Outside, there was chaos. The barracks and officers’ quarters were burning fiercely. Oily black smoke all but obscured the
rising sun and the smell of charred timber perfumed the air. Most of the soldiers were fighting the fires; others milled in
confusion. The Wolverine archers added to the turmoil by picking off random targets. For good measure they unleashed a few
more flaming arrows at anything that might burn. A guards’ hut was ablaze, and the wooden supports of a bulbous water tower.
Coilla and Dallog’s group arrived at the two buildings given over to torture and execution. They had no idea which was which.
Not wanting to split their forces, they went for the first they came to. Like the prison block, it was a featureless structure
with no windows and a single entrance. But they didn’t have Stryke’s good fortune. The door was firmly closed.
“What now?” Dallog asked.
“When in doubt,” Coilla replied, “blag your way through.”
A couple of the Wolverines toted two-handed axes. She ordered them to take down the door. As they hammered at it, the archers
stood by with taut bows. The door proved as solid as it looked, and it needed repeated blows before the wood began to splinter
and groan. Finally it gave.
They expected defenders to be waiting. There was no one to be seen. Kicking aside the jagged remains of the door, Coilla led
the way into the building.
There was a wide flight of stone steps that went down to a short corridor, with a further door at its end. It was also locked,
but nowhere near as robust as they one they just broke down. After a couple of strokes from an axe it sprang open.
Now they were in the heart of the building, and its function was immediately obvious. On one side stood a chest-high platform
running the length of the room, with steps at each end. Above that was a sturdy beam of equal span, from which six ropes were
suspended, each ending in a noose. Beneath each noose was a trapdoor. On the other side of the room there were tiers of benches
for observers. The place seemed deserted.
“There’s no doubt what they do here,” Dallog remarked grimly.
Coilla nodded. “Let’s get out. There’s nothing —”
“
Corporal
,” Reafdaw whispered. He bobbed his head towards the dark hollow under the platform.
Everybody caught his meaning and listened. A second later there was the faintest of noises. Coilla silently gestured to the
two orcs nearest the platform.
Moving fast, they stooped and darted into the hollow. There was the sound of a scuffle and the smack of fists on flesh. Then
they emerged dragging a human between them. His face was bloodied and his terror apparent.
“Just him under there,” one of the grunts reported.
“So what are you?” Coilla wondered.
“Bet he’s an executioner,” Dallog offered.
Reafdaw slipped out a dagger. “Shall we kill him?”
The man turned chalk white. He started to plead.
“
Shut up
,” Coilla said. “Hold on for a minute, Reafdaw.” She moved her face closer to the quaking human’s. “You’ve one chance to save
your neck. Can you get us into the torture block?”
His panicky gaze darted from her to Reafdaw to Dallog, then back again. He didn’t speak.
“All right,” Coilla said, turning away, “cut his throat.”
“
No!
” the human begged. “I can do it! I’ll get you in!”
“Then get going.” She shoved him towards the door.
The human resisted. “Not that way.”
“Why not?”
“I couldn’t get you through the main entrance. It’ll be secured because of… whatever’s going on outside.”
“No point keeping you alive then.”
“No, wait! There’s another way. Under there.” He pointed to the space below the scaffolds. “It’s where I was going when you
caught me.”
Coilla gave him a chilling look. “If this is a trick…”
“It’s
not
. I’ll show you.”
They kept close to him as he moved underneath the platform. After hunching for about ten paces they came to an area where
it was possible to stand. Overhead were the trapdoors.
The human carried on to the wall. “Here,” he said.
At first, Coilla couldn’t see what he meant. She reached out to touch the wall with her fingertips, and felt a ridge. Then
she realised it was a doorframe, hidden in shadow. She pushed. There was light.
They were looking along a tunnel. It was softly lit by fat candles set in recesses.
“Straight from torture to death, eh?” Dallog said.
“And to tidily remove the… deceased,” the human told him.
“
Tidily
,” Coilla repeated, a note of menace in her voice. She gave him a hard shove. “Keep moving!”
The tunnel ended at a series of metal rungs that climbed to a trapdoor.
“How many are up there?” Coilla whispered.
“I don’t know,” the human replied. “I really don’t.”
