The well chosen spot was shallow near the bank, and the majority of the rafts simply ground to a halt. Their occupants leapt off and splashed to shore. Some rafts were barred from quite reaching the shallows by the clutter of vessels. They tossed anchors of iron and rock overboard, then their passengers waded waist high to the riverbank.
The suddenness of the move confused the humans, though they must have known the orcs had no plan to go over the falls. A number of them tried copying the move and beaching in the shallows. But the deeper hauls of their bigger craft ran aground far short of the bank, leaving the troopers loath to brave the fast-flowing water.
Other boats dropped anchor in full flow, but had no benefit. There was such force in the tide that rather than holding, the anchors were dragged along the riverbed by the swiftly drifting boats. Some struggled to turn away from the attraction of the falls and head back the way they’d come. All the while, arrows rained down on them.
One boat, losing all control, slowly spun like a child’s paper toy in a gushing stream as the river pushed it past the chaos of vessels and towards the falls. Men jumped from its decks, only to find that the river had as powerful a hold on them as their abandoned craft. Boat and men, black dots in a torrent of foam, rolled into the vast cloud of water vapour. The boat, dark outline showing through the mist, tipped, and for a second seemed to stand on its nose before plunging out of sight.
The last of the orcs swarmed ashore and into the trees. Humans who made it to the bank met a hail of arrows that kept them pinned down at the water’s edge.
The resistance had horses waiting, along with a couple of wagons for kit and the wounded. Everyone quickly mounted. In minutes they were on a trail and heading out of the woods.
Their path took them to a rise that ran parallel with the river, so that they could look down to the tangle of vessels, and the humans milling on the bank. One figure was unmistakable. Kapple Hacher stood apart from his men, his fists balled. He looked up and saw the escaping orcs. Even from that distance they could sense his impotent rage. The orcs spurred their mounts and pushed on.
A while later, well clear of the river, they allowed themselves to slow down.
Riding next to Stryke and Brelan at the column’s head, Pepperdyne had a question. “Does that count as a rout or a success?” he wondered.
“Bit of both,” Stryke replied.
“I’d say that’s a generous way of seeing it.”
“We did damage. And the way the humans tried to spring their trap could have been handled better, lucky for us.”
“I’m wondering if it was worth upward of forty of our lives,” Brelan said.
“And now we’ve got a traitor to contend with,” Pepperdyne added.
“We don’t know that,” Brelan came back irately. “It could have been chance.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Maybe Hacher was doing a snap inspection or something, and —”
“And at the same time they just happened to find the entrance to the catacombs minutes after we went in? Listen to yourself.”
“Face it, Brelan,” Stryke said. “The odds are somebody informed on us.”
“The resistance are loyal,” Brelan stated indignantly. “You’ll find no betrayal in our ranks.”
“Didn’t say there was.”
“What are you saying then? Because if there is a spy, and it wasn’t an Acurial orc, that doesn’t leave much scope, does it?”
“I’m as sure of the Wolverines as you are of your comrades.”
“Can you speak for all of them?” He glanced at Pepperdyne. “Even those not of our kind?”
“I vouch for them all,” Stryke replied, unswerving.
“I hope you don’t need to eat those words. I’ve things to do.” Brelan turned his horse and rode back down the column.
Pepperdyne looked to Stryke. “Thanks.”
“I’m trusting you to deserve it. If I’m wrong… well, you’ll know about it.”
Before the human could reply, Coilla galloped alongside.
“What’s wrong with Brelan?” she asked. “He shot past me with a face like a corpse.”
“He’s pissed off about the way it went,” Stryke said. “Only natural.”
“And he’s tetchy about the idea of a traitor in his group,” Pepperdyne added. “But I guess that’s natural too.”
“What is it, Coilla?” Stryke wanted to know.
“I finished checking the wounded, like you asked. We’ve got two likely to lose limbs. The rest’s all minor stuff. Not bad, considering.”
“No. I need to talk to you, Coilla. Alone.” He gave Pepperdyne a pointed look.
“Don’t mind me,” the human responded. He dropped back along the column.
“Have you got it?” Stryke said.
Coilla’s expression was blank. “What?”
“The star.” He looked pained at her not immediately knowing what he meant.
“Oh. Course I have.” She slipped a hand into her jerkin and brought out the instrumentality just enough that only he could see it.
“Good. Guard it well. Above all else.”
“You know I will.” She stuffed it back. “Really, Stryke, you’re obsessed with this thing. Relax, and trust me.”
29
The resistance let a week pass to lie low and regroup before renewing their harassment of the occupiers. In turn, the authorities bore down ever harder on the occupied.
With the possibility of a spy in their midst, the rebels trod warily, conscious that they could be exposed at any time. Stryke wasn’t alone in thinking that the humans and dwarfs in his group were looked on with suspicion. A feeling strengthened perhaps when Jup’s power of farsight had been revealed to Chillder, for all that the Wolverines tried to brush it off as mere “intuition.”
The band found itself fully employed helping to put pressure on the humans. The Vixens, too, played their part in stirring things up. As reward, the first signs of disobedience by the general populace showed themselves. The hoped-for revolution started to look like more than a possibility.
