The spectators began to file out, several dabbing themselves with handkerchiefs. Some hurried, looking as though they sought the nearest privy.
Hacher was wiping the gore from his own face when Jennesta approached, her brace of undead hobbling a few steps behind.
“I trust the import of what you’ve just seen was not lost on you, General,” she said.
He glanced at the sergeant’s corpse. Blood was dripping from the edge of the dais. “Hardly.”
“Good. Then I expect to see change, profound change, in the governance of this colony. Otherwise your administration is going to become acquainted with my less compassionate side. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Envoy. Perfectly.”
“I know orcs. And I know the only thing they respect is force. If they raise a seditious hand, cut it off. If they slaughter a single trooper, send ten orcs to the charnel house. If they dare to rise up, grind their bones to dust. Leave them in no doubt who’s master. Any less and you imperil our plans for this dependency.”
“Which are?”
“Exploiting the land’s riches. And in particular, the most valuable resource of all.”
“I fear you may be disappointed in that regard. The few deposits of gold and silver we’ve found are hardly —”
“What I have in mind is worth more than mere gold.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The greatest asset Acurial has to offer isn’t to be found under the ground but walking upon it.”
“You mean… the natives themselves?”
“Precisely. The orcs have the potential to be the greatest fighting force this world has ever seen.”
“But these creatures are meek. Or at least most of them are. The ones who’ve taken up arms against us are the exception.”
“As I said, I know their true natures. I know what they’re capable of. All of them.”
“Even if they do have an inborn aggression, and it could be brought out, why would they fight for us?”
Jennesta indicated her zombie retinue. “They’d have no choice. Subject to my will, their obedience would be beyond question. Imagine it. A slave army, incomparably ferocious and totally subservient.”
“And this has the backing of Peczan?”
“As far as you’re concerned, Hacher, I am Peczan. So why don’t you leave the thinking to me and concentrate on instilling some terror in the population?”
Another meeting was taking place in the capital, not far from the fortress, in one of the resistance’s many boltholes.
Making a rare excursion from her current hiding place, and having been brought under heavy guard by an elaborate route, Primary Sylandya was present. She sat at the centre of the small gathering, a goblet of brandy and water to hand.
“You pulled off a great feat yesterday,” she said, toasting her offspring and Coilla. “The Vixens acquitted themselves well on their first outing.”
“It’s time the females got their chance,” Coilla replied.
“As I say, the raid was a triumph. The tithes you brought back have swelled our coffers, and I was especially pleased that you recovered those looted treasures.”
“Saving trinkets ain’t going to win this fight,” Haskeer stated.
“Don’t undervalue that act as a symbol,” Sylandya told him. “It shows the citizenry that their heritage means something.”
“And that there are orcs who stand against our oppressors,” Brelan added.
Sylandya nodded. “We need to deliver more blows like yesterday’s. Who knows? Perhaps if the occupation here is seen to be failing, Peczan’s enemies in the east and south will be emboldened.”
“The eastern and southern lands are a long way off, Mother,” Brelan reminded her, “and they’re human realms too. Barbarous tribes, most of them. There’s little hope of our enemy’s enemy doing anything that might aid our cause.”
“I think that’s right,” Stryke agreed. “You can’t rely on help from outside.”
“Shouldn’t that be we?” Sylandya said. “Or do you northern orcs see yourselves as apart from this struggle?”
“We see it as a fight for all orcs,” Stryke returned sternly. “It’s why we’re here.”
“Can we get back to the issue at hand?” Chillder asked. “Grilan-Zeat’s due in not much more than a week and —”
“If it comes,” Haskeer said.
“We have to believe it will,” Chillder said. “It’s a thin hope, but it’s all we’ve got. The question is, what more can we do to hasten an uprising?”
“Take out Jennesta,” Coilla replied. “That’d strike one hell of a blow.”
“It’d also bring down some heavy reprisals.”
