Pepperdyne and his little entourage were making for the guardhouse. They met no open opposition on the way, but there were
plenty of hostile stares and the odd shouted comment. That the females were following him with no sign of compulsion seemed
to confuse the onlookers, and mollified many of them. In fact, their reflexive passivity, and the sense of obedience to authority
that had been drummed into them, meant that most of the crowd cleared a path.
Pepperdyne kept his eyes firmly on the target and maintained an unhurried pace. The females in his wake ignored shouts directed
at them.
The rebels stationed around the square knew to hold back until Pepperdyne’s group had reached the guards’ station. Shortly
after that, they would act.
Pepperdyne and the others were coming to the crowd’s outer edge, which like the rest of the perimeter ended at a thin line
of soldiers. Behind them was an empty space in front of the guardhouse, perhaps thirty paces in depth.
Coilla moved closer to him and whispered, “
Remember, you’re an officer. Act like it
.”
“
I never would have thought of that
,” he hissed sarcastically.
“Now leave the talking to me.”
She glared at his back.
The soldiers containing the crowd took Pepperdyne at face value. They saluted, and let him and the females through. The party
of sentries at the guardhouse door seemed less sure. They were obviously surprised to see this unknown officer and his charges.
They looked quizzical. All were noticeably tense.
As Pepperdyne and his retinue approached, one of the guards shouted, “
Halt!
”
The man who had spoken stepped forward, and after a second’s hesitation offered a perfunctory salute. He was short and wiry,
with a pencil-line moustache and features that reminded Pepperdyne of a rodent. The stripes he wore showed his rank as that
of sergeant.
Pepperdyne returned the salute in a languid fashion he hoped was fitting to his supposed status. He was about to speak.
“Can I help you… sir?” the sergeant got in first. There was a tinge of scepticism in his manner.
Pepperdyne adopted an authoritative tone. “I’ve got three more detainees to join the ones you’re holding.”
“I’ve had no orders to that effect.”
“I’m ordering you now.”
“On what authority?”
“By the authority of my rank. And you’d do well to address a superior officer in the proper fashion.”
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant replied, but it was cursory, almost insolent. “However, my brief’s strict. I’m to take no prisoners
here without official say-so. That means a direct order from an immediate superior or written authorisation from —”
Pepperdyne pointed at the crowd. “We have a situation here, Sergeant,” he blustered, “in case you hadn’t noticed. Sticking
to the rules does you credit, but things are moving fast on these streets. These captives are linked to the rebels and they
need locking up.”
“So why aren’t they restrained, sir?”
“Are you implying that I can’t control a few females, Sergeant?”
“I wouldn’t know about that, sir.”
“I’m getting tired of this. Are you going to obey my order and take these prisoners?”
“If I have the proper authority.”
“Which I’m giving you.”
“Your name and division. Sir.”
Pepperdyne stared at the unsmiling pedant. “What?”
“To check your credentials. I’ll have to send a runner to HQ and —”
“You should know that I act under the direct mandate of General Hacher himself. I don’t envy your position when he hears about
this.”
“That may be so, sir. But we’ve had reports of bogus officials. It’s my duty to verify the credentials of any…
officer
presenting themselves at this station.” He was maddeningly cool.
“Are you questioning my patriotism?”
“That’s not my place, sir.”
“Don’t you care that apart from your insubordination, your worship of the rulebook’s stopping me from carrying out my duties?
That’s a serious step for somebody in your position, Sergeant.”
“My commanding officers would be the best judge of that, sir.”
“Of which I’m one!”
“Perhaps it would help if I went through it again, sir. Once you give me your name and —”
Pepperdyne capped his rising tension by maintaining a stern face. He saw that the other soldiers were eyeing him with something
close to hostility. He was aware of Coilla shifting uncomfortably behind him.
From their vantage point, Stryke and Brelan were growing restive too.
“What the hell’s going on?” Brelan muttered. “He should have got them to open that door by now.”
“Maybe we’ve pulled this trick once too often.”
“What do we do?”
“Stick to plan. Be ready to give the signal.”
Pepperdyne made a show of listening as the sergeant spouted regulations, but his mind was on contingencies. And his hand was
drifting towards his scabbard.
“So if you’d care to give me those details, sir,” the sergeant concluded, “we can clear this up.”
