The sound of battering came from the far side of the carriage. Dallog's crew were laying siege to it. Stryke, Coilla and Haskeer got up and raced for their goal. As they approached, the door of the second carriage burst open and four troopers spilled out.
"You go ahead!" Coilla shouted to Stryke.
He sprinted off.
Swords drawn, the troops came at Haskeer and Coilla, who rushed forward to meet them. The chime of steel on steel echoed through the twilight. Almost immediately, Dallog and the others poured around the carriages and joined in. Jennesta's guards fought with spirit, but had no hope of not being overwhelmed.
Stryke reached the first coach. He hesitated for a fraction of a second at its door, then wrenched it open.
A bulky, shadow-swathed figure filled the doorway. It half fell, half leapt on Stryke, pinning him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. His sword was dashed from his hand.
Stryke immediately knew his foe as one of Jennesta's zombie bodyguards, if only from the foul odour it gave off. Struggling under the creature's oppressive weight, he was aware of its skin, dried out and wrinkled like ancient parchment. He saw the black chasm of its dead eyes.
The zombie encircled him with its fetid arms. Fists balled, Stryke pummelled the once-human, landing hefty blows to its head. But he couldn't break its iron grip. The zombie's abnormal strength began to crush the life out of him. Stryke writhed and kicked, but the bear hug held.
Then his flailing hand touched metal and he grasped the hilt of his dropped sword. He brought it up and round in an arc, striking the zombie's side. The blade cut deep, but brought only a puff of grey dust from what should have been a wound. It hardly troubled the zombie. Gasping for breath now, Stryke tried another tack. He hacked frenziedly at the creature's arm. After three blows it severed, exuding more rank dust. The arm fell away. Half free, Stryke exerted pressure and rolled the thrashing zombie far enough away for him to scramble clear. Quickly he found his feet.
The creature rose too. It looked about itself, lifeless eyes unblinking, and saw its amputated arm. Reaching down, it grabbed the arm, hefted it as though it were a club, and lumbered in Stryke's direction. Stryke charged and plunged his blade into the thing's chest. It met little obstruction. Its tip exploded from the zombie's back, liberating yet more dust. Stryke yanked the sword out and withdrew a couple of paces. The zombie kept coming, apparently unharmed. Stryke made to attack again.
Haskeer appeared and darted between them. "It's mine," he growled, facing the creature. "You go!" Ducking to avoid its fleshy club, he commenced chopping and slashing at the zombie.
Stryke ran for the open carriage door, leapt up and jumped in.
Jennesta sat alone. She wore an expression that could have been called serene.
He seized his chance and thrust his sword at her heart.
It felt as if the blade had struck an anvil. The impact sent a shock wave up his arm that instantly suffused his entire body. It was a pain unlike any he had ever known. He imagined that being stung by a dozen venomous serpents would be like this. An energy ran through him, a malevolent force, bringing agony to every fibre.
He was flung backwards, landing on the floor, his back to the opposite seat. The pain immediately began to fade.
Jennesta was swathed in a semitransparent aura that looked like air rippling on a hot day. It was shot through with a brilliant violet hue that shifted, melted and reformed itself. Stryke knew a mere sword was no match for such sorcery.
"Did you think to find me unprotected?" she said.
"It was worth a try," Stryke grated. He was fighting against his inbred deference for her, and his wariness of her powers.
She laughed. It was a disturbing sound. "Your race may be unparalleled fighters, but you hardly excel when it comes to thinking."
"If brainwork means something like you," he replied defiantly, "I'll stay dumb."
"Insolent cur!" She made a movement with her hand, as though lobbing an invisible ball.
Stryke was hit by a jolt as powerful as the shock he'd just recovered from. He bit his lip to stop himself crying out.
"So you came here to kill me?" she added. Her tone made it sound conversational.
He said nothing.
