THE TAKING
STAN NICHOLLS

Humans were eating the magic.
The ice was encroaching and autumn had arrived in early summer. There was war on all sides and the rape of Maras-Dantia continued unchecked.
But today none of that seemed to matter.
It didn't matter to Stryke. His only concern was the arcing blade threatening to cleave his skull. He ducked and let it rip vacant air. Bringing up his shield, he blocked the follow-through, taking the jolts as his opponent beat the steel like a forge. Once that spent itself Stryke was back on the offensive. He sent out two rapid passes. The first was parried, metal ringing. The next breached his rival's guard, forcing him into a staggering retreat.
They circled, breathing heavily, looking for an opening.
Stryke advanced, shield levelled, sword prowling. Another flurry ensued, the combatants toe to toe, neither giving. The onlookers roared and catcalled.
Raining blows, Stryke powered forward, delivering a mix of thrusts and slashes that ribboned the other's defences. There was a brief rally, a further exchange of swipes and counter swipes. But Stryke's greater skill paid off. A jarring hit dashed away his foe's sword. More pounding dislodged the shield, sending it bouncing across the yellowed grass. Then Stryke was looming over his downed opponent with raised blade. The watchers bayed.
He plunged his sword into the earth and tossed aside his shield. Offering the fallen his hand, he hoisted him to his feet. 'Not bad, Kestix. But watch that guard.'
The grunt managed a broken-toothed grin. 'Right, chief,' he panted.
Somebody yelled, 'Heads up!'
As they all turned to look, Stryke snapped, ''ten-shun!'
The figure striding toward them was a good forty seasons in age. His ramrod bearing and war weathered face told of status, never mind the rank tattoos marking his cheeks. He regarded the assembled band, two dozen or so grunts and four officers, through rheumy eyes.
'General Kysthan, sir!' Stryke greeted, saluting with fist to chest.
'At ease, Captain, and the rest of you.'
The troop relaxed, most of them eyeing the second figure, who stayed mounted a spear's lob distant.
'Sorry to spoil your pleasure,' the general told them, 'especially today.'
'No problem, sir,' Stryke assured him. 'What do you need?'
'Just for you to take delivery of that corporal you're lacking. I've brought a replacement.'
More curious glances went the way of whoever was on the horse.
'Thank you, sir. And this replacement's joining us now?'
'Yes, captain.'
'On Braetagg's Day?' a hulking sergeant blurted. In humbler tone he added, 'Begging your pardon, General, sir.'
Stryke shot him a homicidal look.
The general appeared more benevolent. 'That's all right, Sergeant-'
'Haskeer, General.'
'Sergeant Haskeer. These are troubled times. Even Braetagg's Day isn't exempt from military needs. I want this corporal inducted and you back up to strength.'
Haskeer nodded sagely, as though imagining he conferred with an equal. Stryke suspected he only got away with it because of what day it was. He made a note to have him lightly flogged later.
Kysthan waved the rider to approach. 'Good kill tally in the horde,' he explained as they waited. 'Meets the band's standard, and a gift for strategy.'
The steed came at pace, reining in by them, spattering clods of soil. Its passenger slid from the saddle like mercury down slingshot.
'Corporal Coilla,' the general announced.
The new arrival gave them a smile with real flint in it.
Stryke regarded her. They were probably of an age, a score of seasons or thereabouts, and not far off in height. Her craggy, slightly mottled hide looked healthy enough and she was pleasingly muscular. She had obvious pride, and a hard certainty in her eyes. A fitting demeanour. There was no denying she was a handsome orc.
She returned his gaze. What she saw was what she'd expected; a battle-tempered, robust warrior stamped with command. But there might have been a hint of something more, a small quirk of manner that betrayed deeper concerns than even the martial. Perhaps because of that, there was no denying he was a handsome orc.
'Well met,' she said, extending her hand.
He took it warrior style, forearm clasping forearm, and thought how nicely humid her touch was. 'Well met. Welcome to the Wolverines.'
Coilla scanned the others, lingering on each face for a fraction of a second yet scrutinising them all. She dwelt just a little longer on the only dwarf present, whose facial tattoos indicated he was a sergeant. Then her eyes flicked back to Stryke. She said nothing.
'You know what a hardy outfit this is,' General Kysthan told her. 'I'm relying on you to fit in. Your record says you can. But put a foot wrong in a warband like the Wolverines and you're liable to end up dead.'
'Yes, sir.'