“Eh?”
“Your
details
, sir. As I explained.”
“Look, if you’re going to persist in —”
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
Coilla came out from behind Pepperdyne and thrust a dagger into the sergeant’s midriff.
He looked down at it dumbly, swayed, then fell.
“
Shit!
” Pepperdyne said. “What the
hell
, Coilla?”
“Just moving things along.” She swiftly drew her hidden sword. The pair of Vixens did the same, and so did Pepperdyne.
The other guards, stunned into immobility for a second, now raised their own weapons and closed in.
“That did it!” Brelan exclaimed from his place at the crowd’s edge.
“Signal!” Stryke bellowed.
Any thought of concealment gone, they began frantically gesticulating at their confederates. As the order rapidly spread,
Stryke and Brelan started forcibly elbowing their way towards the guardhouse.
Pepperdyne and the females fell into a defensive semicircle, their blades jutting like a predator’s fangs. They gambled that
their backs were safe. The nearest in the crowd, who had seen what happened, were reacting. So had some of the guards keeping
them in check, but they were torn between joining in and holding the line.
The dead sergeant’s comrades advanced, spitting rage. Pepperdyne, Coilla and the Vixens braced themselves.
A great roar went up from the crowd.
There were whirlpools of violence in that churning mass. Attacked by well-placed rebels and Wolverines, the scattered groups
of militia were already beleaguered. And here and there ordinary orcs, civilians, were taking part. Hastily improvised weapons
appeared. Some used their bare hands. The points where the fighting started were like raindrop impacts on the surface of a
lake. They sent out ripples of agitation that built to waves.
The soldiers defending the guardhouse froze at the uproar. Pepperdyne didn’t. He tore into the nearest trooper. They battered
away at each other, blades pealing, and Pepperdyne instantly proved himself the better swordsman. The man’s defence crumbled
under the onslaught. He took a hit to the groin, and while he was busy with that, Pepperdyne followed through with a chest
thrust. Another guard slid into the fallen one’s place and the fight carried on seamlessly.
Coilla had already downed her first opponent and was hacking at two more simultaneously. Her speed and agility vexed them,
and they struggled to land a blow. She inflicted a wound on one man, putting him on the back foot with a streaming shoulder,
then improved the odds by dropping his companion. The next to step in was more seasoned, or at least cannier, and she found
herself fencing rather than hacking.
Battling shoulder to shoulder, the duo of Vixens gave a good account of themselves, despite their relative inexperience. They
fought with a zeal not far short of savagery, and a sense of ruthlessness that had their foes wary of engaging them at too-close
quarters. Glancing from his own labours, Pepperdyne was in awe of the females’ aggressiveness. But with at least ten guardsmen
still on their feet, and who knew how many more zeroing in, fervour might not be enough.
The crowd was boiling now, with brawls all across the square. Wolverines and rebels were at the centre of nigh on every storm,
and the Vixens were fighting with particular resolve. Dead and wounded soldiers were underfoot. To a lesser degree, so were
orcs, resistance and civilians alike. But far from sobering the horde, the casualties fuelled their anger.
Haskeer was in the thick of things, cutting a swathe for the bunch of privates in his wake. He favoured an axe, which he swung
with abandon, cleaving heads and severing limbs. In another part of the crowd Chillder and a gaggle of Vixens were beating
in the brains of several hapless troopers. Not far off, Dallog led a contingent of the Ceragan inductees. Wheam wasn’t among
them. It had been thought better to confine him to lookout duties beyond the fighting.
Joined by hand-picked rebels and Wolverines, as planned, Stryke and Brelan were a spit away from the guardhouse. By the time
they arrived the crowd had become a mob. But the sentries holding the line against it weren’t a problem. There was no line.
The whole area was one seething mass of fighting orcs and humans, and they gave off a deafening roar.
The arrival of Stryke’s crew was timely. Pepperdyne and the three females were holding their own, although several sentries
from the broken line had attached themselves to the guardhouse defence, upping their numbers. Pepperdyne was dragging his
blade from a guard’s guts. The toll was starting to show. His movements were growing leaden and his sword arm was cramping.
One of the Vixens nursed a wound, but kept fighting. Coilla was covered in foes’ blood. She was smiling.
