“We’ve been through this. Look at these streets. Tall buildings with hardly any breaks between. A perfect funnel.”
“It’s not these streets I’m thinking about.”
“The other teams are going to channel the flow. Besides, the resistance will do their best to make sure the citizens are away from harm.”
“The humans will do that for us,” Chillder reminded them, “because of what’s happening today. That’s the beauty of it.” She pointed. “This is the place.”
Ahead, the road ended at chest-high wooden fencing. In its centre was a wide bar gate. Beyond the fence was rougher land, littered with outbuildings. Set well back was a large enclosure made of stout timber rails.
Even from a distance they could hear and smell what was housed there.
“Sure about guards, Chillder?” Stryke said.
“There’ll be just a few. They don’t think of this as a target.”
“And the guards are human?”
“Always. Orcs aren’t trusted with arms. They get the menial jobs.”
Checking that no one was about, they approached the gate. It was simply secured with an iron bolt, and a length of chain looped over the gatepost. They undid it and slipped inside, leaving one of the grunts to stand watch.
There was churned, hardened mud underfoot, and not a blade of grass. Off to their right stood the largest building on site.
“Slaughterhouse,” Chillder mouthed.
As she said it, a door opened that they hadn’t noticed before. A figure was outlined by a light burning inside. Then there was shouting, unmistakably human, and a group of men came out. There were four of them, matching Stryke’s crew in number, and they carried weapons.
Striding forward, the thickset, shaven-headed individual leading them yelled, “What’re you doing here?”
Stryke’s team halted, but none of them replied.
“You better have a damn good reason for trespassing!” shaven-head growled.
The men fanned out in front of the orcs, weapons at the ready.
“Well?” the leader demanded, irate at the silence.
“They’re too stupid to answer,” one of his sneering companions offered.
“If it’s jobs you’re after,” the leader said, “you’re out of luck. We’ve got all of your kind we need. Now get out.”
Stryke slowly folded his arms. No one spoke.
Shaven-head took a step nearer, and adopted a mock reasonable tone. “Look, we don’t want trouble.”
“We do,” Coilla said. “We’re orcs.”
Her hand darted into the loose-fitting sleeve of her shirt. Yanking a knife from her arm sheath, she flung it at him. The impact of blade against flesh knocked the human off his feet.
Stryke and the others weren’t idling. Quickly drawing hidden weapons, they laid into the rest of the humans. The deed was short and brutal. Stryke and the grunt took down their opponents with two blows each. Chillder earned credit by needing only one.
“Now we move,” Stryke told them.
Leaving the bodies where they fell, they ran towards the enclosure, keeping an eye out for other humans.
The pen was a lot bigger than Stryke expected. Standing on one of the fence bars, he gazed out over an ocean of brown backs and jutting horns.
“Nearly a thousand head,” Chillder informed him. “Somewhere the size of Taress gets through a lot of meat every day.”
“Well, it should do the trick.” He pointed at the grunt. “Stay by this gate. When you see our signal, do your job and get clear. Coilla, Chillder; let’s go.”
They jogged around the corral to its far end. From the folds of their peasant garb they produced flints, bottles of oil and three club-like torches with tarred heads. Stryke held one out. Chillder soaked it with oil, and Coilla brought the spark. It spluttered into yellow flame.
Stryke scrambled on to the enclosure’s fence. The nearest cattle immediately grew alarmed. They mooed wretchedly and tried to back away from the flame. Holding the torch above his head, he waved it from side to side.
The two grunts he’d stationed saw the signal. They unlatched the gates, then ran for higher, safer ground.
Stryke shared the flame by touching his brand to Coilla and Chillder’s. Mounting the fence, they goaded with fire and hollering.
At first, the spooked animals milled anxiously, and without accord. But herd instinct quickly took over. The cattle by the gate found it was open and began to spill out. With a vent for the mounting pressure, an exodus was triggered. The livestock poured from the corral and took the only available route. Charging across the mud-covered yard, driven by panic, they channelled into the path that led to the road. By the time they reached it, flight had turned into a stampede.