"Or perhaps you hoped for a different prize," Jennesta went on. For a fraction of a second, and apparently involuntarily, her eyes flicked to a bulky silk pouch on the seat beside her.
Stryke hadn't noticed it before, and now he willed himself not to look at it. "Your death's the best prize I can think of."
"Then you really do lack imagination, dullard." She made the hand gesture again.
He took another punch of psychic force. The hurt inundated every cell in his body. He felt it in his bones, his teeth. And he knew he couldn't take much more; assuming she didn't simply kill him outright.
"Your view of the universe is so depressingly limited," she said. "You grasp no more than a sliver of the truth. If only you had the intellect to see how much more there is to reality."
Stryke thought that was an odd thing for her to say. But then, most of what she said had always struck him as bizarre. He held his silence.
"Why am I bothering?" Jennesta asked. "You and your kind have the acumen of worms. And to think I once believed that you, Captain Stryke, had the wit to rise above your animal state."
"You never showed it."
"You never earned my trust."
It was Stryke's turn to laugh, even if he risked a further jolt. "You talk as though your trust's a gem, and not a sham of paste and glass."
"What a poetic turn of phrase. For an animal. You could have been great, Stryke."
"I'm flattered."
"Low sarcasm. I shouldn't expect more. But what you're too dim to understand is that by your treachery you've traded my patronage for a life of struggle and hardship."
"We call it freedom."
"It's overrated," she sneered.
The carriage door was still open. Outside, the sound of fighting continued, but it was strangely faint, as if heard from a distance.
Stryke said the first thing that came into his head, purely to keep her engaged. "You might have the upper hand now, but — "
"Oh really. Foolishly, I expected more of you than empty threats and petty chatter. Let's not beat about the bush. Neither of us is mentioning the enormous basilisk in the room. The instrumentalities, dolt." She fleetingly glanced at the pouch again. He took that as confirming his hunch and tensed himself.
"What about them?"
She rolled her eyes. " ' What about them,' he asks. So you're happy that you no longer possess them, is that it? No answer? Perhaps a little encouragement's in order." She raised her hand.
Stryke sprang forward, snatched the pouch and dived out of the carriage. Thinking he'd be struck down at any instant, he ran towards Haskeer.
His sergeant had decapitated the zombie and was staring down at it. Even headless, the creature still showed signs of life, writhing and twitching in the dirt.
" Move it! " Stryke yelled. "Run!"
Haskeer fell in behind him.
Stryke looked back. He expected to see Jennesta coming out of the coach, but there was no sign of her. Up ahead Coilla, Dallog and the others were surveying the corpses of the troopers littering the road.
Loosening the drawstrings on the pouch, Stryke checked its contents. The instrumentalities were inside. Triumphant, he stuffed the pouch into his jerkin.
"Got them?" Coilla asked as he approached.
He gave her a thumbs-up.
" Company! " Dallog shouted, pointing with his sword.
A detachment of cavalry were heading their way from the direction of the barracks, and they were moving fast.
Stryke ordered a retreat. They ran into the trees and mounted hidden horses.
In her carriage, Jennesta smiled.
They split into four groups to avoid attention, with Stryke, Coilla and Haskeer staying together. As a precaution, the safe house had been change
d following the incident with Standeven, and they rode hard for it to beat the curfew. But they slowed their pace when they got into the inner city's narrow, winding streets, where many others were hastening home before full dark. Finally, finding the lanes too crowded to ride, they had to dismount and lead their horses.
"Now we've got the stars back," Haskeer said, "we can leave anytime we want."
"Not until things are settled here," Stryke replied sternly.
"Didn't say we should. It's just good to have the option."
"I'll drink to that."
"Now you're talking." Haskeer spat plentifully, narrowly missing the feet of an irate passing citizen. "My throat's as dusty as a troll's crotch."
"Is it just me," Coilla wondered, "or did this mission seem just a little too easy?"
"You wouldn't say that if you'd been in there with Jennesta," Stryke replied.