Kysthan was already moving towards his ride. The band stiffened to attention again. 'Good luck, Corporal.' He tugged a pair of black leather gloves from his belt. 'Stryke, keep me informed on her progress.' The gloves flicked out in a parting gesture, as though he were swatting at a fly. 'Enjoy the day!'
They watched him mount, wheel the horse and gallop across the parade ground through swelling crowds. His route led to the sugar white edifice of Cairnbarrow's royal palace, its walls shining from dawn rain, its lofty towers piercing leaden clouds.
Coilla and the band eyed each other.
'What happened to the corporal I'm replacing?' she asked abruptly.
'What do you think?' Stryke replied. 'Warbands take casualties. If that's a problem-'
'No, no problem. It's what I'd expect. So when do we start getting me invested?'
'I dunno why we have to do it at all on Braetagg's Day,' Haskeer grumbled again.
'It's as good as any other day,' responded an orc who looked the oldest, and who, like Coilla, bore the markings of a corporal. He turned to Stryke. 'Maybe we should introduce her to the band before we do anything else, Chief,' he suggested.
Stryke indicated he should do it.
'I'm Alfray,' the ageing corporal told her. 'Haskeer you've already heard from. He's-'
'A moron,' the dwarf rumbled.
The sergeants exchanged murderous glances.
'And this is Jup,' Alfray said.
The dwarf winked at her, a bit roguishly she thought. A flash of white teeth lit his bearded face.
Coilla spoke impetuously. 'I was expecting ... '
'Somebody taller?'
'Somebody a little less ... dwarfish,' she replied dryly. 'I mean, I didn't think there were that many in warbands.'
'You orcs aren't the only ones skilled in combat.'
'In your dreams,' Haskeer muttered.
'More like a nightmare with your mug,' Jup returned.
'Shut up,' Stryke growled menacingly, 'the pair of you.'
They retreated into morose silence.
Alfray cleared his throat. 'The troopers,' he continued, commencing to point them out. 'That's Kestix. There's Finje and Zoda. Hystykk, Bhose, Slettal, Darig. Let's see. Vobe, Liffin, Noskaa ... er … Calthmon, Wrelbyd, Prooq. That's Meklun ... Reafdaw, Gant, Jad ... Gleadeg, Toche, Breggin.' He blinked at the farthest faces. 'Talag and ... Seafe. Oh, and Nep, Orbon and Eldo, at the back there.'
Some of the grunts acknowledged Coilla; others kept a wary reserve.
'Right,' Stryke announced, glad that was over. 'You'll be billeting here, Corporal.' He jabbed a thumb at the wooden longhouses behind them, bedecked with clan shields. 'But there's not much we'll be doing this day. Let's see how things are going with the celebrations.'
There were murmurs of approval from the band.
Coilla shrugged. 'Fine by me.'

They strolled in the direction of the main square, Coilla walking beside the other officers. The grunts stuck together in their own group, indulging in a certain amount of horseplay she imagined Stryke wouldn't normally allow.
Crowds were gathering for the festivities. They were mostly orcs, as would be expected on such a day, but with a smattering of other races, including a few humans of the Mani creed. A knot of gremlin emissaries passed by, solemn in grey robes. Daintily framed elf servants bustled on errands. Brownie dragon handlers, proud and aloof, weaved through the mass. Far overhead, a squadron of their charges circled on leathery, serrated wings.
Chill gusts came in from both the eastern ocean and the advancing ice sheet in the north. More rain threatened.
Wrapping his jerkin tighter, Alfray broke the silence. 'It gets a little worse every year. In my time, Braetagg's Day was a summer festival. Look at it now.'
'Humans,' Haskeer spat. 'Fucking up the magic.'
'Unis anyway,' Alfray corrected. 'Them and their wretched single god.'
'Manis, Unis; not much to choose between them if you ask me.'
'Don't be too loose in spreading that thought, Haskeer,' Stryke cautioned. 'You wouldn't want it getting back to our mistress.'
'The Queen's a chancer,' Alfray said, 'we all know that. She'll back the Manis only as long as it suits her.'
'That's enough careless talk,' Stryke decreed, glancing around for flapping ears.
'I don't know a lot about Braetagg's Day,' Jup confessed. 'I've never actually been in Cairnbarrow for it before. Tell me about it.'
'Admitting you're ignorant, eh?' Haskeer gibed.
'Ignorance I leave to you. You're so much better equipped for it.'
'Braetagg was a great orc chieftain,' Alfray quickly put in. 'You must know that much.'
''Course,' Jup said. 'The rest of it's a bit vague though.'