Stryke, Brelan and their backup came in like steel surf. The balance was tipped, and after a brief flurry of bloody confrontation
the remaining guardsmen were overcome.
“Took your time,” Coilla said.
“We were picking wildflowers,” Stryke told her, deadpan.
“Come
on
,” Brelan urged. “Time’s running low.”
They searched the dead sergeant’s pockets and found a bunch of keys. While most of the group kept watch, Brelan made for the
door and began trying them. On the third attempt the lock turned.
Brelan gave the door a shove. “It’s not the way we thought it’d go,” he said, shooting a glance at Pepperdyne, “but —”
“
Look out!
” Coilla yelled, pushing him aside.
An arrow flew out of the open door, barely missing him. It zinged into the crowd and struck a gesticulating protestor, piercing
his raised arm.
Stryke rushed through the door, with Coilla, Brelan and Pepperdyne close behind. Inside, a sentry was groping in his scabbard
for another arrow. Stryke got to the man first and thrust a blade into his chest.
“
To your left!
” Pepperdyne shouted.
Stryke spun just fast enough to block a sword swipe. Its wielder had come from the only blind corner, and he attacked with
an ardour born of desperation. His frantic state suited Stryke. A panic-stricken opponent rarely had sound judgement; and
so it quickly proved. After a couple more of his blows were deflected, the human looked spent, and his defence was sloppy.
Stryke reaped the benefit by puncturing his heart.
There were no other humans in the building. At its far end were two cells, essentially cages, and the seven resistance members
were crammed in one of them. None of the sergeant’s keys undid the cell’s robust lock, and it didn’t succumb to a battering.
But a hasty search turned up another ring and they got the door open. The prisoners had obviously been maltreated. They had
black eyes, cuts and bruises, but no worse injuries. Their rescuers gave them weapons, some brought, some taken from the dead
guards.
If anything, the riot outside had stepped up.
“That was sweet,” Brelan said, leading his freed comrades.
“We’re not out of here yet,” Stryke reminded him. He turned to Pepperdyne. “Ready?”
“This bit I don’t like,” the human told him.
“You can’t just walk away with us,” Coilla said. “This mob would go wild. Wilder.”
“They’d kill you,” Stryke summarised. “But if they think you’re our prisoner —”
“Right, right. I get it.” He looked unhappy.
They surrounded Pepperdyne as though escorting him, and started off. Their route would keep them close to the frontage of
the square’s buildings, skirting the edge of the crowd, until they came to a side street and waiting transport. The rioters
who noticed the human officer in the group’s midst assumed he was being taken hostage. Some cheered.
Stryke and the others had hardly set out when there was a series of brilliant flashes.
They erupted in the heart of the crowd: scintillating bursts of red, green and violet that scarred the eye.
“The Helix!” Brelan exclaimed.
“The more reason not to linger,” Stryke said. “Keep moving.”
There was another vivid flash in the crowd. A rioter collapsed with a smouldering hole in his chest. The odour of charred
flesh permeated the air as those around backed off in dread. Robed men were discharging the magical beams almost wantonly,
targeting anyone in their way.
Close by, Haskeer was tangling with a trooper. The man was armed with sword and shield, and had proved stubborn in preventing
the orc from killing him. Haskeer relished the challenge. He rained boneshaker blows on the trooper, forcing him into a purely
defensive mode. The man was flagging when a particularly intense bolt of magical energy went off near to hand. Dazzled by
the light, Haskeer and the trooper stilled, blinking.
Haskeer snapped out of it first and resumed his assault. The militiaman, still in a daze, managed only a confused resistance.
Several hefty jolts from Haskeer’s axe were enough to throw him completely. A meaty strike to his head had him first on his
knees, then keeling over.
There was another flash, as brilliant as the last, and a further victim succumbed to a fiery bolt. As Haskeer’s vision seeped
back he could just make out the figure of a Helix member no more than twenty paces away. He had seen Haskeer and was raising
his power wand. Haskeer dived. A searing beam swept over him, close enough for its heat to be felt. Scrabbling on hands and
knees, he made for the fallen trooper as the Helix initiate took aim again. Reaching the corpse, he wrestled the shield from
the human’s death grip. Then, still kneeling, he flung it with might at the Helix. It skimmed like a discus and struck him
squarely in the neck, nearly decapitating him.