"You're still alive, aren't you? And, all right, we met some opposition, but nothing we couldn't handle."
"We got lucky."
"Don't you think Jennesta would've taken more precautions? Not just for herself, but the stars?"
"You know what it's like with rulers. They get full of themselves. Too brash. They never think anybody'd dare go against 'em. The important thing is we got these back." He patted his jerkin.
"Guess so." She didn't sound entirely convinced.
"We're nearly there," Stryke said, changing the subject. "Expect the rebels to be nosy about what we've been up to today, and stick to our story. Remember, we've just been harrying the militia."
Coilla and Haskeer nodded.
But when they got to the disused grain store the resistance were using they found the place abuzz. No one seemed interested in where they'd been. Eventually Chillder located them, and she was animated.
"What's happening?" Stryke asked.
"The resistance council's decided the Primary should come out into the open. Isn't it great? Our mother's going to issue her rallying call!"
"When?"
"In the morning."
"That soon?"
"The time's right, Stryke. Make sure your band's ready; we're heading for the revolution!"
9
Hacher had grown used to Jennesta's nocturnal habits. Or at least accepting of them. In the weeks she had been in Taress as the empire's special envoy, he had reason to wonder if she ever slept at all.
So it was that Hacher found himself in her chambers near dawn, having been at her beck and call for most of the night. Jennesta herself was outside on the balcony, watching Grilan-Zeat. The comet was big in the sky, a boiling light to rival the Sun that was soon to rise.
Hacher was alone in her apartment. His aide, Frynt, had been despatched on some errand Jennesta demanded, and Brother Grentor had likewise been dragged from his bed to attend to her whims. Her undead personal guards were nowhere to be seen. Hacher suspected that they were slumbering in some state of coma necessary to revitalise their strength, but preferred not to dwell on the thought.
He was bored as well as exhausted, though the anxiety Jennesta always managed to generate in everyone gave his fatigue an edge. It was rather like the way he remembered feeling as he prepared to enter a battle when he was a younger man. But this night trepidation had reached new heights, given Jennesta's ambush during the evening. Not that she had done more than mention it, almost in passing, let alone discussed it with him. He wasn't so naive as to think it would end there, and his concern was about when and how she might show her displeasure.
As he pondered, she entered the room. Hacher intuitively stiffened, almost to attention, as he always did when she was around, and doubly so when there was a chance she was going to be wrathful.
Worn out by anticipation, he decided on the risky strategy of preempting her by broaching the subject first, greeting her with, "I owe you an apology, my lady. The assault you were subjected to earlier was inexcusable."
"Yet you are about to make excuses for it, no doubt."
"No, ma'am. I merely wish to express the military's regret that you should have been put in harm's way." He consulted a parchment he'd been reading. "And I see from the report that you lost a personal possession to the outlaws."
"The item in question is not your concern, General, and in any event it was unimportant, trifling."
"I'm pleased to hear it, ma'am."
"The matter of my personal security, however, is not insignificant. In allowing my convoy to be attacked, those under your command were both incompetent and cowardly."
"A number of men gave their lives for you, ma'am."
"But not all, I think."
"Ma'am?"
"Who survived the raid?"
Hacher scanned the report. "A coach driver, and one of the troopers accompanying you, though he's severely injured."
"Execute them."
"With all due respect, ma'am, I think — "
"Only you don't, do you? Think, that is. The only way you're going to put down this growing rebellion is by being utterly ruthless with your underlings. They need to be toughened to pass that mercilessness on to the scum on the streets."
"I have complete confidence in our armed forces," Hacher protested indignantly. "Their expertise and bravery are next to none."
"The rulers of every nation tell their subjects lies. Do you know one of the biggest? That they have the best army in the world. While in actuality armies are a rabble, a dumping pit for felons and cutthroats. Only absolute obedience, born of the rope and the lash, enables them to function."
