The ogre was obliging. He began jogging towards them, the club raised, his footfalls like thunder.
“For the gods’ sake, Stryke!” Coilla exclaimed.
Still he hesitated.
The ogre was close enough for them to be in his shadow.
Stryke pulled the lever. The weapon bucked. The ball shot from the cylinder.
It reached its target in a blink, striking the ogre full in the chest with a sickening thump. He expelled a huge breath, face contorted in pain. Then he fell, crashing to the ground and making it shake. He was still.
The band gave it a moment before cautiously approaching.
“Dead as a doorknob,” Jup declared.
“Well, at least we know this thing works,” Coilla said.
“Let’s hope he was the only one.”
The killing ball was retrieved. Then Stryke got the band to roll the monstrous corpse to one side of the track so they could get by. Next they had to re-couple the weapon and sort out their mounts. After that they took a short breather and passed round the water bottles. Stryke judged that a small alcohol ration was deserved, too, and let them break out the rough brandy. Wheam had a coughing fit when he took his tot. Standeven drained his in one go and asked for more, but was ignored. A drunk crazy human was an additional burden Stryke could do without.
They set off again, steering past the gargantuan cadaver.
A while later, riding across the scrubby land on the other side of the canyon, Coilla observed, “This never-ending high noon is putting everybody out, Stryke.”
“It feels strange, yeah.”
“But mostly they need sleep. We all do. We didn’t have that much before we came here. And the band needs feeding.”
“I want to push on.”
“They’ll be good for nothing if we do.”
He sighed. “Right. But it won’t be for long. Organise the shifts.”
They found a defensible spot by a heap of boulders. The weapon was secured, the mounts fussed over a bit, and sentries posted. Stryke didn’t want to waste time hunting for game, if there was any, and got the band to dip into their iron rations. Sleep proved difficult in the unrelenting sunlight, but they were tired enough that most managed at least some.
Far too soon for everybody, Stryke ordered them to break camp, and they resumed their journey rested if not refreshed.
They rode for a long time, heading straight for the northern star. The land became more verdant, and they found themselves moving across a grassy expanse. Fortunately the vegetation wasn’t full enough to hamper them. Whether that was because something grazed here, or because the magic of the old sorcerers had willed it so, they didn’t know.
Pepperdyne was the first to spot something out of the ordinary. In the distance, running to right and left as far as they could see, was an unbroken, yellowish-brown line. Dynahla once more volunteered to check on it. He chose the form of a dove. The band took the chance to stretch their legs.
“You have to admit he’s handy to have around,” Coilla said as she watched Dynahla flap away.
“Still gives me the creeps though,” Haskeer said.
She glanced at the millipedes. “Do these need feeding or watering? They haven’t taken anything since we got them.”
“Suppose so. Don’t know what though.”
“They seem content nibbling the grass,” Spurral told them.
“Yeah,” Jup said. “Dynahla reckons they’re not meat-eaters, despite looking the way they do.”
“I think they’re kind of cute.”
Jup made a face.
“Ugly bastards,” Haskeer muttered.
“That’s the kind of thing that gets said about us,” Coilla reminded him.
“Not to my face it ain’t.”
“They can’t bear looking at it,” Jup suggested with a smirk.
“How’d you like your own rearranged, pipsqueak?”
“Any time you’ve got the strength to try, horse breath.”
Stryke was about to slap them down when someone shouted, “He’s coming back!”
The dove fluttered in and became Dynahla.
“Well?” Stryke said.
“It’s a wall, and well defended.”
“By what?”
“Werebeasts, as far as I could see.”
“We’ve tangled with them before. What kind are they?”
“The kind that can switch from basically human to something like a bear.”
“That kind we haven’t seen before. Any chance we could parley with them?”
“You could try, but I doubt it. Though I suppose if you had something of value to offer as tribute-”
“We’ve nothing.”
“I thought not. And it’s in the nature of this place that obstacles have to be fought through not talked through. I think you can see now why we’ve had to haul the weapon with us.”
“There’s no way round this wall?”
“No. Well, maybe if we travelled a much longer way we might find that it ends. But I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Let’s get closer to it.”
“There’s at least one gate. I’ll show you where.”
When they were near enough to make it out, they saw that the wall looked ancient, but no less solid for that. They could make out figures on its high ramparts and, as Dynahla said, a massive pair of gates, made of timber, with iron straps.
Stryke decided to try talking after all. Thirzarr was on his mind, as always, and some kind of pact would be quicker than having a battle.
“I wouldn’t get your hopes too high,” Dynahla cautioned, “and approach with care. They didn’t look particularly welcoming to me.”
Stryke took one of the millipedes, along with Haskeer, Jup, and Calthmon, who was in charge of the beast. They made a white flag, the universal sign of truce, or so they hoped. Haskeer hated white flags. In his detestation of the idea of a token of surrender, or even reasonableness, he was fairly representative of the band as a whole. He refused to hold it, and that fell to Jup.
They made for the wall.
Figures on the battlements watched as they approached. They looked like humans, which gave Haskeer little confidence in the outcome of any talks.
Stopping a short distance away, Stryke cupped his hands and called out in Mutual. “ We come in peace! Can we talk?”
Several of the werecreatures conferred, but there was no answer.
Stryke called again. “ We’re here peaceably! We want to parley!”
The figures seemed to grow darker and bulkier.
“Looks like they’re changing,” Jup said.
“Is that good?” Haskeer asked.
A swarm of arrows came down on them.
“No,” Jup said.
They were lucky not to be hit. But one arrow had struck the millipede, causing it to squirm. Stryke leaned forward and pulled the shaft out.
More arrows came, and several spears. They fell short.
“Get us out of here, Calthmon!” Stryke yelled.
They retreated to the sound of something like cheers from the battlements.
“The weapon?” Jup asked as they headed back.
“Yeah,” Stryke confirmed.
They dragged it to a point where they thought they could hit the wall but far enough away for the werebeasts’ arrows to be ineffective. The ritual of loading and priming the weapon was undertaken.
Gleadeg and Prooq were steady, dependable hands. Stryke let them take care of the firing.
“First shot, Captain?” Prooq said. “The doors?”
“Let’s try for the battlements.”
They adjusted the angle.
“Ready?” Gleadeg asked.
Stryke nodded.
The lever went back and the weapon bucked. With a hearty thomp the ball shot out and flew almost too fast to be seen.
It struck the battlements. There was a crash of masonry and a cloud of dust. When it cleared there was a hole in the battlements and the werebeasts weren’t to be seen.
“Now the doors,” Stryke said.
They were already realigning the tube, and a ball was being lifted. That done, Stryke made sure the rest of the band was mounted and ready.
The weapon went off. The doors exploded in a shower of timber chips and iron fragments.
“Move! Move! Move!” Stryke bellowed.