Coilla looked back at the rest of her group, crowding the narrow tunnel. She didn’t like the fact that they could only go
up the rungs one at a time. It seemed perfect for an ambush. “No lingering,” she told them. “We get up there fast. And be
ready for anything.” To the human she said, “You first.”
He climbed the rungs and lifted the trap. Coilla went next, with Dallog right behind her.
They emerged in a building of roughly the same dimensions as the one they just left. But it was laid out differently. Ahead
of them, hugging the left-hand side, was a paved walkway. The space to the right was divided into sections by floor to ceiling
brick partitions, nine or ten paces apart, forming a succession of cubicles. It remind Coilla of a stable.
The rest of the orcs were beginning to surface from the tunnel, and Dallog was hauling up the slower ones by their scruffs.
Coilla turned her head to check the bottleneck. That fleeting distraction was all their captive needed.
He bolted. Running along the gangway, he started shouting. Most of it was gabble, but the note of alarm was unmistakable.
“
Shit!
” Coilla cursed.
Before she could act, Dallog shot past her. He moved at a surprising clip given his age, and caught the human with apparent
ease. There was a brief, futile struggle. Then Dallog seized the man’s head and twisted it sharply. There was an audible crack
as his neck broke. Man became corpse in the blink of an eye, and dropped.
But his shouted warning had a result. Up ahead, several figures came out of cubicles. They headed towards the orcs, weapons
drawn.
“
Down!
” Coilla yelled.
It took Dallog a second to realise she meant him. He hit the deck. A small swarm of arrows soared over his head. They thudded
into the first two humans, flattening them. The third and final man dashed for shelter as Wolverine archers loosed another
volley. He almost made it.
“Nice move,” Coilla told Dallog as he got to his feet. “Search the place,” she ordered the rest of the group.
Moments later she was called to one of the cubicles.
A manacled orc was suspended on the wall. He was unconscious and bloodied.
Nearby stood a brazier steeped with glowing coals. Cruel-looking irons were heating in it. Other tools of the torturer’s trade
were laid out on a gore-splattered bench.
“There’s another one a few cubicles along,” a grunt told her. “He’s in a similar state.”
“Get them down. Have Dallog look at their wounds.”
A commotion arose along the walkway. She went out and saw several of her crew with a captive. They frogmarched him towards
her.
“Look what we found,” one of them said.
The man was big and powerfully built. He wore the traditional black leather garb of an inquisitor, complete with integral
skullcap and eye mask. His chest was bare and sheened with sweat from his labours.
“Your work?” Coilla nodded at the prisoner being taken down.
“And proud of it.” His manner was contemptuous, and he showed little of the fear their last captive displayed. “Besides,”
he added haughtily, “your kind don’t feel pain the way your superiors do.”
“If you say so.” She swiftly snatched an iron from the fire and drove it into his chest.
He howled. The smell of scorching flesh perfumed the air. Coilla contemplated doing it again, thought better of it and tossed
aside the iron. Instead she raised her sword and cut off his shrieks with a clean thrust between the ribs.
“I reckon that’s enough to hurt anybody,” she told his lifeless body. “Improvise a couple of stretchers,” she ordered, “we’re
getting out of here.”
They smashed the legs off two benches and used the tops to transport the tortured orcs. Then they found the main entrance
and left that way.
Out in the compound, confusion still reigned.
Somebody shouted, “
Look!
”
Stryke, Haskeer and Pepperdyne were running their way. They had a large number of freed prisoners in tow.
“All right?” Stryke asked.
Coilla nodded. “Yeah. They’ve made suffering and death a fine art here.” She couldn’t help eyeing Pepperdyne. He said nothing.
“At least we can get this bunch out,” Stryke replied.
There was a thunderous crash. The burning supports of the water tower had given way. Shattering as it hit the ground, the
huge wooden container disgorged its contents. Several hundred gallons of water swept across the compound, knocking nearby
soldiers off their feet.
“That should keep ’em busy,” Haskeer reckoned.
“Time to leave,” Stryke said.
They ran to the main gates and were joined by the pair of Wolverines they left as back-up. Almost as soon as they got out
to the road, a couple of large covered wagons drew up. They were driven by the two resistance members who guided the Wolverines
to the camp. The injured were put on board, then everyone else crammed in at the double.
