ORCS: Army of Shadows

by Stan Nicholls

  “That’s them fucked,” Haskeer remarked.

  “It’s not over yet,” Stryke told him, looking over his shoulder.

  Their pursuers had reached the wreckage and were bodily shifting it. Those on horseback weaved around.

  The orcs’ wagon picked up speed again.

  “One more turn!” Brelan shouted, indicating a road coming up on their left.

  They took the bend at a fast clip, and found themselves in a narrower, much less crowded street. The humans were still at their backs.

  As they progressed, Stryke and the others gave no sign of noticing the shadowy figures positioned in alleyways, in upper windows and on rooftops. They did drop speed, allowing the depleted pack of humans to catch up, but adopted a meandering course to prevent them overtaking.

  Once the humans were bunched and slowed, the trap was sprung.

  From their hideaways and high places, the resistance loosed a torrent of arrows on their cluster of targets. The cascade of bolts instantly struck down over a score of men. As many were wounded. Some took shelter behind their halted wagons, or used shields to deflect the shafts. Those who tried retreating found their escape route blocked; resistance confederates had rolled hijacked carts across the entrance to the street. Archers were stationed there too, adding to the storm.

  Pounded from all sides, the militia lost interest in their quarry.

  “Get us out of here,” Stryke said.

  Haskeer lashed the horses and they made off at a trot.

  Under Brelan’s direction, they weaved through Taress’s back streets, keeping to a pace and demeanour they hoped wouldn’t attract attention. After a number of twists and turns, taken partly to throw off anyone who might be following them, they arrived in a particularly ill-lit and dilapidated blind alley. It terminated at an apparently solid wooden wall, which to even a close observer passed for the rear of a building whose frontage presumably stood in an adjoining street. It was an illusion. The wall held cunningly concealed doors large enough to admit the wagon. It rolled in, and the doors were hastily secured behind it.

  They got out of the wagon in an area the size of a barn. A couple of dozen resistance members were milling around, and several moved in to tend to the sweating horses. Somebody brought Dallog a flask of brandy and dressing for his wound. Brelan went off to report to his comrades.

  Stryke jabbed a thumb doorward. “That gave ’em something to ponder.”

  Coilla stretched her back, fists balled. “Yeah. Went well.”

  “ ’Cept for him,” Haskeer complained, glaring at Wheam.

  The tyro quaked and started babbling excuses.

  “Ah, shut it,” Haskeer growled.

  “I was only trying to explain.”

  “Dribbling bullshit’s what you’re doing. As usual.”

  “Give the kid a break,” Dallog said. “He’s a tyro.”

  “And you’re not?”

  “I’m saying he’s young. We should —”

  “We? Not with us long enough to wipe your arse and you’re telling me what’s what.” He was beginning to seethe.

  “No,” Dallog replied evenly, “I’m just telling you he needs to find his feet.”

  “He needs a backbone! He could’ve fucked the mission!”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “No, I didn’t,” Wheam echoed.

  “I’ve had it with you two,” Haskeer said menacingly. He took a step in Dallog’s and Wheam’s direction.

  Stryke put himself in his path. “You running this band now?”

  Haskeer took in his captain’s expression. He said nothing and looked away.

  “I’ve had enough of this shit,” Stryke went on. “So cut the sniping.” With a tilt of his head he indicated the resistance members busy at the far end of the room. “If any of these local orcs get wind of where we’re really from —”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Haskeer muttered.

  “I mean it, Haskeer. I won’t let this thing get screwed by you or anybody else in the band. Got it?”

  “Why we doing this?”

  “What?”

  “Why’re we fooling around with these rebels when we should be trying to get the stars back?”

  It was quite a speech for Haskeer, and for a second Stryke was stymied. In part, his hesitancy was due to the fact that he held himself responsible for the instrumentalities’ loss. “We help the resistance ’cos it’s right,” he said at last. “As for the stars… I’m gonna find ’em.”

  “Well I wish you’d get on with it.”

  Haskeer held Stryke’s gaze this time, and neither looked likely to back off.

