“We’re both maligned. And once your enemies stigmatise you, they can justify any crime, any indignity they heap on you. Our name was blackened and it sticks. Even false ignominy carries on, like a rock cast down a hill.”
She could relate to that. “The storytellers, the scholars with their books: they’re from the winning side, more often than not. You wouldn’t believe the shit they spew about orcs. They say we favour human flesh, or even that we eat each other. They put it about that we sprang from elves, for the gods’ sake. All lies!”
“They said we conjured demons and sodomised goats.”
Coilla burst out laughing. Pepperdyne looked stern for a moment, then joined her.
“So,” she said when that was subsiding, “how does Standeven come into all this?”
Amusement died in his face instantly, like a snuffed candle.
“Is he a… Trougathian too?” she asked.
“No, he’s a bastard.”
“But one with some kind of charge on you.”
“Let’s say I’m working a debt off with him.”
“Even while you’re in this world? Doesn’t that change anything?”
“Only here. Back home…”
“We might never see our homes again, Jode!” She checked herself. “Shit. That’s not good for morale, is it? Stryke’d hate hearing me say that.”
“It’s no secret, Coilla. I reckon we all think that staying here’s the most likely thing.”
“Well, it’d be no different to what’s happened in the past.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something we were told before we left Maras-Dantia the first time. Do you know why the elder races came to be there?”
“Why? They… you… were just… always there. Weren’t you?”
“No. I don’t say I understand it, but out there” —she waved a limp hand in the general direction of away —“out there, there are whole worlds of elves and centaurs, and pixies and gnomes, and all the rest. And orcs,” she added hastily. “Crowds of the races… I don’t know… fell through to Maras-Dantia. Scooped up like fish in a net by a powerful sorceress.”
“Humans too?”
“We were told you were our world’s true race.”
“Ironic.”
“We didn’t think so.” There was a flash of steel in her eyes.
“So all orcs would have originally come from Acurial. From here?”
She frowned. “I don’t know. The world we’ve been living in, Ceragon, has only orcs too. But a damned sight more spirited than the ones here.”
“So humans might not have started off on Maras-Dantia. Who’s to say where orcs, humans or any other race could have originated? Or how far they’ve spread. Doesn’t that intrigue you?”
“No, it makes my head hurt. I see things simpler. Like, maybe we should look at this as being just like moving from one camp to another. Your people are drifters: you must understand that.”
“It’s a hell of a trek, Coilla. Sure you’re not just making the best of it?”
“ ’Course that’s what I’m doing. It’s the orc way. We never say die.”
“That could have been Trougath’s motto.” He grew sombre. “But lately I feel almost like —”
He broke off at the sound of approaching footsteps. They were loud and hurried, and could mean trouble. Pepperdyne and Coilla got up, hands on sword hilts.
Chillder burst into the room. She was breathing heavily.
“We’ve got a situation,” she announced, “and we need all the swords we can muster.”
6
A crowd had gathered in one of Taress’ largest squares. The mob was several hundred strong, and tempers were fraying. What began as a series of protests —against taxes, restricted access to holy places, the razing of certain venerated buildings, food rationing, curfews, heavy-handed policing and any number of other grievances —had distilled into a general outpouring of bitterness at the occupation.
The situation was near flashpoint. But it wasn’t an incipient riot that drew the resistance. Their aim was to use it as cover.
A number of the rebels were present, along with most of the Wolverines, and the Vixens, the all-female unit Coilla had formed. Scattered around the square, they were dressed soberly, with weapons well concealed.
“Not that long ago these orcs wouldn’t have been this restive,” Stryke whispered in Brelan’s ear.
“They wouldn’t even have come onto the streets.”
The pair were standing together at the edge of the milling crowd. There was a knot of human militia nearby, disquiet on their hard faces.
Stryke could see Haskeer not far off, and a little way on, Dallog with a team of grunts. Further afield, Chillder stood alongside several Vixens. But there was no sign yet of the comrades they were waiting for.
“Sure everybody knows what they have to do?” Brelan asked softly.
Stryke replied pointedly, “My band does. I hope your facts are right.”
“There’s no doubt. What we want is there.” He flicked a glance at a building on one side of the square. It stood apart from its neighbours on either side, and looked recently constructed. A squat, one-storey structure, it had white facing and barred windows. Weapons drawn and watchful, a group of nervous militiamen stood guard outside its heavy door.
Stryke was careful not to be seen staring at the place. “So what happened?”
“Seven of our comrades were in the area checking out a target. They got unlucky. The troopers took them without blood being spilt.”
Stryke raised an eyebrow at that.
“We don’t know how they came to be caught, except they were outnumbered.”
“How come they’re in this guards’ station?”
“They couldn’t be taken to a proper prison for fear of the crowd. We reckon they’ll be kept in there until this blows over. Or until an escort arrives.”
“Plenty of soldiers around as it is,” Stryke said, scanning the scene.
“They’ll have other things to think about soon.” He chanced another quick peek at the guardhouse. “If we don’t get them out they’ll be at the mercy of Iron Hand’s torturers. They’re good patriots, and loyal, but they’ll talk. And that could be a real blow for us.”
