For the most part, the ice orcs were adjusting well to life aboard the Elfsbane. Although their tough hide made the regulation scro armor redundant, Grimnosh had insisted that they be properly outfitted, from the lowliest orc foot soldier to the priests who kept vigil over the terrible monster stashed in the hold of the Elfsbane. The scro general knew the value of ritual and outward appearance to ensuring loyalty; already he could see the difference in the bearing and attitudes of the ice orcs. They seemed eager to assimilate into the ranks of the Elfsbane's crew. Only Ubiznik had resisted the encroachments of scro culture. Grimnosh was confident that the orc chieftain would come around. Despite his uncouth appearance, Ubiznik was a good officer who owned the respect and loyalty of his soldiers. Granted, his discipline did not produce the clean, precise order known to the scro, but Ubiznik kept his troops in line well enough with his grunted orders, hand gestures, and an occasion skull-shattering cuff. After Lionheart was in shambles and all the orc and hobgoblin troops had left Armistice behind, Grimnosh intended to see that Ubiznik received a real commission. The other scro commanders might not appreciate the elevation of the rough-hewn orc to general, but they could hardly argue with one Admiral Grimnosh. The scro's tusks gleamed as he smiled.
Ubiznik looked less happy. "No like," he grumbled. "Orcs want to kill elves, not bait snares."
The scro general nodded sympathetically, but he had no intention of changing his strategy. Why should he? The elven presence around Armistice was being systematically and efficiently destroyed. A few at a time, the goblin ships would leave the atmosphere shield and trigger the alarm. When an elven patrol ship gave chase, the cloaked bionoid shrike ships would close in and drop either bionoid warriors or the tertiary marauders to wipe out the elves.
"No like," the orc repeated. "Deal was, we fly with scro, fight many elves."
"And fight them you shall," Grimnosh agreed. "Once all of your tribe and your servant hobgoblins have escaped from Armistice, and once the elven high command is destroyed, you will be able to take elven trophies from a hundred worlds. First things first, my good fellow. As you yourself say, we have a deal."
Ubiznik grunted in reluctant agreement. The metallic click of mailed boots announced the approach of two scro soldiers. The ice orc watched warily as they snapped to attention and jammed their fists into the air, back side presented out so that their unit totem was displayed.
"Sky Sharks hail Almighty Dukagsh!" they barked out in unison.
Grimnosh absently returned the salute, but Ubiznik responded by slamming one fist into the palm of his other paw and grunting, "Gralnakh Longtooth!"
The orc's tribute to the great orc general of the Armistice Treaty was lost on the scro soldiers. Assuming that the barbarian had insulted them, one soldier snarled and let his hand settle on the grip of his short sword. Ubiznik didn't bother reaching for a weapon, and his single red eye blazed a challenge as he returned the snarl through a sharp-fanged sneer.
"At ease," Grimnosh told the scro calmly. "General Redeye's troops-and their heroic forebear-are worthy of respect. Surely we can allow for a few cultural differences?"
The scro's comment carried with it both a direct order and an unmistakable threat. With only the slightest hesitation, the soldiers crisply returned the ice orc's unorthodox salute.
"We received a message from your informant, General," one of the scro said, handing Grimnosh a slip of paper.
As Grimnosh read, a thoughtful look crossed his face. "It would appear that our friend is trying to redeem himself," he murmured. After a long moment of reflection, he turned to his orc ally. "Well, General, it looks as though you're going to fight elves sooner than we'd anticipated."
Bloodlust shone in the Ubiznik's red eye, and the ice orc bared his fangs in a fierce grin.
*****
Gaston Willowmere was tired and disgruntled. Everyone aboard the Trumpeter was serving double watches, and he was nearing the end of two very eventful and disturbing shifts. His only remaining duty was making a final round of the ship, and he made his way down to the lower deck to begin.
The elf was not pleased with the swan ship's mission, or with many of the directions the Imperial Fleet was taking. His own homeworld was a world of deep, ancient forests and sacred tradition. To one of his upbringing the breaking of elven tradition was a serious matter. Aboard this swan ship, they had done little else. They'd harbored an illithid, suffered the constant tinkering of a gnome and the lechery of that appalling gypsy. They were forced to acknowledge a human captain and look the other way when the human made a half-elf head navigator. When the half-elf was revealed to be a bionoid, no one was supposed to mind. It was beyond belief.
Wrapped in his gloomy thoughts, the mate did not at first see a shadowy figure slipping through the cargo hold. He caught a glimpse of a trailing robe-or blanket-as someone entered the room housing the wing and paddle machinery.
"You there!" Gaston called. There was no response, and the angry mate sped after the silent figure. He burst through the door and immediately staggered back from a fierce blow to his face. Gaston hit the deck hard and bounded to his feet, spitting out bits of broken teeth. The room was dark, but he could make out a tall elven figure swathed in flowing robes. Gaston's vision slipped into the night vision spectrum. To his horror, the elf-shaped assailant registered in a pattern of cool blue and green light, not the healthy red one expected of a warm-blooded elf.
Gaston drew his short sword and lunged. He connected- hard!-to the creature's midsection. The sword should have gone up and under the rib cage, but the only result was the sharp clunk of blade meeting tough plate armor. Before the first mate could recover from the failed lunge, he received a backhanded blow that shattered his nose and sent him reeling. The stranger advanced, raining blows so fast and vicious that Gaston could do no more than bring his arms up in a futile attempt to shield his face. The elf fell to his knees, and the room closed in on him with a rush of blood and darkness.
*****
Sleep would not come to Teldin. He returned to the hammock in Hectate's cabin. Despite his exhaustion, he could not dispel from his mind the image of gray monsters with swords for hands and insatiable appetites for elven flesh. Vallus had called them Witchlight Marauders, and he'd also muttered something about them destroying entire worlds. From what Teldin had seen, he didn't doubt for a minute that such a thing was possible.
Also disturbing to Teldin was the choice that lay before him. He wanted to join forces with Pearl, and not only for what she could offer him. In many ways, the dragon was a kindred spirit. Her curiosity and love of adventure reminded Teldin of both his grandfather and Aelfred. She was an irreverent character, always poking sardonic fun at conventions and authority figures. Solitary by nature, the dragon prized her independence, yet, like Teldin, she enjoyed being with others from time to time. That, he realized, was one of the main attractions of the alliance. He'd been alone for too long. So many of his friends and companions had fallen victim to his quest that he'd isolated himself, fearing to bring danger to those he loved. A dragon would be not only a good companion, but a durable one. And he had a responsibility to make his comrades' deaths mean something.