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 changed 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 naïve 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.
“I’ve no idea if the legends and omens have any real meaning,” Sylandya repeated, “and frankly I don’t care. I’ll use whatever it takes to gain our freedom. Needs must.”
“You’ve no qualms about telling the citizens a lie?”
“I didn’t say it was a lie. But even if it is, sometimes a lie in the service of truth is tolerable.”
“Makes sense to me,” Stryke remarked.
Brelan came forward. “It’s time, Mother. Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.” She clutched his hand, and reached for his sister’s. “We’re about to enter an abyss, in hope of finding the light beyond. You two have to promise me that whatever happens you’ll keep faith with our cause.”
“You’ll be here to make sure we do,” Chillder replied.
“The fate of the nation doesn’t depend on one individual. Things change. Promise.”
“I promise.”
“Me, too,” Brelan echoed. “But I think you’re being —”
Sylandya placed her fingers on his lips, stilling him. “You said it was time.”
The twins nodded. She rose and they moved to either side of her, taking her arms.
A little procession formed, led by the principal and the siblings. Several members of the resistance council followed, with Stryke and Coilla falling in at the rear. They made their way up a staircase to the floor above, and from there out onto the balcony-like veranda. A number of rebels were already there, as were a handful of Wolverines, including Haskeer.
From their vantage point they could make out the size of the crowd, which had further swollen. More orcs were arriving. When they recognised Sylandya, their roar was like thunder.
“How’s she going to make herself heard over this din?” Coilla bellowed into Stryke’s ear.
He shrugged.
When Brelan raised his arms, the crowd immediately fell silent. They boomed again when he announced the principal, then resumed an expectant hush.
Gently refusing her children’s support, Sylandya stepped forward. Straight-backed, her face a picture of resolve, she seemed the exact opposite of the frail oldster of a moment before. And when she spoke it was in an impressively strong, loud voice. “Citizens of Acurial!” They roared once more at that, and even louder when she amended it to, “Citizens of free Acurial!”
When the clamour died down she continued, “We have suffered greatly in recent times! Our liberty has been stolen and our land defiled! Too long have we stood back and endured the indignities heaped upon us and the assaults on our pride!”
Archers were on the veranda, scanning the crowd. In the horde itself rebels, Wolverines and Vixens were watchful for any sign of opposition.
“The time is long overdue for us to throw off the shackles the outsiders have forged for us! And now we have a sign!”
Stryke couldn’t say what drew his eye to a figure way over beyond the farthest edge of the crowd. It was true that whoever it was wore a cloak and hood that obscured their features, but many in the crowd were dressed that way, for fear of being identified. And the figure was far enough away to present no threat to the principal; too far even for an arrow to be unleashed with sufficient strength or accuracy. Yet Stryke still stared.
“We have the blessings of our revered forebears! We have the assurance of a prophecy! There! There in the sky!” She pointed to the heavens. The crowd went wild.
Stryke saw the figure take something from the folds of their cloak. He couldn’t make out what it was.
“Peczan has held us in bondage long enough! Now Grilan-Zeat has come, a hammer to break the chains that bind us!”
The figure cast the object into the air. Or rather, released it. Whatever it was soared upward, seemingly of its own volition. Then it levelled out and started moving over the crowd.
“We have a heritage! A heritage of ferocity and battle, of victory over our foes! A heritage we have allowed ourselves to forget! Well, now the time has come to reawaken that slumbering spirit! To set free the hounds of war!”
As it got nearer, Stryke could see that the object had wings. At which point he stopped thinking of it as an object and started thinking of it as a bird. A white bird, not particularly large, flapping unerringly in their direction. He wondered what harm a bird could do.
“Coilla,” he whispered, nudging her. “See that?” He pointed, but not obviously so.
She squinted. “A bird? Looks like a do
ve.”
“Yes, I think it is a dove.” He noticed that the figure who had released it had gone.
“What about it?” she asked slightly peevishly, irritated at his talking over Sylandya’s speech.
“It’s… not right.”
“When we raise arms against our oppressors it is in pursuit of a righteous cause! The cause of freedom!”
“What do you mean, not right?” Coilla hissed. “It’s a fucking bird.”
“No,” Stryke replied. “I don’t know what it is, but…”
The dove was a stone’s throw away and heading straight at them.
“No longer will we dwell miserably in the dark! We shall take up our blades and carve our way to the light! No matter how much human flesh stands in our path!”
“Brelan! Chillder!” Stryke yelled. “Danger!”
The principal faltered, and looked at him. Everyone else on the veranda did likewise, some open-mouthed, others with angry expressions.
“Something’s coming!” Stryke shouted. “There!” He thrust out an arm to indicate the approaching threat.
As he did so, a change rapidly came over the dove. It became somehow indistinct, and began to alter its shape. But it kept coming. Some in the crowd noticed it and reacted noisily.
Stryke snatched a bow from one of the rebels, drew it and took aim.
The dove transformed into a swirling black cloud, with streaks of gold and silver pulsing at its core.
The crowd on the balcony was in disarray. Stryke loosed his arrow.
A bolt of pure white light, blindingly vivid, erupted from the cloud. It covered the distance to the balcony in an instant, striking Sylandya. She collapsed, a smouldering wound in her chest.
The cloud that had been a bird that wasn’t a bird dissolved.
There was uproar. Brelan and Chillder, ashen with shock, half carried, half dragged their stricken mother inside. Stryke, Coilla and a number of the rebels went with them.
The crowd was in turmoil.
They laid Sylandya on some sacking. Brelan slipped out of his jerkin and folded it as a pillow for her head. He and Chillder seemed distraught to the point of panic. A rebel medic elbowed his way through. One look at the gaping, charred wound told him all he needed to know. He turned to the twins and slowly shook his head.
ORCS: Army of Shadows Page 9