Jennesta.”
Before she could go on he said, “Does one of them have a bow?”
She looked. “I think he might. We should either get out of here or be prepared to defend ourselves magically. He seems to be aiming this way.”
“Then he’s a fool. No archer on any world could achieve a shot like that. The distance is too far and the angle’s wrong.” There was the sound of something cutting through the air. “Why does he think-” A spasm shook him and he let out a strangled gasp. A black arrow jutted from his chest.
“Weevan-Jirst,” Pelli said, stunned. “ Weevan-Jirst!”
He fell. She went down on her knees to him, felt for a heartbeat, not the easiest task through a goblin’s carapace, then tried the vein in his neck. He was dead.
She looked up to the hill again. The archer and the others had gone. Her thought was that anybody who could use a bow like that, over such a distance, commanded a strong form of magic and was best avoided. Keeping low, and still numb from what had just happened, she hurried back to the others.
The area Serapheim occupied buzzed with activity as the diverse force readied itself for battle. Serapheim’s apprentices, perhaps a dozen in number, had joined its ranks with the intention of using their magic in aid of the cause.
Stryke stood apart from all that with three others. The band had been dismayed when he told them he wouldn’t be fighting alongside them. But once they knew why, they were approving.
He had decided to take Gleadeg, Coilla and Pepperdyne with him on the mission Serapheim had allotted. The human he might not have chosen, good a fighter as he was, but Coilla insisted that they stay together, and Stryke wanted her along. None of them had any idea where Standeven was, or particularly cared.
There was a commotion. A chorus of “ They’re here! They’re here!” went up. Stryke and the others rushed to see what was happening.
On the plain that stretched out not far from Serapheim’s villa, a force was advancing. They recognised Jennesta at its head. Her human troopers from Acurial were with her, along with shuffling human zombies and the more sprightly orc kind. There was a mass of flotsam and jetsam of various races she had recruited from the world of islands, including what looked like the remnants of the Gatherers. Racing to join them at the rear was the goblin Gleaton-Rouk and his piratical gang.
Stryke knew Thirzarr was somewhere in the horde but couldn’t spot her. At least he hoped she was there. He didn’t like to think about what had happened if she wasn’t.
Jennesta’s army was even more ragtag than the one Stryke was a part of. But hers outnumbered his by at least two to one.
“Stryke!”
He turned and saw Serapheim approaching, and he wasn’t alone. Pelli Madayar was with him, along with her multi-species Gateway Corps comrades.
“I have granted admission to a group I think you know,” Serapheim explained.
“Hello again, Captain,” Pelli said.
“What are you doing here?” Stryke asked suspiciously.
“I’ve long felt that your band has been a mere pawn in this game. The Corps’ principles, and my training, have prevented me from acting on that impulse. But recent events have made me question my impartiality. There comes a time when a side has to be chosen and to hell with the consequences. I’ve decided… we’ve all decided that yours is the one to offer our services to.”
Stryke thought about that for a moment, then said, “Glad to have you aboard.”
30
The two armies faced each other.
For Jennesta it was the culmination of the revenge she sought to inflict on her father and the hated Wolverines. For the defenders it was a matter of survival.
Hostilities started from a distance, using a combination of magic and arrows, the former blocking most of the latter. Streaks of energy, yellow, white and red were exchanged, resembling a hatchling’s coloured streamer caught by the wind. Shimmering defensive bubbles were up, cast by Jennesta on one side, the Gateway Corps on the other. The difference being that Jennesta’s was to protect her and a small coterie, while the Corps was trying to shield everyone.
When the sides finally began to advance it wasn’t at a charge. The pace was more deliberate, almost stately, save for the taunts and foul curses each side rained on the other. But ultimately they had to meet, and when they did it was bloodily.
The roof of Serapheim’s villa was an excellent vantage point. From it, Stryke, Coilla, Pepperdyne and Gleadeg had the best view of the battle. All of them would have liked to be there.
Serapheim came to them. “There,” he said, pointing. “You can just see Jennesta over on the far side. Having set the fighting in motion she’s retired to a safer distance.”
Stryke looked, but had to strain his eyes. He could make out Jennesta. There were others with her, and he thought one of them might be Thirzarr, but he couldn’t be sure.
“You must get to her,” Serapheim continued. “You can either go round the field of battle-”
“Too long,” Stryke told him.
“Or through it, I’m afraid. Shall I assign you some extra bodies to help?”
They looked at each other and Stryke answered for all of them. “No. We can manage.”
“I hoped you’d say that. We can’t really spare anybody.”
Coilla gave a gentle dig. “Some army.”
“Valiant as they are, it isn’t them we’re relying on. It’s you. Take care.”
Stryke and the others set off.
When they got to the plain, the battle was hotting up and there was a great roar coming from it. Stryke had hoped to cross by moving through their own ranks, but things had got mixed. It was still the case that most of Jennesta’s force was on the right and Stryke’s was on the left, but both armies had been contaminated with each other’s fighters.
They drew their weapons. Stryke tried to pick a spot with more friends than enemies, and they plunged in.
The Wolverines were where they always liked to be, in the heart of the battle.
For Haskeer it was all the excuse he needed to crack skulls and sever limbs with his axe. He preferred the living opponents. The zombies were basically dusty demolition jobs with little fight in them. The orc zombies were livelier but still lacked a spark. Haskeer had no qualms about fighting them.
Jup and Spurral were side by side, as usual, working in unison with staffs and knives. They made a point of seeking out goblins, and were duelling with a pair of them, staffs against tridents. Nearby, the Ceragans fought together, with Dallog leading them. Wheam stood with his father, and he had made the supreme gesture of leaving his lute back at the villa.
Gateway Corps members were all over the battle, discharging magical punches that downed men and caused the human zombies to explode in clouds of dust. Pelli Madayar was fighting conventionally, something the Corps was required to be proficient at. She finished off a Gatherer with a sword thrust and, spinning, bumped into Wheam. They exchanged nods and turned to their fresh respective opponents.
Shortly after, in a rare lull, they both happened to catch sight of Gleaton-Rouk, skulking at the battle’s ragged edge, looking for prey.
“Do you know him?” Pelli said.
Wheam nodded. “His name’s Gleaton-Rouk. He killed one of our band.”
“With an arrow?”
“Yes. His bow’s enchanted. Didn’t you know?”
“I guessed as much.”
“An arrow smeared with his victim’s blood always finds its target. Always. ”
