26

It turned into a long and clamorous night, for they’d expected a fight, and they got one. Swinging down from the Dark Cloud like ballooning spiders, Marget, Glass-cat, Nameless, Brass Monkey and the newcomer (Zak) hit the deck of a big, ancient hover-tank. They landed with a storm of booming thuds, dislodging a cloud of rust and piled skulls.

Great chains of the rattling head-bones crisscrossed the tank’s upper deck from turret to mooring loops and side rails, forming a grisly net. Other skulls had been threaded, totem-like, onto the tank’s sensor masts. The stench of old blood and slaughter hung like a fog, raising Marget’s hackles. She had just time to reach for her axe before a horn sounded, blatting and harsh.

The tank’s defenders exploded out of hiding at the pulse of that wavering note. They were lizard-folk, wearing the hides and teeth of previous kills, able to shift colors and outline to match their background… but only when they stopped moving, which Marget made sure they could not.

The orc roared aloud, springing up in a fluid and powerful lunge. Axe in one hand, she wrenched a segment of turret plating free with her construct-arm. Punched its fingers through corroded steel, made a fist and then yanked, popping rivets and tearing stressed metal till it screamed. Next, she whirled in place, swinging her heavy, improvised scythe. Cut an onrushing lizard-man in half at the waist, just as its spearhead struck her armored chest. The reptile’s pieces spun off in a welter of blood and loose entrails, while its spear clattered uselessly onto the deck.

There were dozens more of the creatures, though. A hissing swordsman, she swept off the tank with a savage kick, while chopping the head of a third with her bloodied axe. After that, it was time to get serious.

Glass-cat fought gracefully nearby, wielding twin scimitars in each hand, and a knife in her whipping, prehensile tail. Seeming almost to dance, the crystalline feline beheaded, dismembered and gutted her way across that fouled deck.

Brass Monkey careened over the tank’s rusted surface like a chattering cannonball, crushing and bludgeoning. The metal ape struck the turret with a resounding crash, unrolled himself and sprang upright. Next, he seized a lizard-man with both hands, wielding the fallen creature like a club.

Nameless streaked up Marget’s leg to perch on her massive left shoulder, right where glass, wood and metal joined flesh. Facing backward, the marten covered her rear, launching itself in attack whenever a reptile sprang from behind.

Not far away, Zak fought with spells and an icy black sword. Casting moonlight over the battle zone, he gave the attacking lizard-folk no place to hide, causing persistent burn-damage. Moreover, the construct warrior’s shadow fought, too. It could separate itself from Zak, flowing like water to engulf and swallow whatever it touched.

Not that the orc had much time to pause and appreciate her allies’ fine work. She was too busy to gawk. Instead, Marget grunted, swore and swung her big axe in a constant whirlwind of razor-edged steel. Over and over, its blade sliced deep into flesh, crunched against bone and stuck there, until she wrenched it violently free. Arrows peppered the orc like hail, fired from atop that rusted-out turret. Some of those arrowheads detached to chew their way into the chinks and seams of her armor, seeking the flesh underneath.

She uttered a banishment curse, invoking foremothers as big and fierce as a hill-troll. Most of the seeker-heads puffed into smoke. Two she dug out with her construct hand’s telescoping fingertips (a use she discovered right there and then). Meanwhile, Nameless finished another, then launched himself from her shoulder to strike at the archers. They made an easy target, becoming visible the instant they nocked an arrow or fired. Very shortly thereafter, there were no more attacks from above.

Then a big, crested female lizard sprang into view. It lunged at Marget with a boiling hiss, going from corrosion-flecked camouflage to warty, black-and-gold stripes in less than a pounding heartbeat. The lizard was too close for a sweep of the axe, all searing red eyes and rasping foul breath. Marget grappled the creature, dropping her weapons to pin the lizard’s arms to its sides, lifting and crushing until shoulders disjointed and arm bones snapped like dry wood.

The reptile spat into her eyes, ejecting a mist of blood and burning poison that seared Marget’s flesh and half-blinded her. The orc twisted and bit, sinking her fangs into the lizard’s tough, scaly hide. Her mouth filled with tepid blood and rank-tasting meat as Marget wrenched her head back and forth, tearing loose a big, ragged chunk of flesh.

The pinned warrior drove a spiked knee up into Marget’s rock-hard, well-armored gut. Then Nameless landed hard on the reptile’s crested head; hissing, clawing and gouging. Marget waited until the marten hopped clear, then lifted the struggling lizard high in the air and heaved it over the side. Did not have time to listen for a thud or wait to see what became of the crippled warrior. There was too much else going on, and she was already a target for three more of the hissing and spitting reptiles.

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All over that rusted husk of a tank, similar conflicts were raging. There were screams, oaths, thumps, sharp cracks and the shattering noise of erupting black ice; Zak’s droned spells, Glass-cat’s chiming footfalls, Brass Monkey’s loud crashing, the Marten’s shrill barks. The awful music of a battle from which there could be no retreat. No accord.

The entire desperate struggle lasted less than a candle-mark, as Dark Cloud soared out of sight, overhead. At last, a sort of grim silence fell, broken only by wind and harsh panting. Marget turned around in a full, wary circle, looking for enemies. Found only her friends and the dead. She slumped momentarily, running a taloned hand through her matted dark hair.

