The sergeant tensed, expecting perhaps to be hauled away and thrown in a dungeon, or even to be struck down by one of his
undead captors. Neither happened.
Instead, Jennesta closed her eyes. The keen sighted might have noticed that her lips moved silently, and that her hands made
several small gestures.
The accused looked on in troubled bafflement; the audience exchanged mystified glances.
“There,” Jennesta said, her singular eyes popping open. She sounded almost amiable.
For a moment, nothing occurred. Then the sergeant let out a groan. He lifted his hands and pressed the palms to his forehead.
One of the bodyguards jerked the chain binding his wrists, pulling the man’s hands back down. The prisoner moaned, gutturally,
and his eyes rolled. He swayed as though about to fall. The groaning became constant and higher pitched.
The area of his temples and up into his hairline rapidly took on a purplish discoloration, as though bruised. His skull visibly
swelled, and in the deathly silence a crackling could be heard as the expansion began to split his scalp. Writhing in agony,
the sergeant screamed. Just once.
Like an overripe melon dropped from a castle battlement, his head exploded. The discharge scattered blood-matted chunks of
hairy flesh, skull fragments and portions of brain. Headless, the stump gushing torrid crimson, his corpse took a faltering
step before crashing to the floor. It lay twitching, its life essence pumping out into a spreading, sticky pool.
Many in the front row had their ashen faces and smart dress uniforms splattered by the eruption. An objectionable reek hung
in the air.
One of the zombie bodyguards, noticing dully that blood and brain matter covered his bare forearm, started to lick it off
with noisy relish.
“Note this well!” Jennesta intoned sternly. “As this man confessed his guilt I chose to deal with him mercifully. Any others
who transgress will not be treated with such lenience.” She touched a hand lightly to her brow. “The effort has tired me.
Go. All of you. Except you, Hacher. You stay.”
The spectators began to file out, several dabbing themselves with handkerchiefs. Some hurried, looking as though they sought
the nearest privy.
Hacher was wiping the gore from his own face when Jennesta approached, her brace of undead hobbling a few steps behind.
“I trust the import of what you’ve just seen was not lost on you, General,” she said.
He glanced at the sergeant’s corpse. Blood was dripping from the edge of the dais. “Hardly.”
“Good. Then I expect to see change,
profound
change, in the governance of this colony. Otherwise your administration is going to become acquainted with my less compassionate
side. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Envoy. Perfectly.”
“I know orcs. And I know the only thing they respect is force. If they raise a seditious hand, cut it off. If they slaughter
a single trooper, send ten orcs to the charnel house. If they dare to rise up, grind their bones to dust. Leave them in no
doubt who’s master. Any less and you imperil our plans for this dependency.”
“Which are?”
“Exploiting the land’s riches. And in particular, the most valuable resource of all.”
“I fear you may be disappointed in that regard. The few deposits of gold and silver we’ve found are hardly —”
“What I have in mind is worth more than mere gold.”
“I don’t follow.”
“The greatest asset Acurial has to offer isn’t to be found under the ground but walking upon it.”
“You mean… the natives themselves?”
“Precisely. The orcs have the potential to be the greatest fighting force this world has ever seen.”
“But these creatures are meek. Or at least most of them are. The ones who’ve taken up arms against us are the exception.”
“As I said, I know their true natures. I know what they’re capable of.
All
of them.”
“Even if they do have an inborn aggression, and it could be brought out, why would they fight for us?”
Jennesta indicated her zombie retinue. “They’d have no choice. Subject to my will, their obedience would be beyond question.
Imagine it. A slave army, incomparably ferocious and totally subservient.”
“And this has the backing of Peczan?”
“As far as you’re concerned, Hacher, I
am
Peczan. So why don’t you leave the thinking to me and concentrate on instilling some terror in the population?”
Another meeting was taking place in the capital, not far from the fortress, in one of the resistance’s many boltholes.
Making a rare excursion from her current hiding place, and having been brought under heavy guard by an elaborate route, Primary
Sylandya was present. She sat at the centre of the small gathering, a goblet of brandy and water to hand.
