ORCS: Army of Shadows

by Stan Nicholls

  Sylandya was still conscious. Her lips moved feebly. Brelan and Chillder moved closer.

  “Remember,” she whispered, “remember… your… promise.”

  “We will,” Brelan pledged, squeezing her hand.

  Then Sylandya’s eyes closed and the last breath went out of her.

  The twins surrendered to despair.

  Chillder rose. She wore a look of hurt and bewilderment.

  Coilla went to her and put her hands on her shoulders. “Courage,” she said.

  “She knew,” Chillder replied, as though separated from the world by a great distance. “Somehow, she knew.”

  The crowd was making a tremendous racket. Stryke went back outside.

  Haskeer was still there, surveying the scene below. “Shit,” he said. “And on our watch.”

  “We couldn’t have foreseen it,” Stryke assured him, though he wasn’t entirely sure that was true. “I’ll tell you one thing. I doubt that was Helix magic.”

  “Jennesta?”

  “Who else? Getting some minion to assassinate the one orc who could rally the populace would be right up her alley.”

  “To cow them?” He gazed at the frantic crowd. “They don’t look too put off to me. Just the opposite.”

  “No,” Stryke agreed. “This could be Jennesta’s biggest mistake.”

  10

  Stryke was proved right, and in short order.

  Far from intimidating Acurial’s population, the murder of Sylandya enraged it. Attacks on the occupiers immediately increased tenfold. Not just in the city but throughout the country. Many of the assaults were opportunistic, and carried out by individuals or small ad hoc groups. One of the resistance’s tasks was to coordinate these actions, and to organise the growing number of dissidents into a coherent fighting force. Within days they had the makings of a rebel army.

  Brelan and Chillder channelled their grief into these activities, working with demonic energy in their mother’s name, and the Wolverines were heavily involved in training the new intake. But the warband drew most satisfaction from doing what they did best: confronting occupiers on the streets of Taress.

  In this Jup and Spurral, and the human Pepperdyne, were given roles to play. The dwarfs in particular, after being confined for so long, found it a pleasing outlet. However, none of the trio ever ventured out unaccompanied by fellow band members or rebel fighters, lest they be taken for enemies or freaks. For Standeven, little changed. Useless in any kind of combat function, he contributed mainly through manual work at various safe houses, which he undertook grudgingly. But he mostly confined his complaints to the Wolverines. The incident of the dead intruder had been eclipsed by the burgeoning uprising, but not forgotten.

  For his part, Stryke kept the instrumentalities with him at all times, even in combat. He was not about to repeat the mistake of entrusting any of them to anyone else, even the most loyal of his comrades. There were mixed feelings about this in the band.

  One discovery of the Wolverines, which dismayed them, was that some orcs allied themselves with the occupying humans. They were small in number and didn’t dare do it openly, preferring to act as fifth columnists and informers, but the effect on morale was something else to be countered. Chillder and Brelan were especially shocked by this development, having regarded their fellow citizens as patriots, and they dealt with traitors harshly when they were caught. It was another variable in an already chaotic situation.

  The resistance’s growing numbers meant that the way the occupiers were engaged was changing. There were still plenty of guerrilla raids, but large-scale, more conventional face-offs were starting to replace them. For these, the Wolverines’ expertise was invaluable.

  So it was that a week after Sylandya’s death, which many were already calling her martyrdom, the entire band stood together on one of Taress’s main thoroughfares. At their backs was a force of several hundred insurgents, ragtag and ill-armed, but eager for blood. Ahead, a good lance’s throw away, an equal number of human militia were gathered. They were better ordered and better equipped, but unused to being challenged by creatures with a newfound passion for warfare.

  Events were at the sham stage, as the Wolverines knew it, with both sides exchanging catcalls, insults and threatening gestures. A standard practice before a battle.

  “How’d you think they’ll hold up?” Coilla said, jerking a thumb at the ranks behind them.