Then, blood-spattered, bristling with arrows, the wounded orc lifted her face to the sky and roared, daring anyone else with a death-wish to come and give battle. But it was only Zak who approached, stalking past heaps of stiffening reptiles.

“The hull and turret belong to us, now,” he said, thrusting a potion bottle at Marget. She pulled the stopper out with her teeth and drank deeply, listening as the construct-male spelled away arrows. Then he said, “There may be more lizard-people or traps down below. We will need to search and secure all compartments before we can rest.”

Marget grunted, feeling her wounds ice over and fade away, slowly regaining full vision. She reserved a few drops of potion for the marten, restoring his fur and a bitten-off limb. Got the left side of her head groomed, in thanks.

“Good beast,” she muttered, watching as Zak’s shadow crept down the turret and back into place like inky-dark oil, presumably well fed.

“Think you that this fortress of rust will fly again?” Marget wondered aloud. The construct shook his sleek head.

“Not likely, but there may be a smaller attack ship inside.”

Glass-cat strode over next, Brass Monkey rolling along at her side. As for Nameless, the healed, agile marten had taken a sentry position on top of the highest, skull-threaded mast. He groomed himself up there, keeping sharp watch all the while. Said Glass-cat,

“The Cloud is gone. We must find another way to this Lone Mountain, for the mutineer has retaken our ship. Shade is her name, and she is my heart-foe of ages long past. I would know her through any disguise.”

Brass Monkey unfolded from waist-high cannonball to battered metallic ape, making sounds like a very bad musical group tuning up. Glass-cat placed a hand on his dented shoulder, nodding.

“True,” she responded, lashing her crystalline tail. “Whatever we do must be swift, for time is short and, look you, my lady the Sun returns, bringing another day.”

Dawn was no more than a smudge of grey on the eastern horizon, not yet bright enough to compete with Zak’s fading mage-glow. Coming on quickly, though. Marget relaxed a bit more, put her axe away and nodded. After that, spurred by a sudden thought, she dropped to a crouch on that corpse-littered deck, at the turret’s leeward side. She built a small fire the hard way; with patience, kindling and skill, not magic. Then, once she’d blown the flames into a decent blaze, Marget looked up at the gathered others.

“Bring me the weapons and ornaments of the fallen,” she rumbled. “My idiot brother has a god, and That One may help us, if doing so also aids Vrol.”

They spread out to loot bodies at her command, and very soon Marget had a pile of spears, daggers, short swords and bows, along with gold rings, tooth-necklaces, a bone helmet and one dented battle-horn.

The orc stacked their finds in a tidy pyramid, then brought out a flask of strong ale and a handful of chewing-leaf. Cleared her throat, frowning a bit. Marget wasn’t much given to worship, and orc gods were never chatty anyhow, demanding blood, not prayer. Thinking a moment, she dropped fragrant dried leaves into the fire, saying,

“Once before, I sacrificed to you, who are Vrol’s God and a Lord of Battles. This fight and the arms of the fallen we offer up, God of the Old Ones, asking your aid in our doings.”

At first, there was nothing at all but the crackle of flames, while those scattered leaves curled up and burnt. Then, as Marget poured a steady trickle of ale, a red-golden tendril of fire shot from her blaze to the piled offerings. The entire pyramid glowed, broke into glittering sparks, and then vanished. A sort of ripple spread from the flames after that, filling each of those present with warmth and vitality. A blessing, as the small god accepted her worship and grew in strength.

The fire’s light was reflected in their eyes and the constructs’ bright surfaces. Their shadows lengthened and moved, posing fiercely behind them. Then the blaze shrank again, becoming a small, unusually luminous campfire. Marget grunted, feeding a last handful of sticks into those blood-colored flames.

“There is our answer,” she said, adding, “Anyone injured while clearing the rest of the fortress can return to this spot for healing, if they have no more potions. I think it will burn for a very long time.”

She got to her feet, then, rising in a smooth and powerful motion to tower over Glass-cat, Brass Monkey and Zak.

“Let us make haste, for my brother abounds in foolishness, attracting strife as a merchant caravan draws attack.”

As for what they found inside of that captured stronghold, the leathery egg-sacs and huddled young were left strictly alone. Marget and the rest simply pretended not to notice those who whimpered and shrank in concealment. Their fighting adults were all dead. Was that not enough? Firelord was a god of war, bold and honorable. He took no delight in wanton bloodshed.

They explored unmolested, and there was much to see. The tank’s shadowed interior had been converted to a warren of chambers connected by bone-and-wood ladders. Inside, they found thirty gold pieces, seven raw emeralds and a pair of fine swords, but… better still… there was a small, open docking bay at the rear, in which were moored the real prizes. Brass Monkey chattered and gestured the rest of them over, pointing out a trio of hovering scout flitters. They were dusty, with birds’ nests and mice to evict, but miraculously still airworthy and somehow topped up with manna. Doubtless a trick of the gods.

Marget loped over to look, her booted feet pounding heavily on that pierced and flaking steel deck. She grinned in satisfaction, showing more teeth than ought to have fit in one mouth. As the first spear of sunshine flooded that open compartment, she growled,

“There are three. One, I claim for myself. The rest of you can sort yourselves out however you please. Your lady the sun, and my lord of battles have answered again. Let us take their gift, fly to the mountain and there, tip the odds.”