'To be honest, it's not all that clear to us either. We don't know where he came from or exactly when he lived, except it was about a century ago. What we do know is that he led our race in some famous victories. That was when the United Orc Clans was a real power. Before things started going down. He struck off the yoke at a time when some of the other elder races looked to enslave us. So, above all, we honour him as a liberator.'
'Pity it didn't stick,' Coilla remarked sourly.
From his expression it was obvious Stryke thought that was dangerous talk too. But he kept his peace.
As they continued their trek, Coilla found herself slightly apart from the others, with only Jup to hand.
'Take a tip?' he asked in an undertone.
She nodded.
'Watch your tongue. You're not in the horde any longer. Things get noticed more in a smaller group like this.' He let that soak in then added, 'Not that I'm saying we don't agree with you.'
'All right. Question?'
'Sure.'
'What's the beef between you and Haskeer?'
'I haven't got one. Well, maybe a bit,' he relented. 'It comes down to this thing about dwarfs. Lots of beings feel the way he does.'
'You mean the way dwarfs ... blow with the wind?'
'We both know what we're talking about, Coilla. My race has a reputation for siding with whoever has the most coin, even if they happen to be Unis. Some see it as treachery. I reckon we're just ... practical.'
'So how practical is it being in one of Jennesta's warbands? You could be doing something less dangerous, and probably better paid.'
'I can't answer for all my kind, much as Haskeer keeps trying to hold me to account. It might seem strange to you, what with you orcs having been bartered into the Queen's service and all, but some of us think there's a cause worth fighting for here. Somebody's got to stop the humans tearing the guts out of Maras-Dantia. The bad ones, anyway.'
'Indentured or not, most of us think that too. Look, Sergeant, I don't give a fuck about the politics. All I care about is whether my comrades are good at their job and are gonna cover my back.'
'That's the way I see it. And that's the thing about Haskeer. He's a bastard, but he's a good fighter, and he's enough of a team player to be there when you want him. It's one of the things I like about orcs.' He smiled. 'By the way, forget the rank. Call me Jup.'
'Is he the only one giving you a hard time?'
'He is now, more or less. I had to do a lot to prove myself when I first joined this band. It'll be the same with you for a while.'
'Only dwarf and only female, eh?'
'Right. But at least you have the advantage of being an orc.'
They entered the square. Strands of bunting had been hung and pennants billowed in the wind. Numerous clan shields were racked in columns. Mountainous bone-fires stood ready for kindling by tarred arrows at the height of the celebrations.
Skirting roped-off areas set aside for tourneys later in the day, the band moved into the shadow of the palace. A grand tent had been pitched, cloth flapping, regal ensigns basted on either side of its entrance. Two orc sentinels guarded it, spears crossed. Recognising Stryke, they stepped aside, allowing the band to file into the cavernous interior.
Burning brands and watery sunlight dappled by the marquise's fabric gave the place an eerie illumination.
As one they stopped, regarding with awe what was housed there.
Alfray laid a hand on Coilla's arm. 'First time you've seen him?'
A nod was all she could manage.
Most of the grunts stared with something near reverence, and not a little superstitious dread.
At length, Jup decided, 'I think it's unnatural, and probably unsanitary.'
'Watch what you're insulting, short-arse,' Haskeer rumbled ominously.
Stryke gave them a stern look and mouthed, 'Show respect.'
A throne of some splendour had been placed in the centre of the tent. It was embellished with beaten gold inlays and silver tracings. Its backrest was fashioned into the likeness of a phoenix rising from artfully carved flames. Rubies served as the beast's eyes, and burned crimson. If not quite managing the grandeur of any of Jennesta's thrones, it was still fit for a warlord.
Braetagg sat in it.
More accurately, he was propped, one hand resting on the hilt of a jutting broadsword. The empty scabbard lay across his lap, and he wore a simple gold crown. His mail shone, his leather trews were unsullied and his boots had been polished.
His skin was stretched, clearly showing the outlines of bones beneath, and it had the colour of yellowing parchment. Once stitched, his mouth now had a rictus that displayed several teeth of similar hue. The eyes were hollow sockets. There was a faint tint about the corpse's parched flesh that spoke of the unguents and herbs employed by the embalmers.
'He looks like he could stand up and talk to us,' Haskeer declared wonderingly.
'I fucking hope not,' Jup said.
Horns of ale and canteens of rugged wine were snapped from belt clips. Handing them round, the band took turns toasting their forebear. In solidarity, even Jup had his share. When it came to Coilla, they all watched approvingly as she downed hers without blanching. She noticed Haskeer draining his flask in a single draft.
