Kemp, Battle Lord of the Third Arm of Force Dimas, surveyed the damage his Dregs had left behind. Paper books and glass littered the scene, along with the powdery pale remains of failure.
He turned to Oc, the lumbering giant looming nearby awaiting orders. “Where is the Loriahan?” he asked, his voice quiet.
This Dreg was less offensive than most, garbed in scented robes that masked his pungent odor. For that reason alone, Kemp tolerated his proximity.
“Gone,” Oc answered. “Carried away. Protected.”
“By whom?”
Oc closed his brilliant orange eyes as he reached out to his people with his mind. All Dregs shared an intricate mental link that Kemp’s kind had yet to unravel. No matter how many subjects they tested, or what portions of the Dreg’s brains they removed, there had been no advancements in understanding. So the Raide were left leaning on a race of creatures who lacked intelligence, but had strength, stamina and a built-in system of communication.
“Two more of mine died on the hunt. No scent was shared.”
“Meaning you have no way of tracking her,” Kemp guessed.
Oc frowned in confusion, causing wrinkles to form between the skin folds sagging along his brow. “Mine died before they could share the female’s scent. Mine need a scent to track.”
Kemp sighed and trudged over the clutter to see if there were any signs of the woman inside. The intelligence unit of Force Dimas had learned that the Loriahan woman worked in this place. If she had been here every day, there had to be some trace of her left to find.
“Hunt for her scent.”
Oc stepped over a toppled shelf in one long stride and began sniffing the air. “There are remnants of too many beings here.”
“She worked here. Surely you can smell her scent over those who merely passed through.”
“I smell you.”
Kemp gritted his teeth in frustration and backed away. Oc continued sniffing, leaning down so that the folds of skin on his face hung close to a workspace chair.
“Four beings sit here.”
“Can you narrow it down?”
Oc began picking up items from the desk and bringing them to his nose. He paused over the sleeve of a sweater hanging on the back of a chair. “Old female.”
“The Loriahan woman is not old.”
Oc discarded the object and reached for another—a ceramic mug this time. “Male.”
“Try again.” Kemp looked around for something that might help. There, caught in the loose joint of a chair were a few strands of hair. He pulled them free and handed them to his slave. “What about these?”
Oc separated the strands with bulky fingers, bringing each to his nose. “Yes. Young females.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
That would have to suffice. “Send those scents to the others and have them begin the hunt.”
“Are mine to kill?” Oc asked.
“No. They are absolutely not to kill. Bring the women back alive, or yours die.”