“Isn’t that what we want? A kick that wakes up the populace and rallies them?”
“We’ve talked over the assassination idea,” Brelan explained, “and we’re agreed it should go ahead.”
Coilla smiled. “Good.”
“But not right away.”
“Why wait?” Haskeer grumbled. “Kill her now, I say.”
“Our contacts inside the fortress need time to prepare and make us a map of the place. Meantime we carry on harrying the humans. We’ve got a particular mission in mind that should rock them.”
“What is it?” Stryke asked.
“Don’t worry, we’ll keep you posted. But right now we need to get Mother out of here. She’s too rich a prize for the authorities; we have to keep her out of their reach.”
“A new hiding place?” Coilla said.
“Yes. But I’m not saying where. What you don’t know they can’t get out of you.”
Brelan and Chillder left, accompanying Sylandya. The couple of other resistance members present went with them.
No sooner had they gone than Spurral and Dallog turned up. Shortly after, Pepperdyne arrived, still sweating from a training session. He had Standeven in tow.
“News,” Stryke announced. “They’ve agreed to us targeting Jennesta.”
Pepperdyne was scooping a ladle of water from a barrel. “Really?” He gulped the drink.
“You don’t seem too excited about it.”
“Just cautious. It’s bound to be a dangerous mission, isn’t it?”
“That doesn’t seem to have worried you up to now.”
“We still want revenge on Jennesta,” Standeven hastily interjected. “But she’s dangerous.”
“You’re telling us,” Coilla said.
Stryke fixed the humans with a steady gaze. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you two. When we ran into you, you said you were seeking Jennesta because she stole your consignment of… gems, was it?”
“That’s right,” Standeven confirmed.
“But we know she hadn’t been in Maras-Dantia for years. Why’d it take you so long to go after her?”
“It’s a big world,” Pepperdyne replied. “Well, the one we came from was.” He shook his head, as though clearing it. “You know what I mean. It takes time to mount an expedition, and money. My master here had to recruit a small private army, then we travelled across continents and —”
“Seems to me you do a lot of talking for an aide, or servant or whatever you are. Why can’t your master speak for himself?”
“He always had a silver tongue,” Standeven explained awkwardly. “I often said he was capable of striking a better deal than I could myself. The words come more naturally to him.”
Haskeer eyed Pepperdyne suspiciously. “You weren’t a bloody wordsmith, were you? I hate the bastards. Making up stupid stories about us, branding us villains. According to them we’re built like brick privies and hate the light. They say we eat babies, and everybody knows we only take human flesh when there’s nothing else.”
“No, I’m not a storyteller.”
“Don’t go spreading that talk outside the band, Haskeer,” Stryke warned. “The orcs in these parts wouldn’t understand it. Let’s not give them more reasons to see us as different.” He turned back to the humans. “I do
n’t know about you pair. But just don’t make the mistake of thinking we’re fools.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Pepperdyne replied coolly.
“You’re being too hard, Stryke,” Coilla protested. “I owe Pepperdyne my life. He’s proved himself.” It wasn’t lost on any of them that she left Standeven out of her reckoning.
“Maybe,” Stryke said. “We’ll see.”
“Now do you mind if we eat?” Pepperdyne asked. Without waiting for an answer he headed for the door, Standeven at his heels.
Once it slammed, Coilla tackled Stryke with, “Why are you so hostile to them all of a sudden?”
“I got to thinking about their story, and it doesn’t stack up. Pepperdyne might be straight, but the other one…”
“Yeah, well, no argument there. But I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Jode.”
“Jode?”
“You tend to feel pally to somebody who saves your neck.”
“Never thought I’d see the day when you’d count a human as a friend.”
“Just go easy on him, all right? He’s been useful to us.”
Stryke looked to the others present, and Jup caught his eye. “You’ve not said much, Sergeant.”
“About the humans? I’ve no opinion, beyond not trusting the race much.”
