The image swung again. A village lay beyond, unlike any Fletcher had ever seen. Huts made from woven thatch and mud brick were scattered around a clearing. The broken canopy left it illuminated by a pillar of light from above, marred only by the billowing smoke of a fire in the centre. Figures were gathered around the flames, some swaying back and forth in a strange dance, others seated cross-legged in a semicircle.
Orcs. No more than a score of them … yet they were not as Fletcher had expected. Orc women combed out their hair with tortoiseshell combs, while others suckled their young on slings around their chests. Wizened elders puffed on long pipes, taking it in turns to pack tobacco and herbs in the bowls. Most were toothless, many with their tusks missing or broken off to stubs. There were but two males among these venerable members.
Meat was wrapped in banana leaves to steam by the fire. Those with teeth chewed for those without, spitting it in coconut bowls for the elders to slurp up with relish.
Far from being disgusted, Fletcher found himself smiling at the act. They cared for each other – something he had somehow never imagined of the orcs. It seemed a peaceful existence. Idyllic. Innocent.
Young orcs held hands and spun around the fire, their mouths opening and shutting in unison – they had to be singing! Fletcher wished he could hear them, so mesmeric were their stamping feet and rolling shoulders.
‘I lived in a village just like this,’ Mother whispered. ‘A few families, nothing more. Once we were all this way, thousands of years ago. Before they came.’
Something was wrong. One of the old orcs had seen something. He stood and yelled, waving his arms in a frenzy. The younger orcs scattered, while the women cowered, covering their heads with their hands.
Mother jerked her head, and Ra followed her movement. Rhinos thundered into the encampment, their thick double-horns tearing a passage through the bushes. Bull orcs rode on their backs, swinging weighted nets over their heads. Others whirled lassos, snatching the youngsters’ feet from under them and dragging them screaming in their wakes.
An old orc staggered from his hut, a simple club clutched in his fists. Before he could swing it, a javelin took him through the chest, flung almost casually by a nearby rider.
To Fletcher’s dismay, the remainder of the villagers were tangled in the nets or herded back to the fire, even the younger ones who had made it to the edge of the jungle. It took no more than a minute, so expertly was the attack orchestrated. The riders were well practised.
‘This family is what we were. These marauders are what we have become,’ Mother said, her voice a throaty growl.
The young boy orcs were separated out from the others, leaving the elders and females to wail and cry by the fire. Great poles were removed from the backs of the rhinos, with loops of rope at intervals along them. They tightened them around the orc boys’ necks. One was so young he had to stand on tiptoes to keep in line with the others. His tusks were little more than nubs, yet they manhandled him into position regardless. The poles were secured to the rumps of the rhinos. Then, with barely a word to the survivors, the riders marched their captives out of the village, disappearing into the gloom of the jungles.
‘Why?’ Sylva asked simply. She was unable to hide the tremor of sorrow from her voice.
‘Soldiers for their armies. They take the boys young. Beat them until their minds are broken. Fill them with hate, teach them to kill. That is their way.’ Mother’s speech was garbled now, her mouth full of saliva. She swallowed and continued. ‘They start with gremlins first. Make them hunt them down for sport. Slaughter most of them, enslave and breed the others. Then they force the boys to fight each other, weed out the weakest ones. By the end of it, those that remain only thirst for butchery and dominance. Their consciences are gone, their innocence lost.’
She lapsed into silence, the black nails of her crooked hands digging into her staff. Apophis buzzed mournfully to her cheek, wiping at the tear that trickled there with his forelegs. It stained the white of the skull beneath, a black fracture in the painted bone.
‘So … how do you fit in?’ Fletcher asked, twisting his hands awkwardly.
‘When they attacked our village, I followed them. No … I followed him. The boy I loved.’ She spoke in short bursts, as if she were on the verge of weeping in earnest. She blinked rapidly and took a deep breath. When she spoke again, it was not misery in her voice, but anger.
‘I served as a shaman’s servant girl in the hopes that he would lead me to the warriors someday. It was there that I learned to summon in secret, stealing one of my master’s scrolls. I hoped that a Mite would help me find my love.’
She stroked Apophis’s carapace, smiling in a toothy grimace.
‘When I did encounter him a year later, the boy I knew had gone. All that remained was a cruel brute. I embarrassed him, walking into that camp, trying to save him in front of his fellow warriors. He beat me near to death and left me for dead. The gremlins found me and brought me here.’