'So what makes you think you've a chance of finding them when everyone else has failed?' Hammrik asked.
'We've come across evidence,' Pepperdyne replied.
'What evidence?'
'You'll forgive us for not throwing away our only bargaining chip,' Standeven said.
'You're bluffing, the pair of you.'
'Can you afford to take that chance?'
'And what do you have to lose if we're lying?' Pepperdyne added.
Hammrik considered their words. 'What does finding the instrumentalities involve? What would I have to do?'
'With respect, sire,' Pepperdyne told him, 'not you, us.'
'Explain.'
'The information we have indicates that they're to be found upcountry.'
'How far upcountry?'
'All the way north, to the new lands.'
'Centrasia? From what I hear it's full of freaks and monsters.'
'They say there's magic there too, of a sort. But that makes it the logical place to find what we're seeking, doesn't it?'
'What can you do there that I couldn't achieve with an army?'
'Do you have one to spare? Besides, we have the contacts.'
'Why don't I just have you tortured to find out what you know?'
'Our contacts will only deal directly with us. If anybody else turns up they'll be long gone.'
A long moment of silence ensued as Hammrik weighed the options. At last he said, 'On balance, I don't believe you. But if there's a chance, I'd be a fool not to take it.'
It was all Standeven could do to suppress a loud sigh of relief.
'There'll be a time limit, naturally,' Hammrik explained, 'and I'll be hand-picking your escort.'
'Escort?'
'Of course. You didn't think I'd let you two swan off by yourselves, did you?'
'No. No, of course not.'
'If you get the instrumentalities, the debt's cancelled. I'll even reward you on top. If this is a ruse you'll just be delaying your deaths with a brief reprieve in a land of horrors. You'll be brought back here and I'll kill you. Understood?'
They nodded.
Without further word, he walked away.
Standeven turned to his bondsman. 'What were you thinking of?' he whispered. 'We don't know where to find those things, or even if they exist.'
'You'd prefer it if they killed us? I had to come up with a story that bought us time.'
'And what happens when his thugs find out we were talking through our arses?'
'I don't know. We'll think of something.'
'It'd better be a damn good — '
' Ssshh.'
An officer approached, the same one who earlier refused them water.
'As you're in my master's good books,' he announced, 'at least for now, I thought you could use that drink.'
Standeven looked up expectantly.
To laughter from most of the other people in the room, the officer poured the contents of a canteen over Standeven's raised face.
He shook his head, like a dog leaving a river, scattering a million droplets of water.
5
Glass was an uncommon commodity. Orc artisans knew how to make it, but rarely bothered except for specific purposes, such as casements in certain places of worship and one or two of the chieftains' grand lodges. It was occasionally found in taverns.
As Stryke and Haskeer approached the inn they sought, they witnessed why glass was so infrequently used as a building material.
With a resounding crash, an orc was propelled through one of the windows. He bounced a couple of times before coming to rest in the shards.
The tavern's door was stout. But not so strong as to resist another flying body. The battered orc that crashed through it managed to stumble a couple of paces before collapsing.
There was uproar inside. A wild cacophony of shattered earthenware, breaking furniture and yelled curses.
Stryke said, 'This must be the place.'
They stepped through the splintered doorframe. An orc landed on his back in front of them. He came down heavily, shaking the floorboards.
Stryke nodded to him. 'Morning, Breggin.'
'Captain,' the orc groaned.
The interior of the inn was essentially a single, large room. There was a serving bench at one end and a storm in the middle. The storm's eye stood astride a table.
Coilla wielded an iron cooking pot. Clutching the handle, she swung at the heads of the half-dozen males struggling to reach her.
She was a handsome specimen of orc womanhood, with attractively mottled skin, dark, flashing eyes, barbed teeth and a muscular, warrior's physique. Most alluring of all, she fought like a demon with toothache.
As Stryke and Haskeer entered, she delivered a well-aimed kick to the jaw of an opponent who ducked too late. He met the floor as surely as a dropped sack of offal. The others tried to catch her legs and topple her, but she skipped away with ease. They started rocking the table.
'Should we help?' Haskeer wondered.
'I don't think we could beat her,' Stryke replied dryly.
Chiming like a bell, Coilla's cooking pot caught one of her antagonists square to the side of his head. Knocked senseless, he tumbled floorward.
Haskeer spotted a half-full tankard of ale. He lifted it and started drinking. Stryke leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching the brawl.
The four remaining males finally upended the table. Coilla leapt clear, feet-first into someone's chest. He spiralled out of play. Quickly righting herself, she swiped at the next in line, flattening his nose with her pot. Driven backwards, he came to grief in a tangle of chairs.
The two still upright rushed her in unison. One was dispatched by the simple expedient of running into her raised elbow. It connected with the bridge of his nose, sending him downhill and comatose. She dodged the clutches of the last orc standing and pounded his features with the fist of her free hand, rendering him insentient.
Coilla briefly savoured the scene, then, tossing the cooking pot aside, gave Stryke and Haskeer a cheery greeting.
'What was that about?' Haskeer asked. He thumped down the empty tankard and belched.
'It started as a fight over me, then kind of developed into one with me.' She shrugged. 'The usual.'
'Keep up these courting rituals and you'll run out of suitors,' Stryke commented.
'Cosy up to that lot? You must be joking. Anybody who can't knock me down doesn't deserve consideration. So, what are you two doing here?'
'We've news,' Stryke told her. 'Let's go outside.'