“More than that’s ailing you,” Spurral said, slipping an arm round his waist. “You’ve been morose for days. Spit it out.”
“Well… I’m not likely to play a part in the assassination, am I? Or anything else going on for that matter. It’s not as though I can go out dressed as a female.”
“Why not?” Haskeer ribbed. “It’d suit you.”
“Shut it, Haskeer,” Jup retorted. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I know it’s hard on you,” Stryke told him, “but your time will come.”
“And when’s that going to be?”
“There’s something you could do tonight.”
Jup perked up. “There is?”
“How about a little after hours mission? Part of the harrying.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I thought we might pick a fight. Are you game?”
24
Taress’ night-time streets should have been deserted save for patrols enforcing the curfew. But others were abroad.
A group of figures moved stealthily through the capital, slipping from one pool of shadow to the next.
They were ten in number, and Stryke had kept it a strictly Wolverine affair. He led the pack, with Coilla, Jup and Haskeer close behind; Orbon, Zoda, Prooq, Reafdaw, Finje and Noskaa brought up the rear.
Across cobbled lanes and along twisting alleys, the band made its way to a district that would have swarmed with citizens during daylight. Only once did they come close to a watch patrol, a squad of some two dozen uniformed and robed men illuminating their path with lanterns that gave off a violet glow so intense it could only be magical. The Wolverines hid until they passed, pressed into door spaces and the black mouths of narrow passageways.
At length they came to a broad avenue made desolate by the absence of life or movement. Only a gentle breeze disturbed the balmy summer air.
Using the corner of one of the larger buildings as cover, they peered round at their target. Situated on the opposite side of the road, it was a simple one-storey, brick-built structure, typical of many such scattered throughout the city. Serving as both a guard station and barracks, it had a single, robust door and slit windows. To one side stood a hitching rail where four of five horses were tied up. A pair of guards were stationed outside the building’s entrance.
“What do you think?” Stryke whispered.
“We’ve taken better places drunk,” Jup reckoned. “Know how many are inside?”
Stryke shook his head. “No idea.” He looked to Coilla. “You all right with this?”
“Sure.”
He checked that the others were ready. “Then go.”
Coilla stepped out from their hiding place and sprinted towards the guard post.
The sentries didn’t see her at first. As soon as they did, they instantly bucked up and drew their weapons.
Coilla began to yell. “Help! Help me! Please help!”
That threw the guards. They exchanged perplexed looks, and though they kept a defensive stance, it was half-hearted.
Coilla carried on running, still shouting, and waved her arms about in what she hoped was a helpless female kind of way. The sentries stared at her.
Stryke barked an order. Two grunts rushed forward, their bows nocked. Coilla dropped and hugged the ground.
Arrows smacked into the guards. They went down.
As Coilla scrambled to her feet the guardhouse door flew open. Alerted by the commotion, men poured out. Many were minus their tunics or otherwise had their dress in disarray, having been off duty. But they had swords. Coilla drew her own and, bellowing, ran in their direction.
Her war cry was taken up by the Wolverines. Spilling from their hiding place, they charged.
Coilla reached the foremost of the troopers. He made the mistake of trying to bring her down with a tackle. She relied on her sword. As he dived at her, she lashed out, raking his torso. When he doubled, she drove her blade into his back.
A second man immediately moved in. Mindful of the fate of the first, he advanced warily. Coilla powered into him and their blades clashed. An exchange of blows ensued, the pealing of steel on steel echoing through the silent night. His swordplay had a certain finesse. Coilla had the edge in savagery. Knocking aside his incoming sword, she exploited the breach and punctured his lung.
With a roar, the rest of the orcs swept in. The two sides met and a bloody melee erupted. Then it quickly fragmented into a string of discrete fights.
Haskeer laid about him with a two-handed axe. The first human he engaged soon felt its sting. Screaming, he reeled away with a grievous wound that had his left arm hanging by a thread. A charging soldier was the axe’s next patron. Swinging fast and hard, Haskeer struck him in the neck, cleanly decapitating the man.
