There were dead on Jennesta’s ship too. Some walked and breathed, after a fashion. Others would never do either again.
Several of the latter were being pitched overboard by a party of the former.
The corpses being disposed of were dwarfs, broken and bloodied following Jennesta’s creative interrogation methods. Apart from mundane necessity, the fate of the discarded cadavers had the additional effect of chastening her followers. But although Jennesta embraced, indeed revelled in the appellation tyrant, she was coming to understand the value of tempering stick with carrot when it came to her subordinates’ loyalty. This took several forms. The promise of power and riches under her dominion was one way. Another was the dispensing of pleasure, her sorcery being capable of conferring sensations of wellbeing, even ecstasy, as readily as terror.
But there was a kind of follower for whom neither punishment nor bliss was the spur. These rare individuals shared her taste for cruelty. And Jennesta had found one. His name was Freiston. He was a young low-ranking officer in the Peczan military, one of those who had thrown in their lot with her in the hope of extravagant rewards. He was a human, so naturally she distrusted him. Not that she didn’t distrust all races, but she was especially suspicious of humans. After all, her father was one.
Freiston had caught her attention because of his skill as a torturer, and his passion for it, which had proved useful. On the strength of that she promoted him to her notional second-in-command.
Following the debacle on the island, they were in Jennesta’s cabin. She was seated, regally; he was required to stand. Also present was Stryke’s mate, Thirzarr, who lay insensible on a cot. She looked as though she was sleeping, but it was a state only Jennesta’s sorcery could rouse her from.
“Did you get what you want, ma’am?” Freiston asked.
She smiled. “My wants exceed anything you could imagine. But if you mean the information I needed to set our course, then yes.”
“If I may say so, my lady, it’s ironic.”
“What is?”
“That those dwarfs should have given their lives for something as mundane as a location.”
She gave him a withering look. “It’s hardly mundane to me. But it was a case of making them understand, rather than them trying to withhold what I wanted. Not that you’re complaining, surely? You obviously enjoyed it.”
“I’m ready to serve you in any way necessary, ma’am.”
“Perhaps you should have been a diplomat rather than a soldier.” He started to respond. She waved him silent. “We’ll be in a combat situation at landfall. I need my force in good order and well briefed on what they’ll be up against. You’ll see to it.”
“Ma’am. We’re going to be a little under strength in a couple of key areas due to a few of our people being left behind on the dwarfs’ island.”
“Do I look like someone who cares about that? If they were too slovenly to obey my evacuation order I don’t need them.”
“Yes, m’lady. Can I ask when we’ll reach our destination?”
“In about two days. What I seek turned out to be nearer than I suspected. So you’re going to be a busy little man, Freiston.” She rose. “Let’s set the wheels turning.” Glancing at Thirzarr’s recumbent form, she led him out of the cabin.
From the deck, the other four vessels in her flotilla could be seen, ploughing in her flagship’s wake. On the deck itself, one of Jennesta’s undead stood motionless over a dwarf’s body. She swept that way, Freiston in tow.
Approaching, she saw that the zombie was General Kapple Hacher. Or had been. He was staring at the cadaver. Freiston showed no emotion at seeing his one-time commanding officer so hideously reduced.
Jennesta was furious. “What are you doing, you dolt?” she raged. “You had your orders. Take that-” She jabbed a finger at the corpse. “-and cast it overboard.”
The drooling hulk that had been a great army’s general and governor of a Peczan province carried on staring.
“Do it!” Jennesta insisted, further incensed. “Obey me!”
Hacher lifted his gaze to her, but otherwise stayed motionless. Her patience exhausted, she continued haranguing, and took to cuffing him with a rings-encrusted fist, raising puffs of dust from the tatters of his decaying uniform. After a moment his eyes, hitherto glassy, flickered and showed something like sentience, and perhaps a hint of defiance.
Freiston’s hand went to his sword hilt.
“ Do… as… you’re… told,” Jennesta commanded, fixing Hacher with a look of smouldering intensity.
The light died in his eyes and they returned to insensible. With a kind of rasping sigh he bent to the corpse. He lifted it with no sign of effort and, straightening, tossed it over the rail. There was a distant splash.
“Now get back to your duties,” Jennesta told him.
Hacher slowly turned and trudged away, heading for the prow and a group of fellow zombies hefting supplies.
Jennesta saw Freiston’s expression and answered his unspoken question. “Sometimes, when their original force of will was strong, subjects can be less compliant.” She indicated the party Hacher was joining. “They’re imperfect beings; far from the ideal I have in mind.”
“Can they be improved, ma’am?”
“Oh, yes. In the same way that a peasant using poor clay makes poor pots, this first batch has flaws that carried over from the material I was forced to use. But with the right subjects, and refinements I’ve made to the process, the next batch is going to be far superior. As you’ll soon see. But you have something on your mind, Freiston. What is it?”
“We have the orc’s female,” he replied hesitantly.
“Stryke’s mate, yes. What of it?”
“If he’s as pig-headed as you say, my lady, won’t his band be after us?”
“I’m counting on it.”
“Ah.” He knew better than to query her reasoning, but ventured another thought. “And the group that attacked us? Who were they?”
“They can only have been the Gateway Corps. I thought they were a myth, but it appears not.”
“Aren’t they another threat?”
“They’re meddlers. Self-appointed so-called guardians of the portals. There’ll be a reckoning for what they did today.”
Freiston had doubts about that, given that Jennesta had just had to retreat from them. But naturally he kept his opinion to himself.
“Neither orcs nor a ragbag of interfering elder races are going to stand in my way,” she went on. “There’s going to be a very different outcome the next time our paths cross.”
3
Stryke’s fury had subsided. Cold purpose took its place.
He set about getting things organised. As it was nearly dusk, the dwarfs’ remaining undamaged longhouses were commandeered and the surrounding area secured. A group was sent to the goblin ship the band had arrived in, to replenish its rations and to guard it. Scouting parties were dispatched to comb the island.
Having done as much as he could for the time being, Stryke sat down on the steps of one of the longhouses and fell to brooding. Everybody in the band knew better than to approach him. With one exception.
Jup came to him with a steaming bowl and a canteen. “Here.” He offered the food. Stryke barely looked at it, and said nothing. “You’ve got to eat,” the dwarf told him. “For Thirzarr. You’ll be no good famished.”
Stryke took the bowl. He stared at its contents. “What is it?”
Jup seated himself. “Lizard. The jungle’s full of ’em. That other stuff’s leaves and roots,” he added helpfully. “There’s fruit too, but I figured you need meat.”
Stryke began eating, without enthusiasm.
After a moment, Jup ventured, “About Thirzarr…” He ignored Stryke’s baleful expression and pushed on. “I’ll tell you what you told me when Spurral got taken. Your mate has a value to Jennesta. And you don’t damage something of value.”