ORCS: Army of Shadows

by Stan Nicholls

  “Or given it to Jennesta,” Coilla said.

  Standeven made no comment.

  Stryke sighed. It was a sigh partly of exasperation, partly of bafflement. “Let’s get this straight. You’re set upon by an orc you’ve not seen before. You kill him.” He hefted the instrumentality. “And you find this on his body.”

  “Yes.”

  Coilla spoke for all of them. “It makes no sense.”

  Stryke put the star into his belt pouch. “Sense or not, least we’ve got it back.”

  “But it doesn’t add up, Stryke. Who was he?” She pointed at the body. “What was he doing here? Why did he have —”

  “Yeah, I know. But unless you two have any bright ideas, I can’t figure it.”

  “Assuming what we’ve been told is true,” Pepperdyne said, staring pointedly at Standeven.

  “I meant what I said to Brelan. If something deeper’s going on here, there’ll be a price to pay. Otherwise…”

  “We accept his story,” Coilla finished, eyeing Standeven.

  “Could be out of our hands.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We’re strangers here. If it turns out this dead one was connected to the resistance, or they decide they don’t believe what happened, it’ll be their call.”

  “So where does that leave me?” Standeven asked.

  “You’re not a member of my band.”

  “Thank the gods,” Coilla mumbled.

  “You’re not in the band,” Stryke repeated, “but we brought you here, and we stand together. So whatever I feel about you, which ain’t good, I’m still responsible for you. Call it Wolverine pride.”

  “I understand,” Standeven said, “and I really —”

  “I’m not finished. But if it turns out you’ve been lying about all this you’re alone. And I’ll kill you myself. Understand that?”

  He nodded.

  “Keep yourself to yourself. Avoid the rebels’ company, if you can, and stick near band members. Maybe this’ll blow over.”

  “Think it will?” Pepperdyne wondered.

  Stryke shrugged, then went to the door and called Dallog in. “Escort Standeven to our billet. Make sure the band keeps an eye on him for at least a couple of days.”

  “How much do I tell ’em about all this?”

  “They’ve a right to know. But I’ll take care of it. Now get him out of my sight.”

  Dallog took Standeven by the arm and hustled him out.

  Stryke looked to Pepperdyne and Coilla. “What do you think?”

  “It stinks,” Coilla offered. “Only I can’t see where the smell’s coming from.”

  “Pepperdyne? You know him best.”

  “He’s a lying, two-faced bastard. But I never saw him as a killer. Not because he isn’t ruthless, mind you, but because he’s a coward.”

  “Lots of murderers are cowards.”

  “I suppose I’m saying… I don’t know what to think, Stryke. He’s twisted enough to kill if it furthers his ends, or at least not to fret if somebody loses their life over him. But he’s got no guts. Fuck him. He always screws things up.”

  “He’s not doing that to us.”

  “We’re going to have to babysit him now,” Coilla said. “That’s not what I signed up for.”

  “Me neither,” Stryke agreed. “But I’m more worried about our bond with the resistance. We’ve worked hard for their trust. This could break it.”

  “Ever get the feeling we aren’t in control? Not just over this, but what’s going on here in Acurial?”

  “It’s what troubles me most: not having control over our own fate.”

  “Well, we fought hard enough for it in Maras-Dantia, and once a race gets a taste for freedom they cling to it.”

  “I’ll second that,” Pepperdyne contributed.

  Stryke gave him a quizzical look, then glanced at Coilla.

  “Jode’s a Trougathian,” she told him.

  “A what?”

  “Long story. Maybe he’ll tell you sometime.”

  Pepperdyne didn’t offer to explain.

  “But you’re right about control,” she went on. “We’ve got no easy way out. Not as long as we’ve only got the one star.”

  “We’re going to go for the others.”

  “When?”

  “We need to make a plan, scout Jennesta’s route, think of a cover story for Brelan and Chillder —”

  “When, Stryke?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  8

  Stryke kept the team small. He decided on Coilla, Haskeer and Dallog, the latter the only new recruit, and eight privates, none of them tyros.