They lingered for a while, then Stryke ordered them out.
Blinking in the stronger light, it took them a second to realise the crowd was facing the palace, heads craning. They followed their gazes to a high balcony and the figure standing there.
Queen Jennesta was dressed in white, her cascade of ebony hair flowing free in the keen breeze. From where they were standing her features couldn't really be made out. But they were familiar enough with her half human, half nyadd ancestry, and the abnormal geometry of her dark beauty.
The Wolverines had come late to her address, or quite possibly harangue. In any event, distance and the wind made it hard to catch more than odd words. They were trying to interpret what they could hear when she raised her arms and began negotiating a complex series of hand gestures.
There was a blinding flash of orangey-green light. Something like a fireball streaked down from her lofty perch, leaving a vivid red trace-line in its wake. It struck one of the steeped bonfires with a thunderous roar and the pile instantly erupted in flames. The crowd cheered and hooted.
'Bread and circuses,' Alfray sniffed, seemingly unimpressed.
'Come on,' Jup told him, 'Braetagg's Day existed long before she came along.'
'And purloined it.'
They watched the pyre consume itself, their enthusiasm a little dampened.

The Wolverines were lounging on the decking of one of their longhouse billets when Reafdaw came back from his errand.
'Get it?' Stryke said.
'Yes, Chief.' Smiling, the grunt took a small pouch from his belt satchel and handed it over.
The others gathered to watch Stryke open it. Inside was a quantity of tiny crystals, translucent but with a faint purple-pinkish hue.
'Seems choice,' Alfray judged.
Coilla leaned over to look. 'Hmmm, pellucid. That should brighten the day.'
'You can't beat a good charge of crystal lightning,' Jup agreed.
'Don't think we're going to make a habit of this,' Stryke warned them. 'See it as Braetagg's treat. Do the honours, will you, Alfray?'
The corporal rummaged in his field medical bag for a mortar and pestle, then set to grinding the crystals into a fine powder. Reafdaw helped him pack it into cobs.
Soon a distinctive aroma perfumed the air as the first pipes were passed round.
Expelling a long plume of chalky smoke, Jup wheezed, 'I think I'm warming to this Braetagg.'
'That better dot be nisrespectful,' Haskeer said. 'Er ... Bhat tetter ... Uhm ... Just don't take the piss, right?'
'Yuck Fou,' the dwarf returned jovially.
Haskeer's glazed eyes took on a puzzled cast.
Ribald jokes were told, triggering helpless laughter. Grunts took turns at the peculiarly orcish art of boasting, embellishing their deeds to points beyond absurdity. There was a lot of giggling.
Stryke leaned against the wall, the back of his head cradled in linked hands. 'Another hour of this and the festivities proper should be getting underway.'
'If we can still walk to it,' Alfray slurred.
Jup was adrift in a convoluted and largely incoherent anecdote when Coilla interrupted with: 'Who's that?'
Bloodshot eyes lazily turned the way she indicated. Three mounted orcs galloped towards them. One had a fluttering purple cloak.
'Shit,' Stryke cursed, scrambling unsteadily to his feet. 'Crelim.'
Coilla squinted at him. 'Who?'
'Crelim. The General's aide-de-camp. Up! All of you, up!'
There was an unsteady rising, aided by the tip of Stryke's boot. Swaying orcs brushed dirt from their breeches and watched the party arrive.
Perfunctory salutes exchanged, Crelim lost no more time on formalities. 'Direct orders from General Kysthan. Special assignment. You're to come with me. Now.'
'Today, Major?' Stryke protested. 'Is it really necc-'
'Our enemies are no respecter of days, Captain, and I'm not here for a debate.' He took in their appearance and reckoned their state. 'Get your heads into a water butt first if you have to, only move your arses!'
Accompanying themselves with wholesale low-key grumbling, they did as they were told.
The crowds were bigger and growing. Crelim and his outriders, wordless, led them back to the square, and across it to the tent. A mass of orcs were outside, marshalled by a strong contingent of sentries.
'Jennesta's own Imperial Guard, no less,' Alfray whispered.
Stryke nodded, still trying to clear out the fug.
When they dismounted, Crelim ordered the grunts to stay outside. He went in with Stryke, Haskeer, Alfray, Jup and Coilla.
There were more guards inside, living and dead. The detail assigned to protect Braetagg was sprawled on the ground, throats cut or backs knifed. Blood had splashed the tent walls.
More shocking was the absence of Braetagg himself.
Jup regarded the empty throne and said, 'Maybe you were right, Haskeer. He got up and walked away.'
