“What in hell are you?” Stryke said.
“A friend.” The creature’s voice remained the same.
“So you say,” Jup muttered.
“My name is Dynahla.”
“You’re a fetch, aren’t you?” Coilla ventured. “A shape-changer.”
“I have the ability to assume other appearances, yes.”
“Why make yourself look like me?” Stryke asked.
“Self-defence. In my experience most beings are reluctant to attack someone who looks like themselves.”
“You a he or a she?” Haskeer said. “Or can you change that too?”
Dynahla smiled. “I can see you’d be more comfortable dealing with a masculine being.” As it spoke, another change occurred, though it was minor compared to what they had just seen. The flesh ran more subtly, altering features in small ways. The chin, cheekbones and brow all hardened somewhat; the body grew modest muscles and the hips reduced. The result was more obviously male, while retaining a measure of ambiguity.
“I hope you’re not going to keep on doing that,” Spurral remarked.
“What’re you doing here?” Stryke demanded.
“I was sent,” Dynahla replied.
“By that bunch of sorcerers tailing us?” Haskeer wanted to know.
“The Gateway Corps? No, I’m not with them.”
Stryke was puzzled. “The what?”
“You have a lot to learn, Stryke, and if you bear with me there’ll be explanations.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I know all your names.” Dynahla pointed a trim finger at one after another of the band. “Coilla, Haskeer, Jup. You must be Spurral. Dallog. That is Jode Pepperdyne, and-”
“How come you know so much about us?”
“It is sorcery,” Haskeer declared. “There’s magic at work here and I don’t like it.” He half raised his blade.
“No,” Dynahla said. “Or yes, rather. But not in the way you mean. Benign magic. And it isn’t mine. I’m talking about the one who sent me here.”
“You haven’t said who that was yet,” Stryke reminded him. He had decided that thinking of this being as male was less confusing.
“Someone you’re familiar with, and who means you no harm. I was sent by Tentarr Arngrim, the one you know as Serapheim.”
“ He sent you?”
“To aid you.”
“What are you to him?”
“Interesting question. An… acolyte.”
“A claim like yours is all the better for proof,” Jup said.
“I can prove it. To everyone, Stryke, or do you wish us to be alone?”
“No. We’re all in this together.” He gave Pepperdyne a fleeting glance, and Standeven, skulking some way back. “Whatever you’ve got to say is for everybody.”
“Then perhaps you would like to gather them.”
He nodded. “But not here. Let’s get back to what’s left of the light.” At his order, Dallog gave two blasts on his horn to summon the scouts home. “You’re going under armed guard,” Stryke told Dynahla. “I don’t trust you. Whether I do depends on your so-called proof.”
“I understand.”
“If you start to change-”
“I won’t.”
They headed back to the beach.
Sword at the ready, Coilla was one of those flanking Dynahla. Turning to him, she said, “Fetches are very rare, aren’t they? Least they were on Maras-Dantia.”
“So I’m told.”
“They say that seeing a fetch in your likeness, the way Stryke just did, foretells your death.”
“And they say that you orcs can’t tolerate daylight.”
“Bullshit.”
“Precisely.”
No more was said until they reached the shore. As the last of the scouts started to return, Stryke asked some more questions.
“Are you of this world?”
“No.”
“How did you get here?”
“The same way you did.”
“You have stars?”
“Serapheim transported me, as he did my predecessor, Parnol.”
“Who?”
“Another acolyte. You knew him only in death. He was the messenger Serapheim sent to you in Ceragan.”
“The human with the knife in his back.”
“Yes. Jennesta was responsible for that.”
“No surprise there then,” Haskeer said.
Stryke’s hand went to his throat. “I’ve got his amulet.”
“Good,” Dynahla said. “That was enterprising of you.”
“But it’s no use. The stars don’t work properly.”
“You still have them?”
“Yes.”
“Have they had any… effect on you? You can be truthful. I know that they have affected you in the past, and Haskeer.” He looked at the sergeant. He returned a scowl.
“No,” Stryke replied. “I’ve felt nothing.”
“That’s good too. Hopefully you’ve become attuned to them.”
“What does that mean?”
“Each set of instrumentalities has its own signature, what some call its song. A being spending any amount of time in their presence either suffers or harmonises with them, as perhaps you are doing. Do you understand?”
“I think so.”
“But it’s not wise to be within their range of influence for too long, even if their effect seems to be benevolent.”
“Why not?”
“Because the instrumentalities embody an unimaginable power. A power that even the most adept of sorcerers do not fully comprehend.”
“I’m not surrendering them,” he insisted, sensing the way things were going.
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Anyway, as I said, they don’t work. Not the way they should. Do you know why?”
“Yeah,” Jup added, “and does Jennesta have anything to do with it?”
“What about this Gateway Corps?” Coilla pitched in. “Who are they? What do they want?”
“And where’s Thirzarr?” Stryke demanded.
Dynahla raised a hand to still the clamour. “These matters are best addressed by the proof I have to offer. Is this all your band, Stryke?”
He looked around. The last couple of stragglers were jogging their way. “Yes.”
“Then you’re about to have some answers. But don’t expect everything to be resolved immediately.”
“That doesn’t sound too promising,” Coilla remarked darkly.
“Trust me,” Dynahla said.
As they watched intently, hands on weapons, the fetch took a small silken pouch from his pocket and poured the contents into the palm of his hand. As far as they could see it was sand, identical to that on the beach. He threw it into the air. It didn’t fall, but hung there in a cloud. Then it rearranged itself, forming a kind of flat canvas, no thicker than an individual grain, suspended just above their heads.
Suddenly it was no longer sand, at least in appearance. It became a rectangle of gently pulsing white light, which in turn gave way to a succession of primary colours, flashing through the spectrum. When it calmed, an image came into focus, raising gasps and exclamations from some in the band.
The human Tentarr Arngrim, Serapheim to the fraternity of wizards and seers, gazed down at them.
Wheam looked terrified. Dallog, the other tyros, Spurral, and Pepperdyne and Standeven, none of whom had much if any knowledge of the sorcerer, were almost as awed.
“This image is recorded in the grains of sand,” Dynahla explained. “You cannot converse with him.”
“Like back on Ceragan the last time,” Haskeer whispered.
Stryke shushed him.
Serapheim spoke, his voice loud, almost booming, and all could hear. “ Greetings, Stryke; and Wolverines, I salute you. You are to be congratulated on your efforts in Acurial. Your actions there played a not insignificant part in freeing your kind from the shackles of oppression.”
“Didn’t get us Jennesta though,” Jup muttered under his breath.
As though responding, Serapheim’s likeness went on, “ It’s regrettable that you had less success in your dealings with my daughter. But do not reproach yourselves for it, and take heart from knowing that aspect of your mission is far from over.” The sorcerer paused briefly. When he resumed, his tone was less formal, and betrayed a degree of weariness. “ I’ve much to tell you, although I fear not all your curiosity’s going to be satisfied. Not yet.” He grew more matter-of-fact. “ First, let me commend Dynahla to you. You’ve a faithful, dependable ally in this adherent, who has my complete trust, and deserves yours. Dynahla’s powers can be of great help to you. All I ask is that you don’t allow my most steadfast servant to come to harm. I’d be devastated should Dynahla suffer an end as miserable as Parnol’s, whose fate you have doubtless now learnt.” There was something that could have been a sigh before he carried on. “ As with so much that is corrupt, Jennesta was behind Parnol’s death. Just one more casual murder to her, but a grievous blow to me, and to our cause.”