“Then we’ll settle for getting our own back on Jennesta.”
“Some chance.”
“Taking chances is something else we do, even slim ones. But you don’t have to. If you don’t like the way things are going you can stay here with the elves.”
“No, no. I only-”
“Or if you think you can do better at leading the band, be my guest and try.”
“Look, Stryke, I just-”
“ Otherwise, stop bellyaching. Got it?”
Haskeer sighed and mumbled, “Got it.”
“Right. Now let’s see if we can find out what happened to Bhose.” He turned and walked away. Haskeer followed, and the rest of the band fell in behind them.
Stryke led them to the elves’ village. It had become a sombre place. The elves had dead of their own, many of them, and the bodies were laid out in front of Mallas Sahro’s lodge. He sat on an imposing, throne-like chair overlooking the scene, a couple of attendants at his side. When he saw the Wolverines approaching he rose to meet them.
“On behalf of my clan,” he said, “allow me to express regret at the loss of your comrade.”
Stryke nodded. He glanced at the rows of elven dead. “Your folk have suffered too. Our sympathies.”
“Thank you. We have an old saying: ‘There will be tears enough to rival the ocean.’ That never seemed more apt.”
“Why did you decide to use your magic after all?”
“The answer lies before you. In the past the goblins have taken a life here, a life there. Never before have they slaughtered us on such a scale. That, and because of what you said about us using our powers to throw off their yoke.”
“You aided us, and we’re grateful. But it was our fault. They were here because of us. We brought you trouble, and for that we owe you an apology.”
“No, you don’t. We already had that particular trouble. The goblins have plagued us for a long time, but it took today’s events to force us to act. It was a lesson. A hard one, to be sure, but necessary.”
“I’m pleased you see it that way. Though you must be aware that they might return for vengeance.”
“In which case we have our defensive magic. Hopefully it will be enough to ward them off. In any event, given the beating you inflicted on them, I suspect it will be a while before they brave our shores again.”
“I trust you’re right about that. But you probably aren’t the only islanders in these parts to be tormented by them. You might think of making common cause with your neighbours. There’s strength in numbers.”
“A wise thought. I’ll set about it once our period of mourning ends.”
“Don’t leave it too long,” Stryke cautioned.
“What we don’t understand,” Coilla said, “is what happened to Bhose.”
“Yeah, how the hell did the goblin manage a shot like that?” Jup wanted to know.
“Shadow-wing,” Mallas Sahro replied.
“What?” Stryke asked.
“The bow Gleaton-Rouk used. Its name is Shadow-wing. At least, that’s one of its names. It has many.”
“And it’s enchanted.”
“Of course. No ordinary bow could perform that way.”
“How does it work? I mean, why did it single out Bhose in particular?”
“Shadow-wing is subject to a very specific type of magic. The shafts it looses have to be daubed with blood from the intended victim. Once so anointed the arrow will always find its target. Always. It has nothing to do with the skill of the archer.”
“That explains something we saw when the goblins were retreating,” Coilla recalled. “One of them risked himself to pick up a weapon.”
“It must have been the weapon that wounded your comrade during the battle. The blood on it would have guided Shadow-wing’s arrow. In all probability the goblin retrieved the weapon knowing only that it had wounded an orc. It happened to be your comrade Bhose. It could have been any member of your band who sustained an injury that bled.”
“Why didn’t you warn us about this bow?” Jup said.
He shrugged his shoulders. “We simply didn’t have the chance.”
“What do you know about the bow?” Stryke said. “Where did it come from?”
“It was long thought to be a myth. Like all such fables, there are many stories attached to it, most contradictory. But the prevailing legend is that it was made by the goblins’ gods, long, long ago. They have strange gods, as you know, and not a few of them dark.”
“How did these gods come to be parted from it?”
“Again, there are different stories. Some say it was stolen from them by a celebrated goblin hero, who himself has many names. Others hold that the gods gifted it to a goblin in gratitude for a task he performed. Or that it was used by one god to kill another, a rival, and the bow was flung from the clouds in disgust, and landed on earth to vex the world of mortals. The tales are legion. As are those surrounding Shadow-wing’s passage through history. What the stories have in common is that corruption, treachery and death always attend the bow. Gleaton-Rouk is a master of those black arts, so I suppose it comes as no surprise that he has gained it. As I say, we thought the bow was just a story. I wish it could have stayed that way.”
“Well, we’re heading away from here. Chances are we’ll not see Gleaton-Rouk again, much as we’d like to have a reckoning with him. Likely it’s you that’ll have to face that damn weapon again.”
“If so, we shall be extra cautious about any of our blood that’s spilt.”
“I wouldn’t count on having seen the last of Gleaton-Rouk, Stryke,” Coilla suggested. “He has a grudge to settle with us.”
“We’re not going looking for him. Thirzarr comes first.”
“I thought this band believed in avenging its own,” Haskeer rumbled.
“We’ll go after him once we’ve settled our score with Jennesta.”
“If we’re still alive.”
“If we’re able, I vow we’ll cross paths with Gleaton-Rouk again.”
“And be careful not to bleed anywhere near him,” Jup added.
Spurral gave him a sharp elbow to the ribs.
“When must you leave?” Mallas Sahro asked. “Can you stay and take refreshments, or rest?”
“We’re moving on soon as we can,” Stryke said. “Besides…” He looked at the elf corpses. “… this is your time for grief, not feasting with strangers.”
“At least let us supply you with food and fresh water for your journey.”
“That would help. Thank you.”
“And this,” the chief said, slipping a hand into a pocket in his robe. He brought out a bracelet. Made of a silvery, semi-rigid material, it was about as wide as an orc’s finger was long, and was studded with blue stones of various sizes. There was a hinged clasp, indicating that it opened. “This is a charm to ward off magical attacks. It, too, is old, though not as ancient as the bow. It won’t repel the strongest magic, but might buy you a brief respite. Take it.”
“You’re sure?”
“I know orcs have no innate talent for magic, as elves do, and we have other charms. I think that you might need this more than us.”
“We’ll take any help we can get.”
“Be aware that once the bracelet is on your wrist it will be impossible to remove until either its protection is no longer needed or its power is spent.”
“I suppose it’ll stop me losing it,” Stryke reasoned. “But how long does its power last? And how will it know it isn’t needed anymore?”
“If unused, its magical energy could last centuries. In the event of it having to counter really potent sorcery, it might be less than a day. As to how it will know when to release itself… it will know.” He stared hard at Stryke. “So, your arm?”
Stryke obliged and Mallas Sahro clamped the bracelet on his wrist. Once the clasp clicked into place the bracelet visibly contracted and tightened. Stryke felt it gently fasten snugly against his flesh.
“By the end of the day you won’t even be aware of it,” the chief assured him.
Stryke looked it over, turning his wrist. “I’m obliged.” His gaze went to the sea. “We’ve got to be moving now.”
“I’ll have the supplies brought out right away.” He nodded at one of his aides, who hurried off. “And I have a suggestion. When they left, the goblins abandoned one of their ships; the one they used to try to board yours. It’s not quite as big as the one you arrived in, but it’s faster. Why not take it?”