“You pulled off a great feat yesterday,” she said, toasting her offspring and Coilla. “The Vixens acquitted themselves well
on their first outing.”
“It’s time the females got their chance,” Coilla replied.
“As I say, the raid was a triumph. The tithes you brought back have swelled our coffers, and I was especially pleased that
you recovered those looted treasures.”
“Saving trinkets ain’t going to win this fight,” Haskeer stated.
“Don’t undervalue that act as a symbol,” Sylandya told him. “It shows the citizenry that their heritage means something.”
“And that there are orcs who stand against our oppressors,” Brelan added.
Sylandya nodded. “We need to deliver more blows like yesterday’s. Who knows? Perhaps if the occupation here is seen to be
failing, Peczan’s enemies in the east and south will be emboldened.”
“The eastern and southern lands are a long way off, Mother,” Brelan reminded her, “and they’re human realms too. Barbarous
tribes, most of them. There’s little hope of our enemy’s enemy doing anything that might aid our cause.”
“I think that’s right,” Stryke agreed. “You can’t rely on help from outside.”
“Shouldn’t that be
we
?” Sylandya said. “Or do you northern orcs see yourselves as apart from this struggle?”
“We see it as a fight for all orcs,” Stryke returned sternly. “It’s why we’re here.”
“Can we get back to the issue at hand?” Chillder asked. “Grilan-Zeat’s due in not much more than a week and —”
“
If
it comes,” Haskeer said.
“We have to believe it will,” Chillder said. “It’s a thin hope, but it’s all we’ve got. The question is, what more can we
do to hasten an uprising?”
“Take out Jennesta,” Coilla replied. “That’d strike one hell of a blow.”
“It’d also bring down some heavy reprisals.”
“Isn’t that what we want? A kick that wakes up the populace and rallies them?”
“We’ve talked over the assassination idea,” Brelan explained, “and we’re agreed it should go ahead.”
Coilla smiled. “Good.”
“But not right away.”
“Why wait?” Haskeer grumbled. “Kill her now, I say.”
“Our contacts inside the fortress need time to prepare and make us a map of the place. Meantime we carry on harrying the humans.
We’ve got a particular mission in mind that should rock them.”
“What is it?” Stryke asked.
“Don’t worry, we’ll keep you posted. But right now we need to get Mother out of here. She’s too rich a prize for the authorities;
we have to keep her out of their reach.”
“A new hiding place?” Coilla said.
“Yes. But I’m not saying where. What you don’t know they can’t get out of you.”
Brelan and Chillder left, accompanying Sylandya. The couple of other resistance members present went with them.
No sooner had they gone than Spurral and Dallog turned up. Shortly after, Pepperdyne arrived, still sweating from a training
session. He had Standeven in tow.
“News,” Stryke announced. “They’ve agreed to us targeting Jennesta.”
Pepperdyne was scooping a ladle of water from a barrel. “Really?” He gulped the drink.
“You don’t seem too excited about it.”
“Just cautious. It’s bound to be a dangerous mission, isn’t it?”
“That doesn’t seem to have worried you up to now.”
“We still want revenge on Jennesta,” Standeven hastily interjected. “But she’s dangerous.”
“You’re telling us,” Coilla said.
Stryke fixed the humans with a steady gaze. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you two. When we ran into you, you
said you were seeking Jennesta because she stole your consignment of… gems, was it?”
“That’s right,” Standeven confirmed.
“But we know she hadn’t been in Maras-Dantia for years. Why’d it take you so long to go after her?”
“It’s a big world,” Pepperdyne replied. “Well, the one we came from was.” He shook his head, as though clearing it. “You know
what I mean. It takes time to mount an expedition, and money. My master here had to recruit a small private army, then we
travelled across continents and —”
“Seems to me you do a lot of talking for an aide, or servant or whatever you are. Why can’t your master speak for himself?”
“He always had a silver tongue,” Standeven explained awkwardly. “I often said he was capable of striking a better deal than
I could myself. The words come more naturally to him.”
Haskeer eyed Pepperdyne suspiciously. “You weren’t a bloody wordsmith, were you? I hate the bastards. Making up stupid stories
about us, branding us villains. According to them we’re built like brick privies and hate the light. They say we eat babies,
and everybody knows we only take human flesh when there’s nothing else.”