Adding to the tension, and assuming the prediction was true, the comet Grilan-Zeat was expected almost hourly.
But for Stryke and his band one mission was paramount.
The plot to assassinate Jennesta was known to very few, even within the Wolverines. Stryke kept his team small, picking only Coilla and Haskeer, with Eldo and Noskaa as back-ups. A sufficient number as the plan depended on stealth, not force of arms. Equipped with a rough map of the interior, supplied by sympathisers working as menials in the fortress, Stryke and the others set out on the first cloudy night.
Like all old castles, Taress fortress was large and rambling, having been added to and refashioned over centuries. Such an acreage meant many walls to protect and doors to be kept barred. One particular annexe, projecting from the fort’s eastern side and unprotected by the older moat, was where the daily needs of a garrison were most obvious. The kitchens and food stores were there, alongside the heaps of vegetable waste, stripped carcasses and other flyblown detritus waiting to be hauled away. It was the province of servants, and welcome to it.
There were guards, as everywhere on the perimeter, but they were few and Stryke had been told their routine. Furtive blades easily dealt with them, and their bodies were hidden in piles of refuse.
Finding a recessed door, Stryke softly knocked. The response was so long coming he was about to rap again when the sound of drawing bolts was heard. The door creaked open a crack and anxious eyes surveyed the group. Then it was pulled wide to usher them in.
The orc who admitted them was aged and crook-backed. He wore a once-white apron, grubby from toil and bloodstained.
“You know what you have to do?” Stryke said.
“It’s little enough,” the servant replied. “I get you in. After that you’re on your own.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll go missing as soon as you’re in, and I won’t be the only one tonight
.” He stared at the group with rheumy eyes. “I don’t know who you are, but if you’re here to put paid to that… hell cat, I pray the gods are with you.”
“You mean Jennesta.”
“Who else?”
“It’d be better if you didn’t know why we’re here. For your own safety.”
The old one nodded. “I hope it’s her. The bitch. You wouldn’t believe the depravity since she got here.”
“I think we would,” Coilla told him.
“Time’s pressing,” Stryke reminded them. “It won’t be long before those sentries are found and —”
“Follow me,” the servant instructed, reaching for a glowing lantern on a shelf by the door.
He led them through corridors and twisting passageways, up small flights of steps and down deep staircases. Until at last they reached a heavy door, which he unlocked with a brass key. There were more steps inside, going down to a dim passage.
“This is one of the tunnels we use to service our betters,” he all but spat the word, “without them having to suffer the indignity of looking at us.”
“We seem to spend a lot of time in tunnels these days,” Haskeer observed.
The tunnel proved as ill-lit as they expected, and damp ran freely on the walls; a reminder that they were passing under the moat.
They came to another door.
“Beyond that, you’re in the castle proper,” the old menial explained. “That’s when your map comes into play. Take this.” He thrust the lamp into Haskeer’s hands. “My eyes are used to the gloom down here. Now go! The door’s unlocked, we’ve seen to that. And good luck.” He turned and shuffled off into the shadows.
They approached the door cautiously. On the other side was a corridor. It was unlit, but there were hangings and items of heavy wooden furniture against the walls, indicating that they’d moved from the world of servers to the served.
With Haskeer holding up the lamp, Stryke got out the map and laid it on an ornately carved half moon table. He’d already done his best to remember most of it, and what he saw confirmed his recollection.
“We should be here,” he said, tapping a finger on the parchment. “Our quarry’s high up. Five flights. So we need to go… that way.” He pointed to the right.
The corridor was long and branched off in various places. But they kept straight on to the end and a twisting stone staircase.
“This is only for servants too,” Stryke said, “and if we’ve been told right, they’ll not be using it tonight.”
“What about guards?” Coilla asked. “There have to be some.”
“The map shows where the permanent ones are stationed. They’re where you’d expect; the governor’s private quarters and the like. We don’t know about patrols.”
“Which are likely to be random, right.”
“So stay sharp.”
They began to climb.
A few hundred steps took them to the first landing. Two doors were there, both firmly shut. They crept past them. The next floor was the same; closed doors, no sign of anyone. Things were different on the third. Here the landing opened directly on to a corridor. It was richly carpeted, and they caught glimpses of fine paintings as they stole by. The fourth level was again open, like the one below. On the fifth they found a door unlike any other. It was lavishly ornamented, too much so, though its decoration was old and beginning to fade.
“Remember,” Stryke reminded them, “it’s a sharp turn to the right then two passages down.” He looked to Noskaa. “You’re guarding this door. If we’re not back soon, get out. Fast.”
The grunt nodded.
“Now let’s see if this door’s unlocked,” Stryke said, reaching for the handle.
“And if there’s magic?” Coilla wanted to know.
“We trust our blades to better it.” He turned the handle.
The door opened on to a corridor that spoke of the status of those who walked it. Brightly lit, it was sumptuously carpeted and exquisitely embellished.
“You won’t need that,” Stryke whispered, indicating Haskeer’s lantern.
The sergeant gratefully dumped it on a nearby cushioned chair.
They took the right turn and padded along to the second corridor on their left.