  It was late the following day, and the shades of night were falling. Stryke’s group had established that Jennesta was at the stone circle on the outskirts of Taress, and the route she usually took back to the fortress was confirmed. Now they waited in hiding by a road leading to the redoubt.

  “I’m surprised the resistance let us out of their sight,” Coilla said. “What did you tell them?”

  “Brelan and Chillder think we’re freelancing,” Stryke told her, “helping to keep the pot boiling. Reckon they were glad to have us out of their way after what happened with Standeven.”

  “How’s that going? I’ve been here all day, remember.”

  “The rest of the band’s looking out for him. Pepperdyne’s closer than his shadow. The rebels are as cold as a dead witch’s arse to him. But it turned out the orc he killed isn’t known to them, which might make it easier.”

  “I still don’t see how we’re going to keep this mission from them. They’re bound to hear about it.”

  “The humans won’t boast about a defeat.”

  “And if they do?”

  “They’re not going to say anything about the stars.”

  “That’s not what I meant. My worry’s about what Brelan and Chillder are going to do when they know we went after Jennesta again behind their backs.”

  “What can they do about it?”

  “Shut us out?”

  “We can still help bring about an uprising. That’s what we came here for.”

  “It’ll be harder if we make enemies of the resistance.”

  “We thrive on enemies, Coilla. But you’re right; we don’t need the rebels on our necks.”

  “So how do we avoid it?”

  “Like I said, Jennesta wouldn’t boast of a defeat, so the resistance won’t hear about it. But she would crow if it goes wrong.”

  “You mean we can’t screw this up.”

  “Right.”

  “What I wanna know,” Haskeer said, “is do we kill her if we get the chance?”

  “Not if it gets in the way of snatching the stars,” Stryke decreed. “Otherwise…”

  “The rebels would hear about that,” Coilla remarked.

  “And wouldn’t bellyache if we pulled it off. Killing the Peczan envoy’d be a big boost for them.”

  They fell silent and returned to watching.

  Their hiding place was just beyond a fork in the road. The turnoff led to the main barracks, which were out of sight, where the majority of the fortress garrison were billeted. The road Stryke, Coilla and Haskeer overlooked went to the fortress itself.

  Despite being near the city’s heart, the area was almost semi-bucolic due to the acres of land belonging to the fortress. Land once used for leisure and hunting by long-dead rulers, and now employed for drill by the citadel’s battalion. Graced with more trees than anywhere else in Taress, it was quiet compared to the rest of the metropolis, with little traffic and few passersby. The reputation of the place was such that citizens preferred to avoid it. But there were patrols of troops to be wary of.

  “How much longer we got to wait?” Haskeer grumbled.

  “Most times she’s back around now,” Stryke said.

  “Waiting’s the bit I hate.”

  “It’s part of the job. Take it easy.”

  “Count your toes,” Coilla suggested.

  Haskee
r scowled at her.

  They waited until it was nearly dark, and were passed only by the odd rider or wagon, usually travelling at speed to get through the district as quickly as possible. Haskeer grew more restless, and Stryke was beginning to think the mission would have to be scrubbed.

  It was Coilla who snapped them out of it. “There,” she said, pointing up the highway.

  A convoy was coming along the main road and approaching the fork. They were headed by a group of mounted cavalry, followed by two coaches, each with a trooper sitting alongside the driver. Another contingent of cavalry brought up the rear. The procession moved at a good clip, but short of breakneck speed.

  “Hope the others are watching this,” Coilla added.

  “If they’re awake,” Haskeer muttered.

  Stryke shot him a frown.

  “Well, Dallog’s with ’em.”

  “He’s a pro,” Stryke told him, “and so are the grunts with him. So quit sniping.”

  Haskeer grunted in a noncommittal way.

  The convoy had reached the fork. The cavalry in the lead peeled off and headed for their barracks, as did the contingent bringing up the rear. The unescorted pair of carriages picked up speed for the home stretch.

  Coilla gazed into the trees on the other side of the road. She couldn’t see anything. Not that she had expected to. “They’re cutting it fine.”