  “Lighten up,” Coilla told them. “We’ve been in spots tight as this before.”

  “Have we?” Haskeer said.

  Then he turned and walked away.

  4

  There was turbulence throughout Acurial, and particularly in its most densely inhabited sector, the capital city of Taress. Responding to civil unrest with a heavy hand, the human occupiers had further increased their repression. Known or suspected dissident haunts were torched. Public gatherings of any size were brutally dispersed. Wayward opinions were silenced. Arrests were arbitrary, torture routine, executions commonplace.

  It was what the resistance wanted. Their attacks on the invaders were designed to bring about retribution, in hopes this would goad the citizens out of their passivity and reawaken their slumbering martial spirit. Fed by whispering campaigns, clandestine meetings and daubed slogans, sedition spread. And now the comet Grilan-Zeat hung in the sky for all to see, promising hope for those who believed.

  Events balanced on a knife edge, with revolution possible but by no means inevitable. To speed it on, the rebels determined to continue throwing oil on the smouldering embers. To this end the Wolverines had pledged their support.

  Early morning saw the warband gathered in one of the resistance’s growing number of safe houses. Though under the circumstances “safe” was a word they used loosely.

  The humans Standeven and Pepperdyne were there, as were Brelan and his twin sister Chillder. Because of the latter pair —and in some minds the former —the warband were cagey while they were present. But once the twins left, tongues were loosened.

  “I’m worried about what she’s thinking,” Jup said.

  “Who?” Stryke wanted to know.

  “Chillder. Her attitude’s been different to me ever since she saw me using the farsight. Haven’t you noticed?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you haven’t been stuck in these hideouts with the rebels as much as Spurral and me.” There was more than a hint of resentment in the dwarf’s tone.

  “We told her you just had a hunch.”

  “But did she buy it?”

  “Your warning stopped us walking into a trap. I reckon that made Chillder grateful enough not to question how you came up with it.”

  “I’m not so sure. Like I say, she’s been cooler toward me ever since.”

  “She’s a lot on her mind.”

  “Shit, Stryke,” Jup flared, “it’s bad enough that me and Spurral stand out so much as it is without them thinking I’m… odd.”

  “You are fucking odd,” Haskeer muttered.

  “There’s no call for you to chip in on this,” Spurral said, fixing him with a look of flint.

  “Gods forbid I should take the piss out of somebody called Pinchpot,” Haskeer mocked.

  “Lay off,” Jup warned, “I’m not in the mood.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “In your dreams.”

  Seeing the heat building, Stryke stepped in. “You,” he said, pointing at Haskeer, “rest that jaw or I’ll break it.” He turned to Jup. “And you stop taking the bait. Any more bullshit and I’ll be cracking skulls. Got it?”

  They nodded, sullenly.

  “All of us are wound up,” Stryke continued, his tone mollified. “But there’s a rebellion coming and we’ve gotta be united.” The band’s grunts, lounging at a distance, were listen
ing attentively. He looked at Jup. “Way things are going, you’ll be out in the thick of it soon enough.”

  “You keep telling me that.”

  “It’ll happen. That thing in the sky, the prophecy, the rallying call Sylandya’s going to make: it’ll all rouse the orcs in these parts. We’ve got to get behind ’em. That’s the main thing for us.”

  “Is it?” Coilla ventured.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have to say it, Stryke. Doesn’t getting the stars back come first?”

  He sighed. “I admit I fouled up over that, but —”

  She raised a hand to still him. “I’m not knocking you. I was as much to blame over the one you trusted me with. ’Course we’re pledged to helping the rebels. But knowing we can get home’s more important, isn’t it?”

  “On my oath, we’ll have the stars back.”

  Silence descended. It was the younger of the two humans, Jode Pepperdyne, who broke it. “What can we —” He glanced at his companion, Micalor Standeven. “What can I do to help?”

  Stryke’s reply was a cautious, drawn out, “Well…”

  “We’re stuck here too, you know,” Standeven protested.