They thundered along the road, jamming its width, cows scraping their hides against the walls on either side. The rumble of pounding hooves shook buildings as they passed.
Curving, the road took them towards the city’s core. The cows met the bend at speed, striking sparks from the cobblestones as they swerved. A mature tree grew by the roadside. The living flood uprooted it. Carried along by the surge, it briefly stood erect, like the standard of some maddened bovine army.
The road narrowed, increasing the herd’s terror. And as they approached more populous quarters, the streets were no longer empty. Orcs scattered, racing to sanctuary through open doors, or leaping to cling precariously from window frames. Some abandoned carts in the stampede’s path. It made kindling of them.
But the streets had become a lot less crowded. Mostly due to what was about to happen in the city centre, partly because of discreet warnings from the resistance.
The rebels had been busy in other, more tangible ways. Aided by Haskeer and other Wolverines, they hijacked wagons and used them to block off certain streets. For good measure, and added chaos, they set fire to the roadblocks. The upshot was to direct the cattle along a particular path.
Most of the citizenry, and the occupying troops, were gathered in another part of the city. During the night, six Peczan ships had entered Acurial’s waters. Hugging the coast, the flotilla nosed its way to an inlet and joined the land’s principal river. They arrived at Taress’ port with the dawn.
Close on fifteen hundred troops disembarked, reinforcements for Peczan’s intended crackdown. Forming ranks on the quayside, they set off accompanied by the drums and pipes of a military band, and with pennants flying. The orc population, bar essential workers, were again dragooned into acting out a welcome. They crowded the sidewalks, but were kept behind wooden barriers in case affection for their glorious liberators got out of hand.
The conquering forces marched eastward, towards the centre of the capital.
The stampede moved in a westerly direction, heading for the capital’s centre.
Increasingly frantic, the cattle downed more trees, destroyed kerbside food stalls and snatched away traders’ awnings. The torrent wrecked discarded wagons and carried off riderless horses. Under the shock of countless pummelling hooves, cracks appeared on the road’s surface.
The pipes and drums kept up a jaunty martial rhythm. Strutting proudly, the troopers passed browbeaten crowds cheering by rote. A cavalry division trotted alongside them, lances raised. Supply wagons and the buggies of officers’ wives bobbed along in the multitude.
Even above the listless cries of the spectators, and their own marching, the soldiers became aware of a sound. More than a sound; a vibration. A tremor.
The buildings in this densely populated quarter were tall by Taress standards, and gave the impression of a shallow canyon. There was a sharp bend in the road ahead. The gorge of wood and stone turned, off to parts unseen.
On the corner directly in the marchers’ path stood a house. It was three storeys high and extended nearer to the road than any of its neighbours. As they watched, it began to tremble. Dust and plaster fell, and as the building shook more violently, chunks of facing dislodged.
The marchers slowed. Behind
their barriers, the orc spectators quietened. Now the mysterious, rhythmic sound could be heard more plainly, and felt through the soles of the troops’ boots. Further scraps of stonework dropped from the quivering building. The marchers all but came to a halt.
A lone cow appeared. It loped along, but moved erratically, as though drunk. There was some ragged laughter from the crowd, and even from the column of soldiers.
Then a thousand head of enraged cattle rounded the corner.
It was a leathery deluge, with horses, ruined wagons and general detritus sucked in. The animals were steaming from their frenetic rush. Those in the vanguard foamed at the mouth and tossed their spiky-horned heads from side to side. If they were aware of the obstruction they approached, it made no difference. They kept on coming.
At first, the rear of the procession had no idea what was happening at the front, and continued marching. But the troops at its head had not only stopped; they were retreating into their advancing comrades.
As the stampede drew closer, what had been an orderly progression turned into milling anarchy. There was chaos, and a mounting sense of panic. Numbers of men tried scaling the barriers designed not to be scaled. A handful of cavalry officers, leaping from their saddles, actually managed it. But it proved no salvation for the majority.
