figure approached. She recognised it as her latest aide, a major whose name she had already forgotten. He was another field promotion, his predecessor having been killed earlier in the day. This replacement was a younger man, and moderately bright for a human, but she saw little in the way of a future for him. He came to her with eyes averted and an uncertain step.
She didn’t wait for him to begin his no doubt stumbling report. “How are they?”
“They seem to have settled, my lady.”
“Not too much, I hope. I need their ferocity as well as their obedience.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You look uncertain, Major.”
“Well, my lady, they… they’re a little… troublesome.”
“I’d expect them to be. Though more to my enemies than us. Come.” She turned and strode towards the island’s heart, her aide following at a safe distance.
They came to a makeshift camp. Like youngsters caught in mischief her troops quickly turned solemn when