'That's more than you'll be doing if you don't shut that mouth.'
Stryke silenced them with a chopping motion and a venomous face.
Crelim pointed to a wide slash in the back of the tent. 'That's how they got him out.'
'Why would anybody want to take him?' Coilla wondered. 'I mean, what for?'
The Major shrugged. 'All I know is that if the festivities start and there's no Braetagg there could be disorder.'
'To put it mildly,' Alfray said.
'We can't afford this getting out,' Crelim went on, 'which is why we've brought in a special operations band. You're to act in secret. Your orders are to retrieve Braetagg's remains and get them back here pronto.
'And if we don't?' Stryke asked.
'The Queen herself wants this resolved.'
'Don't bother coming back, in other words.'
'You said it, Captain.'
Eyes closed, Stryke massaged the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. He sighed. 'Any idea who might have done this?'
'No. But there's one possibility. Some pyros have been seen in the area over the last couple of days. One of the dragon patrols sighted a party of them just yesterday afternoon, down towards Hecklowe.'
'And that's all there is to go on?'
Crelim nodded. 'We're relying on you. Don't tarry.'
He turned and left, retinue in tow.
'On fucking Braetagg's-'
'Don't say it, Haskeer,' Stryke cautioned in even, icy tones.
'Pyros?' Coilla said.
'A human cult. Fire worshippers or some such.'
'What, Manis? Unis?'
'Don't think they're either.'
'They're a magical sect,' Alfray explained.
Coilla was disdainful. 'What? Since when did humans have magic any more than orcs do? They're only good at bleeding it.'
'Maybe they're seekers of magic rather than actually possessing it,' Jup suggested. 'They probably want some mastery of the earth energies, like most of the other elder races.'
'Sounds crazy to me,' Haskeer opined.
'And your point is? We're talking about humans, bonehead.'
'Who you calling a bonehead, you little scumpouch?'
'Enough!' Stryke growled. 'Who knows what good Braetagg's corpse is to these pyros, if they took it. What's important is getting it back, else the day ends in bloodshed.'
Jup was examining the area around the empty throne. 'Perhaps magic's the key,' he told them. 'My mild magic, farsight. Though it's much depleted, thanks to those fucking interfering humans.' He knelt and plucked something from the seat of the throne. They saw it was a minute scrap of cloth. 'This isn't Braetagg's. It's a coarse weave, not like anything he was wearing.'
'Could be anybody's.'
'True. But it doesn't match any of the guard's uniforms either.' He looked up at Stryke. 'Most of all, it's the only clue we have.'
'Is it enough?' Alfray wondered. 'For the farsight?'
'I don't know,' the dwarf replied. 'Could be. What do you reckon, Stryke?'
'You're supposed to be a trailblazer. Blaze.'

They were around ten miles west of Cairnbarrow. The palace's spires could still be seen, but so too could the bulwark of the glacier, a thin white line dominating the northern horizon. Light rain had begun to fall. It was sallow, with a vaguely unpleasant odour reminding them of sulphur and decaying things.
The mounted band looked on as Jup crouched with his hands immersed in mud, eyes closed, sampling the earth energies. Eventually he stood and started wiping the muck away. 'The strength's irregular. Bastard humans.'
'But?' Stryke said.
'But I think they're heading for Taklakameer.'
'It's kind of a big area to cover, isn't it?' Coilla ventured. 'For just thirty of us?'
'Yes,' Stryke agreed. 'So the sooner we get on, the better.'
They continued westward. Every so often, Jup used his erratic farsight and insisted their quarry was still moving towards the inland sea.
Eventually the band arrived at a bluff overlooking the wind-rippled waters. The vastness of the sea, and the curling mists clinging to its surface, meant the far shores couldn't be seen. But the water lapping the nearest bank was scummy and defiled.
'Now what?' Alfray wanted to know.
'Can your farsight narrow the search, Jup?' Stryke asked.
'Not much more than this. You know water can smother it.'
'How so?' Coilla said.
'Water holds the magic, in the same way forest glades and remote valleys do. Maybe because those are harder places for humans to plough up, mine and graze.'
'If there's more magic, doesn't that increase your farsight?'
'That's the problem. It heightens the power but also everything I pick up. It's hard to explain. You could say it's a bit like being blinded by the light.'
Stryke had a plan. 'We'll spilt into two groups and scour the shore north and south. I'll lead one, along with you, Alfray, and you, Coilla. We'll take half the grunts and head south. Haskeer and Jup, you'll take the other half. If either group comes across anything they can't handle, send a runner.'