The spectators, who had fallen silent, spontaneously resumed cheering, and what before had been half-hearted now took on a new vibrancy.
Some of the troops had the presence of mind to loose arrows at the cattle. It was a resourceful, if futile, gesture. A couple of the lead steers were hit and went down headlong. The animals behind piled into them, causing knots of squirming, kicking bedlam. But it didn’t slow the stampede’s pace. If anything, it increased the cattle’s alarm. They either streamed around the stricken or simply ran over them. The column of troopers had compressed, and unable to back up further with any speed, made a stand, as though about to repel an enemy offensive.
The wave swept in. Men and beasts clashed in a shattering of bone and rending of flesh. Packed as the human ranks were, the cattle penetrated deep, and pressure at their backs kept them moving forward. The effect was similar to striking a block of butter sidelong with a mallet.
Scenes of mayhem were played out. A cow momentarily rose from the scrum, impaled on a trooper’s spear. Another, running into a wagon at speed, was sent flying and smashed against the barrier. Soldiers attacked the cattle with swords, and only incensed the greater herd. Men were trampled.
The cavalry fared a little better, though many had their horses caught in an unstoppable tide that carried them off, the riders helpless. There were sorcerers amongst the shambles of the column. The flash and crackle of magical energy bolts erupted, and the smell of charred meat drifted across the crowd. Havoc spread.
The sullen sky birthed a clap of thunder. Fat raindrops started to fall.
The devastation played out in the shadow of the fortress. On a lofty balcony jutting from its bleak facade, Jennesta observed the scene. Her black cloak billowed in the wind, making her look like some oversized bird of prey, about to swoop. Her expression was unreadable. But she gripped the rail so tightly her knuckles were bloodless.
Not far away, on the rooftop of a lower and humbler building, other eyes took in the carnage.
“This is better than I hoped,” Brelan said.
“We aim to please,” Coilla told him.
Chillder turned to Stryke. “Your band’s proved itself today.”
“I thought we’d already done that.”
“More so, then. And now we think the time’s come for you to meet somebody.”
“Who?”
“The most important orc in the country.”
20
The occupiers’ retaliation was swift and brutal.
Homes were raided. Alleged sympathisers were dragged off for interrogation. Certain taverns, thought to be gathering places for dissidents, were closed down or put to the torch. There were arbitrary arrests and roadside executions. On the streets, there was an even greater military presence.
All of which made travel awkward and dangerous. But after more than an hour of dodging patrols and taking circuitous routes, the small group led by Brelan and Chillder reached their goal.
“Looks a shit place,” Haskeer reckoned.
“I knew we shouldn’t have brought him,” Coilla sighed.
“Knock it off,” Stryke told them. He turned to Chillder, and said in an undertone, “It does seem mean for somebody as important as you say.”
“Never judge a tome by its binding. Come on.”
The tiny house was situated in a narrow, filth-strewn alley. All the dwellings appeared shabby and tumbledown, but none were as unprepossessing as their goal. The windows were boarded and its timbers were rotting. It was hard to believe the place was occupied.
Brelan tapped a signal on the door. A cunningly concealed spy-hole flipped aside. After a few seconds, bolts were drawn and the door opened.
“Inside,” Chillder prompted. “Don’t linger.”
A pair of stony-faced guards looked them over as they entered. The unlit interior was gloomy, and there was a pungent smell of decay.
The house was narrow but deep, and bigger than it seemed from outside. A long passageway stretched ahead of them, disappearing into shadow. On their left was a staircase. The twins motioned for them to climb it, and they ascended the creaking treads. On the first landing, they stopped at a door. Brelan rapped on it, and without waiting for an answer, pushed it open.