“You’re stationed here, Eldo,” Stryke ordered, strengthening his line of escape. “Same as I said to Noskaa; if we’re not back, or you think we’re lost, get yourself out. Otherwise, if anybody comes near, drop ’em.”
“Got it, Captain.”
Stryke, Coilla and Haskeer entered the corridor. It was as handsome as the other, but there were no doors. Ahead of them, about as far as Haskeer could throw an enemy’s leg, it turned sharply to the right.
When they got to the corner, Stryke whispered, “We think they’ll be a couple of them. It’ll have to be quick, and true.”
Coilla nodded and plucked a throwing knife from her arm scabbard. She gave it to him and drew another for herself.
“Ready?” Stryke said.
She nodded.
“Now.”
They swiftly rounded the corner. They were in a short corridor that stretched to a set of imposing double doors. Two sentries stood by them.
Coilla, the better thrower, was first to get a bead. She tossed her blade and brought down one of the guards cleanly. Stryke’s throw hit home, but it wasn’t fatal, his target catching the blade near his shoulder. Coilla quickly grabbed a second knife, lobbed it and finished the job.
“Thanks,” Stryke mouthed.
Joined by Haskeer, they moved towards the doors. About halfway there, they noticed an opening on their right, which turned out to be a passageway. Its entrance was askew, the right side protruding further than the left, so that it was hard to make out until almost on it.
“Shit,” Coilla hissed, “that wasn’t on the map.”
As she spoke, the sound of muffled boots came to them. Before they could react, a guards patrol came out of the hidden passage. They looked as surprised to see the orcs as the orcs were to see them. But the spell was not long breaking.
The guards charged. The trio met them, steel on steel.
“We’ll handle this!” Coilla yelled. “Go! Go!”
Stryke dodged a swinging blade and sprinted for the double doors. He struck them at speed and they flew inward, nearly putting him on the floor of the room he tumbled into. Then by some agency the doors slammed shut behind him. He spun, gripped the handles and pulled, but they wouldn’t be moved.
Jennesta’s suite was extensive and opulently appointed. It also seemed empty. There was a grand bed, draped in sheerest silks and dotted with gold-tasselled cushions. But there was no sign of anyone having used it.
Stryke was about to try one of the two doors in the room when the nearest opened.
Kapple Hacher strode in.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” he stated evenly.
“I know who you are,” Stryke said.
“Then perhaps you also know that no one enters this citadel uninvited. Not if they want to live.”
“My business isn’t with you, and you won’t stop me.”
“We’ll see.”
“Just you, is it? No platoon of troopers to back you up?”
“You’re not worthy of it. Besides, I need no help dealing with your kind.”
“Bigot.”
“Liberator, if you don’t mind. We invaded this land to stop them using weapons of magical destruction against us.”
“That’s bull. Orcs don’t have a way with magic. Where were they, these weapons?”
“We haven’t actually found any yet, but —”
“Lies. A ploy to invade. And who the hell were you liberating?”
“Those many orcs who wanted to avoid the consequences of their masters using their hidden magic against us. You could say we were invited, in an unspoken kind of way.”
“You can’t believe that. You’ve seen the orcs here. They’re placid. They’d never have threatened you.”
�
�Not all your kind are placid, it seems. Are you not from here?”
“You’re right. Not all orcs are placid, not at heart. They’re aggressive, tough. Warriors far greater than humans.”
Hacher laughed scornfully. “Not on the evidence I’ve seen. And a few freaks of nature like you won’t change it.”
“So why waste words?”
“Why indeed?” Hacher drew his sword.
Stryke pulled free his own and they set to.
For Hacher, old enough and high ranking enough to have been taught in a classical style, fighting was fencing. To him, a scrap was a duel. As far as Stryke was concerned, a scrap was a scrap.
It came down to undoubted skill and stylishness versus seasoned brute determination.
Hacher fenced, Stryke hacked. Hacher blocked passes with dexterity and put together complex attacks. Stryke battered away and thought only of skewering his opponent’s lungs.
In the end an orc’s fury and stamina proved the better. Bludgeoning the general’s defences, he found a breach and sent his blade through it. The sword pierced Hacher between breastbone and shoulder. It wasn’t a deep wound, but enough to offset him and he fell, losing his sword.
Stryke moved in to finish the task. Then stopped.
A presence had entered the room. Somebody who didn’t have to speak to command attention. He turned from Hacher and stared.
Jennesta was dressed in black, with leather playing a major part in her ensemble. She wore a choker bristling with glinting spikes, and smaller versions on her wrists. There was something unnameable and almost palpable about her. It was a kind of allure, mixed with equal parts of revulsion. She exuded a power, and there was very little light in it.
Stryke couldn’t quite stem a feeling of awe. He had a hint, deep down, of an emotion orcs found alien. Fear.
“It’s been a long time,” she said, her tone surprisingly mild.
“Yes,” he said, tritely and feeling like a hatchling.
“You know, you should really bow to me. After all, technically you’re still in my service. I never released you from it.”
“We don’t bow and scrape since we took our freedom.”
“That wasn’t all you took, was it?”
Orcs: Bad Blood Page 29
