“We don’t know where to go. Not to mention we could be braving the Krake again once we leave here.”
“I said we’d get to it.” There was enough of an edge in his voice to put Pepperdyne off taking it further.
Stryke sent most of the grunts into the jungle to look for suitable wood, both for repairs and for fires to work by. The privates had been gone no time when Breggin came running back.
“What is it?” Stryke demanded.
“We’re not alone!” The grunt was breathing hard.
“Who? How many?”
“Dunno. One. Maybe. Couldn’t make out what. Just saw something moving in the undergrowth, that way.” He pointed. “It gave me the slip.”
Drawing his sword, Stryke headed for the jungle at a dash. The rest followed; even Standeven, though he kept well to the rear. In the rapidly darkening interior a number of the scouting grunts joined them. Stryke had them spread out and comb the area. He pushed on, the other officers, the dwarfs and Pepperdyne flanking him.
They didn’t have to go very far.
It was dark enough that, at first, Stryke wasn’t sure what he was seeing. Then he realised there really was a figure standing in the shadows. He approached warily, and as he got nearer he saw that it had its back to him. It stood completely still, though by now whoever it was, unless deaf, must have heard him and the others approaching.
“No sudden moves!” Stryke barked at it. “Turn round. And keep your hands in sight.”
The figure remained as immobile as a statue.
Stryke took a couple more steps. “Show yourself!”
Slowly, the figure turned.
Nearer now, Stryke was sufficiently close to see its face. What he saw made him doubt his sanity.
He was looking at himself.
13
Stryke was too stunned to speak.
He stared at the being he faced. It was like gazing into a mirror. The features were his, identical in every detail. Only the slightly ill-fitting, nondescript clothes his double wore were different: a cloth jerkin over a cotton shirt, thick russet-coloured trews tucked into knee-high leather boots. No weapon of any kind; at least, none that could be seen.
Stryke’s reverie was broken by Haskeer yelling, “ Sorcery! Kill it!”
Blades drawn, he and the others began to advance. Stryke himself stayed rooted.
The stranger who looked exactly like him held up his hands and, in a calm, melodious voice quite unlike Stryke’s, said, “You can lower your weapons. I’m not a threat.”
“We’re supposed to take your word for it, are we?” Jup replied, keeping his staff at the ready.
Stryke gestured for them to stay their hands, and he found his voice. “Who… what are you?”
“Forgive me,” his likeness told him. “It’s a little artifice on my part. Now hold, and don’t be fearful of what you see.”
Haskeer’s wasn’t the only chin that jutted in indignation at the remark.
“Watch out!” Coilla warned. “It’s doing something!”
The stranger began to change. Its features became oddly indistinct. The flesh seemed to melt, to run and refashion itself. There was the sound of what could have been cracking bones as the body twisted, contracted, expanded. In a moment the figure was transformed.
What stood before them now was more slender and taller than the imitation Stryke it had just been. Its face was much nearer human than orc, though not entirely so. But there was an androgynous look about the creature that made its gender indistinct. The eyes, green as emeralds, had a distinct slant; the nose was small and a little upturned. Auburn hair had emerged, abundant and collar length. It was a well proportioned face, with finely drawn features, and could be called either handsome or beautiful if its owner’s sex was defined.
“What in hell are you?” Stryke said.
“A friend.” The creature’s voice remained the same.
“So you say,” Jup muttered.
“My name is Dynahla.”
“You’re a fetch, aren’t you?” Coilla ventured. “A shape-changer.”
“I have the ability to assume other appearances, yes.”
“Why make yourself look like me?” Stryke asked.
“Self-defence. In my experience most beings are reluctant to attack someone who looks like themselves.”
“You a he or a she?” Haskeer said. “Or can you change that too?”
Dynahla smiled. “I can see you’d be more comfortable dealing with a masculine being.” As it spoke, another change occurred, though it was minor compared to what they had just seen. The flesh ran more subtly, altering features in small ways. The chin, cheekbones and brow all hardened somewhat; the body grew modest muscles and the hips reduced. The result was more obviously male, while retaining a measure of ambiguity.
“I hope you’re not going to keep on doing that,” Spurral remarked.
“What’re you doing here?” Stryke demanded.
“I was sent,” Dynahla replied.
“By that bunch of sorcerers tailing us?” Haskeer wanted to know.
“The Gateway Corps? No, I’m not with them.”
Stryke was puzzled. “The what?”
“You have a lot to learn, Stryke, and if you bear with me there’ll be explanations.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I know all your names.” Dynahla pointed a trim finger at one after another of the band. “Coilla, Haskeer, Jup. You must be Spurral. Dallog. That is Jode Pepperdyne, and-”
“How come you know so much about us?”
“It is sorcery,” Haskeer declared. “There’s magic at work here and I don’t like it.” He half raised his blade.
“No,” Dynahla said. “Or yes, rather. But not in the way you mean. Benign magic. And it isn’t mine. I’m talking about the one who sent me here.”
“You haven’t said who that was yet,” Stryke reminded him. He had decided that thinking of this being as male was less confusing.
“Someone you’re familiar with, and who means you no harm. I was sent by Tentarr Arngrim, the one you know as Serapheim.”
“ He sent you?”
“To aid you.”
“What are you to him?”
“Interesting question. An… acolyte.”
“A claim like yours is all the better for proof,” Jup said.
“I can prove it. To everyone, Stryke, or do you wish us to be alone?”
“No. We’re all in this together.” He gave Pepperdyne a fleeting glance, and Standeven, skulking some way back. “Whatever you’ve got to say is for everybody.”
“Then perhaps you would like to gather them.”
He nodded. “But not here. Let’s get back to what’s left of the light.” At his order, Dallog gave two blasts on his horn to summon the scouts home. “You’re going under armed guard,” Stryke told Dynahla. “I don’t trust you. Whether I do depends on your so-called proof.”
“I understand.”
“If you start to change-”
“I won’t.”