  “What they lack in know-how they make up for in rage,” Stryke reckoned.

  “Still gonna get most of ’em killed,” Haskeer muttered. “Fucking amateurs.”

  “Even a legendary band of heroes can’t have a revolution without an army,” Stryke replied.

  Jup guffawed.

  “What’s your problem, pisspot?” Haskeer snapped.

  “I’m standing next to you.”

  “Hang on while I die laughing.”

  “Don’t mind him, Jup,” Coilla said. “He’s still swollen-headed about a human he killed yesterday.”

  “Why? What’s so special about that?”

  “It wasn’t a soldier.”

  “What was he?” Pepperdyne asked.

  “A tax gatherer.”

  Pepperdyne considered that for a moment. “Well, fair enough.”

  They all murmured agreement.

  “When’s this going to kick off?” Dallog wanted to know as he surveyed the enemy line.

  “Yeah,” Wheam piped up. “When we gonna fight?” He swished around the sword he was clutching.

  “Careful with that thing!” Haskeer protested. “You’ll have somebody’s eye out!”

  “It’ll start soon enough,” Stryke said. “Remember the tyros are your charge, Dallog.” He glanced at the new band members, those recruited on Ceragan. They looked tense and ashen. “Especially him,” he added, nodding at Wheam.

  Wheam looked discomfited.

  “They’ll be fine,” Dallog assured him, though his expression was grim.

  “Come on, come on,” Spurral muttered, impatiently drumming the cobblestones with her staff.

  “Your female’s keen for the off, shortarse,” Haskeer observed. It was said not without a trace of admiration.

  “Yes, and she’ll take it out on you if this thing doesn’t hot up soon,” Jup came back.

  “Here we go,” Coilla said. “They’re moving.”

  The human troops began to advance. Subject to rigid military discipline, they progressed in an orderly fashion.

  “Advance!” Stryke yelled, raising his blade.

  The crowd of orcs was more shambolic as they went forward, but their passion was high. They started to beat their shields and bellow war cries.

  As the humans picked up speed and added their own battle cries to the din, they found the orcs had hidden allies. From rooftops and high windows, citizens proceeded to rain objects down on their heads. A volley of tiles, bricks, pots and the occasional arrow fell like lethal hail.

  When the opposing forces were near enough to see the expressions of fear, bloodlust, fury and foreboding on each other’s faces, both sides broke into a charge.

  The two living tides swept together and melded in a brutal frenzy.

  The battle, the latest in a series that had become almost daily, took place in the hub of the city. Centrally enough, in fact, that although it couldn’t quite be seen from the fortress of Taress, it could certainly be heard.

  For Jennesta and Hacher, ensconced in her quarters at one of the redoubt’s loftiest points, it was a near-permanent background noise. Not that they were consciously listening. The events in Jennesta’s chambers took precedence over death’s raucous clamour.

  “Well, I’m waiting,” she repeated, arms folded resolutely.

  “I’m at a loss to know what you expect of me, ma’am,” the general replied.

  “Yes, and that’s the problem, isn’t it? Perhaps you could start by telling me what you intend doing about the anarchy out there.” She waved an arm at the window.

  “T
he present situation, with respect, ma’am, has been brought about by the assassination of the female the orcs called their principal. I could almost believe it was an act designed to stir things up even further, and —”

  “Are you questioning my methods?”

  “I think I am, my lady. Even before the principal’s death we made certain moves that only worsened the situation in this province. Actions, I have to say, that you drove.”

  “Now you find the guts! It’s a pity you didn’t have the resolve you’re now showing towards me when you were supposed to be defending Peczan’s interests.”

  “I’ve always worked as diligently as I could in service to the empire,” he responded irately.

  “No. You might think that, but you haven’t. Your actions have undermined everything that should have been done here. And would have been done by a competent commander.”

