'I don't trust 'em,' Haskeer stated.
' So you said,' Coilla responded ominously.
Stryke shook his head. 'No. We won't need Pepperdyne. Not the way I'm thinking of doing it.'
'What if he and Standeven get wind of it?' Spurral wondered. 'Could happen, with all of us cooped up together.'
'If they do, we'll kill 'em.'
Coilla frowned at that, but said nothing.
'So it's settled,' Stryke said. 'We'll work on a plan. Meantime, we fight with the resistance. Pepperdyne can help with that. They'll need all the blades they can get with a rebellion coming.'
' If it comes,' Haskeer muttered.
'Have faith.'
'I leave that to the temple priests.' He drew his sword and held it up to catch the light, turning its glistening length fiery. 'I put my faith in this.' He gazed at it almost reverently.
Stryke smiled. ' 'Course you do. You're an orc.'
'We can't be sure a rebellion's going to work,' Coilla reminded them. 'This is such a different world. Most of the orcs here are like sheep, and the humans have magic. Not to mention the odds we'd be — '
'It's simple,' Stryke interrupted. 'We fight, they die.'
The grunts gave a ragged cheer at that.
'Hope you're right,' she said. 'But trouble has a habit of popping up in this place.'
He shrugged. 'I reckon we'll be fine as long as humans are all we have to cope with.'
Not too far away, outside the city limits in one of the sparsely populated, less fruitful areas, stood an abandoned, semi-derelict water mill. The wheel itself was broken, and the watercourse that fed it had dwindled to a weed-choked trickle. Even an astute observer would see the place as desolate and forsaken.
Except perhaps for those possessing the skills of sorcery, or the gods-given power of farsight. These rare individuals might have detected the coppery taste and faintly sulphurous odour of magic cloaking the place. If they were particularly gifted they might have sensed a certain prickling in the atmosphere, a galvanic quality that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand up, signifying an enchantment intended to deceive.
The mill was nearly a ruin, but it wasn't uninhabited. Behind the magically generated facade a special operations unit of the multispecies Gateway Corps had commandeered it.
The group's leader was another deception, in a way. Pelli Madayar, a youthful female of the elfin folk, had a petite frame and looks of such delicacy that she could have been mistaken for frail. It was a false impression. Her energy and strength were prodigious, her determination inexhaustible.
She was in consultation with a lieutenant, a short, stocky individual with the sour expression habitual to the race of gnomes. All about them, the rest of the unit busied themselves with various chores. Gremlins, centaurs, goblins and a satyr were present, along with pairs of brownies and harpies. A small band of pixies and several trolls laboured beside entities that might have been considered exotic even in such diverse company, including a chimera and a wendigo, creatures normally preferring solitude. It was testament to the Corps' mission that so various a collection of races had chosen to put aside their natural inclinations, and their differences, to join in a common purpose.
Mid-sentence, Pelli Madayar broke off, closed her eyes and lifted a hand to her brow. Then she excused herself and hurried away. Her subordinate understood, having seen her do the same thing many times before.
She climbed the slats of a rickety staircase to the mill's upper level. In one corner stood a barrel, larger than she could have got her arms around, its metal bands red with rust. It was full of rainwater from a breach in the roof, and there was a rainbow film on its oily surface. The water was filthy and foul-smelling, but that didn't concern her; it was still a suitable medium. In any event she had no option if this was the way her leader chose to get through to her.
Hands on the barrel's edge, she gazed down at it. The water immediately became agitated and began to gently bubble as though coming to the boil. Then it changed its nature. It became something other than simply water: a kaleidoscopic eddy of churning matter suffused with radiance. Shortly it settled and an image came into focus.
She was looking at Karrell Revers, supreme commander of the Gateway Corps, his likeness projected across an infinity of worlds. He was in late middle age, his close-trimmed beard and hair turning silver. But he was still enormously energetic, and acuity lit his eyes. Revers was exceptional among humans in being a possessor of magical abilities.
'Pelli,' he said, 'there's been a development.' His voice had an echoing, ethereal quality.
Even though they were separated by an unimaginable void, she could see he was troubled. 'What is it?' she urged.
'I told you we thought there could be another player in the little drama you have unfolding there, and that there are indications someone other than the orcs has the instrumentalities. Now we've detected a further anomaly, making for a new possibility.'
'Yes?'
'There could be another set.'
' Another? Here? How likely is that?'
'The odds are… incalculable. But I should sound a note of caution. Because this is unprecedented we could be misinterpreting the signs. Though I have to say it's hard to reach any other conclusion.'
'So now we've got two sets to track down.'
'Yes. Well… perhaps.'
'Please, Karrell, help me on this. I can't operate properly if I don't know what — '
'I'm sorry. The thing is, it isn't clear. We're getting different magical signatures from what might be two sources. Their characteristics vary in a way we've never seen before.'
'All right. So what do we do?'
'We're working hard on resolving this. But you can see this makes your mission even more vital.'
'Yes, but what's my brief now?'
'Essentially, it remains the same. If you can recover the instrumentalities we know exist, those held by the orcs, or that were held by them, we can eliminate them from our search. The important thing is that you act quickly.'
'I can see that.'
'And I have to say, Pelli, I'm concerned that you haven't acted already.'
'Time spent on reconnaissance is never wasted, you know that. Also we've had to be sure that no innocents get caught up in this. Trouble's brewing here. Relations between the native population and their oppressors look as though they're coming to a head, and — '
'We don't concern ourselves with local affairs. It's one of the Corps' primary rules, as you're fully aware. I just hope it isn't some element of sympathy you feel for the orcs that's staying your hand.'
'It's true I think they've blundered into something they don't understand, and in that sense perhaps they're not to be blamed. That's why I hope to use persuasion to get the instrumentalities back before taking the ultimate step.'
'I've told you before that your compassion is understandable, and it reflects well on you.' His tone came across as a mite petulant. 'But these are orcs we're talking about. Some races are beyond the pale, even for the Corps. Your sympathy could well be misplaced. The outcome of your mission is more important than mere individuals. You must use all means to achieve our objective. Is that understood?'
'Yes, it is.' She mulled things over for a second and added, 'There's something I've been meaning to ask you. You gave me no orders about what would become of the warband once we've taken the instrumentalities from them.'
'Assuming they survive their encounter with you and your superior weaponry.'
'Yes, assuming that. Am I to return them to their home world?'
If she didn't know him better, Pelli would have thought the look Revers gave her was unduly hard. 'You have no such orders,' he told her.
Without further word he broke their connection.