  “The timing has to be spot-on,” Stryke reminded her. “Relax.”

  She smiled at the thought of relaxation as she reached for her bow.

  The convoy was almost on them. Coilla and Haskeer nocked their arrows.

  “Make those shots count,” Stryke told them. “You might not get a second chance.”

  “I know, I know,” Haskeer came back irritably.

  The convoy was almost level with their position when a loud crack rang out. Ahead of the first carriage a mature tree crashed down in a flurry of leaves, blocking the road. The carriages skidded to a halt. Another substantial tree fell behind the second carriage, boxing them both in.

  “Now!” Stryke yelled.

  Coilla and Haskeer loosed their arrows. Coilla’s struck the trooper next to the driver on the lead carriage. It was a righteous hit, pitching the man from his seat.

  Haskeer’s arrow missed. Stryke and Coilla glared at him.

  Cursing, he fumbled for another bolt. Coilla reloaded first, took aim and brought down the trooper on the second carriage. Haskeer’s next shot was true. It killed the first carriage’s driver. By that time the driver of the second had scrambled down on the far side and disappeared into the trees.

  “Remember,” Stryke warned, “Jennesta’s magic can be lethal. She should be in the first carriage, so leave that to me. Now move!”

  They came out of hiding and charged toward the road. Before they were halfway there the rest of the raiding party, with Dallog to the fore, emerged from the foliage. Several of them still clutched the axes they had used to fell the trees. Two grunts ran to stand lookout at each end of the halted convoy. The rest made for the carriages.

  An arrow shot out of the open window of the second coach. It was aimed at Coilla, and came near to claiming her. She dropped and hugged the ground. Stryke and Haskeer did the same. Coilla got off an arrow of her own. It smacked into the carriage door. Whoever was inside returned fire, but the bolt flew over their heads. Haskeer unleashed an arrow, sending it through the window. Somebody in the dark interior shrieked.

  The sound of battering came from the far side of the carriage. Dallog’s crew were laying siege to it. Stryke, Coilla and Haskeer got up and raced for their goal. As they approached, the door of the second carriage burst open and four troopers spilled out.

  “You go ahead!” Coilla shouted to Stryke.

  He sprinted off.

  Swords drawn, the troops came at Haskeer and Coilla, who rushed forward to meet them. The chime of steel on steel echoed through the twilight. Almost immediately, Dallog and the others poured around the carriages and joined in. Jennesta’s guards fought with spirit, but had no hope of not being overwhelmed.

  Stryke reached the first coach. He hesitated for a fraction of a second at its door, then wrenched it open.

  A bulky, shadow-swathed figure filled the doorway. It half fell, half leapt on Stryke, pinning him to the ground and knocking the wind out of him. His sword was dashed from his hand.

  Stryke immediately knew his foe as one of Jennesta’s zombie bodyguards, if only from the foul odour it gave off. Struggling under the creature’s oppressive weight, he was aware of its skin, dried out and wrinkled like ancient parchment. He saw the black chasm of its dead eyes.

  The zombie encircled him with its fetid arms. Fists balled, Stryke pummelled the once-human, landing hefty blows to its head. But he couldn’t break its iron grip. The zombie’s abnormal strength began to crush the life out of him. Stryke writhed and kicked, but the bear hug held.

  Then his flailing hand touched metal and he grasped the hilt of his dropped sword. He brought it up and round in an arc, striking the zombie’s side. The blade cut deep, but brought only a puff of grey dust from what should have been a wound. It hardly troubled the zombie. Gasping for breath now, Stryke tried another tack. He hacked frenziedly at the creature’s arm. After three blows it severed, exuding more rank dust. The arm fell away. Half free, Stryke exerted pressure and rolled the thrashing zombie far enough away for him to scramble clear. Quickly he found his feet.