“No, I’m not a storyteller.”
“Don’t go spreading that talk outside the band, Haskeer,” Stryke warned. “The orcs in these parts wouldn’t understand it.
Let’s not give them more reasons to see us as different.” He turned back to the humans. “I don’t know about you pair. But
just don’t make the mistake of thinking we’re fools.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Pepperdyne replied coolly.
“You’re being too hard, Stryke,” Coilla protested. “I owe Pepperdyne my life. He’s proved himself.” It wasn’t lost on any
of them that she left Standeven out of her reckoning.
“Maybe,” Stryke said. “We’ll see.”
“Now do you mind if we eat?” Pepperdyne asked. Without waiting for an answer he headed for the door, Standeven at his heels.
Once it slammed, Coilla tackled Stryke with, “Why are you so hostile to them all of a sudden?”
“I got to thinking about their story, and it doesn’t stack up. Pepperdyne might be straight, but the other one…”
“Yeah, well, no argument there. But I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Jode.”
“Jode?”
“You tend to feel pally to somebody who saves your neck.”
“Never thought I’d see the day when you’d count a human as a friend.”
“Just go easy on him, all right? He’s been useful to us.”
Stryke looked to the others present, and Jup caught his eye. “You’ve not said much, Sergeant.”
“About the humans? I’ve no opinion, beyond not trusting the race much.”
“More than that’s ailing you,” Spurral said, slipping an arm round his waist. “You’ve been morose for days. Spit it out.”
“Well… I’m not likely to play a part in the assassination, am I? Or anything else going on for that matter. It’s not as though
I
can go out dressed as a female.”
“Why not?” Haskeer ribbed. “It’d suit you.”
“Shut it, Haskeer,” Jup retorted. “I’m not in the mood.”
“I know it’s hard on you,” Stryke told him, “but your time will come.”
“And when’s that going to be?”
“There’s something you could do tonight.”
Jup perked up. “There is?”
“How about a little after hours mission? Part of the harrying.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“I thought we might pick a fight. Are you game?”
Taress’ night-time streets should have been deserted save for patrols enforcing the curfew. But others were abroad.
A group of figures moved stealthily through the capital, slipping from one pool of shadow to the next.
They were ten in number, and Stryke had kept it a strictly Wolverine affair. He led the pack, with Coilla, Jup and Haskeer
close behind; Orbon, Zoda, Prooq, Reafdaw, Finje and Noskaa brought up the rear.
Across cobbled lanes and along twisting alleys, the band made its way to a district that would have swarmed with citizens
during daylight. Only once did they come close to a watch patrol, a squad of some two dozen uniformed and robed men illuminating
their path with lanterns that gave off a violet glow so intense it could only be magical. The Wolverines hid until they passed,
pressed into door spaces and the black mouths of narrow passageways.
At length they came to a broad avenue made desolate by the absence of life or movement. Only a gentle breeze disturbed the
balmy summer air.
Using the corner of one of the larger buildings as cover, they peered round at their target. Situated on the opposite side
of the road, it was a simple one-storey, brick-built structure, typical of many such scattered throughout the city. Serving
as both a guard station and barracks, it had a single, robust door and slit windows. To one side stood a hitching rail where
four of five horses were tied up. A pair of guards were stationed outside the building’s entrance.
“What do you think?” Stryke whispered.
“We’ve taken better places drunk,” Jup reckoned. “Know how many are inside?”
Stryke shook his head. “No idea.” He looked to Coilla. “You all right with this?”
“Sure.”
He checked that the others were ready. “Then
go
.”
Coilla stepped out from their hiding place and sprinted towards the guard post.
The sentries didn’t see her at first. As soon as they did, they instantly bucked up and drew their weapons.
Coilla began to yell.
“Help! Help me! Please help!”
That threw the guards. They exchanged perplexed looks, and though they kept a defensive stance, it was half-hearted.
Coilla carried on running, still shouting, and waved her arms about in what she hoped was a helpless female kind of way. The
sentries stared at her.