Stryke nodded, then gave Brelan a nudge. Robed members of the Order of the Helix were weaving through the crowd. “Looks like we’ll have more than military to deal with.”
“Where’s that human of yours?” Brelan wondered irritably.
“He’s not mine. And he’s —Hang on. There he is.”
Pepperdyne came into sight. He was wearing the stolen officer’s uniform that had served them well on previous missions. Coilla and two members of the Vixens were with him, walking a couple of paces behind, as though being led.
“The females should be shackled,” Brelan said. “It’d look more convincing.”
“Even Acurial’s tame orcs might find that hard to swallow. Unless you want this crowd tearing him to pieces.”
“Granted. Though I never thought I wouldn’t want that to happen to a human. It’s time to set things in motion, Stryke.”
Stryke nodded, then raised a cupped hand to his mouth, as though stifling a cough. The other nearby Wolverines, watching for it, began passing the signal on. Brelan did the same with his resistance members. The unspoken order passed through the crowd.
Pepperdyne and his little entourage were making for the guardhouse. They met no open opposition on the way, but there were plenty of hostile stares and the odd shouted comment. That the females were following him with no sign of compulsion seemed to confuse the onlookers, and mollified many of them. In fact, their reflexive passivity, and the sense of obedience to authority that had been drummed into them, meant that most of the crowd cleared a path.
Pepperdyne kept his eyes firmly on the target and maintained an unhurried pace. The females in his wake ignored shouts directed at them.
The rebels stationed around the square knew to hold back until Pepperdyne�
�s group had reached the guards’ station. Shortly after that, they would act.
Pepperdyne and the others were coming to the crowd’s outer edge, which like the rest of the perimeter ended at a thin line of soldiers. Behind them was an empty space in front of the guardhouse, perhaps thirty paces in depth.
Coilla moved closer to him and whispered, “Remember, you’re an officer. Act like it.”
“I never would have thought of that,” he hissed sarcastically. “Now leave the talking to me.”
She glared at his back.
The soldiers containing the crowd took Pepperdyne at face value. They saluted, and let him and the females through. The party of sentries at the guardhouse door seemed less sure. They were obviously surprised to see this unknown officer and his charges. They looked quizzical. All were noticeably tense.
As Pepperdyne and his retinue approached, one of the guards shouted, “Halt!”
The man who had spoken stepped forward, and after a second’s hesitation offered a perfunctory salute. He was short and wiry, with a pencil-line moustache and features that reminded Pepperdyne of a rodent. The stripes he wore showed his rank as that of sergeant.
Pepperdyne returned the salute in a languid fashion he hoped was fitting to his supposed status. He was about to speak.
“Can I help you… sir?” the sergeant got in first. There was a tinge of scepticism in his manner.
Pepperdyne adopted an authoritative tone. “I’ve got three more detainees to join the ones you’re holding.”
“I’ve had no orders to that effect.”
“I’m ordering you now.”
“On what authority?”
“By the authority of my rank. And you’d do well to address a superior officer in the proper fashion.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied, but it was cursory, almost insolent. “However, my brief’s strict. I’m to take no prisoners here without official say-so. That means a direct order from an immediate superior or written authorisation from —”
Pepperdyne pointed at the crowd. “We have a situation here, Sergeant,” he blustered, “in case you hadn’t noticed. Sticking to the rules does you credit, but things are moving fast on these streets. These captives are linked to the rebels and they need locking up.”
“So why aren’t they restrained, sir?”
“Are you implying that I can’t control a few females, Sergeant?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”
“I’m getting tired of this. Are you going to obey my order and take these prisoners?”
“If I have the proper authority.”
“Which I’m giving you.”
“Your name and division. Sir.”
Pepperdyne stared at the unsmiling pedant. “What?”
“To check your credentials. I’ll have to send a runner to HQ and —”
“You should know that I act under the direct mandate of General Hacher himself. I don’t envy your position when he hears about this.”
“That may be so, sir. But we’ve had reports of bogus officials. It’s my duty to verify the credentials of any… officer presenting themselves at this station.” He was maddeningly cool.
“Are you questioning my patriotism?”
“That’s not my place, sir.”
“Don’t you care that apart from your insubordination, your worship of the rulebook’s stopping me from carrying out my duties? That’s a serious step for somebody in your position, Sergeant.”
“My commanding officers would be the best judge of that, sir.”
“Of which I’m one!”
“Perhaps it would help if I went through it again, sir. Once you give me your name and —”
Pepperdyne capped his rising tension by maintaining a stern face. He saw that the other soldiers were eyeing him with something close to hostility. He was aware of Coilla shifting uncomfortably behind him.
From their vantage point, Stryke and Brelan were growing restive too.
“What the hell’s going on?” Brelan muttered. “He should have got them to open that door by now.”
“Maybe we’ve pulled this trick once too often.”
“What do we do?”
“Stick to plan. Be ready to give the signal.”
Pepperdyne made a show of listening as the sergeant spouted regulations, but his mind was on contingencies. And his hand was drifting towards his scabbard.
“So if you’d care to give me those details, sir,” the sergeant concluded, “we can clear this up.”