  “We have to keep plans close to our chests,” Stryke explained. “For security.”

  “You mean you don’t trust us,” Pepperdyne said.

  “Nobody’s saying that,” Coilla assured him.

  He scanned the room, taking in their wary eyes. “What folk say and what they think aren’t always the same.”

  “Not with me,” Haskeer told him. “I don’t mind saying I reckon too many outsiders know about this band’s business.”

  Coilla glared at him. “Haskeer,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

  “And when too many know,” he ploughed on regardless, “we get treachery.”

  “I don’t have to take these… insinuations,” Standeven announced, puffing up his fleshy chest.

  “Whatever they are,” Haskeer said.

  “You’re questioning my honour.”

  “Well ain’t that a shame. If you don’t like it, you can fuck off.”

  “That’s enough,” Stryke warned.

  “I know when I’m not wanted!” Standeven responded, summoning up what passed for his dignity. He gestured at Pepperdyne, as though signalling to an obedient cur. “We’re leaving!”

  Pepperdyne hesitated, catching Coilla’s eye for a moment, then followed his departing master.

  “Jode!” she called out.

  They slammed the door behind them.

  Coilla turned on Haskeer. “You fucking… moron! You oaf! We’re beholden to Jode. I owe him my life.”

  “Yeah, him,” Haskeer replied. “What about the other one?”

  “I… I don’t know about Standeven.”

  “We can’t trust either of ’em; they’re humans. And you’re getting too chummy with the younger one.”

  Before Coilla could hit back, Stryke took a hand. “Seems we’re forgetting something.” His expression grew dark. “This is supposed to be a disciplined band,” he told them all. “Only some of you are acting like it’s not. But there’s just one way we’re gonna get through this, and that’s in good order. That means respecting the chain of command, and obeying orders without bellyaching. And it means an end to this bickering!”

  Wheam, along with a couple of the other tyros, visibly winced.

  “We’re gonna see more discipline in this band,” Stryke went on, “and less backbiting. I’m not asking, I’m telling. And if anybody here thinks they can do a better job than me, now’s the time to say it.” No one broke the hush that had fallen, and few met his eyes. “Right. So no more bullshit. Clear?”

  There was a general murmur of agreement.

  “What can we do about the stars, Captain?” Dallog asked.

  “Hold your horses. Noskaa!” The grunt sprang to his feet. “Check that we’re not overheard.”

  Noskaa went to the door, looked outside and gave a thumbs-up. Then he stood watch there.

  “Whether any of you like it or not,” Stryke continued, taking a brief look at Coilla, “there could be a traitor, in the resistance or nearer home. So any plan about Jennesta’s best kept to us for now.”

  Dallog said, “This might seem stupid —”

  Haskeer cleared his throat, making a noise that implied ridicule but stayed just short of insubordination.

  Dallog shot him a glare and tried again. “It could be a dumb question, chief, but how do we know Jennesta has all the stars? Including the one Coilla had, I mean.”

  “We don’t. But it’s a good bet she has.”

  “You mentioned a plan,” Jup chipped in. “If it involves getting into the fortress… well, that didn’t turn out too brilliant last time, did it?”

  “There could be another way.”

  “Such as?” Coilla wanted to know, her irritability about Pepperdyne still apparent in her tone.

  Stryke chose not to pull her up about it. “Something I heard from the resistance might be useful. Seems Jennesta’s been making regular trips to some kind of sacred place on the edge of the city. A stone circle.”

  “What for?”

  He shrugged. “Who knows? Something rank, I expect.”

  “Anyway, what about it?”

  “She goes in a carriage, in convoy. It’s one time when she might be exposed.”

  “Why not go for her at the circle?”

  “Too well guarded there, and the ground’s too open.”

  “What makes you think she’d have the stars on her?” Haskeer asked.

  “Wouldn’t you?” Stryke replied. “After all she’s been through to get ’em?”

  “Even on the road she’d have a heavy guard,” Coilla reckoned. “ ’Specially on the road.”