  Hacher was allowing himself to grow heated. “Before your arrival, my lady, we had a situation here that was manageable. Your… initiatives have turned simple law enforcement into a much graver problem.”

  “Let me tell you the real problem, Hacher.” She counted items off on her bejewelled fingers. “You failed to anticipate the potential for rebellion these animals harboured, or to recognise their capacity for savagery, despite me telling you so. You led your forces in a shambolic way. You weakened the effectiveness of the imperial presence here because of political infighting with the Helix. Above all, you stubbornly refused to accept that the only thing the natives of this godsforsaken land understand is strength. In short, General, you are the problem.”

  “Look where an excessive show of strength has got us, ma’am. Look at the streets. See what we’ve bought with our display of strength and brutality.”

  “Too little brutality, too late! You know, you really do baffle me. Your reputation was of a governor who didn’t allow mercy to cloud his judgement. They call you Iron Hand, for the gods’ sake! Yet you shy from taking that hand from its silken glove.”

  “Don’t mistake my objections for a taste for leniency, my lady. Mine is not a moral stance. I’d execute the whole population of Acurial if it furthered our purposes. And I would have ordered the death of the principal myself if I thought it would do some good. It’s the strategic line we’ve taken that I argue with. Your measures, not least the elimination of Sylandya, have soured the air and stretched our forces to the breaking point.”

  “I’m never going to get through to you, am I?”

  “I prefer to say that we have an honest disagreement over policy, ma’am.”

  “I don’t tolerate disagreement. I tell subordinates where they’ve gone wrong and they conform to my will. That’s how it works.” She threw back her head in a gesture of exasperation. “Oh, why am I wasting my breath on you? And not just you. The whole system in this place is riddled with far too much freethinking, and you’re not the only culprit. But that’s going to change. Radically.”

  “Ma’am?”

  There was a sound at her chamber door. It wasn’t so much a knock as a series of thumps and a coarse scratching. A couple of seconds later the door opened, and a pair of Jennesta’s undead bodyguards shuffled in carrying something wrapped in a black winding cloth not unlike a shroud. They dumped their bundle at Jennesta’s feet and looked up to her as though they were faithful curs bringing their mistress an outsized bone.

  “Ah,” she said, “the first fruit of my reforms.”

  Rather than assign the task to her clumsy servers, she knelt and began to undo the sheet herself. What she revealed when she threw it open shocked Hacher to the core.

  “Brother… Grentor?” he murmured, not entirely sure his identification was correct.

  His uncertainty arose from the state of the cleric’s corpse. It had been horribly mutilated, and to Hacher’s disgust some parts of the body bore signs of having been gnawed upon. A perk allowed Jennesta’s zombies, he suspected.

  “You appear taken aback, General.”

  “Of… of course I’m shaken. How did he come to this? Was he a victim of the rebels?” He added the latter in desperate hope that it was the explanation, as opposed to the only other alternative.

  “No, he fell victim to me,” she informed him evenly, confirming his fear. “The leadership of the Order has fallen into as parlous a state as the military. It was time for a change.”

  “But this is surely too harsh a way to bring it about?”

  “It’s the only way.” She was talking through gritted teeth. “I keep telling you: a demonstration of ruthlessness is the best remedy for keeping underlings in check. Why should I stand by and watch the Helix squabble and deliberate endlessly before they throw up another Grentor to take this weakling’s place? Better that I decide the matter swiftly, with a lesson for them as part of the bargain.”

  There was another rap at the door. But this was a proper knock, brisk and crisp.

  “Come!” she called.

  Hacher’s aide, Frynt, entered, giving Jennesta a slight bow of his head as he came in.

  The general was confounded to see him. “Frynt? I thought you were occupied on the west side today.” There was no reply. Hacher’s gaze flicked to Grentor’s remains. “I’m afraid the good brother has met a rather unfortunate —”

  “Don’t bother,” Jennesta said. “He knows.”

  “I… I don’t understand, my lady.”