“Eh?”
“Your details, sir. As I explained.”
“Look, if you’re going to persist in —”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Coilla came out from behind Pepperdyne and thrust a dagger into the sergeant’s midriff.
He looked down at it dumbly, swayed, then fell.
“Shit!” Pepperdyne said. “What the hell, Coilla?”
“Just moving things along.” She swiftly drew her hidden sword. The pair of Vixens did the same, and so did Pepperdyne.
The other guards, stunned into immobility for a second, now raised their own weapons and closed in.
“That did it!” Brelan exclaimed from his place at the crowd’s edge.
“Signal!” Stryke bellowed.
Any thought of concealment gone, they began frantically gesticulating at their confederates. As the order rapidly spread, Stryke and Brelan started forcibly elbowing their way towards the guardhouse.
Pepperdyne and the females fell into a defensive semicircle, their blades jutting like a predator’s fangs. They gambled that their backs were safe. The nearest in the crowd, who had seen what happened, were reacting. So had some of the guards keeping them in check, but they were torn between joining in and holding the line.
The dead sergeant’s comrades advanced, spitting rage. Pepperdyne, Coilla and the Vixens braced themselves.
A great roar went up from the crowd.
There were whirlpools of violence in that churning mass. Attacked by well-placed rebels and Wolverines, the scattered groups of militia were already beleaguered. And here and there ordinary orcs, civilians, were taking part. Hastily improvised weapons appeared. Some used their bare hands. The points where the fighting started were like raindrop impacts on the surface of a lake. They sent out ripples of agitation that built to waves.
The soldiers defending the guardhouse froze at the uproar. Pepperdyne didn’t. He tore into the nearest trooper. They battered away at each other, blades pealing, and Pepperdyne instantly proved himself the better swordsman. The man’s defence crumbled under the onslaught. He took a hit to the groin, and while he was busy with that, Pepperdyne followed through with a chest thrust. Another guard slid into the fallen one’s place and the fight carried on seamlessly.
Coilla had already downed her first opponent and was hacking at two more simultaneously. Her speed and agility vexed them, and they struggled to land a blow. She inflicted a wound on one man, putting him on the back foot with a streaming shoulder, then improved the odds by dropping his companion. The next to step in was more seasoned, or at least cannier, and she found herself fencing rather than hacking.
Battling shoulder to shoulder, the duo of Vixens gave a good account of themselves, despite their relative inexperience. They fought with a zeal not far short of savagery, and a sense of ruthlessness that had their foes wary of engaging them at too-close quarters. Glancing from his own labours, Pepperdyne was in awe of the females’ aggressiveness. But with at least ten guardsmen still on their feet, and who knew how many more zeroing in, fervour might not be enough.
The crowd was boiling now, with brawls all across the square. Wolverines and rebels were at the centre of nigh on every storm, and the Vixens were fighting with particular resolve. Dead and wounded soldiers were underfoot. To a lesser degree, so were orcs, resistance and civilians alike. But far from sobering the horde, the casualties fuelled their anger.
Haskeer was in the thick of things, cutting a swathe for the bunch
of privates in his wake. He favoured an axe, which he swung with abandon, cleaving heads and severing limbs. In another part of the crowd Chillder and a gaggle of Vixens were beating in the brains of several hapless troopers. Not far off, Dallog led a contingent of the Ceragan inductees. Wheam wasn’t among them. It had been thought better to confine him to lookout duties beyond the fighting.
Joined by hand-picked rebels and Wolverines, as planned, Stryke and Brelan were a spit away from the guardhouse. By the time they arrived the crowd had become a mob. But the sentries holding the line against it weren’t a problem. There was no line. The whole area was one seething mass of fighting orcs and humans, and they gave off a deafening roar.
The arrival of Stryke’s crew was timely. Pepperdyne and the three females were holding their own, although several sentries from the broken line had attached themselves to the guardhouse defence, upping their numbers. Pepperdyne was dragging his blade from a guard’s guts. The toll was starting to show. His movements were growing leaden and his sword arm was cramping. One of the Vixens nursed a wound, but kept fighting. Coilla was covered in foes’ blood. She was smiling.
Stryke, Brelan and their backup came in like steel surf. The balance was tipped, and after a brief flurry of bloody confrontation the remaining guardsmen were overcome.
“Took your time,” Coilla said.
“We were picking wildflowers,” Stryke told her, deadpan.
“Come on,” Brelan urged. “Time’s running low.”
They searched the dead sergeant’s pockets and found a bunch of keys. While most of the group kept watch, Brelan made for the door and began trying them. On the third attempt the lock turned.
Brelan gave the door a shove. “It’s not the way we thought it’d go,” he said, shooting a glance at Pepperdyne, “but —”
“Look out!” Coilla yelled, pushing him aside.
An arrow flew out of the open door, barely missing him. It zinged into the crowd and struck a gesticulating protestor, piercing his raised arm.
Stryke rushed through the door, with Coilla, Brelan and Pepperdyne close behind. Inside, a sentry was groping in his scabbard for another arrow. Stryke got to the man first and thrust a blade into his chest.
ORCS: Army of Shadows Page 6