  “Course. But the escort peels off for their barracks just before the fortress. That could be our chance.”

  “Sounds tight.”

  “I didn’t say it’d be easy.”

  “Brelan and Chillder aren’t going to wear another assassination attempt,” Jup decided.

  “I’m not saying we should try killing her. Though if we got the chance…”

  “Whether we try to kill her or not, Stryke, the resistance won’t want to be involved,” Coilla said.

  “That’s another reason we’re keeping this to ourselves. We do it without them knowing.”

  “How?”

  “We’d need a cover story. And if we do this right it’d only take about half the band.”

  “We had a small team last time, and look how that turned out.”

  “This is different. It’s an ambush. We’ve done plenty of those in the past.”

  “Never against somebody like Jennesta.”

  “If you’ve got a better idea, Coilla…”

  “No, I haven’t. But I still think we should let Pepperdyne in on this.” Haskeer let out a loud groan. Coilla ignored him. “He’s an asset. He could help us.”

  “And he’d keep it a secret from Standeven?” Stryke said.

  “I don’t think that’d be hard for him.”

  “I don’t trust ’em,” Haskeer stated.

  “So you said,” Coilla responded ominously.

  Stryke shook his head. “No. We won’t need Pepperdyne. Not the way I’m thinking of doing it.”

  “What if he and Standeven get wind of it?” Spurral wondered. “Could happen, with all of us cooped up together.”

  “If they do, we’ll kill ’em.”

  Coilla frowned at that, but said nothing.

  “So it’s settled,” Stryke said. “We’ll work on a plan. Meantime, we fight with the resistance. Pepperdyne can help with that. They’ll need all the blades they can get with a rebellion coming.”

  “If it comes,” Haskeer muttered.

  “Have faith.”

  “I leave that to the temple priests.” He drew his sword and held it up to catch the light, turning its glistening length fiery. “I put my faith in this.” He gazed at i
t almost reverently.

  Stryke smiled. “ ’Course you do. You’re an orc.”

  “We can’t be sure a rebellion’s going to work,” Coilla reminded them. “This is such a different world. Most of the orcs here are like sheep, and the humans have magic. Not to mention the odds we’d be —”

  “It’s simple,” Stryke interrupted. “We fight, they die.”

  The grunts gave a ragged cheer at that.

  “Hope you’re right,” she said. “But trouble has a habit of popping up in this place.”

  He shrugged. “I reckon we’ll be fine as long as humans are all we have to cope with.”

  Not too far away, outside the city limits in one of the sparsely populated, less fruitful areas, stood an abandoned, semi-derelict water mill. The wheel itself was broken, and the watercourse that fed it had dwindled to a weed-choked trickle. Even an astute observer would see the place as desolate and forsaken.

  Except perhaps for those possessing the skills of sorcery, or the gods-given power of farsight. These rare individuals might have detected the coppery taste and faintly sulphurous odour of magic cloaking the place. If they were particularly gifted they might have sensed a certain prickling in the atmosphere, a galvanic quality that made the hairs on the back of their necks stand up, signifying an enchantment intended to deceive.

  The mill was nearly a ruin, but it wasn’t uninhabited. Behind the magically generated facade a special operations unit of the multispecies Gateway Corps had commandeered it.

  The group’s leader was another deception, in a way. Pelli Madayar, a youthful female of the elfin folk, had a petite frame and looks of such delicacy that she could have been mistaken for frail. It was a false impression. Her energy and strength were prodigious, her determination inexhaustible.

  She was in consultation with a lieutenant, a short, stocky individual with the sour expression habitual to the race of gnomes. All about them, the rest of the unit busied themselves with various chores. Gremlins, centaurs, goblins and a satyr were present, along with pairs of brownies and harpies. A small band of pixies and several trolls laboured beside entities that might have been considered exotic even in such diverse company, including a chimera and a wendigo, creatures normally preferring solitude. It was testament to the Corps’ mission that so various a collection of races had chosen to put aside their natural inclinations, and their differences, to join in a common purpose.