The head bounced several feet and landed in Jup’s path. He kicked it aside and faced up to a duo of spear-wielding guardsmen. They were dismayed by their first sight of a dwarf, and startled to see a basically humanoid creature battling alongside orcs. Exploiting their hesitancy, Jup piled into them.
He had the edge as a fighter. The troopers employed their spears by jabbing energetically but with little accuracy. Jup was master of his staff, and used it with greater skill. Some adroit footwork got him past the first spearman’s defences to deliver a weighty blow that shattered his skull.
The second man drew back, brandishing his spear to keep Jup at bay. Feigning an advance, then quickly changing tack, the dwarf evaded the weapon and took a swipe at his opponent’s head. The human shifted smartly, narrowly avoiding the strike. But Jup rallied instantly. Sweeping his staff low, he cracked it across the man’s legs, flooring him; Reafdaw, fighting alongside, spun and plunged his sword into the prone trooper’s guts. Dwarf and grunt exchanged a thumbs up and carried on brawling.
Someone started ringing an alarm bell mounted next to the guardhouse door. Its shrill din cut through the night like a hatchet. Zoda lifted his bow and launched an arrow at the bell ringer. It missed, its sharpened tip chipping the guardhouse wall. Zoda groped for another shaft.
Haskeer had fought his way nearer to the building. He brought his axe back over his shoulder, far enough that the head nearly touched the base of his spine. Then he swung it up and over, grunting with the effort of lobbing it. Spinning end over end, the axe flew above the struggling combatants, gathering impetus. It struck the chest of the man at the bell with enough force to pin him to the guardhouse door.
The door opened outwards, with the body still attached, and a couple of stragglers exited. It slammed behind them, the hanging corpse jiggling with the impact.
Stryke was embroiled in grinding combat with a heftily built sergeant. The man’s
weapon, through choice or hasty necessity, was a long-handled iron mallet, which he managed as nimbly as Stryke plied his sword. Seemingly tireless, the human kept the hammer in constant flight. Several times his swinging passes came dangerously close to Stryke’s head, and his greater reach barred retaliation.
Tiring of the cat and mouse, Stryke switched from targeting the man to concentrating on the weapon. As he dodged another swing, he twisted and brought his blade down on the mallet’s haft. The steel bit into the wood near the head, but didn’t entirely sever it. A brief tussle disengaged the weapons.
Retreating a step, the sergeant grinned and brought up the mallet for another blow. He did it with such force that the weakened head snapped off and flew over his shoulder. It landed on one of his comrades, braining him. Oblivious, the sergeant swept the weapon downward towards Stryke. It has halfway through its arc before he realised the head was missing. While he gaped at the splintered pole he was holding, Stryke ran him through.
The Wolverines had got the better of the guardsmen. Most lay dead or wounded, and the orcs were making short work of the few still standing. Stryke barked an order and the band rushed for the guards’ station.
Coilla got there first. Wrenching open the door, with its dead trooper affixed, she stormed inside.
The interior was little more than a long dormitory. Cots lined one wall, lockers and stacked chests were heaped against the other. At the far end was a door ajar, leading to a privy. Coilla judged the place empty of troopers.
She was wrong.
As she walked past the row of cots, a figure leapt up. He had been hiding between two of the beds, pressed to the floor in sly ambush or trembling cowardice, and he hefted a sword.
He came at her fast, yelling something, the sword in motion. Coilla swerved, rapped the blade aside and booted his stomach. He landed on a cot, struggled to right himself, half rose. Then he fell back with a groan, her blade in his innards. She finished him with a thrust to the heart.
He was young, as far as Coilla could tell with humans. She wondered why he didn’t try surrendering, though she wasn’t sure what she would have done if he had.
Orcs: Bad Blood Page 24