It was still early, and there wasn’t much in the way of people or traffic on the streets. In any event the journey wasn’t
too long. Instead of driving into the city proper, the wagons skirted it and made for a rural area. Soon, they came to a collection
of seemingly abandoned farm buildings. The gateway was guarded by a contingent of orcs who waved the wagons through. They
pulled up in a spacious yard.
Stryke got out. The place was full of resistance members. Brelan was foremost. Chillder hovered in the background.
“You asked for seven,” Stryke said, jabbing a thumb at the disembarking passengers, “I’ve brought you thirty.”
“I’m impressed,” Brelan admitted.
“And here’s something else for you,” Stryke added. He balled his fist and delivered a heavy punch to Brelan’s jaw, flooring
him. “That’s for putting my band in danger.”
On all sides, resistance members went for their weapons. A number moved forward.
Brelan raised a hand and stopped them. “Right,” he said, spitting a mouthful of blood. “I think we can work together.”
“What I still find hard to take in,” Brelan said, spearing a chunk of meat with his dagger, “is the idea of humans taking
the side of orcs.”
“The way I see it,” Pepperdyne replied, “it’s not about humans and orcs. It’s about right and wrong.”
“And is that how your companion sees it too?” Chillder asked, staring at Standeven. “He doesn’t say much.”
“Er… I…” Standeven jabbed a finger at Pepperdyne. “What he said.”
“He’s a deep thinker,” Pepperdyne explained. “Not much of a way with words.”
“Is he as good a fighter as I’ve heard you are?”
“You’d be… surprised at his talents, Chillder.”
Servers arrived to replenish their cups with wine, and conversation dwindled.
It was evening. Brelan and Chillder had invited Stryke and his officers to join them for a meal. The humans had been included,
along with Jup and Spurral, though Stryke wasn’t alone in thinking it was with some understandable reluctance on the twins’
part. The rest of the Wolverines were taking their food elsewhere in the dilapidated farmhouse.
It was Stryke who broke the silence. “So what’s the plan?”
“Plan?” Brelan said.
“How are you going to stoke your rebellion?”
Brelan smiled. It was more cynical than amused. “Rebellions need popular backing. Unlike your far northern lands, the orcs
here have no taste for rising up. As I said, we of the resistance are different; we’re prepared to fight the invaders. But
we’re no more than a thorn in their side. Though what you did today —”
“You could do every day,” Coilla assured him. “Our numbers are small too, if you hadn’t noticed. Resolve counts more than
numbers.”
“Along with training and experience,” Stryke said.
“Not that you couldn’t do with a much bigger force,” Dallog added.
“I’d give my sword arm for another thousand warriors,” Brelan agreed. “But warfare’s not in the nature of orcs. At least,
not in this part of the world.”
Haskeer had been stuffing his mouth with fowl. He dragged a sleeve across his greasy chin. “Yeah, why
are
they so gutless in these parts?”
Stryke shot him a look. “Sorry. My sergeant’s not used to civil company.”
Haskeer shrugged and tore a large chunk from a loaf of bread.
“Orcs tend to be blunt in their opinions,” Chillder replied. “It seems we
are
like our northern brethren in that way, and long may it last. But he’s right. Our race’s weakness shames us.”
“And we find it puzzling,” Stryke remarked. “That orcs should shy from a fight… well, that’s something we don’t understand.”
“I think we’ve become too civilised. It seems you of the northern wastes aren’t as soft in your ways. Life here has been too
easy for too long, and it’s buried our natural passions.”
“But underneath the fire’s still there. You’re proof of that.”
“
You’re
the proof,” Brelan said. “We differ a little from Acurial’s citizenry; you could almost be from another world.”
Stryke smiled stiffly. “I wouldn’t say that.”
“I would. You’re unlike any orcs I’ve ever known. I mean, you even have ranks, like the humans. How did that come about?”
Stryke felt as though he was about to start walking on eggs again. He could hardly say it was imposed on them as members of
a horde headed by an insane sorceress. “We got organised, created a clear line of command so we could better fight the enemy.
It’s something you should think about doing yourselves.”