  The creature rose too. It looked about itself, lifeless eyes unblinking, and saw its amputated arm. Reaching down, it grabbed the arm, hefted it as though it were a club, and lumbered in Stryke’s direction. Stryke charged and plunged his blade into the thing’s chest. It met little obstruction. Its tip exploded from the zombie’s back, liberating yet more dust. Stryke yanked the sword out and withdrew a couple of paces. The zombie kept coming, apparently unharmed. Stryke made to attack again.

  Haskeer appeared and darted between them. “It’s mine,” he growled, facing the creature. “You go!” Ducking to avoid its fleshy club, he commenced chopping and slashing at the zombie.

  Stryke ran for the open carriage door, leapt up and jumped in.

  Jennesta sat alone. She wore an expression that could have been called serene.

  He seized his chance and thrust his sword at her heart.

  It felt as if the blade had struck an anvil. The impact sent a shock wave up his arm that instantly suffused his entire body. It was a pain unlike any he had ever known. He imagined that being stung by a dozen venomous serpents would be like this. An energy ran through him, a malevolent force, bringing agony to every fibre.

  He was flung backwards, landing on the floor, his back to the opposite seat. The pain immediately began to fade.

  Jennesta was swathed in a semitransparent aura that looked like air rippling on a hot day. It was shot through with a brilliant violet hue that shifted, melted and reformed itself. Stryke knew a mere sword was no match for such sorcery.

  “Did you think to find me unprotected?” she said.

  “It was worth a try,” Stryke grated. He was fighting against his inbred deference for her, and his wariness of her powers.

  She laughed. It was a disturbing sound. “Your race may be unparalleled fighters, but you hardly excel when it comes to thinking.”

  “If brainwork means something like you,” he replied defiantly, “I’ll stay dumb.”

  “Insolent cur!” She made a movement with her hand, as though lobbing an invisible ball.

  Stryke was hit by a jolt as powerful as the shock he’d just recovered from. He bit his lip to stop himself crying out.

  “So you came here to kill me?” she added. Her tone made it sound conversational.

  He said nothing.

  “Or perhaps you hoped for a different prize,” Jennesta went on. For a fraction of a second, and apparently involuntarily, her eyes flicked to a bulky silk pouch on the seat beside her.

  Stryke hadn’t noticed it before, and now he willed himself
not to look at it. “Your death’s the best prize I can think of.”

  “Then you really do lack imagination, dullard.” She made the hand gesture again.

  He took another punch of psychic force. The hurt inundated every cell in his body. He felt it in his bones, his teeth. And he knew he couldn’t take much more; assuming she didn’t simply kill him outright.

  “Your view of the universe is so depressingly limited,” she said. “You grasp no more than a sliver of the truth. If only you had the intellect to see how much more there is to reality.”

  Stryke thought that was an odd thing for her to say. But then, most of what she said had always struck him as bizarre. He held his silence.

  “Why am I bothering?” Jennesta asked. “You and your kind have the acumen of worms. And to think I once believed that you, Captain Stryke, had the wit to rise above your animal state.”

  “You never showed it.”

  “You never earned my trust.”

  It was Stryke’s turn to laugh, even if he risked a further jolt. “You talk as though your trust’s a gem, and not a sham of paste and glass.”

  “What a poetic turn of phrase. For an animal. You could have been great, Stryke.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Low sarcasm. I shouldn’t expect more. But what you’re too dim to understand is that by your treachery you’ve traded my patronage for a life of struggle and hardship.”

  “We call it freedom.”

  “It’s overrated,” she sneered.

  The carriage door was still open. Outside, the sound of fighting continued, but it was strangely faint, as if heard from a distance.

  Stryke said the first thing that came into his head, purely to keep her engaged. “You might have the upper hand now, but —”

  “Oh really. Foolishly, I expected more of you than empty threats and petty chatter. Let’s not beat about the bush. Neither of us is mentioning the enormous basilisk in the room. The instrumentalities, dolt.” She fleetingly glanced at the pouch again. He took that as confirming his hunch and tensed himself.

  “What about them?”

  She rolled her eyes. “ ‘What about them,’ he asks. So you’re happy that you no longer possess them, is that it? No answer? Perhaps a little encouragement’s in order.” She raised her hand.