They set off.
Stryke's group hugged the shoreline, and they could see Jup and Haskeer's doing the same. Soon they were out of sight of each other.
After riding in silence for a few minutes, Coilla ventured, 'Is it safe leaving those two together, Captain?'
'Who?'
'Jup and Haskeer, of course.'
'It's true there's not a lot of love lost between them, but when the cards are down, they're Wolverines first. Anyway, they're not hatchlings. If they behave like they are, on a mission, they're out and they know it.'
'Have you run into these pyros before?'
'Not really. Some of the other bands have.'
'They're not numerous but they are fanatical,' Alfray added, 'and that's often more dangerous.'
'What's the plan if we find them?' Coilla said.
Stryke looked as though he found the question odd. 'We kill them. What else?'

'Keep your eyes peeled.'
'That's a fucking stupid thing to say,' Haskeer flared. 'What else do you think I'd be doing?'
'I don't know,' the dwarf said. 'Playing with your fertilising sac?'
'Get off that horse and I'll ram your head up its arse.'
'It'd be an improvement over looking at your face.'
'You want yours rearranged, just say.'
'Yeah, in the middle of a mission. That'd be really smart.'
'Sergeants!' one of the grunts hissed.
'What?' they chorused irritably.
'Over there.' He pointed.
Off to their right, inland from the shore, stood a brace of low dumpy hills with a copse between. The light of a fire could be seen through the trees.
Haskeer and Jup brought the column to a halt.
'What do you reckon?' Haskeer said.
'Let's do a recce.'
'All of us?'
'Nah, we can handle this by ourselves.'
The grunts were ordered to stay with the horses. Jup and Haskeer went off.
They approached the copse stealthily, keeping low, cutting a zigzag path. Then they were on their bellies, crawling in the undergrowth, until they stopped at the fringe of a clearing.
A large fire had been built at its centre. Twenty or thirty figures clustered around it, their shadows elongated and grotesque in the gathering dusk. The figures had oddly shaped heads.
Haskeer gawped at them. 'What the hell race are they?'
'Humans, dolt,' Jup whispered. 'They're wearing wolfs' heads.' Something else caught his eye. 'Look over there.'
At the edge of the firelight, Braetagg's body lay stretched out on a flat rock. One of the wolf-headed humans stood close by. The arcane movements of his hands, accompanied by a low chant from many of the others present, implied a ritual of some kind.
'We need the full strength for this,' Jup reckoned. 'Let's get out of here.'
Haskeer nodded. 'Right.'
'Wrong.'
They didn't even get a chance to turn and see who'd spoken. Seized by rough hands, they were hauled to their feet. Half a dozen humans, sporting wolfs' heads like macabre cowls, surrounded them. Blades against their throats, the Wolverines were disarmed and their wrists bound.
Haskeer shot Jup a venomous look. '"We can handle this by ourselves,"' he mocked.
'Hold your noise!' one of the humans ordered. 'Least until the Master gets started on you.' He smirked at his comrades. They broke into unpleasant laughter.
The captives were frog-marched into the clearing, their appearance putting a stop to the dirge. Led through the staring ranks, they were taken to the man standing next to Braetagg's corpse. From his arrogant bearing, and the deferential way the others addressed him, he was obviously the sect's leader.
Eyes as dead as those on the wolf headgear he wore, the human regarded Jup and Haskeer contemptuously. 'So. Intruders. And sub-humans at that.'
'We ain't sub anything to do with your kind,' the dwarf retorted.
For his trouble he took a sharp crack across his face with a gauntlet. Trickles of blood snaked from his nose and the side of his mouth.
'What you doing with Braetagg?' Haskeer demanded. He strained against his bonds, uselessly.
'Seeking magic,' the Master told him, his voice intense. 'Tapping the energy the same way you so called elder races do.'
'Mine doesn't.'
Haskeer's reward was a blow to the stomach that doubled him.
'How can a corpse have anything to do with the magic?' Jup raged. 'You crazy bastards!'
'Crazy?' the Master repeated, looking genuinely affronted.
He turned to the corpse and seemed to study it for a moment. Then he grasped the smallest finger of Braetagg's right hand and snapped it off with an audible crack. A tiny puff of grey dust attended the break.
Haskeer's hollered protest was stifled by fresh blows. For good measure, the pyros gave Jup's kidneys a pummelling too. Ignoring their struggles, the leader held the finger up at eye level, examining it. That done, he tossed it into the fire.