  “Meet the new governor of the province of Acurial, and commander-in-chief of its army.”

  “Am I to understand —”

  “You are hereby relieved of all your duties and titles, Hacher. Frynt steps into your clumping boots.”

  He turned to his erstwhile aide. “Frynt? Is this so?”

  “Sorry, sir.” He didn’t look it. “But a servant of the empire has a patriotic duty to stand up when called.”

  “Or to further their own selfish interests. I thought you were loyal.”

  “I am, sir. To the emp —” Jennesta caught his eye. “To our lady Jennesta and the empire. There is no personal dimension involved.”

  “How could you condone this?” Hacher indicated Grentor’s body. “In what warped view can it be considered a positive act?”

  “The lady Jennesta has convinced me of the need for change, and for that change to be instigated with a certain… vigour.”

  “I thought better of you, Frynt. You disappoint me.”

  “Then you know how I feel about you,” Jennesta told him. “There’s no point in arguing. Let’s save your breath, shall we?”

  “Argue I most certainly will, my lady. I’ll take this high-handed deed to the ears of the highest in Peczan. If I’m to be sent home in disgrace —”

  “Oh no, General; you’re not going home. I have a much more useful role for you.”

  Her zombie slaves had positioned themselves as the living spoke. Now at her signal they moved in with surprising speed and seized the deposed general. He cried out, protested and cursed, but they held him fast.

  Jennesta approached the struggling figure, her hands raised preparatory to casting a glamour. “As I said,” she intoned, “let’s save your breath.”

  Frynt watched, stunned. He hadn’t known this was going to happen, let alone that he would be obliged to witness the general’s fate.

  The horror of it gave him an inkling of what it would be like serving his new mistress.

  When Hacher started screaming, Frynt closed his eyes.

  11

  By the end of the third week of the uprising proper, with the ranks of the resistance growing still further, the balance of power started to radically shift. As the Peczan military suffered daily trouncings by armed insurgents, and civil disobedience became widespread, a tipping point was reached. The invaders, until so recently masters of a conquered land, were on the back foot.

  Although it was a change the rebels had worked, hoped and died for, even the most optimistic of them were stunned by the speed with which it came about. Ever-larger sections of the population shed t
heir former meekness to reveal the inherent fighting spirit that had lain buried for so long. Their pent-up grievance drove a thirst for freedom, and, inspired by the radiant presence of Grilan-Zeat, they unleashed a savagery unlike any the humans had faced before.

  It was around this time, when fighting was at its most intense, that Wheam took the first small step towards redeeming himself.

  He had performed competently in the clashes he was allowed to take part in. Or at least he hadn’t brought a major disaster down on the warband’s heads or got himself killed. Though nor had he managed to slay, wound or greatly inconvenience any of the enemy. Nevertheless it became almost a matter of routine to include him in missions, under the watchful eye of Dallog and other more experienced band members.

  The Wolverines had been allotted a role in a raid on a house where army officers were billeted. It didn’t go to plan. Due to foresight on the part of the authorities, or possibly because of an informant, a company of soldiers had been concealed nearby. What should have been a clean hit-and-run attack turned into a pitched battle in one of the few street markets still functioning in the capital. In the process the band was scattered, and Coilla, Haskeer and Wheam found themselves sheltering in a narrow, foul-smelling alley off the main highway.

  Haskeer was less than pleased to be stuck with the novice. “Get in here!” he growled, pulling Wheam back from the alley’s mouth. “You wanna lose your fucking head to an arrow? Not that I should care.”

  “Sorry,” the young one replied tremulously.

  “Go easy on him,” Coilla said. “He’s still cutting his teeth, remember.”

  “Wish he was cutting his damn throat. And what’s with this?” He slapped at the lute Wheam had strapped to his back. “What the hell you doing bringing a thing like that to a fight?”

  “It’s the only way I can be sure not to lose it,” Wheam explained, “what with us always moving safe houses and —”