The cloyingly sweet aroma of incense wafted out, partly disguising the mouldy niff. Inside, the room was candlelit, and the first impression was of clutter. Most of which, on closer observation, proved due to books. They lined the walls and stood in uneven piles on the bare floor. Books of all sizes, bound in leather, vellum and plain boards. Most looked old, and not a few were greatly worn and crumbling. Some lay open. There was little in the way of furnishings beyond a crude table, covered in books, and a couple of chairs that had seen better days.
A female orc sat in one of them. She was mature, beyond breeding age but not yet old. Her dress was simple, consisting of a plain grey robe and slippers, and she wore no jewellery or other adornments. Yet there was something in her bearing that made the dilapidated chair seem like a throne.
“This is Primary Sylandya, true ruler of Acurial,” Chillder announced. To the female she said, “These are the warriors we told you about. Stryke, Haskeer and Coilla. They’ve been of great help to the resistance.”
The female gave the trio a faint nod.
“I don’t know how we’re supposed to greet you,” Stryke told her. “We’re not keen on rulers. Most we’ve met didn’t deserve bowing and scraping.”
“Yeah,” Haskeer agreed, “we don’t kiss arse.”
She smiled. “Orcs who speak their mind. Refreshing.”
“We mean no disrespect,” Stryke assured her.
“Don’t go spoiling it. I value honesty. It was so rare in politics.”
“You need more than talk to fix the problems you’ve got,” Coilla reckoned.
“Sylandya’s aware of that,” Brelan said. “She’s head of our resistance group.”
“And our mother, as it happens,” Chillder added.
Stryke nodded. “Should have guessed.”
“Family likeness?” Brelan asked.
“Same spunk.”
“I’ll take that as praise.”
“You’ve come down in the world,” Haskeer judged, “to end up in this shithouse.”
“I knew we shouldn’t have brought him,” Coilla muttered.
Sylandya raised a mollifying hand. “I said I favour plain speaking. Yes, I’m reduced. As are all orcs under the invaders’ yoke. The least I can do is endure it with them.”
“More than endure,” Stryke said. “Overcome.”
“You think we’re not trying?”
“Too few of you are. You like straight talk, so I’ll put it bluntly. Someho
w, the orcs here have grown placid. Meek.”
“Cowards, more like,” Haskeer remarked.
“Like hell they are,” Brelan thundered. He took a step in Haskeer’s direction.
Sylandya checked him with a wave. “We can’t deny it, son. They may not be craven, but their fighting spirit’s been lost.” She looked to Stryke. “Though that hasn’t happened with every orc, it seems.”
“Your own offspring prove it,” Stryke replied, “and those who volunteered for the resistance.”
“A pitiful few. There was a time, long ago, when our kind would never have allowed themselves to be subjugated. We were a fearsome warrior race, beholden to none. The way you still are, you orcs from the north. Or wherever you come from,” she added pointedly.
“Maybe our remoteness shielded us from the changes in regions where life’s softer,” Stryke suggested, hoping to turn aside her suspicions.
“Perhaps. Though it seems strange that martial fortitude should be almost bred out everywhere but your homeland.”
“We can talk forever about why,” Coilla intervened. “What matters is how we get these orcs fighting.”
“I think the humans could help with that.”
“What do you mean?”
“They lied about us, and made war on us with words. The citizens of Acurial did nothing. They dreamed up excuses to invade us. We did nothing. They took our land and wealth. Still we did nothing. They treated us like cattle, humiliated us, and killed us at will. Except for the few, we suffered and did nothing. They impose ever harsher rule, and most of us do no more than shoulder the burden. But the time must come when the bough breaks under the weight of oppression. Then the spirit will reawaken.”
Haskeer snorted. “I wouldn’t hold your breath.”
“I believe that, deep down, our race still has its fire. Given a push, it could flare again.”
“What would it take?” Stryke asked.
“Two things,” Sylandya replied. “First, we need to harass the humans, to hit them as often and as hard as we can. Your band can help greatly with this.”
“They won’t take it lying down. There’ll be reprisals.”
Orcs: Bad Blood Page 20