The flames instantly blazed more brightly, liberating a myriad swirling, multicoloured sparks. By turns, the pyre burned emerald, scarlet, gold and turquoise, each with an intensity so dazzling it was hard to look at. It beggared belief that a scrap of arid flesh could make such tumult. Haskeer and Jup were confounded by the sight of it.
'A taste of Braetagg's potency,' the Master declared as the effect abated. 'With proper ritual and a thorough grinding of the cadaver, the resultant essence will grant me the power of sorcery.'
'You're fucking mad,' Jup growled.
'So you said.' The leader's bushy eyebrows arched. 'But you won't be here to see me disprove that. Like most rituals, this one is all the better for a little blood sacrifice.' He signalled to his minions. 'Make them ready!'

'This is getting us nowhere,' Alfray complained.
'You've a better idea?' Stryke said.
'Maybe we could split into smaller groups and speed the search.'
'No, we're split enough as it is.'
They rode on in silence.
At length, Coilla exclaimed, 'Over there!' They looked the way she pointed. The light of a fire glinted faintly on the opposite bank. 'Ours?' she wondered.
'Even those two wouldn't be so stupid as to light a fire,' Stryke assured her.
'So?' Alfray said.
'So it's all we've got.' He barked an order and the half-band wheeled about.
They travelled at a clip, ducking branches, following the shore's camber as tight as they dared.
An arrow's flight further and a bunch of grunts waved them down. There were swift explanations of the sergeants' absence.
'Perfect,' Stryke fumed, 'now we've got a corpse and two idiots to rescue.'
'How do we do it?' Coilla asked.
'Three groups, and you're leading one of them. Calthmon, Darig; you'll stay here with the horses. That leaves ... twenty-six. My group and Alfray's will take eight grunts each. You get ten, Coilla.'
'Thanks for trusting me.'
'It's a case of needs must, Corporal. Fuck this up and you're out.'
'What's the plan?' Alfray said.
'Nothing fancy. We go into that copse from three sides. Priority is getting Haskeer and Jup out in one piece, then Braetagg if we can manage it. Questions?'
They had none. Quickly mustered into their three groups, they set out; left, right and straight ahead.
Coilla's detail took the right-hand course, and was soon creeping through foliage to the clearing. No guards were encountered. They saw the fire and Braetagg's body stretched out on its rock slab, Jup and Haskeer captive beside it. Two humans had hold of the sergeants; another seemed to be performing a ritual. The rest of the wolf-headed pyros stood further back, droning a rhythmic chant.
Coilla turned to the nearest grunt. 'It's ... Slettal, isn't it?' she whispered.
'Ma'am.'
'How many good archers have we got with us?'
He frowned. 'How good?'
'They'd have one chance to hit those two holding the sergeants.'
'Sorry, corporal. We're all handy with a bow, but a shot like that ... '
'I should have guessed,' she sighed. 'All right, I'll try it myself.' He went to hand her a bow. She waved it aside and raked back one of her baggy shirtsleeves, revealing an arm scabbard of throwing knives. 'I prefer these,' she explained, plucking out a pair of snub blades.
Slettal looked from her to her distant targets and back again. 'You can do that?
'I can try. If I manage it, all of you be ready to go in fast and tackle the main body. If I don't, we make for the two I missed and that priest type. At least we can avenge the sergeants. Got that? Good. Now stand ready.'
She knew the other Wolverines were likely to attack at any second, risking Jup and Haskeer's lives. There was no time to spare. She took a bead on the hardest mark first; the human almost completely shielded by Haskeer. The second, restraining Jup, offered a softer target. Though in truth neither was easy. The third human, the one she took to be the leader, was growing more animated as the ritual climaxed.
Centring herself, breath held, Coilla pitched a knife. It was still in the air as she lobbed the second.
The human grasping Haskeer caught his blade in an eye, reeled and dropped. His comrade stopped the next throw with his chest and went down shrieking.
'Move!' Coilla yelled.
They burst into the clearing. Simultaneously, Stryke and Alfray's groups attacked. Coilla made for the sergeants. The rest of her crew obeyed orders and piled into the greater knot of humans at her rear. A chaotic melee of shouting, screaming, and ringing steel broke out.
As she dashed forward, Coilla noticed that the fire was behaving strangely. It blazed with an unusual ferocity, the flames permeated with brilliant primary colours. But she had no time to ponder it. The pyro leader, face twisted with fury, had drawn a sword. She accelerated and veered past him, narrowly avoiding the slicing blade. Then she was with the sergeants and slashing their bonds.
'Incoming!' Jup shouted.