"Our forces are properly disciplined, ma'am. And as a result, as fighters they're peerless."
"You don't know the meaning of the word. Nor will you until I fashion a force that's truly peerless. Merciless and totally compliant. The executions will go ahead. As to your own behaviour, as the one ultimately answerable, I've issued you with enough warnings about your behaviour. Be sure that this is the last one."
"Ma'am." For all his iron reputation, and his position of command, he lowered his eyes from hers.
"Cheer up, General," Jennesta told him. "Your forces will have the chance to prove you right very soon." She looked out at the rising Sun, bloody red on the horizon. "Something tells me it's going to be an interesting day."
On the periphery of the city, in a location passed on by word of mouth in marketplaces, taverns and cornfields, a crowd was gathering. The area was shabby, with little to tempt visitors, and dawn had barely broken, yet a large number had collected. More were arriving by the minute, on foot, by horseback, in packed-out wagons.
Up above, the comet was plain, even when rivalled by the climbing Sun.
The quarter was one of mean dwellings, stables and depositories, largely derelict. The focus of the crowd was a particular warehouse, some three storeys tall, that once had served as a grain store. There was a gallery, or veranda, projecting from its second floor, onto which sacks were hoisted. It was a perfect point to address the crowd from.
Inside the building the atmosphere was tense. Many rebels were assembled, along with all the Wolverines. The humans, Pepperdyne and Standeven, were not present, and neither were Jup and Spurral. It was thought best to keep them out of sight of the crowd.
Principal Sylandya, Acurial's aged matriarch, was the centre of attention. She sat as though enthroned on a hastily found, down-at-heel chair, and she wore the scarlet robe that signified the office she had never renounced. A small army of rebels buzzed about her. But her offspring, the twins Brelan and Chillder, stayed closest. A privilege that had been temporarily extended to Stryke and Coilla, though Stryke at least suspected this was because Sylandya found the Wolverines intriguing, and perhaps a bit exotic.
"Do you have your speech prepared, Mother?" Chillder asked.
"No. This is not a time for lectures. I'll speak from the heart, and the words I need will come."
Brelan smiled. "A typically wise decision."
"You always knew how to flatter your old mother," Sylandya told him. "But no soft
soap today, I beg you. I need an honest steer from both of you on what we're doing here."
"You have doubts?" Chillder said, frowning.
" Of course I have doubts. I hope I've raised you well enough to know I would. What I'm about to say to that crowd is going to have a price. A price paid in blood. Citizens are going to suffer."
"They're suffering already, and the way things are it'll never stop. Surely it's better to pay that price to rid ourselves of the occupiers?"
"That's what my head says. My feelings aren't so clear-cut." She turned to Stryke. "What do our friends from… the North think?"
Stryke didn't miss her slight hesitation, and not for the first time suspected she was more sceptical about his band's story than her children were. "The orcs here have a choice. They can be cattle fit for slaughter or snow leopards lusting for prey. If they're going to throw off the yoke they need to remember what they are. Your call to arms and that thing in the sky could do it."
"Snow leopards? That's a class of beast I'm not familiar with in what I know of Acurial. They must be confined to your northern wastes." She eyed the necklace of leopards' fangs he wore as a trophy about his neck, and gave him a look half quizzical, half amused.
Stryke cursed himself for mentioning something unknown in this world. He said nothing.
"But of course you're right," she went on. "Most of this land's orcs have lived too long in a dream. My hope is that we can wake them. Whether Grilan-Zeat and my poor words can bring that about is moot." She smiled. "Oh, and the prophecy concerning a band of heroes. Let's not forget that."
"How much stock do you put in it?" Coilla asked.
"Prophecies and comets? It could all be so much moonfluff. Though I wouldn't tell your Sergeant Haskeer that; he seems rather taken with the romance of it."
"A big old softy, that's our Haskeer," Coilla told her with a straight face.
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