Several armed pyros were running their way. Coilla passed one of her blades to the dwarf. Haskeer scooped his own from a fallen guard. Bellowing war cries, they rushed to engage them.
Coilla was left to confront the leader. He came at her in a frenzied state, roaring incoherently, splitting the air with his broadsword. She set to fending his wild blows, answering each with a foray of her own.
'Meddling ingrates!' he raged. 'Savages!'
'That's rich from somebody wearing a dead animal,' she retorted coolly, needling him further.
Another ferocious outburst ensued. Coilla ducked and dodged, blocking his thrusts and repaying them.
'The ritual!' the leader stormed. 'You broke the ritual! Fools!'
Then his expression froze. He pulled back, forgetting his guard, and stared beyond her, eyes wide. Assuming a feint, but not entirely sure, she rapidly moved to one side and turned her head. What she saw made her jaw drop.
Braetagg's corpse was moving.
It sat up. Stiffly, it seemed to stretch, dry old bones creaking. It slowly swung its legs and placed its feet on the ground. At once it rose, and for a second swayed. Then it began to walk, ponderous at first, its limbs working sluggishly.
Coilla tore her gaze away and looked at the human. He stood immobile, face ashen. All the others in the clearing were at a distance, occupied by the melee, and seemed unaware of Braetagg's tramping husk.
The corpse continued to trudging with grim, deliberate purpose, leaving a faint trail of whitish dust. Coilla tensed as it lurched past, heedless of her, and she fancied there was some kind of subtle light in its hollow eyes.
Shaking off his inertia, though still in the grip of terror, the sect's leader took up his sword to shield himself. It was a fainthearted effort. With shocking speed, the cadaver closed in and dashed the blade aside with apparent ease. The living and the dead melded.
Coilla looked on, her view obscured by the intense glare of the fire and the thick cloud rolling from it. She could make out the pair grappling, but little more. Then a scream came. Hideous, drawn-out, despairing. Human.
Several figures came at her through the swirl. She dropped her defensive stance when she saw it was Stryke and the others, wiping gore from their swords and hatchets.
'You did well,' Stryke said.
The fire was dying. A puff of wind diluted the smoke. It let her see the leader, sprawled on the earth, limbs at crazy angles. Death had stamped a frightful expression on his face. She looked to the stone slab. Braetagg's body lay on it, his pose unchanged.
Stryke stared at her. 'What's the matter?'
She blinked at him, shook her head. Decided. 'Nothing. It ... it's the crystal. Still muzzing my brain.'

They rode hell for leather, Braetagg's remains swathed in blankets and draped over a spare horse.
Making Cairnbarrow in record time, the band took the streets at a clip, ploughing the crowds of revellers. The main square held three times its earlier mass and slowed progress. Struggling through, they came to restless lines of orcs barred from the tent by Imperial guards.
Major Crelim appeared. A path was opened. The Wolverines' five officers were ushered in, along with a brace of grunts hauling their shrouded burden. They placed it on the floor and peeled back the blankets.
'I didn't think you'd do it,' Crelim confessed. 'Quickly, get him into the throne. And be careful.'
Gentle hands hoisted the corpse. Braetagg was positioned, his crown replaced, his parched hand laid upon the sword hilt. Coilla followed the proceedings with especial interest.
'He's missing a finger!' the Major exclaimed.
'Er, yes,' Stryke admitted. 'Not bad, considering what he might have lost. You could cover it with ... his sleeve or something.'
'I don't know…' Crelim mused doubtfully.
Haskeer swaggered to the throne. 'The Captain's right, sir. Nobody's going to notice that small a bit's not there. Braetagg's a tough old charger.' He moved nearer the corpse, ignoring the others' frantic signals for restraint. 'Nothing to worry about there. Tough as dragon hide soaked in piss for a month.' He brought back his balled hand in a gesture of bonhomie.
'No!' they all cried.
Too late to stay Haskeer's fist. The comradely punch impacted Braetagg's shoulder with a dull thud, raising as much dust as a beaten carpet. Haskeer gagged. Braetagg's arm came away, hung momentarily by a dried sinew, then fell. It hit the floor with a sound like a dropped roll of ancient parchment.
'You slugbrain!' Jup yelled.
'Sergeant Haskeer!' Crelim bellowed, face cerulean with fury.
All present vied to blacken Haskeer's parentage, and eyes.
Stryke edged away from the furore and sidled up to Coilla.
'Before you ask,' she said, 'I don't darn.'
He shrugged his shoulders and let out a long, weary breath. 'Happy Braetagg's Day.